The 97th Step

by Steve Perry

  Swamp Day supposedly came but once a year, and this was Pen's first experience of it. He had been at the compound for nearly six months when the test of HSP—Higher Sensory Perception—began, and he could not say that he was enjoying the procedure.

  Moon had explained it easily enough. "One of the instructors will hide somewhere in the large expanse of the mangrove swamp; the object is for the students to find the brother or sister."

  "Is that all?" he'd asked. "How does that test HSP?"

  "The swamp is five kilometers by seven. The instructor will be hiding in such a way that you aren't apt to blunder into him or her."

  Wonderful, he had thought. Slogging around in a swamp, looking for somebody who wanted to be found, but was hiding carefully enough to avoid it. Great.

  Moon continued. "It isn't a perfect test, but the swamp is isolated enough so that only the students and instructor will be there. The instructor's ki will be easier to sense without the interference of too many others."

  Pen altered his heavy-footed steps to avoid a stretch of open water. The boots weren't that good.

  Despite his willingness to believe almost anything Moon said, he'd been more than a little skeptical when she'd started talking about ki and auras and telepathy. It had been a little easier to think of it in more scientific terms. Electrochemical brainwave activity, magnetoencephaloemissions, truthscan electropophy—those were things one could see demonstrated with sensory gear, charts, graphs, holoprojic reads. Tuning into another person at a distance by some kind of radiopathic reception was more difficult to grasp, despite his own experiences with sixth-sense feelings as a thief.

  "Call it what you will," Moon had said. "The fact is that it exists. Ki, auras, whatever. That a human brain can do what a relatively simple machine can shouldn't be so hard to believe."

  Maybe not. But he had trouble buying it. The exercises Moon had taught him for HSP were weird. She would have him sit and defocus his eyes while staring at her, trying to "see without seeing" her aura. Or he would stand in a darkened and soundproofed room, "listening without listening" for Moon's movements.

  There were half a dozen such tricks he practiced, and sometimes they worked, sometimes they didn't.

  When they did do what they were supposed to do, he couldn't understand why.

  A lot of his questions about the Siblings had been answered in the last few months, though. They were not a celibate order, for instance. Many of the students paired or tripled. Before Von left, he and Moon had spent a lot of time together. Pen had been glad to see the Elder Brother leave. Although Moon had less personal time for Pen, now that she was Elder Sister, he felt a sense of relief at Von's departure.

  How could a mere student compete with a Full Brother?

  Not, he thought, as he watched a snake slither across a muddy patch of ground, that Moon had ever indicated the slightest interest in him as a sexual partner. Or anything other than a student.

  Behind him. Pen heard a splashing. One of the other students, he figured, likely feeling as foolish as he did.

  Some of the teachings made sense. The Ninety-seven Steps, for instance. He could fumble the pattern fairly well by now. Twice, he had made it through to the end without even a small bobble, a cause of justifiable pride. There were some who had been here for years who were still unable to reach the end in any fashion, much less smoothly. In fact, according to Pen's research on the house computer, no one had ever progressed as rapidly as he had. The sumito sparring sessions had seemed almost natural to him, as if he had found some hidden talent he'd never imagined before. The art was unlike the fighting system he'd learned from Dindabe. Pen looked forward to each workout, eager to learn more. It was nice to be the best at something, especially something everybody here wanted to be good at.

  He put his right foot down at a bad angle, and the whining boot shoved him crooked, nearly toppling him into the mud. Careful, O master of balance!

  He grinned, amused at himself. What was it Moon had said? Pride goes before a fall? Something like that.

  This little trip into the swamp was something else, though. He had his doubts.

  Ahead lay a thickly wooded stand of trees and suckery underbrush, angling down a steep hillside.

  Someone had come this way before, because there was a faint trace of a path leading around the coppice. A wise move, Pen figured, since working one's way through that steep underbrush was surely an invitation to disaster. One was apt to slip and fall on such a slope, and the only advantage to the thick growth was that- it would probably stop a nasty tumble down the hillside. Small consolation.

