by Terry Carr
Gregorian resumed his work on the sculpture without looking at her. “I’m not sure I can describe it. A fire is like music—you can’t put it into words. If you could, there’d be no point in building the fire.” He paused, but Salamander said nothing, waiting. He said, “All right. The theme is in the contrasts of darkness and light. You’ll see black flames in the center of the fire when it’s at its greatest height, and blinding streams of light will jump up from areas where there doesn’t seem to be any fire at all. I use darkness in this fire more than I usually do, but it’s always to emphasize the brilliance of the flames.”
He hesitated. This wasn’t describing his fire at all; he felt as if he were some paid critic dictating a brochure.
But Salamander said, “Please go on. I see it as you speak.” He turned to her and saw that she had closed her eyes. Her face was expressionless, in complete repose.
How could a woman be so attractive with no expression on her face?
“The light and dark will alternate,” he said. “Colors will coil around and through each other like vines. The movements in the fire are sinuous—graceful, as you say, but a bit threatening too. The dark colors are always threatening in my fires somehow.”
Salamander said, “Yes. And will the darkness win, or the light?”
He shrugged. “Neither. The fire doesn’t tell a story; it just shows a conflict that’s always going on. I thought it might be appropriate in a temple.”
Salamander’s eyes opened, and she seemed to look into his center—the place he thought only he knew. He felt the warmth begin again.
“You thought you did not tune in to the broadcasts,” she said softly, “but you did. Your Fire shows it.”
Her green eyes held his, and he was surprised that they could change color even in the dimness of the Cathedral.
“What happened this morning?” he asked her. “Tell me,” he said.
The monitor had had a name when Livy had come to this house on the South Edge four years ago. Livy had been only six then, a frightened young holopath who was awed at being chosen to be a future monitor herself. She had actually been introduced to the monitor, who had said “Love to you” much as anyone else might. But her face had been totally blank, like a doll’s.
Livy had trouble remembering her name now. What need was there to know the name of the monitor, she whose mind was always open? She was simply the monitor.
Something strange was happening today. Livy sat on a pillow in the common room; two of the other assistants sat beside her as they watched the city. People hurried through the streets of the business districts, intent on errands; workmen strained as they loaded haulers near the trade route out of the summer Gate; gentry of the South Edge slept late and dreamed of what they might have done at last night’s revel. Livy watched tens of thousands of minds at once, tasting the weather of the entire city. She felt Cirque as a ring of life around the deep empty space of the Abyss.
But today that space was filled; people had been there, down into the darkness, and the empty center of Cirque echoed with memories of their minds. Livy still felt Gloriana’s tension as she directed a lightbeam downward; she still saw the pale shuddering creature that was impaled in the light.
Livy was bewildered by the experience. No one ever went into the Abyss—there was nothing there; it was the quiet center of her mind. Yet something frightening lived down there, and it was trying to climb out.
There was a point of intense cold in the middle of her back, an iciness that spread through her. She felt hair prickling on the neck of the boy beside her, and he shifted uncomfortably on his pillows.
Livy glanced at him: Edouard, only six years old, a thin boy with closely cropped blond hair covering his head like a coat of fur. He had come to the monitor’s house only months before, a timid, confused child who had lived in an orphanage all his life, surrounded by strangers and invaded by visions from the entire city. He had never understood those things he continually saw, sights and sounds and thoughts that had no connection with the bare rust corridors of the orphanage. He was only now beginning to understand what it was to be a holopath, here in this quiet house where his guardians had finally sent him. How would he be able to deal with this new insanity from the Abyss?
But Livy saw that in his mind it was only one more frightening vision, something else he could not understand. Like everything in his world.
She reached out and touched his hand. “I don’t understand it either,” she said, as though that would somehow reassure him. As though he didn’t know that already; as though he couldn’t see her mind as easily as she saw his.
“I want to sleep,” he mumbled. The girl next to him, Mithra, frowned without opening her eyes. She was annoyed when anyone spoke in the same room with her; it disturbed her concentration. Mithra had the idea that she would be able to understand the patterns of her visions if only the servants and the other assistants would be quiet.
