It was Asach’s personal purgatory. Trapped forever in meetings and shuttle diplomacy with HG and The Librarian. To soften up New Utah for the Imperial Pitch, Maxroy’s Purchase was formally ordained with Provisional Authority to supervise a three-month lifting of “Outie” status and the attendant mandatory trade embargo. This made New Utah exempt from all import and export duties—at least on anything that was close to worthless. Anybody willing to run the risk was free to run any cargo they chose. Given the risks and costs, there were, unsurprisingly, few takers.
First, just getting there was tedious and expensive, requiring two jumps past red dwarfs and long crawl past a lump of rock in an E-class star system. Then, once you got there, there was nothing to buy, and the poor sods there had nothing to barter with. It certainly wasn’t worth the expense of running containers, let alone cargo ships. A steady stream of relatives, adventure seekers, and speculators now passed to and fro, packed into any available transportation, but it was hard to see how this was going to add up to sufficient economic activity to be of much impact or interest.
Finally, the place was a mess. It certainly was not the Heaven that True Believers of the Pitchfork River True Church on Maxroy’s Purchase claimed it to be. It might be united now—the True Church claimed it was—but if so, that unity had come at a price. Nothing worked, and wrecked military junk was everywhere.
HG’s approach to this chaos was to institute shuttle diplomacy. For reasons unclear to Asach, HG, who felt himself in charge of the mission, insisted initially on “establishing a beachhead” on Maxroy’s Purchase, and “staying in close coordination with” the Commission, in order to “provide orderly reports of progress.” In other words, to suck up to whomever would listen and report whether, in HG’s august opinion, New Utah had been sufficiently impressed by their new economic boom to welcome the Fleet with open arms. From Asach’s view, what this meant in practice was that most of their time was used up tramp steaming across the stars, attending meetings, and planning the next trip, with precious little time focused on The Questions.
Trapped next to The Goon’s coughing, snorting, gouging, yakking, and fidgeting, Asach gave up on work and feigned sleep, admitting full consciousness only once standing in interstellar baggage claim. HG, who earned more money per year than the average laborer would see in a lifetime, refused to shell out five crowns for a porter to wrangle the trio’s luggage. Disinclined to endure late-night scenes, Asach yanked bags stuffed with Horvath’s indefinable lumps of unnecessary gear from the carousel while The Librarian wrestled them onto a trolley. Asach steeled for the remaining trudge to the air taxi depot, to catch the hop to Hand Glacier, while HP checked into a “nice” hotel in downtown Pitchfork River.
Saint George, New Utah, 3049
The fringe of concrete slab construction, hung with sorry laundry gone limp with grey drizzle, was called “Moorstown.” Nobody remembered why. All army barracks have their half-light fringes, their frontier lands suffering from the garish combination of all the worst elements of occupier and occupied. The loutish testosterone haze that inevitably accompanies conscientious and coltish males, made more so by imagining themselves as some brand of muscle-professional (hired heroes, or hired killers) acts as a polarizing lens of masculine aesthetic. Only the garish, the cacophonous, the massive, the aggressively-strapped-to-industrial-workbench-practical survives the filter of breakage and brigandage to compete in their payday marketplace—leaving the inevitable scatter of dusty children and under-, over-, or otherwise malnourished mothers to make what way they can among the swagger, personal weaponry, techno-gadgetry, and nasty-smelling drink.
In Moorstown, their lot was this sad line of postwar pre-fab apartment blocks. There were no gardens, no neat landscaping. The only colors relieving the unremitting grey were bright splashes of bedding, skirts, and bonnets hung from windowsills to air in the pre-dawn breeze.
Marul’s footsteps echoed down the stairwell, and she shivered against the gooseflesh raised by the dirty air. It seeped through her yellow bonnet; fingered her cheap knit cardigan, and blew past in a swirl of dried, muddied leaves. Across the still, she heard jodie calls, echoing like water slapping boat hulls in a foggy harbor. Not that she had ever seen, or would ever see, a harbor.
