Outies

by Pournelle, J. R.

  A moment of chaos, and then a hush, as John tipped back his head and trilled an amazing, sophisticated, detailed data stream, most of which was lost on the Masters present. But they gathered the critical points. For two side less two hand years, Post Watchers had observed these creatures. At first they would arrive by ones and twos, then, every two hand years, their numbers would swell. Hands, Sides, Grips—half of a Master’s Hand—would trek from the wastes by various paths, through the badlands, into the realms of the mountain light. They passed respectfully, carried their bowls, left their beasts to graze the wilds, and returned whence they came again. They never crossed into Council lands: by the wastes they came, by the wilds they went. The Council had discussed options; made contingency plans, but in the end agreed that they had done no harm, and posed no threat, and therefore were not worth wasting an ar of regard.

  But Sargon, with Lagash as his ally, had never been quite content with that. He’d had them followed. Had them followed, at incredible expense, by relays of Runners, and Porters carrying a Farmer, the last of whom had reported on their deathbeds, collapsed from starvation. And what they had reported! These creatures—these anathema—had laid waste to their own lands! Clearly, they bred Engineers. Monstrous machines had crushed entire mountains. They planted without regard to ar. They kept cattle in such abundance that soil was laid bare. They flooded their fields, then despaired when the inevitable salty crusts caked in drifts across the furrows. Then they wept, and watered the ground with their salty tears.

  The Council was horrified; the Farmers nearly berserk. So they had agreed: the day anathema threatened the western ar, they would act as one. Every Master would breed Cavalry. Every Keeper would open a storehouse. Every Farmer would tithe provisions. And the Counsel would appoint from among them a Commander.

  Sargon flipped his hand again. Sargon, Procurator of the Northern Protectorate, Master of all wilds and wastes between the mountains; Master of all lands not accounted to any city’s ar, now had a Master’s Grip. He had begun with wasteland, and created plenty. The Keepers still held the storehouses. The Masters still commanded the city walls. But by the end of the Meeting, Sargon commanded the Army that protected all.

  They disbanded the Meeting. They climbed down the cliff-face. They marshaled their trains and continued to the levees, where many piled into pole-boats. Some set out for their island cities in the delta: Shurrupak, Umma, Uruk, Ur, and Eridu. Sargon’s delegation zigged and zagged through a mesh of reed-choked byways, until they abandoned the waterways completely for the dust-cloaked hinterlands of Mesolimeris. Everywhere, as far as they went, exhausted pannes bloomed anew, the checkerboard aquamarine shimmer a living testament to the miracle of Sargon’s ar. In Sargon’s train, the saying went, there was no waste. Ar blossomed where Sargon stepped.

  Or shat, more like, snorted Farmer John. It’s the Farmers do all the steppin’. Good call, though, on that young one. Young’un’ll be an ar-buster, and no mistake.

  The Barrens, New Utah

  Collie shook his head emphatically. “Young missy, I really think you’d better let me—”

  “Uncle Collie, it is the duty of every island to give aid and support to the Seers, that they may be of aid to all pilgrims. My mother gave her life to make me a Seer. I think they will—”

  “Missy, your mother didn’t ‘give’ anything. She was just a venomous old cow who refused to listen to reason. She insisted on Gathering even though—”

  “You can’t talk about my mother—”

  “No, missy, but I can talk about my own sister. I loved her like my own eye. But she had no business trying to conceive a Seer at her age. There’s plenty of younger women more fit to trek. She’d already seen one Gathering, and she was a late-comer to that. She’d no business trying to schedule your birth at her age, let alone schedule it to happen on top of a mountain!”

  “How can you say that! How can you talk like that about The Gathering!”

  “Because I am trying to make you see reason.”

  “But it is your duty too! Your duty to support the Seers—”

  “Missy, let me remind you, that in His Gaze, we are all pilgrims, we are all Seers, and all islands are One. It is also the duty of every pilgrim to honor the wisdom of the pilgrims of Gatherings past, who have gazed into his earthly Eye and believed. I have done so. You have not, yet. That’s just how people are. You need all the support you can get right now—not just the support of the third and fourth Gatherings.”

