Outies

by Pournelle, J. R.

  Of course, he was hoping for archival news, mundane or otherwise. Much of the next several days was mundane indeed, spent reviewing invoices for equipment orders, making final decisions about placement of things, and figuring out what, if anything, they were to do about the leaky roof. It required the combined decision-making skills of four professors, the university president, a civil engineer, a security chief, a systems integrator, a budget analyst, and a secretary to accomplish this, but accomplished it was. Installation at Zion University, God willing, was to be finished the following week. Work would start in earnest on the Temple in the next several days, with Bonneville to follow.

  One might well have asked what fighting in remote corners of the city had to do with installing archives. Nothing. Everything. Nothing, at any given moment, in that it was physically happening far from where Colchis was. Sometimes he heard gun ships flying overhead. Sometimes, if mortar fire and counter-fire was really intense, he heard a distant rumble, mostly drowned out by traffic noise. Everything, over the toll of days, because of rumored calls for, and threats of, violence. One day, a rumor would ripple down the street from the fruit stand: it’s bad today! But Colchis would hear nothing. Two days later came footage of the extent of the fighting; the hundreds or thousands (hard to tell) demonstrating in the streets in some far-off neighborhood.

  Barthes saw news interviews with locals, righteously indignant at the prospect of Maxroy’s Purchase TCM troops entering this or that pocket. Any talk regarding Maxroy’s Purchase and Accession resurrected fearful memories of the aftermath of the first “Jackson Delegation” visit. There was strong conviction that MP and Imperial factions were sponsoring a good deal of the violence. Local TCM members, formerly sympathetic to the Maxroy’s Purchase troops, now saw the latter as spoilers who wished only to take over control of holy sites on New Utah. MP fighters, in the local view, were a bunch of hired thugs, and quietly most would allow that their True Church Elder was the worst kind of political opportunist. Colchis heard this from people of all religious stripes: Sixer, High Christian, Muslim, even True Church adherents themselves.

  A rumor was circulating, supposedly corroborated by several witnesses: on the day of the church bombings, before the bombs went off, reporters were on hand, cameras trained on the doorways on the sheltered side of the church, just in time to catch the screaming victims burst out. How could they have known to be there? Who knew. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe they were not there at all. But in that climate, calls to random violence certainly did not need any more media outlets.

  Flyers appeared, circulated to non-Mormon shops. Convert to the True Church, they said, and you will no longer be in danger. The Bishop himself declared a curfew on all ministries, warning employees to stay home “for their own safety.” “Hooligans” attacked ambulances and water-delivery trucks serving poorer, fringe neighborhoods. So although nothing overt happened within central Saint George itself, and certainly nothing within the Security Zone, events elsewhere cast a pall over street-level commerce. Some businesses closed up for the day; some just closed early; others opened late. Yet again the university was closed, and no work done. So, they would not finish the following week after all.

  One Thursday night was exceptionally bizarre. All was normalcy: the shops, the traffic, the bustle of loading docks. All was awry: the brightness, the meetings, the walk home; the gun ships, the horns, the sirens. Then silence. Then cheerful sounds of an evening get-together next door: laughter, clinking glasses, a blaring tri-v. A game of some kind. The rising and falling cheers of a sporting match. A happy evening. He was lulled to sleep.

  He awoke to discover that, instincts intact, he’d just hit the floor behind cover, as a roar of gunfire engulfed the city. It volleyed; it rolled; it thundered; it erupted from beneath his very balcony. Shouting erupted with it, from every direction: hundreds, it seemed thousands, of—of cheers? And fans screaming GOAL!!!!? He realized that he’d been jolted from sleep by—a winning side in a trophy match? Yes! Saint George defeats Bonneville! Securing the cup! The gunfire was deafening. It grew in intensity. It swept eastward, then westward, then eastward again. Then, in a staccato riff on dueling strings or howling dogs, distant burps were answered by local reports. As it began to fade, he could once again hear his neighbors clearly—unconcerned, laughing and clinking and happy. He became extraordinarily bright himself. He climbed sheepishly from the floor.

  But what goes up, must come down. The velocity of a bullet, having reached the apex of its trajectory, and falling once again to the ground, is the same as it was when it left the muzzle of the rifle, discharged into the sky. Following the jubilation, came a different kind of rifle fire. More pointed. Single shots. With a different kind of shouting. Angry shouting. Angry fire. Some of it from directly beneath Barthes’ window. Then silence. Then horns. Then sirens. Then, finally, a less easy quiet, with night watchmen milling like disturbed ants on the street. Finally, relief, and, in the wee hours, sleep.

  So it came as no surprise to hear on the morning news—having caught up at last with the wind—that fighting in the east of the city had been fierce on Thursday, with scattered fighting throughout the night. Colchis spent his Friday alternately doing normal things: a bit of washing up, a bit of writing—while plotting exit strategies and contemplating some security meetings of his own for Saturday morning. Then, in the afternoon, four explosions rattled his windows from about half a mile away. Then sirens. Then helicopters. And then an evening movie on the tri-v. And then he waited for the news delay, that would tell him what had been.