Livy thought that was ridiculous. She had watched Mithra’s mind when she was “understanding”—Mithra understood nothing; she only stopped thinking.
“Well, does it make any sense to you?” Livy asked the girl. Mithra was eight, tall for her age, her body dominated by elbows and knees.
She shifted on her pillow, opened her eyes and stared reproachfully at Livy. “Must you speak?” she said. “Look in my mind if you want to know something.”
“I asked you a question so you’d think about what I wanted to know,” said Livy.
“How can I see into anything with so much noise around me?” Mithra grumbled. “Wait and watch; it will all become clear. You should have learned that by now.” Mithra was jealous of Livy because she was older, because she had more experience.
Edouard stared from one to the other of them, eyes wide and unblinking. His mind held only snatches of thoughts, momentary visions; he was fragmented. Poor Edouard, Livy thought; we don’t help you much, do we?
Edouard began to cry silently, tears welling in his open eyes. No, we never help you, Livy thought. But you’re getting better by yourself; time teaches you.
“That’s because Edouard isn’t sophisticated,” Mithra said. “He still looks at everything as itself, not as part of anything else. I don’t think people should keep on broadcasting after they’re ten years old; you don’t see things as clearly as we do.”
Livy smiled. Be careful, she thought. The monitor herself is hearing you. You’ll upset her.
“No I won’t,” said Mithra, speaking aloud with a feeling of vindictiveness. She drew her pillow from beneath her, threw it against the wall and slid back so that she could lean against it. “The monitor, in case you haven’t noticed, isn’t even awake.”
Not awake? Livy reached out for the monitor’s mind, but she found nothing. Panic touched her. She remembered what had happened earlier after the visions from the Abyss: the monitor’s sight had gone from her, she had seen only with her eyes, and it had taken her attendants many long minutes to soothe her back into her trance.
But she was all right, Livy thought. I was with her then in her mind; I saw her open again and come alive.
“You know monitors don’t live long,” said Mithra. “Their minds break up; their bodies decay. She’s fifteen years old—she can’t stand any shock.” And yet you’re surprised, Mithra was thinking. You don’t really believe the monitor can be failing, because if you did, you’d know the same thing will happen to you.
Not this soon, Livy thought. I’m still a person. “You’re just in a hurry to get rid of her, and then of me,” she said.
Where is the monitor? Edouard was thinking. If she’s sleeping, where are her dreams? I can’t find her!
Livy went searching for the monitor’s mind. It was always easy to find her; Livy knew the feeling of the monitor’s mind almost as well as she knew the feeling of her own: the vague, shifting textures and pastel colors. Only half a person, really—she had so little self-volition now.
But Livy couldn’t find her. She could
feel the heat of Cirque’s streets baking in early afternoon, the slow tempo of homes near the Evening Gate, hopes and plans of so many people working through the day. She was surprised at how many of them were thinking of the Abyss; the morning’s broadcasts had reached deeply into the minds of the city.
But the monitor wasn’t there. Livy searched fruitlessly: that soft, attenuated mind was nowhere to be found.
She heard a low moaning and realized it was Edouard. Unthinking, still searching with her mind, she took the boy into her arms and held him, rocking gently. The monitor’s absence grew loud in the room; Livy didn’t know whether it was her own fear she felt or Edouard’s.
“She’s been gone almost an hour,” Mithra said. “After the servants left her, she just drifted away.” And you didn’t notice, Livy. You never notice anything.
Livy stood up suddenly and swayed for a moment with dizziness. The walls of the room were so white. Gradually shadows reappeared, giving reality to her surroundings. She hurried out of the common room, calling “Sherrard!”
The monitor’s chief attendant met her in the shadowed hall. Nearly thirty years old, black-haired and grave, Sherrard looked anxious. Livy went through the open door of the monitor’s room without speaking to him. The monitor lay on her bed, eyes shut, her thick organic-wool blanket wrapped around her. She was curled into a ball, knees drawn up to her chin. Her mind was silent—was not there. No thoughts, no dreams, no images.