  “But I’ve Seen—”

  “—the path to the gathering place. Which none but Seers are allowed. You’ve Seen the Waking of His Eye. Which none but Seers are allowed. And now, you’ve seen the Revelation of angels! Praise Him! In His Gaze, I do believe! But you have not yet seen His earthly Eye awake! How will gathered pilgrims believe? How can an ungathered Seer prophesy?”

  “Well, why do you? Believe, I mean?”

  “Because He was revealed in my hour of grievous need. I lifted my hands from my face, and saw His face in your Gaze.”

  But at this moment, Laurel’s face was set, hard and grim. “Well, it is the duty of every Seer to maintain the Watch for the Waking of His Eye. It is my duty to announce the Waking. “

  “Missy, I can’t change your mind for you. You are our island’s Seer, and you are my own blood. I trust you with my life. I trust you to guide all pilgrims in safety and secrecy to the Gathering. But please, trust me in this one thing. Tell them. Tell them that He Wakes. Tell them to assemble. Tell them to begin the march. Lead them. But do not announce Revelation now. It will only awaken jealousy. Either leave it to later, or leave it to me.”

  “But when will we tell them?”

  He smiled at the “we.”

  “Laurel, let it be Revealed on the mountain. You won’t be alone. You will have led them in safety. They will be drunk in His Gaze. You will be thronged with His angels. And then, when you return, Gathered and Seen in Glory, you can leave the old codgers to me.”

  Collie winked. Finally, Laurel smiled. “Well, Agamemnon knows, too,” she said. “Agamemnon believes.”

  “Sweet Pie, Agamemnon would believe if you told him fire was water.”

  Captain Legrange’s mood became even grimmer as she approached the small knot of people at the edge of the trees. The girl was seated on a log to the left of the bridge entrance, hunched over, head between her knees, shoulders shaking. Yellow sweat jackets were piled on her back like so many remnants at a jumble sale, leaving the concerned-looking troops clumped around her like half-peeled bananas, puckered and shivering in their singlets. Sheila Thompson, the medic, was crouched down beside her, rather pointlessly waving a crushed ampoule beside the girl’s running nose with one hand, and patting her shoulder with the other. Under the jackets, Legrange saw a hint of shadow-khaki, and realized that the girl’s right arm was supported and tied to her body by a field sling. It never ceased to amaze her what Thompson could pull from her pockets, even on a morning training run.

  One of the bananas looked up, then jogged up the path to meet her, dropping to a walk as he saluted, already blurting, “He’s still up in the tree, Ma’am.” He did not direct his gaze above Legrange’s own height. “We was worried that people would start walking and shit, you know, over the bridge and shit, and it’s pretty awful, but we thought we shouldn’t touch him, I mean…” He trailed off, with a furtive glance at the grim reality above him.

  Legrange looked stolidly up at the horrible, waxy, crimson-washed face; at the bulging, staring eyes, and then down at the girl.

  “You did right, Sergeant.”

  He nodded once, then turned to rejoin the milling gaggle.

  Legrange looked back down at the slip of a girl, and felt a sudden burst of anger. “Sergeant, why the hell haven’t you gotten her out of here?”

  She regretted snapping even as she did it, but Thompson just took it in stride. “I know, Ma’am, I know, but she won’t leave. I tried to have a detail walk her home, but she just start
s yelling and crying and finally I said fuck it, ‘scuze me Ma’am, goddam it, leave her be until the police get here.”

  She said it the same way Swanson did: p’leece.

  Legrange’s nostrils narrowed as she surveyed the scene. Bloody footprints were spread everywhere, the result of the first ranks splashing through the blood puddle, then being allowed to mill around aimlessly, and then being allowed to leave without wiping their feet. Worse, she could see a wet trail scuffled through the leaves leading into the woods off to the right along the Philosopher’s way. Somehow, she did not think it had been made by the killer.

  “Sergeant, who passed through here?’

  “That would have been the detail, Ma’am.”

  “The detail?”

  “The XO, Ma’am. He said we should make sure nobody came through from the back gate. He led the fallouts down there to block the way.”

