Shadow's End

by Sheri S. Tepper

  When the preliminary work was done, the birds and plants would be gone. The planet would have trees suitable for lumber and grasses suitable for pasture. It would have grains, edible root, leaf, and fruit crops, plus at least one draft and one dairy animal and perhaps—if the colonists were not Firsters—one or two animals from the category "small-furry-dociles" or pets. There was no need for insects or birds in Class-C homo-norm. All plants were designed to be wind-pollinated, and Perdur Alas was windy enough.

  The arriving team knew this without needing to consider the implications, though bio-assay tech Snark surprised herself shortly after landing by thinking that a million things could be added to Perdur Alas before it had the same complexity as most untouched Class-A planets. Her next thought was one of recognition. This planet, in all its simplicity, was entirely familiar to her.

  "Quarters this way," announced team leader Kane, hoisting an equipment case onto his shoulder and stumping off toward the team housing at one side of the encampment.

  The pseudo-team, though differing from the original team in physical appearance, was identical as to numbers, sex, and functions. Now most of them straggled after Kane without comment. Each of them had a role to play. Kane's was to keep everyone else working. Snark's was to compare current organisms with those included in Class-C category, using an automatic inventory device, to determine which species should be adapted or eliminated and what others should be introduced to make the world suitable for man. A few members of the team had been conditioned as tank-farm workers, assigned to grow and process food. Others were assigned as housekeeping staff, while others yet would provide maintenance duties and staff communications.

  Each of them would occupy the same work space and sleep space as his or her counterpart on the former team. Each of them knew the routine for each day's labors. They knew what the departed team had known about the work already done. In addition, they knew, and had had it proved to them on the way out, that they could not injure one another. As in Shadowland, if one formed any intention toward violence, one found oneself curled into the fetal position, thumb in mouth, just as formerly. They knew who they were. They also remembered what they had been, though that matter did not seem relevant and was often forgotten for quite lengthy periods. Each of them had almost invisible scars behind which implanted devices made records of everything seen, heard, smelled, tasted, felt. The devices did not intrude upon thought. Their thoughts, though rare, were their own.

  As the team moved off toward the camp the pilot and engineer of the vessel stood at the foot of the loading ramp watching, not noticing Snark, who had stopped to pick up a replacement filter for the bio-assay machine and now stood just inside the open cargo bay.

  "Funny bunch," the pilot said. "You ever notice their eyes?"

  "How could you help but notice. You listen to their mouths going on, this that, this that, all sounding pretty good, then you look at the eyes and see these wild animals glaring at you."

  "Crazy people? With implants, maybe?"

  "I dunno. One thing sure. They're out here on the edge of nowhere and the Ularians are coming."

  "Hush," said the engineer. "We were told—"

  "We were told not to talk. I'm not talking. Hell, how far is it back to where anybody can hear me!"

  "I hear you," said the other, stiffly. "And both of us could get asked what we saw, what we heard. From anybody."

  Snark read the look on the engineer's face to mean, "And if they ask me, I'll tell them you were shooting off your mouth!"

  "Yeah, well," said the pilot in sudden discomfort. "We'd best get started back. It feels pretty exposed here. Like somebody might be watching us."

  Snark slipped out of the cargo bay as they went up the ramp, then stood below, watching them. She was remembering another ship, like this ship. Herself going up a ramp just like this one.

  Before the lock closed, the pilot risked one more look at the humans moving among the graceless buildings below and mumbled a final comment. To shadows, reading lips was nothing at all, and Snark read the words clearly.

  "Bait! That's what they are. Bait."

  Lutha and Trompe discovered their vehicle could not actually "arrive" at the hive of Cochim-Mahn. It could be driven to a point roughly opposite and above our hive, where the road ended at the edge of the cliffs. A flat triangular chunk of metal hung from the roof beam of the vacant guest house, and before doing anything else, Trompe struck it several times. They both waited as the resultant resonance trembled above the depths, seeming to hang interminably before fading into the daysounds of wind and creature.

  We heard it, of course, though songfather hadn't waited for it. He knew when they were coming. I hadn't waited for it either. Despite what had happened to me, it was still my duty to clean the quarters of Bernesohn Famber, which I had done, along with airing blankets and sleeping pads for those who were expected.