  But as he started along the path. Pen stopped and stood still. What was that? Some faint sound came, something he could not pin down. Another student? Not likely, coming from that section of woods. No marks of passage marred that dense living wall. He strained to hear the sound again. Nothing. He wasn't even sure he had heard anything. It might have been his imagination. He started to turn away.

  Wait. There it was again. As if someone were calling him… Then, he was certain he heard a faint voice—"Pen!"

  The sun had risen high enough to send stray, slanting beams down through the dense canopy of trees, heating the swamp around Pen. In the distance, thunder grumbled as the sun assembled its first electrical storm of the day. The stink of decaying plants was all around Pen, a rich, rotten stench. But he forgot his eyes and ears and nose as the truth of the call touched him: he had not heard the sound.

  He had felt the call in his mind.

  A chill danced over him, frosting his arms and legs and neck with prickles, stirring his hairs in some atavistic danger signal. He shivered as he stared at the wall of wood before him. Not just a call, but one from Moon. He was as sure of that as he'd ever been of anything. She hadn't told him she would be the instructor hiding in the swamp, but he knew it was her. Knew it in a way he could not begin to explain.

  There was no denying it, it was a simple fact, as real as the sunlight and swamp-stink. More real.

  The fabric of his undershroud withstood the passage into the copse better than his own skin did. Within moments, he was abraded and scratched in a half-dozen new spots. If this section of wood continued this thick for much longer, he would be raw everywhere his flesh was exposed.

  After a hundred meters, the woods thinned. The downslope was not so steep, and after another hundred meters, pretty much leveled out. Here, the ground was drier, and there was a path of'sorts, winding around a muddy stream and another small hill.

  When he circled the hill, he saw something that made him stop and stare in amazement.

  It was difficult to comprehend, at first. The ground was less thickly wooded, a clearing that had gone back to nature. Here were set two squarish structures, built of wood and plastic; there, a large, concentric circle of ground had been cleared and remained mostly so, with only thin patches of brush marring it. Amazing enough, here in the middle of a swamp, but the main attraction sat upon the cleared circle: a full-sized model of an old-style atmosphere ship.

  The ship and buildings had suffered under the weather. Holes gaped in the structures, revealing the bracing inside; moss grew thickly in spots; rot had made large inroads. Whoever had built these things had done so long past. But—for what purpose had this imitation of a landing field been constructed? Pen had no doubt that's what this was—a crude mock-up of a rocket port. Pre-Bender, maybe, certainly long before boxcars were common.

  "Cargo cult," came Moon's voice from behind him.

  He turned, not surprised.

  Moon stood watching him, enigmatic as always in her shroud.

  "It's a religious belief," she said. "Originally, it had to do with primitives and their observations of more advanced cultures. Civilization came to the remote islands, usually during wars. The natives watched the outsiders build runways or rocket pads, and then miraculously, aircraft would appear from the skies, bearing valuable cargo. So the natives built their own such places, hoping to lure the gods into bringin
g them a share of the wealth. Much like a hunter uses a decoy to trick prey."

  "They must have been real primitive."

  "Actually, the cult ran in cycles. It took on more mystical significance, had undertones unrelated to the original purposes. This particular construction was built less than a hundred years ago, by locals who were probably living in prefab houses with holoproj and full powercasts."

  Pen shook his head. "Why build it in the middle of a swamp? I wouldn't think that would be particularly attractive to a god."

  "This area wasn't a swamp when they built it. This is probably fourth or fifth forest cycle. The weather is a potent force here, as you may have noticed."

  "I've been meaning to ask you about that. Why isn't there weather control on this planet?"

  "Two reasons: the technology has to be imported and the local government doesn't want to spend the money, or admit they have to buy it offworld. The Confed allows them a certain leeway, a sop to homeworld politics."