  And in the process, though Legrange, obliterate the tracks of anyone else that might have gone the same way.

  “Sergeant, who the hell is going to come from post to Moorstown on foot at this hour of the morning?”

  She shrugged. “Ma’am, I didn’t say it was my idea. I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just said that’s what the XO did.”

  Legrange said nothing, but everyone there knew what she was thinking. They were probably thinking the same thing. Major Trippe was that hopeless combination of dull and keen; uninspired and ambitious, most dreaded by every soldier. He never seemed to grasp the important in anything, but could be relied upon to pursue the unimportant with vigor, annoying everyone involved with pointless supervision, overtime, and cheer-leading even as major problems crashed and burned around them.

  “Let me guess,” she said tersely, “he also released everyone to quarters.”

  “Oh, yes Ma’am. He said he ‘wasn’t going to hold up the duty day over some A-rab getting his throat cut in a blood feud.”

  With that, the girl jumped to her feet, shaking her head, scattering yellow sweat suit jackets as she ranted.

  “No! That’s not true! Hugo’s a good boy! He’s never, never, fighting!” Her eyes burned bright, deep within the shadow of her bonnet.

  The group started, stupefied. It had not occurred to them that she spoke any Anglic, despite the fact that they had been speaking it to her, unremittingly, for half an hour. The MPs shifted from one foot to another, looking at her, then at each other, then at her again, wondering if they should do something. Or secure something. Or something. Caught off balance by Marul’s sudden movement, Sergeant Thompson stopped waving the ammonia capsule and thrashed to her own feet. The shivering banana cluster took a step back in unison, then remembering the grim artifact in the tree above them, lurched forward again. Even Swanson, at the far end of the path, turned to see what was going on.

  The girl switched to Tok Pisin and continued ranting.

  “See, Ma’am? She just goes off!”

  Legrange looked down at the child, dwarfed by this forest of strangers, and made several snap decisions.

  “Sergeant,” she barked, pointing to the banana bunch, “why are these people here?”

  “They—uh—live in unofficial barracks? I mean, you know, in Moorstown? They was gunna take her home, only she won’t go.”

  “Were any of you first on the scene?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “In that gaggle of 150 heroes chasing each others’ afterburners through the road apples, were any of you up at the front of the formation?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “OK, Sergeant, get these people out of here, and get the first rank back here, ASAP.”

  “But Ma’am, it was a Brigade Fun Run.”

  The implication of this was not lost on Legrange. Fun Runs were not in the least fun. Fun Runs were an opportunity for officers twice their age to demonstrate the tortoise principle to eighteen-year-old hares. Said tortoises comprised the primary headquarters staff. The Personnel, Security, Operations, and Supply Officers would have formed the first rank, led by The Hoop himself or, in his absence, his Executive Officer—the selfsame Major Trippe. And, since Legrange had herself been absent, by virtue of the previous night’s Duty, the Communications Officer would have run in her stead. Sending a buck sergeant medic to entreat the entire headquarters senior staff to abandon their desks and return to Moorstown was not only impolitic; it was extremely unlikely to succeed.

  Legrange looked at her watch. It was 7:30. “OK. Take Swanson and the FLIVR. Tell ‘em the DO says Command Call, Staff Conference Room, oh-eight hundred. I’ll bring the civil liaison officer to them to take their statements.”

  The cluster shifted a bit uneasily. One spoke up, looking rather horrified at his sweat suit jacket, now half-trampled under Marul’s bloody feet. “Uh, Ma’am, I mean, it don’t really matter, but what about our gear?”

  Legrange just nodded, and unzipped her field jacket. “Leave straight up the middle of the path. Do not under any circumstances cut across that field!”

  They grappled with their clothing while Legrange directed one of the MPs.

  “You. Go straight to the far side of the bridge and stop anyone from crossing. Watch your feet every step of the way. If you see footprints, do not step in ‘em. If you see blood, do not step on it. You are the Last of the Mohicans in those woods. You disturb nothing. You hop like silent fleas.”

  “Yes Ma’am,” he said, eyes already darting over the ground, obviously comprehending nothing of what he saw.