Troops running in formation had already cleared the main gate and would soon wind their way up the post perimeter, headed toward the last shaggy patch of grazing commons—what was left of a landing safety zone for the old TCM airfield, long since built over into a maze of warehouses attached to a shipping depot. All of what had once stood secreted in a foothill forest belt beyond the city proper was now surrounded by SunRail container yards, FLIVRbahns, and the backwash of immigrant and military housing.
All, that is, except the little patch of commons abutting the post on one side, and across it, at the end of the winding, wide walking path the troops would follow on their morning run, the thin greenbelt along the river’s edge ironically named the Philosopher’s Way. It was doubtful that any philosopher had walked there since Foundation times, when it had connected a vast parkland here to a footbridge crossing the river into the old city.
Marul started as a patch of damp air suddenly magnified a cadence call, as if someone standing not a foot away had shouted inexplicably:
“My old lady was ninety-THREE,”
But the breeze tugged again; the sound dimmed. Her heart pounding, Marul turned toward the commons, eyes steadfastly on her feet, and began trudging in the direction of the distant trees. Every morning she walked this way, part of a long trek toward her uncle Ollie’s stall in the farm market on the edge of the old city. While he met his clients and discussed men’s business over tea, she measured out olives and nuts; fruits and seed pastes; fermented milks and clotted creams. He was a busy man. He provided security guards to everyone, everywhere, and that meant a lot of meetings in these troubled times.
So every morning, Marul rose before the soldiers, prepared her brother’s meals and clothes, laid them out ready for them to speed their way to school, readied herself, dressing in the dark, then began her trudge across the field at half-light in order that she might open the stall, receive and set out the wares, and prepare her uncle’s coffee.
And every morning, every step of that way, she was watched, or directly accompanied, lest she meet some chance encounter that would irretrievably stain family honor. Her little brother, Wayan, took his breakfast perched at the window, half-heartedly tracing the path of her yellow bonnet in the melting frost as she made her way across the field in the weak morning sun. Her cousin Hugo met her on the bridge, riding her on the handlebars of his bicycle if he was in a good mood; scowling and pinching and telling her to hurry and keep up if he was not.
But on days like today, when she was tired and cold and had lingered for just a minute’s extra sleep, she emerged like now, heart in her throat, fear pounding in her ears, tears choking her eyes at the approaching uniform tramp of running feet. For although, for years, she had stopped and smiled and waved at the soldiers who, grinning, waved back as she continued to the bridge while she turned right along the stream bank, last week she had turned thirteen. And with that her father, for no reason that she could see or understand, on hearing from cousin and brother that she had looked full face on the soldiers; had smiled and waved as usual—on hearing that, he had flown into a fury and had slapped her so badly that her face was still mottled purple and green. Screamed at her for a harlot. Pulled her out of school. Made her don the bonnet. Made her work all day, under Uncle’s eye, instead of just helping in the early morning.
She hurried on, determined to make the bridge before they passed her, the stiff grass and battered ground hard and unyielding to the passing of her swishing skirts and rushing feet. The formation pulled closer, feet crunching in unison as they left the pavement for the trackway. She could hear their steamy breathing, a great, puffing dragon of a beast bearing down. She was jogging herself now, trying to stay ahead. Her own feet followed the
rhythm as they half-sang, half-shouted:
“A yellow bird
A yellow bird
With a yellow bill
With a yellow bill
Was perched upon
Was perched upon
My window sill
My window sill”
She joined in, under her breath. She had learned most of the Anglic she knew this way, listening to the jodies, every day, day after day, morning and evening, for thousands of days. Until, somehow, a word at a time, they’d seeped in along with Pisin and Dutch and were just part of her vocabulary. Part of the multilingual patois of the Moorstown community.
At “window sill,” she glanced up involuntarily, looking over her left shoulder to the third storey window, now far behind her. But if little Wayan was tracing little pictures in the glass to mark her way, she could not see him.
It was just a glance. A quick peek. But in that moment, as she still jogged in time with the singing and crossed from the field into the dark of the trees, her right foot splashed, then slid on a patch of wet, slick on the pavement of clay beneath. Marul flew headlong forward, the cadence calls echoing through the tunnel of trees:
“I lured him in
I lured him in
With bits of bread
With bits of bread
And then I SMASHed his LIT-tle head!