  Pen stared at the fake rocket. He was aware that this entire conversation was unreal. What they should have been talking about was how he had known Moon was here; how he had burrowed his way through that wall of vegetation and come straight to her. How impossible it was.

  Then again, maybe not. Moon believed in HSP; this demonstration had convinced Pen, too. One did not have to know the physics of a repulsion engine in order to ride on a flitter. There was something here, all right.

  "Come," she said. "Let's get back to the compound. There's an easier path, this way."

  "What about the other students?"

  "They've already been called back. They were never meant to find this place. The test was for you. The others were only window shading."

  Pen digested that morsel as he followed Moon along the path away from the remains of the ersatz rocket port. They were a devious group, the Siblings. He wondered what other circuitous teachings they had simmering.

  In the "winter," the heat abated somewhat, but not all that much. Pen had advanced, so that his undershroud was more complete, but he still had a way to travel before he was entirely covered. Even with the chemical sunscreen he wore, he had developed a deep tan on his exposed flesh, presenting what he considered a comical sight in the mirror as he undressed for bed. Light here, dark there. Not that anyone had seen him bare, save at the pool, and even there, the hood and briefs were always worn; since his arrival at the order, he had yet to enjoy sexual congress with a sister or brother student—or a teacher.

  Solitary masturbation relieved the physical pressure, but that wasn't particularly joyful. And he hadn't been without a bedmate for such a long period since he'd left home as a teenager. Odd.

  It was amazing how much he could tell about Moon's moods, considering he had primarily her voice and eyes to work with. There were days when she was tired, days when she was angry, days when she seemed filled with inner light and peace. He was sensitive to her in a way that seemed telepathic. More HSP, he figured.

  On this particular day, however, he had no warning of the trauma she was about to inflict. It came as they walked past the power plant.

  From under her robes, Moon produced a gun.

  Pen stared at it as if she held a live serpent. She could not see his face, but his body betrayed him.

  "What's the matter? It's only an airgun. It shoots low-velocity steel pellets."

  "What are you doing with it?"

  "You need to learn how to shoot—"

  "No." His voice had a whiplike crack to it, surprising him with its intensity.

  "What?"

  "I don't use guns."

  "It is part of your training. All the siblings must have a basic knowledge of hand weapons."

  "I know about hand weapons. I know what they can do."

  "It is required."

  He stared at the air pistol. It was an innocuous weapon, probably capable of stinging, but unless its projectile hit an eye, not dangerous to a human. Even so, he felt a chill dance over him as he considered the gun.

  Pen drew in a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I don't handle guns. A wand, a slap cap, those are okay. Not guns."

  "Why?"

  Ah, there was the question, the one neither Dindabe nor anyone at the order had ever asked. "It's…personal."

  After what seemed a long time, Moon said, "I have a lot of flexibility in my teaching, but there is an overall curriculum. You must demonstrate a basic proficiency with this"—she waved the gun gently—"to gain rank. If you cannot progress in rank…"

  The rest need not be said. Failure at any rank for more than three tests meant expulsion from the order. It almost never happened, but it had. And, it seemed, would happen at least once more.

  Pen sighed. "Then I guess I'll have to leave."

  "What?" Her surprise seemed potent, he wished he could see her face. More than anything, he wished at this moment to be able to see Moon's features. "You would leave over something like this? You were a thief, Pen. Surely you did worse things than fire a gun."

  Her surprise and disturbance bothered him almost as much as the sight of the gun. Almost. He did not want to upset his teacher. He would do anything for her. Almost anything.

  "No. I never did anything worse than firing a gun."

  "Then you are familiar with them?"

  "Yes." All too familiar.

  A long time elapsed. Half an eon, at least.

  "All right," she said. "I will take your word for it. You need not show me. I'll pass you on this test."