But she was breathing normally. Livy knelt on the floor mattress and laid her hand on the monitor’s face: cool, damp.
“What’s wrong?” Sherrard asked. “Isn’t she sleeping?” He hurried to Livy’s side and bent over, staring at the monitor. “She went to sleep an hour ago, after she got so scared—”
Livy said, “She’s in a coma. Sherrard, this is your responsibility.”
He went quickly to an ornately carved sideboard to get his medical kit. Beneath his anxiety Livy saw a kind of relief: Sherrard had been expecting this. The monitor was fifteen, after all.
But that’s not old! Livy thought. She asked, “Did she say anything when she was awake? Did she feel ill?”
Sherrard took his leather-covered kit from a drawer. “All she said was she wanted to be alone. Said she was all right.” He knelt on the other side of the floor mattress and opened his kit. Inside the small box were medicines, tubes of pills, a variety of sensory devices. Sherrard selected a neuroscope, fitted plugs to his ears and laid the pickup node against the back of the monitor’s neck. He listened, staring at the monitor, then took a meter from his kit and began to connect it to the neuroscope.
“She didn’t say anything else,” Sherrard said. “She was just like she always is.”
Sherrard studied the neuroscope meter: no beta activity, of course. No delta signs on the readout either: no dreams. But there was a trace of alpha activity and more of theta. A very level reading, almost no variation at all. The red dot of the meter’s indicator held steady as the tape fed past it.
Livy found herself staring at the monitor, seeing her as though for the first time. Her mind was not there—it had burrowed deep into the sublevels of consciousness—and Livy was able to see the girl as the servants saw her: a small, shapeless person whose face was as pale as the walls. Short dark hair, neatly cropped every week by Sherrard.
Her face is like a baby’s, Livy thought; she’s never learned any expressions. She’s lived all her life inside the fortress of her skull. Touching everything, watching everybody, but only inside—nothing more, ever, for fifteen years.
She felt a dull horror. Do I look like that? she wondered. Will I look like that when I die? An amorphous body and no face?
Mithra’s thought intruded: Yes, you will. You know you will.
“Her breathing is all right,” said Sherrard. “Shall I use stimulants?”
“Yes,” Livy said. “If it isn’t dangerous. Do you think she might die?”
Now or soon, Sherrard thought. “The stimulants aren’t dangerous,” he said. But if she’s gone into a coma, isn’t that a sign that her body is already breaking down?
It’s her mind that’s failed, thought Mithra. Burned out.
Livy felt annoyance that Mithra had stayed on her pillow in the common room, watching with her mind only. You couldn’t even come to look with your eyes! What if we need your help?
Edouard is frightened, Mithra thought. I’m holding him—feel how he shudders.
Deeper in her mind, Mithra was thinking: Livy’s the eldest now; she’s the one who’s responsible for what happens to the monitor.
Sherrard had taken a vial from his kit; he held it to the monitor’s nostrils and broke the seal. Yellow vapor rose from the vial, a pale buttery stain in the air. The monitor’s nostrils flared; she shuddered.
“Don’t worry, it’s mild,” Sherrard said. “It only stimulates the conscious mind.”
A low sound came from the monitor’s throat—not quite a moan, only the sound of breath over tightened vocal cords. Livy saw her mind coming awake, dull red images forming, dim shapes moving sluggishly in darkness.
The red dot of the neuroscope meter shook suddenly, jabbing back and forth. Livy heard: Not ready, not ready, wait, I can’t—
“She’s coming around,” Sherrard said. He waved the vial under the monitor’s nose; pale yellow vapor curled out and disappeared almost immediately. The monitor’s head suddenly jerked upward.
“No!” she cried. The sound was high and piercing. She rolled to one side and pushed away Sherrard’s hand. Her eyes came wide open, staring straight ahead as her head whipped back and forth.