  After a brief wait, Lutha shrugged at the lack of response and carried Leely into the guest house. It had two cramped rooms, a sanitary arrangement added on the back, and a food dispenser wedged into a corner, all very dim behind tightly closed shutters. She stretched and bent, working out the kinks, then lay down on the padded bench, Leely beside her, and fell into a doze. She might have opened the shutters in order to admire the carved and crenellated canyon, the effect of shade and sun as the occasional clouds came sailing over, but both Lutha and Trompe, so she told me later, were sick unto death of canyons.

  "I think someone's coming," Trompe said after a considerable silence. He lay as he had thrown himself down, in a posture of exaggerated exhaustion, and did not remove his forearm from his eyes as he spoke.

  "How do you know?" asked Lutha.

  "Hmm." It was a doubtful sound, as though he didn't know himself how he knew. "I'm picking up put-upon feelings. Someone out there is feeling overworked and irascible. Angry or aggrieved about something, too. Not us. Or, not us specifically."

  "Ah." She rose and went out back to consult the sanitary system, returning brushed and furbished. "Still not arrived? When will he get here?"

  "Now he's standing among the trees. Politeness, I think. Waiting until we notice him."

  "If you weren't a Fastigat, that might take some time."

  "I think his next step may be some throat clearing or modest coughs, growing louder with time."

  Indeed, as she opened the door, the sound she heard was an apologetic cough that seemed to ask, "Was I wanted?"

  "I am Lutha Tallstaff," she said across the clearing. "Mother of Leely Famber, direct-lineage son of Bernesohn Famber. With me is my assistant, Trompe."

  "And your son?" asked my father, Chahdzi, who stood beneath the trees.

  The upper part of his face was painted blue, the line running horizontally just below his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. Lutha tried to recall anything she might have read about that. Nothing. A local custom, she thought, which was accurate. Persons undertaking dangerous tasks paint their eyes yellow, asking others to pray for them. Persons who must deal with outsiders paint their faces half-blue, so we will watch and listen carefully, in case they show signs of deviance. And so on.

  "Leely is in here, asleep," she said.

  My father stepped from the shade of the trees and came forward. "I am Chahdzi, son of the songfather of Cochim-Mahn. It is my assigned task to serve you as guide to the leasehold of Bernesohn Famber." Without invitation, he came across the shallow porch and into the room, where he took a long look at Leely, to make sure he was a real, living person. "We have to walk and climb a long way," he said in explanation. "The boy will be heavy to carry."

  "He can walk," said Lutha. "He can run and climb." Like a little goat. "Most of the way, at least."

  "Partway. But of such complexity, interesting patterns are made," he said in the falsely cheerful tone one adopts for reassuring children.

  "I suppose it does," she said doubtfully. Certainly this whole business was complex enough. "When do we go?"

  "Since
you were expected today, I left Cochim-Mahn this morning. It took me all of today to get here to meet you, and now it is late. Soon Lady Day departs with all her blessings and the time of whispering comes. When the Lady comes again, we will go."

  "Shortly after dawn tomorrow then," commented Trompe.

  The man shivered, almost undetectably, and nodded. "I will sleep in here, or perhaps in your vehicle."

  "Because," said Lutha, moved by an obscure impulse, "because it is better not to be out in the dark?"

  Again that shiver, almost unnoticeable. "Because of the pattern, matron," he said in a dignified voice. "Which alternates dark and light, activity and quiet, whisper and shout, sleep and waking … "

  "Do I offend in asking about the night?" she asked. "I am curious about … the things that go about in the dark."

  "Bernesohn Famber was also curious, or so I am told by the rememberers. Outlanders are often curious about Dinadh and the Dinadhi. Why do we paint our faces and sometimes our bodies? Why do we sing all the time? Why do we do this, or that? We tell you all the same things. All is part of the pattern; the light and the dark." He gestured vaguely. "If one wishes to learn details, one must consult a songfather who is schooled in such things. I am a simple person, a mere yahsdi' imicha dimicha'a."