The turn of her own head meant that she slammed down onto her right shoulder and tumbled before she had a chance to think. She landed hard on the right elbow pinned beneath her, rolled to her back, and in one desperate move scrambled to her feet, facing away from the bridge, looking face-on to the oncoming troops plowing among the trees four abreast like a train derailing, as the first ranks splattered into the same patch that had sent her sprawling.
They skidded to a halt, song stopped mid-word, to keep from running her down, and stood gaping and gasping, the NCO in charge already trotting forward to reach for her arm, saying “Are you OK, honey?” They gaped at her, skirt matted with chocolate mud and debris, bonnet askew; at the red smeared down her right cheek and soaking the shoulder and arm at the back of her white sweater. They gaped at much too much red.
The battalion medic was already jogging forward, already saying “It’s OK honey, it’ll be OK. It’s probably just a little cut on the scalp. They bleed a lot. They always look worse than they are. It’ll be OK. Let’s have a little look-see, OK?”
But Marul was not looking at the steaming soldiers, in their baggy yellow jogging suits, milling around her in a smelly yellow gaggle, those rearward still lurching to a stop as the accordion affect made its way to the most distant and slow-moving among them. Nor was she looking at the thin line of those too short, or tired, or hung over, or sick, or lame, or unfit, or slow, or just plain lazy to keep up with the gazelle’s pace set by the lead battery’s best runners. Nor was she listening.
Instead, Marul was staring straight up into the trees. Not at her feet. Not at their faces. Rather, far above their heads. She clutched her hurt right elbow hard against her stomach with her opposite hand. Her breath came in short, deep pants. Her bonnet slipped back from her head. She did not notice. She began trembling. And just as the medic reached out to her, saying, “Just let me see your arm, honey,” Marul let go of it, so that the medic alone looked down at her and saw her bruised cheeks.
The others, following the line of her shaking, outstretched left hand to the end of her pointing finger, stared with her, on beyond it, up into the century-old tamarisk. They now saw what she had seen during that frantic instant on her back, twenty feet above the ground. Upside down, his throat a crimson gash; something pink and sloppy covering his chest; a crimson spike pinning him to the trunk by his ankles, hung Marul’s cousin Hugo.
The medic heard the XO’s bark: “Secure the scene. I’ll secure the gate. You. You. You. You. Detail, follow me.” Heard, but did not see, the tramp of retreating feet, as Marul’s breathing became ragged, her knees shook, and she slumped to the ground, her arm still pointing. Sergeant Thompson gently lowered the arm, wrapped the girl in her jacket, knelt beside her, and only then turned to survey the scene. She watched the XO’s retreating back. Heard a slow drip-drip-dripping from the tree. Watched the XO stuff a ‘tooth into his ear. Pulled the girl closer and said “It’ll be OK Honey.”
Far above, high in the Oquirr mountains, seated before a glass wall that overlooked the smoky, fogged-in plains below, Lillith Van Zandt felt a warm buzzing pass through her desktop. Still soaking up the sublime scene of a dewy, early morning, she pressed her thumb to the table’s edge and said: “speak.”
A characterless electronic voice responded. “Confirmed and secured.”
Lillith smiled, pressed her thumb again, and returned to her steaming coffee. The sun broke over the clouds below, burning through in spots to patches of brilliant green. It was a beautiful morning, indeed.
Aboard Sinbad, Mote System, 3047
We went on and on, for a very long time. Once Uncle Kevin asked how Grampa was feeling. I was always afraid now, when Uncle Kevin asked that. It meant he was going to do something to the ship that would be bad for Grampa. Grampa said he’d been better, which meant he did not feel well. He said “I’ve been altering my will.” I could not imagine how Grampa could alter his will. His will was iron. His will was obeyed even though he was old and dying. Even strange Masters bent to his will. Auntie Omar said that’s why it was the greatest possible honor to be given him.
Then he and Uncle Kevin made a cube. Glenda Ruth helped. I do not like Glenda Ruth. She lies. And I will not call her Auntie Glenda. She moves like a Mediator, but she is no Mediator, and no mistake. I will bet Uncle Kevin’s pipe that she has two MaPas and no MaMa.