  The rest of the eon ran past. Pen blinked, understanding what it was that Moon was doing. True, she was the Elder Sister and her word carried much weight; still, he understood that she was risking herself by her words and actions. If she lied for him, was willing to trust him on this, she would be putting herself into jeopardy. It might be small, no one might ever know, but the thought of it further filled him with dread.

  Why would she do this? Take his statement at face value? He was not someone to trust.

  Emotions warred within him. Memory and loathing fought against respect and devotion. The old fortress stood firm against the new attack. The last time he had carried a gun, it had cost him everyone he had ever loved. It had destroyed the life he had built. Intellectually, he understood it was the hand that fired the weapon, the mind that moved the hand, those things were responsible. But his gut clenched at the sight of the gun, because that was the external object upon which he could hang the blame. He knew this with his brain, but his belly would not accept it. It might never accept it.

  As time ran down, entropy and energy exchanging their souls, Pen/Ferret/Mwili took a deep breath, knowing what he had to do, what he must do, were he to survive as anything other than a shell of his old self.

  He could not allow Moon to cover for him.

  "Give me the pistol," he said.

  "You don't have to—"

  "Please."

  Moon tendered the weapon.

  The plastic handle was warm from her hand. He hefted the gun, felt the balance and point of it, and checked the mechanism. The safety, there by his thumb, the trigger, the power pack charge reading. In an instant, he knew the weapon, instinctively felt the heart of it. It was his talent, one he despised, but also one he could not deny.

  To his left, ten meters away, was a small citrus tree, a yemlat. The fruit was a yellow-green obloid, similar in size and shape to a lemon, but thinner skinned and juicier. Pen snapped the pistol up into firing position, thumbed the safety off, and started shooting, as fast as he could pull the trigger. The first two pellets clipped one of the yemlats from its branch; as the fruit fell, the next half dozen rounds smacked into the fruit, spraying pinkish juice in all directions. The ruined yemlat hit the ground, and Pen continued firing, moving his wrist slightly, sending a stream of pellets into the squishy mass. He fired until the pistol ran empty, clicking several times. He raised the weapon, twirled it in his hand, and extended it butt-first to Moon.

  The yemlat was little more than a pulpy s
pot on the ground, pounded flat, as if smashed by a hammer.

  Silently, Moon took the weapon.

  Pen felt the adrenaline surge ebb, and he felt himself shaking slightly. What he had feared had happened: the lure of the gun was as strong as ever. It was almost mystical in its power, calling hypnotically to him: This is what you were destined to do, man. Your fate is with the gun. Admit it. Enjoy it. Glory in it!

  No!

  But it wouldn't go away, the feeling. And the fear had an insistent voice, telling him what he wished he could not hear. Did you do it for Moon? Or did you do it because you lusted after it? We know the truth you and I. You can't fool us…

  "I'll see you later," Moon said quietly. And she left him there, staring at the fruit he had slaughtered.

  It was just as well. He had a lot to think about.

  Twenty-Three

  THE REST OF the afternoon passed without Pen's seeing Moon again. He trudged away from the pulped fruit he'd slaughtered with the air pistol, and attended a live-teach lecture on Confederation history. The information rolled over him in the instructor's monotonic drone: A sixty-year stretch starting in the year 2195 was known as the Expansion. It was a period of intense colonization and galactic exploration. Such things continued after the Expansion, of course, but much abated. The next historical block, lasting from 2295 to 2375, was generally known as The Consolidation.

  Pen sighed as the teacher paused for breath. What would Moon think of his display? She had been subdued when they'd parted, he could see that—

  The lecture began again:

  During the Consolidation, the Confed settled into control, forming a galactic association whose membership was mandatory. Power was centered on Earth, and those in power gave up none of it willingly. A large space-going Navy was built, and a larger Army conscripted to fill the troop carriers and ships-of-the-line. To draw the Confed's ire was to find oneself in very deep excreta, indeed. Those in control had no qualms about using military force to quell even the slightest deviation from official policy.