  She translated mentally. One-who-is-assigned-to-do-what-needs-doing. A man of all work, perhaps. A handyman. She started to ask him how far they would have to go on the morrow, the words drying in her mouth as she saw his face, suddenly alert, listening.

  She cocked her head. There was a sound, distant, but not faint. A song, rising from the canyon.

  "Forgive me," said Chahdzi. "I will return shortly."

  He left the room and went out into the open, where he threw his arms open to the sky and began a breathy song, evidently addressed to thin air.

  "What's he doing?" asked Trompe.

  "You're the empath," she said.

  "All I can pick up is a feeling of concern, a desire which he is repressing."

  She listened, translated, nodded. "He's singing to Weaving Woman, begging her to keep the patterns clear and straight."

  Afar, the song faded into silence, only the echoes remaining for a moment more. Chahdzi stood with bowed head. In a few moments he turned and came back to them.

  "How far do we have to go then, tomorrow?" Lutha asked.

  He shook his head, as though reminding himself of where he was. "A day. A long day spent in going quickly. Which is why I look at the boy, to see how fast we can go. Climbing down the walls is not easy."

  "Perhaps we won't get there in one day," she said casually.

  "One must," he said. Impersonal imperative. One must, that's all.

  "Dangerous to be out after dark, is it?" Trompe's head was cocked, picking up all the little signals.

  Chahdzi smiled, ducking his head slightly. "Danger has a place in the pattern, surely. And pain. Slidhza b'dasya a yana chas-as imsli t'sisri."

  Again Lutha translated to herself, fumbling with the word order. A wise person doesn't use his own shuttle to weave sorrow. Or perhaps, a wise shuttle won't weave grief.

  "I do not understand," she said.

  He shrugged again, a habitual gesture. "It is foolish to create dark patterns for ourselves, matron. Weaving Woman will include enough darkness, whether we wish or no. Let us hope for a bright pattern tomorrow, if we are her beloved children." He pointed to the child. "That one is. Everyone says so."

  "Now, why is that?" Trompe asked, amazed.

  "He knows." Chahdzi smiled. "Everyone says he knows."

  "Knows what?" asked Lutha, wonderingly. "Knows what, Chahdzi?"

  "Knows," he said softly. "What is. Patterns. What comes next."

  Though his words were not unlike other comments the Dinadhi had made about Leely, they were no more explanatory. The boy himself showed no signs of knowing what needed doing, unless sleeping was it.

  "Will you eat with us?" asked Lutha.

  "I accept your generous offer of food," he said, looking away from her in obvious discomfort.

  His tone made her realize that he would have gone hungry had she not offered, and also that one did not say "eat with us" on Dinadh.

  Damn! She hadn't given sufficient thought to some of the stuff she'd found in the culture chips!

  "Since I do not know your taste," she said carefully, "will you do us the courtesy of choosing for yourself?"

  He went happily to the food unit, where he stood for a long time in contemplation of the listed menu, mumbling to himself.

  "I like very much the taste of cheese," he said, pointing at a certain item and using their own word, cheese, which evidently did not exist in his own language. "But I cannot eat of it unless … "

  She came to his assistance, reading labels. "It's all right. Everything in here is dosed with the necessary enzymes. Trompe and I have commented that you have no dairy beasts on Dinadh."

  "It is said we brought milk creatures from our former world," he murmured. "But here, Weaving Woman could not permit them. Here our pattern changed."

  "Human-owned flocks of grazers and browsers have ended a good many patterns," grunted Trompe. "Once man killed off the natural predators and let them multiply."

  "So it is said," agreed Chahdzi, glancing at Lutha from the corner of his eyes as she manipulated the food-service unit. Something light for herself and for Trompe. She would feed Leely when he wakened. As for Chahdzi, who was obviously apprehensive that they might watch while he ate, she would make the matter simple.

  She handed him the warmed packet of cheese and cereal-food, saying, "Perhaps you would enjoy your meal on the porch?"