  The satellite on which Barthes’ regular communication access depended remained inaccessible for days, leaving him feeling deaf, dumb, and blind. Tense, tense, tense: everything and everyone was tense. He spent one day twiddling with a presentation showing some of his progress. He queued it up to send once re-connected. Then, once the connection came up, solar flares, or something, had communications down anyway. Fierce fighting was rumored near the Medical College. Reports flowed in to the main Zion Univers ity campus: windows rattling on and off for three days; mortars falling in residential neighborhoods everywhere; security guards posted everywhere; TCM and civil police nowhere to be seen. Daytime curfews had shut down all transportation between city districts. Stranded at his office, he had good news from the Zion campus itself: no disturbances there, and work managed to limp along. Barthes was amazed by the courage exhibited every day, day after day, by those around him.

  And then, abruptly as it had begun, came several days and nights of calm. The air was stunningly clear, lending Barthes to pensive consideration of the landscape, and agriculture, and history of New Utah. At Zion University, the large, new instructional lab and reading rooms were complete, and at both facilities the datasets were brought online. Evening Citizen Workshops were scheduled to teach all comers how to access public lecture, archival, and research media.

  Colchis spent his nights troubleshooting, upgrading, and updating all the behind the scenes cataloguing, circulation, and reference support more-or-less taken for granted at home institutions. He emerged each morning to glorious weather. Cool, breezy, and clear. Finally, they were done. It was on to Bonneville for Colchis Barthes now.

  10

  Verbal Contracts

  Faith has to do with things that are not seen, and hope with things that are not at hand.

  —Saint Thomas Aquinas

  The Barrens, New Utah

  For all of Mena’s warnings, Collie Orcutt didn’t seem the least concerned or interested in the status of Asach Quinn’s beliefs. In fact, he wasn’t particularly bothered about Asach’s identity. “Get in,” was all he’d said. Asach got in.

  The girl in the front seat was another matter. About nineteen, twenty years old, Asach guessed. It was refreshing to see someone her age not in a cowled bonnet and long, black dress. Asach attempted conversation, but the girl just stared resolutely ahead. “Don’t mind her,” said Orcutt, “her position goes to her head.”


  He looked old as the hills. Older. Ages were always hard, on other planets. Differences in sun, wind, and work aged human skin more, or less, than one expected. Spacers were more predictable, but even then. It just depended on how much exposure, and to what kind of radiation, they’d had.

  But in Orcutt’s case, Asach had the sense that he really was old. Wiry, fit, agile, strong, but old. There was little else think about, as they went boiling overland. Asach had lost all sense of direction.

  “Took a big chance, just waitin’ out there like that.”

  Asach shrugged. “I had water, and patience.”

  “What would you have done, if nobody’d shown up to getcha?”

  “Somebody would have. Somebody always does.” Asach stared out the window. Collie laughed.

  “Well, you’ve got faith. I like that.”

  Suddenly, the girl swiveled. Her eyes were still downcast, but she was at least facing Asach’s direction. “And what about Hope? Charity?”

  Asach tried to sound kind, but circumspect. “That’s what I’m here to talk about, I guess.”

  Orcutt snorted. “We’ve heard that before.”

  They sank back into silence. For all the days already spent on the road, this leg seemed to last forever.

  As they finally bounced into a packed-earth courtyard, sun low on the horizon, the evening chill dropped like a dusting of invisible snow. Asach groaned inwardly, and stretched. Too many nights sleeping rough. Too many days like this. Asach hoped for a comfortable bed, although looking at the state of the place, did not expect one.

  “I’m going up to the barn,” the girl said, without looking back.

  “Sure, sugar. Say g’night to Agamemnon,” and then, to Asach, “her horse. That girl will marry that beast one day.”

  Asach turned for the door. “Just a minute,” said Orcutt. He gripped Asach’s upper arm; steered a new direction, pointed. “You see that?”

  The evening glow suffused each little clump of dead bunch grass, glittering in ranks marching off to the distance. A pinky stain marked the stub of a mined-out mountain at their end. “Last one ‘o y’all to come here claimed that crap would be our salvation. Lies though and through.”

  “I know,” Asach said.

  Collie dropped the arm, looked critically at Asach’s face. “Mena said you was comin’. Didn’t say why.”

  Asach thought again about the answer to this inevitable question. Had thought all day. But there and then, locked in Collie Orcutt’s gaze, decided not to lie. Not to tell the truth, precisely, but not to lie. “I’ve come to find the source.”

  Orcutt did not respond. Asach tried again, mentally reaching for the catechism. Found a universal line. “In His Gaze, we are all pilgrims, we are all Seers, and all islands are One.”

  Collie took in the cloak; the open, guileless face. Decided.

  “We’ll, you’ve come dressed for it.” Then, in a bellow that carried all the way up to the barn, “Laurel, better get back down here. Got a pilgrim wants to Gather.”

  In the end, Asach was grateful indeed for Mena’s insistent preparation. Laurel was neither patient, nor kind, but all business. “What are His Numbers”

  Asach rattled that off without problem.

  “What are His Tenets?”

  Thankfully, that was short as well.

