The Peytabee Omnibus

by neetha Napew

  “But he ain’t here. He’s gone to Shannonmouth to meet with the special investigative team from the company. They’re probably at the village meeting house.”

  “You’ve been so helpful,” Satok said. He almost blasted the kid, then thought that if his sell out was going to lead to his being a solid citizen, maybe a fresh homicide wasn’t the best way to begin his new life. So he tapped him with another piece of ore, gently but at the physiologically correct point to insure long unconsciousness, and left him in the woods.

  Torkel Fiske danced attendance on Marmion de Revers Algemeine, giving her the complete lady-killer treatment, much to her well-concealed amusement. Though he looked much as Whit had looked at his age, and was really quite a charming boy, Marmion decided that he was totally lacking in his father’s finesse. There was a some what febrile boyish quality about him that was not unappealing. However, it was coupled with a certain calculation and a certain lack of . . . depth? Soul? She wasn’t sure.

  She had prevailed on him to escort her to Shannonmouth because Sinead Shongili, sister of Sean, and Aisling Senungatuk, sister to Clodagh, were still there and she did want a chance to chat with them, as well as visit another of the small communities. She suspected they would be all much the same, but she couldn’t present an in-depth report without some comparison.

  There was something to be said about a landscape that was still a landscape, fresh-smelling and softly chartreuse as trees and shrubs responded to the precipitated springtime. There wasn’t even that much mud on the trail to Shannonmouth: maybe “trace” was the better word, for the way they followed could barely be called a “road.”

  “Why aren’t there connecting roads between the communities, Torkel?” she asked as her curly-coat delicately made its way.

  Torkel regarded Marmion with something like open-mouthed surprise, but the smile that followed gave her an uneasy feeling. “The very thing, Marmion, the very thing. I do believe we have short changed the locals by keeping them in virtual isolation.” And he continued to smile until the houses of Shannonmouth appeared where the trace became wide enough to be termed a road, muddy and churned as it was, with rough board walks and stepping-stones connecting the houses and forming bridges from one side to another.

  They could hear the dogs barking long before they caught sight of any humans, though there were curly-coats browsing here and there. Marmion was certain she saw the flick of an orange tail or two disappearing in the under-brush. She must get one of Matthew’s boys—they did so like to do graphs and charts and reports—to do a census of the cat population of this planet, if the cats would stay still long enough in one place to have their orange noses counted. And dogs. And curly-coats.

  With the animal “early-warning system” in excellent working order, most of the population had turned out by the time the visitors arrived. Marmion was delighted, but Torkel seemed less than pleased, especially as Sinead Shongili stood, feet braced as official welcoming committee, partially eclipsing Aisling Senungatuk.

  “Slainte, all. I do hope you don’t mind us coming down here,” Marmion said, smiling a greeting first to Sinead and Aisling and passing it around the circle of people. “But Shannonmouth is so close, and Clodagh didn’t think you’d mind if we visited. Torkel was kind enough to show me the way, though I think now I could have found it on my own. The cats, you know. They wouldn’t have let me make a wrong turn, nor Curly here.” She affectionately slapped the pony’s neck. Curly’s ears twitched back and forth at the sound of her voice, but pricked forward again as it turned to Sinead.

  Sinead’s lips curved in a smile. “Slainte, Marmion. You were expected and are welcome.” She gave only a curt nod to Torkel. “Dismount here and Robbie’ll take care of your curlies.” She signed for a gawky youngster to come forward.

  When both Marmion and Torkel had swung down onto the boardwalk, Sinead put one hand on Marmion’s shoulder.

  “This is Marmion de Revers Algemeine, of whom we have spoken, and you all know Captain Fiske,” she said and there was a murmur of slaintes and hesitant smiles “Come.” And with that Sinead turned on her heel and led the way.

  Torkel muttered something under his breath about primitive manners and looked pointedly away from the swaying backside of Aisling. The villagers fell in behind the guests.

  “Did all the plants survive the journey?” Marmion asked.