  "Indeed." He bowed gravely and took it away with him, leaving Trompe and Lutha to eat their own selections in silent company. Chahdzi might be out of sight, but he was not out of earshot, so Lutha did not mention her annoyance at the thought of a long climb on the morrow and Trompe did not remark upon the feelings he picked up from Chahdzi: awe, hope, terror, anger. The same feelings he'd detected in the serving girl at the hostel. The same strange combination.

  As they ate, Lutha dug out a handful of culture chips and scanned the indices, muttering to herself.

  "Nothing there on the subject?" Trompe asked, sotto voce, elaborately nonspecific concerning which subject.

  "Not a … nothing," she replied. "You'd think—"

  "The language chips I gave you were prepared by the people at Tasimi-na-Dinadh," he murmured thoughtfully. "All properly indexed for use by possible leaseholders and no doubt somewhat edited … "

  "A sales pitch, in other words," she muttered.

  He nodded. "They were the most recent chips the Procurator had, though he also gave me some old ones made by independent researchers. I didn't pass them on to you because they looked like heavy going. They're really old, and they aren't indexed at all."

  "Please," she said. "Are they in your pack?"

  "Finish your food," he said gently. "I'll get them in a minute."

  After Chahdzi had thanked them again for food and sequestered himself in their vehicle, after Leely had had his supper and fallen asleep once more, Trompe dug out the chips he had promised: old ones, nicked at the corners, their labels faded.

  "You say the Procurator gave you these?" she asked doubtfully.

  "Well, he gave me the Dinadh file, and they were in it. He did remark that the newer chips were more up-to-date."

  "They're so up, all usefulness has been edited out of them," she snorted. "They're completely superficial. All the taboos are avoided, so we can't tell what we should or shouldn't say, may or may not do! For example, we've seen the beautiful people are ubiquitous, but the chips don't even mention them. These are the ones I should have studied."

  "Maybe," he said soberly. "But they seemed very ponderous to me."

  Peevishly, she disregarded this as irrelevant. Fastigats weren't researchers. They didn't spend their time making laborious correlations from ancient records; they didn't sift history for nuanc
es. They drew their conclusions from the here and the now, from whatever or whoever was feeling and emoting in the vicinity. Well, nonetheless.

  She accessed one of the chips at random and began plowing through it, realizing after some little time that Trompe had been right. It was heavy going. This researcher had come to Dinadh as to virgin territory and had weeded nothing out. He or she had included everything uncut, every branch and twig and tangled root. Who knew what was alive and important, what had died long ago or had compacted into impenetrable peat?

  She yawned, tried to focus, forced herself to concentrate, and finally gave up in disgust, no longer annoyed at Trompe. He was right. This was ponderous indeed. She would seek nuances later perhaps, but not tonight. Leely and Trompe had the better idea. One should sleep when one could!

  CHAPTER 4

  The first night on Perdur Alas, Snark bedded down in the dormitory with the other shadows, waking frequently, listening for some unusual sound, but hearing only breathing, snores, restless movements, and sighs. She herself slept little. The chip within her recorded her wakefulness. Someday, somewhere, someone might review these feelings, experience her perceptions. Everything the chip detected was beamed to a tiny satellite hidden beside a moonlet, and from there was relayed to the nearest occupied planet—Dinadh, probably, where the hated Lutha Tallstaff had gone—and from there to somewhere else and somewhere else again, all the way back to Alliance Prime and the damned Procurator. Perhaps even now someone on Dinadh was monitoring what had been done today on Perdur Alas and wondering why this particular shadow was awake.

  Snark tried to care and could not. They had no right, she told herself, quite correctly. She knew it and they knew it: they had no right. The words were familiar, but the rage they usually evoked would not come. Those sent to Perdur Alas had been conditioned against rage, against rebellion.

  No one had thought to condition any of them against childhood fantasies. On the third night, Snark lay down among the others as before, but when they slept, she rose and went out into the night. All day she had been smelling the moor. The smell had filled her to the exclusion of other perceptions, had preoccupied her with feelings long dreamed and totally familiar. Perhaps these woody and ferny growths had come from the same place as the ones she had smelled as a child. Perhaps this moor had been designed to be like one she had seen long ago, her dream moor, complete with tea-brown pools and rustling bracken. Perhaps that world and this one had shared a common designer or a common heritage.