It went on for five days. And then came Grampa Horace’s greatest hour. It was like this. Glenda Ruth was sitting on Grampa’s bed. I did not like that. It made the bed move, and that disturbed Grampa Horace. He did not say so, but I could hear it in his heart. It went lub-dubby-dub, just for a moment, whenever she moved. She did not even notice! Calls herself a Mediator! Can’t even see the obvious! She was scratching my ear. I can lie too. I pretended to like it. I held very still, because the scratching made it hard to hear. Imagine! A Mediator! Interfering with my Duty!
And that’s when I began to know for sure what she was. She began talking to Uncle Kevin about Warriors. She began instructing him on how Warriors would behave. And then she said; “Remember the mission and look again.” So there it was. She knew what Warriors might do, and then she ordered Uncle Kevin to provide a new analysis. Only a Master could do that.
But Uncle Kevin wasn’t up to it. He is not a Master. He is an Uncle. But Grandpa Horace was. Up to it. He said it was about the fuel. At first, Uncle Kevin did not care. He said that enemy ships would be too late. He said we would move too fast through the jump point. But Grampa Horace knew. He said the enemy would send a mass of junk through the jump point just when we needed to cross.
Grampa Horace was a Great Master. I could hear his heart. I could hear everyone’s heart. Whenever he spoke, Uncle Kevin’s heart slowed. So did Glenda Ruth’s. So did his own. Great Masters can do that. They speak, and hearts are calmed. He was brave and strong. For the next twenty minutes, he laughed and kept their hearts all steady. He knew what enemy Warriors would do. He knew what our Warriors would do. He knew what the ship would do. For twenty minutes, his heart never wavered, and lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub was the last thing I heard before we jumped.
Doctor Cynthia was everywhere. She was doing everything. But there was nothing a Doctor could do. When a Great Master dies, there is nothing a Doctor can do. I did my Duty. I screamed. I roared. I howled in every pitch and language I knew, so that everyone, everywhere, would hear and know: A Great Master has died. Beware, his Warriors are loosed! And then Doctor Cynthia gave me to Glenda Ruth! It was not her place! She was only his Doctor! Not to Auntie Omar! To Glenda Ruth! Glenda Ruth made stupid noises. She said I was to stop! And Auntie Omar made no move to take me ba
ck. So then I knew it was true. Glena Ruth pretended to be a Mediator. But Glenda Ruth was a Master. Glenda Ruth was who the Tatars had captured. Glenda Ruth was a wolf.
I stopped listening. I refused to listen to another Master. I refused to listen to the howling of wolves. I clung to my Duty. I closed my eyes and listened to Auntie Omar, who spoke with Grampa Horace’s voice. I practiced every conversation I had heard before the fatal jump. I listened to his great heart, beating again and again, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, beating away in my head.
We were through Murcheson’s Eye. We were on the way to New Caledonia. It was Uncle Nabil who called them all together. I called him Uncle, but he was really a Warrior. He was Grampa Horace’s personal Warrior. Proof, again, of what a Great Master my Grampa had been. They obeyed him as if he were a Master himself; as if my Grampa still lived. Even Uncle Kevin asked “Should we be looking at this?” And Uncle Nabil said yes, His Excellency had instructed it. So I knew Uncle Nabil was like me. He had been loosed, but not from his Duty. He still served his Great Master. That’s why I call him Uncle.
They were all there: Uncle Nabil and Uncle Kevin, the wolves Glenda Ruth and Frederick, Auntie Omar, Sir Eudoxus, Sir Victoria, Sir Harlequin, many others. They played a cube. Then I understood what Grampa had meant by alter his will. He was not in his bed. He was on his couch. He looked very bad. This is what he said:
I am Horace Hussein al-Shamlan Bury, trader, Magnate Citizen of the Empire of Man, pasha and citizen of the planetary principality of Ikhwan al-Musliman, known commonly as Levant.
This is a codicil to my will and testament left in the safekeeping of Nabil Ahmed Khadurri. I hereby confirm all bequests made in that previous testament, except as may be directly and explicitly contradicted in this codicil. I dictate this document in the full knowledge that neither it nor this ship is likely to survive our present mission; but Allah may will differently.
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