  “Oh, yes, they did,” Aisling said, bubbling with pleasure. “And Aigur and Sheydil have some for us to take back. It’ll be such a marvelous summer for plantings. One of the best we’ve had.”

  “To that point,” Torkel said, striding to Aisling’s side and smiling broadly, something Dama Algemeine mentioned, you know, I think Intergal really should see to building good roads between villages, and proper greenhouses so you don’t have to wait until full spring to have your gardens started.”

  “Really?” Sinead stopped in her tracks to stare at him. Aisling nearly ran into her before she did, Sinead was once more striding forward, or, rather, stretching to meet the next board on the haphazard walkway. “How nice!”

  Marmion saw Torkel Fiske flush at such an unenthusiastic reaction to what was, for him, an extraordinary concession. She thought she approved of Sinead’s patent skepticism. However, before Torkel could get himself in deeper or prejudice the notion completely, Sinead was marching up the porch steps of a house that had cats sunning themselves all over its patchwork roof of recently replaced shingles, their orange coats an odd contrast to the raw wood. Lounging on the sunny end of the porch were two intertwined track-cats. Marmion saw Torkel give a little shudder. They were large, Marmion realized, but so intelligent. She could see it in the eyes of the one whose head was toward them: open only to slits, but the expression looked deliberate. The cats had probably known when she and Torkel had set out from SpaceBase, she mused.

  “You’ll be hungry,” Sinead said, opening the door into a house that was rather sparsely furnished even by the Petaybean standards Marmion had observed thus far.

  Then she saw the huge loom that took up most of the available floor space. Benches and chairs hung from nails on the walls; other things were up off the floor, too, to allow easy access to the loom. A woman was working shuttle and batten with a deftness that made the individual motions a blur—only the clack-clack as she changed combinations of harnesses provided any noise. She looked up from her work, nodded, smiled, and continued to concentrate on what she was doing.

  “We brought provisions,” Marmion said. “Oh! How silly of me not to grab my—“

  The door opened again and the gawky youngster lowered the saddlebags to the floor and departed so swiftly that Marmion had to shout her thanks to the closing door. She then glanced apprehensively at the intent weaver to be sure she hadn’t distracted the woman.

  Sinead smiled. “That was good of you, but I think our larder can stand two extra mouths tonight.”

  “But I insist that you have the use of our supplies, Sinead. Clodagh said you were probably out of five—spice and—oh, what was the name of the other seasoning?” Marmion made for the saddlebags and began pulling out the bottles and sacks, and the dried foods that Clodagh had told her would be acceptable to any host. When she added the five-kilo sack of sugar, she said meekly, “I take so much sugar in my tea that I insist you have this. I promise not to use it all up. because there’ll be berries to conserve so very soon now.”

  “That is very welcome indeed, Dama,” the weaver said. “For we’ll have a fine crop, and soon, and there’s nothing like a bit of jam to make pan bread a real treat.”

  “Aigur, this is the Dama I told you about, and Captain Torkel Fiske.”

  Marmion’s quick mind mused over the implication that no one had talked about Torkel at all, but then, her appearance would be more unusual than his. Still, she could see by the twitch of his lips that he caught the subtle insult. Really, the Shongilis were a delight, Marmion thought. A pity to have to spoil them. For that matter, why should they be spoiled? The
y were marvelous just as they were.

  Tea was brewed and drunk, sweetened by Marmion’s gift. Marmion brought Aigur’s cup to her loom so that she could have a closer look at the intricate pattern. She couldn’t resist fingering the texture and exclaimed at its softness.

  “Curly-coat,” Aigur told her.

  “It’s such an amazing pattern. Some special order?”

  “My daughter’s marrying and this will be for their wedding bed,” Aigur said proudly.

  “Oh, it is stunning, but—“ Marmion cut off the rest of her intended remark about how much weaving of this beauty and intricacy would bring in the sophisticated shops of her usual environment. “—such a labor of love,” she concluded, smiling.

  The problem with coming from her usual ambiance to this one was that even the most mundane items were unusual, from and of this world, and that was where they should stay. She should not contribute to the despoiling of Petaybee. She was becoming more and more certain of that.