Her mind was a bright crimson light, flaring out of control. She clutched the blanket around her, then rolled onto her side and shook. Livy saw her legs moving spasmodically under the blanket.
Horror filled her. It was not a reflection of the monitor’s mind—it was Livy’s own, felt from deep inside. She fell onto the mattress beside the older girl and clutched her, arms around the monitor’s waist, face buried in the cropped hair at her neck. The monitor fought her, trying to push her away, but Livy held on desperately; she climbed on top of her and pinned her under the blanket.
Easy, easy, Annalie, please. I love you; you’re all right; please hold still. No fear … softness, warmth, calm now.
The girl beneath her quieted, the red flares in her mind subsided, and the two of them lay still, panting for breath. After a moment Livy rolled off the other girl and sat up on the mattress, looking at her.
Annalie was your name, she thought. That’s right. Annalie. How could I forget?
Silence in the room. Livy heard the distant traces of the many minds of Cirque, a dim murmur. Sunlight and open air—
Annalie. I’m Annalie.
It was the monitor’s mind, childlike and wondering. Livy saw that she was crying, tears flowing from wide-open eyes. The monitor stared at the ceiling and thought: I’m Annalie. Not any of the others, just Annalie.
Yes, thought Livy. Yes, you’re Annalie.’
The monitor reached out for Livy, found her with her hands, ran fingers over her face like a blind person. She stared at Livy with pale grey eyes, and Livy was unable to look away.
After a long time, the monitor said, “You have to get out of this house.” Her voice was hoarse and broken. “You have to get away before you’re me.”
Jamie waited quietly in Gloriana’s office at Guard Base while she dictated her report into the daily log. Gloriana sat in a worn horsehide chair with her knees drawn up under her, speaking in a flat voice into her desk mike, which was mounted in a redwood icon of Tiresias the Seer.
Her report was calm and objective. At a depth of four hundred meters, a life form was seen; at seven hundred meters, it was holographed. Below eight hundred meters, all passengers of the gravity craft saw the following phenomena …
Her description of the pale, heaving mass of animal and fungoid life sent chills along his spine. “Limbs with no visible articulation … hide of pale grey ma
rked irregularly by darker coloration …”
She did not look at Jamie as she dictated; she seemed to speak directly to the Tiresias statuette. Jamie sat across from her in an antique wood chair and fingered the smooth-worn arm rests, wondering how Gloriana could see such horrors and then describe them as though she’d measured them with a micrometer. And he wondered if she saw him as clinically.
At night, moving with him in love, he knew her mind did not work like that; she was a different person then. But which was the real Gloriana? Did she discard her analyzing, measuring mind when she was with him, or was that her true self, covered during their nights together by a sensuousness that didn’t touch her inside?
“Massive quantities of life-control chemicals are under requisition from the northern agricultural areas,” she said. “The first consignment will be dropped at 1600 hours, this date. Further reports to follow.”
She reached forward and pressed a plate in front of the Tiresias figure, switching off its recorder. Only then did her face relinquish its flat, professional look. “Well,” she said softly, “so much for duty. If only it meant something.”
“Those poisons will mean something when you drop them into the Abyss,” Jamie said. “The Hill Councils have rezoned whole forests with them, haven’t they?”
“Yes,” she said. She sat in silence for a moment, staring at the Tiresias statuette. Then she said, “Jamie, I’m sorry about this morning. I’ve had a lot on my mind.” She shook her head suddenly. “No, actually I haven’t had anything at all on my mind—that’s just the trouble. I’m so useless. This job has a lot of prestige, and I know you’re impressed with me for having it, but it’s all routine work. Anyone could do it; it’s just a matter of fighting up through the ranks to get it.”
“But you’re the one who’s got it,” Jamie said. “You beat everyone else who wanted it; you’re the Guardian.”
She waved a hand dismissingly. “Guardian of what? A city full of quiet, decent, lawful people who worry more about what they have to tell their priests and priestesses than about the city laws. I don’t guard Cirque—the temples do. My position is a civic ornament.”