  She sighed. “Footprints.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “They’ll be sort of like scuff marks. Places where the leaves have been squashed or kicked off the gravel.”

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  She called after him as he moved off. “And politely. Tell people ‘Tasol Polis’ politely!”

  The second MP was now panting for a mission of his own.

  “You. Same thing, only go about a hundred meters down the Philosopher’s Way away from post. To the left. Follow your buddy’s tracks exactly until you turn off, then same instructions.”

  He looked disappointed. He kept looking up at the body and fingering his utility belt. He clearly did not see much of anything heroic about standing around on the Philosopher’s Way in case some fresh air nut came blundering onto the scene. He wanted to log evidence, or arrest somebody, or just plain knock heads.

  Legrange eyed him as he turned, somewhat sullenly, and threw him a bone. “And watch yourself, Poole. That killer’s still out there somewhere.”

  She smiled slightly as his shoulders squared and he stalked off, shadowing his partner’s footsteps to the millimeter.

  The banana bunch had finally finished sorting out their jackets—a pointless exercise, it seemed to Legrange, for they all looked to be the same shapeless size and well-ripened color. They filed past. Legrange softly, tenderly, lowered her field jacket onto Marul’s shoulders. She then unwound the field scarf from around her own neck and handed it to Sergeant Thompson, who had begun to shiver, teeth chattering.

  Legrange looked at her watch again, impatiently. It was now 7:35, and there was still no sign of either the civil police or the Civil Liaison Officer. Sirens or no, they were obviously stuck in the crush of morning traffic. She was tired, she was cold, she was hungry, she hoped to God her troops would handle any confrontation with civilians appropriately, and she did not look forward to the tongue-lashing she would no doubt receive for the absolute bollocks the troops had made of the murder scene.

  Legrange squatted, facing the girl, and spoke softly, bilingually.

  “Are you sad?” She thought the girl nodded, but Marul was rocking, still shivering and sobbing, and it was hard to tell.

  “Are you afraid?” This time, Marul definitely nodded, but slowly.

  “I can imagine. It’s horrible.” The girl continued rocking.

  Legrange glanced upward. “Is that what you’re afraid of?” Nothing.

  “What are you afraid of?” Still nothing.

  �
��Of him?” Marul shook her head, slowly.

  “Of me?” Again, a slow shake of the head.

  “Of somebody else?” The rocking stopped, and the girl gave one short nod.

  “Of whom?”

  Marul did not answer, but she made one quick, involuntary glance in the direction of the bridge, and then another up the path across the meadows. There, her glance froze, then relaxed. She actually smiled slightly, tears still welling.

  With gritty eyes, Legrange followed Marul’s look, then muttered “Damn!” under her breath. She’d sent the trooper off with Swanson and the FLIVR, but had posted no-one in Swanson’s place to block access. A lone, wiry, slight figure was approaching.

  Every third Friday at six a.m., Linda Libiziewsky parked her oxide green skater, named Kermit the Magnificent, at the far end of the leased housing block and began a systematic trek from stairwell to stairwell, toting a touchscreen, cross-checking and verifying repair reports, fire extinguisher inspection tags, work orders, grounds maintenance, and anything else that caught her meticulous eye.

  Her powers were broad. Nominally, she was the post housing coordinator, responsible for ensuring that each and every soldier, civilian employee, school teacher, and attached family member obtained and moved into safe, approved, adequate quarters, preferably within seven days of arrival in the TCM security zone.

  But that mandate gave her secondary, sweeping authority to inspect housing conditions in general, in order to assess availability and adequacy. She chose to interpret “conditions” fairly liberally, and was on the lookout constantly and especially for signs of strain; stress; community breakdown. By the time soldiers earn several stripes and several children, their habits are well-entrenched. They come to prefer ordered lives. Too many shaggy lawns; too many toys and appliances left rusting alongside walkways; too many stairwells littered with unclaimed junk; too many bloody noses and black eyes were signs, not so much of bad upbringing, but of families stretched by grueling duty hours; short tempers; fatigue. Absent these factors, the few bad apples were quickly polished by the orchard police.