  “As I said, Sinead,” Torkel was saying, “we should really look into a network of roads between settlements, particularly over the passes.”

  “Oh?” Sinead raised her eyebrows in polite surprise. “Then Intergal has come up with an all-weather surface that can survive the temperature, wind-chill factors, perma-frost sinkholes, and ice intrusion?”

  Torkel ducked his head, smoothing his hair. “We will. We will. It’s only a matter of time, Sinead, but a road system would certainly help.”

  “SpaceBase folks, perhaps, while you’re ‘investigating’ Petaybee, but snocles in the winter suit us fine and can go many places you couldn’t put a road that’d last a year or two, and the curly-coats manage slush, mud, and summer hard tracks. No, Captain Fiske, though we will all appreciate the thought, I don’t think any road works are necessary. ‘Sides which we don’t have the personnel you’d need to construct them.”

  “The company has enough manpower and machinery for that and all it takes is convincing the board to spend the money to solve the surfacing problem, Sinead,” Torkel repeated, and Marmion thought his voice just a trifle sharp. “Meanwhile, you wouldn’t say no to teachers, and schools, and libraries, and viewers.

  Aisling’s mouth made a perfect O. “Oh, books would be marvelous, and schools for the children.”

  “They learn what they need to learn from their parents about how to live here,” Sinead said bluntly.

  “There is such a wide world out there,” Marmion put in. Surely knowing more about the inhabited galaxy wouldn’t really harm the children; it would merely give them other interests than the limited ones of this planet, however beautiful and diverse.

  “Which they see soon enough if they join the company,” Sinead finished blightingly.

  “But, Sinead, there’s more in books about how to do our things differently. And more stories . . . “

  “And old songs from many ethnic traditions,” Marmion put in. “And different instruments to play on . . .”

  “We could sure use a few more decent fiddles,” Aigur remarked, and then continued hesitantly, “and I’d like to know how to read and write. That way I’d be able to figure out some of the old patterns my great-great brought with her.”

  “Schools, teachers, reading, writing, arithmetic,” Torkel said emphatically. “We’ve not paid sufficient attention to your needs.” And he bowed smilingly at Aigur, whose eyes still shone with the prospect of being able to read.

  Aisling leaned across the table and appealingly touched her partner’s arm. “That would be good to know, Sinead dear. For everyone, and not having to join the company to get the learning.”

  “You must ask Clodagh,” Marmion said firmly. She ignored the look Torkel shot her.

  Sinead gave Marmion a long searching look. “We all admire and respect Clodagh, make no mistake, but something like this is decided by all the shanachies, not just one.”

  It was Marmion’s turn to lean with an air of gentle petition to Sinead. “It is, however, a way of spreading this news to all the other villages for them to make up their minds, isn’t it?” Marmion didn’t smile at Sinead, but let her eyes dance with challenge.

  To her surprise, Sinead threw back her head and laughed out loud, shaking her head and refusing to explain.

  “Schools and elementary education, and power stations, too,” Torkel went on, slowly building his case.

  “Power stations?” Sinead was immediately antagonistic. “What for? To break down in a blizzard, to crash down on our homes in the high winds?”

  “We’ve more sophisticated power sources than pylons, my dear,” Torkel began.

  “I’m not your dear, and we’d have no use for such power.”

  Torkel gave back as good as she gave, with raised eye-brows and a mocking expression. “No use for lighting that doesn’t stink like sour milk? No use for power tools that cut your work load, could drive the harnesses of that big loom and save Aigur hours, heat your houses, water, so you could have a hot bath in your own home without having to trudge two miles to the volcanic springs?”

  A silence fell in the room—even the cats on the roof ceased to move about—for one long moment while Sinead, face utterly expressionless, regarded Torkel. Marmion took good note of the shock, surprise, and consternation on the other two faces. Then suddenly Sinead shrugged, grinned, and made a good attempt to toss off her reaction.

  “The hot springs are sort of social, Captain, and we don’t have the need for power tools as you do at SpaceBase. Too expensive for us to buy, even with what trade items we have, but the matter is something for the villages to decide for themselves, the way we always decide what is good for us, and for our planet.”

  The sound of an air shuttle over flying the village distracted everyone.

  “What the . . .” Torkel was on his feet and to the nearest window, craning his neck to get a view of what he knew had to be an unauthorized flight. Sounded like a light shuttle, too, and there shouldn’t have been any of that type vehicle down here.

  “’Scuse me,” he called over his shoulder and was out the door before he heard a response.

  He caught a good glimpse of the battered rear end, of the craft and its trajectory. Frag it! The loon was landing just outside Shannonmouth. As he plowed a direct course across the mud road, ignoring the boardwalks, he also caught just a flick or two of orange tails. Turning to look back over his shoulder, he saw that there wasn’t a single cat on any of the roofs. The next thing he knew, he had tripped over a rock in the mud and measured his length in the thick gooey mud.

  This did nothing to improve his humor. He got to his feet, scraping off as much as he could with his bare hands, then with a branch he savagely broke from a shrub, and finally with handfuls of moss from the trunks of trees. In a way, he realized, the accident had just helped him frame what he would say to the misbegotten ass hole fly boy who had illegal possession of an illegal-size vehicle and—He stopped dead at the clearing where the craft had landed, and at the man sauntering across the bracken toward him, unshaven, despite the clean guard uniform he wore and the badge that identified him as SpaceBase personnel.

  “Captain Torkel Fiske?” the man asked, and the voice somehow set off a memory in Torkel’s mind: the voice, the stance, the swaggering insolence of a man in a common soldier’s uniform.

  “What in hell do you think you’re doing, soldier? In an illegal vehicle, and here at a village site against the strictest orders . . .”

  Take it easy, Captain, I’ve got something on board this shuttle that you’ve been after for a long time.”

  “I doubt it.” Torkel said. Then, before he could continue to outline the penalties and fines the man had already accrued against specific regulations, he saw a slatternly female figure appearing to lean casually against the frame.

  “What the frag!”

  “Oh, I don’t mean her,” the man said, dismissing, the woman with a wave of his hand, “but I’ve heard you can’t find ore on this planet, not no way and no how.”
>
  Torkel had started moving toward the man and the shuttle again for the purpose of ending this farce when the man’s taunting offer made him falter a stride or two. If he’d found ore on this bleeding planet . . .

  “You have?” Torkel moved forward again, aware that his unkempt state was being observed by the man, who was now grinning. “Don’t—mention—it,” Torkel warned, with a pause between each word.

  “Why should I care if you tripped and fell in the mud?” the man said, shrugging his shoulders and lifting his hands high, but he had the wisdom to remove the smile as Torkel approached him.

  “You are . . .” Fiske paused for the man to identify himself.

  “Satok . . . shanachie of McGee’s Pass.” The man narrowed his eyes at Torkel, immediately resuming his cocky manner. Then be pulled out a fold of the clean uniform he was wearing by way of explanation for his present garb. “Needed to find out where you were. You’re a hard man to contact.”

  “The ore, man . . .”

  “Trouble’s been, you Intergal guys been going about your searching all wrong, and looking in the wrong places.”

  “Oh, have we?”

  Satok gestured for the girl to back out of the way to let Torkel enter.

  The shuttle was in no better condition inside, but the moment Torkel saw the crates of varied shapes and colors netted safely away from the piloting area, he ignored everything else. He had studied just enough geology to be able to recognize the variety of ores known to be available on Petaybee, even if none had actually been found here. He touched greeny copper-bearing rock, grayish tin, copper-red-orange germanium; he saw the gold vein through rock, and even emeralds embedded in clay.

  “I can’t deny you’ve found a variety of very interesting items, Satok,” he said with a nonchalance that was far from the exultant surge that he was experiencing at the sight of what they had spent years trying to locate on this ice ball.

  “Small as this cargo is . . .”

  “This cargo’s a very small portion of what’s easily available—if you know where and how to look for it.”