  “Can you say His Creed?”

  Asach struggled a moment with this. A mental picture formed of a chant-and-response, but the details were fuzzy. “Not alone. I—”

  But Asach was saved by Laurel’s impetuousness. “That’s right,” she said, nodding, “you can only say the creed together with your island. Or at another gathering, if you are a traveler.”

  Asach was getting a sense that there were Gatherings and gatherings, but the distinctions remained unclear.

  “Can you sing the Hymn?”

  Asach winged this one. “I don’t know the tune. I’ve never heard it sung.”

  Laurel jumped on this. “Well, of course not, if you’ve never Gathered. But can you say it?”

  Asach was out to sea now. “It’s hard, without—”

  “Oh, never mind. You’ll learn it on the way, with everyone else. It’s just that any child can say—” She stopped. “Wait a minute. Are you a convert?”

  Asach looked back blankly, not wishing to outright lie. Thankfully, Laurel persisted. “You weren’t born to Him?”

  Grateful for the out, Asach pounced. “That’s right. I was not born to Him.”

  But now, Laurel became suspicious, her eyes downcast again. “I warn you. If we find out that you are a TCM spy, you’ll be abandoned on the high plains where no-one will come to get you.”

  Asach had no need to circumnavigate this. “I swear by the stars above that I am not a member of the TCM, or the True Church, nor am I a spy for either of them. Think on it. My name is Quinn.”

  Laurel looked up sharply. The name meant nothing to her, but Asach’s patent sincerity did. “OK. Name his Gatherings.”

  Asach felt like a graduate student wilting under oral examination. “I—I don’t know them all. Only the New Utah ones. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, do those, then. You need to know them all, but do those.”

  “OK. Um…” These were a little easier, since they rounded off in twenty-year increments. “Um, 2960, that’s when you—I mean He, first came to New Utah. I mean Heaven.”

  Laurel was nodding, obviously bored.

  “Then, 2980, that’s the First Gathering—” and suddenly, this began to make sense—”that is, the first Gathering here on New Utah—Heaven—which is the sixth overall.”

  Laurel was still nodding. “And?”

  “And…and…and His Earthly Eye was revealed!” Asach still had no idea what that meant, but it satisfied Laurel.

  “Then, 3000—that’s the second here, seventh overall; 3020—that’s the third here, eighth overall; and 3040—that’s the fourth, or ninth overall.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, yes, and—and—and what was the Revelation? I mean, I realize that I should know, but—”

  Laurel was clearly exasperated. “Well how could you know? It hasn’t happened yet?”

  “But it’s already 3048, so—” But Asach stopped, as Laurel glared. Stupid! It was a liturgical calendar. It didn’t use Standard Years.

  But clearly this wasn’t the first time Laurel had heard that particular error. She forged on. “So, what’s your number?”

  Asach was growing weary of this interrogation, and peevishly nearly answered “Scorpio,” when the childish chatter at the windmill came to mind. Asach frantically counted back, trying to allow the correct slippage for the lag between calendars, and took a calculated guess. “Two.”

  Clearly, to Laurel this seemed about right. “Little old, aren’t you, to make your first Gathering?” She eyed Asach critically. “Well, you seem fit enough.”

  Asach exhaled slowly. “I can go then?”

  “Go? Of course you can go. Who am I to stop you?” She got up to leave. “More to the point, we’ll bring you with our island, so long as you’re clear in your mind.” Then she paused. “You can ride, can’t you?”

  Relieved at an easy question, Asach smiled and nodded. Laurel turned to go, calling out over her shoulder, “Only, if you’re a two, I’m not your Seer. You need to talk to Collie.”

  Asach’s fears were disappointed. The bed was deep, soft, and warm. The night was dark and quiet. In the morning, Laurel was already up and gone, but Collie lingered over breakfast.

  “I won’t apologize, but I’ll explain. That girl’s got a lot on her mind.”

  Asach listened, patiently.

  “See, she’s of an age where she takes everything seriously. Like, being a Seer. Now, she really, really, way down deep believes that she was Seen in her mother’s womb by His Eye.” He shook his head. “Now, I believe that too, of course I do, but mostly it’s just a way of stayin’ organized.” He looked at Asach intently. “You ain’t from Purc
hase, are you?”

  Asach indicated the negative.

  “See, I figured that you was from New Cal. Maybe even farther.”

  Asach nodded.

  “Well, OK, so. See, that’s more burden on Laurel. First she has to see off everyone from her own island. All them little ones. Then she has to see off every Three or Four from The Barrens who don’t have a Seer of their own. You follow?”

  Asach made a slight inclination of the head. ‘Go on?”

  “But at least all them folks knows their way to the staging areas; knows their way around. I mean, even if they can’t see where theys’ goin’, they sure as hell know what to do once they get there. And the parents usually take the little ones. But then on top o’ that, comes all the town-dogs from Bonneville. At least there, we know our own, and a lot of them hook up with their kin in The Barrens islands. But the fun really starts when the city rats from Saint George start marchin’ in. ‘Cuz then, she’s gotta figure out which ones’re TCM spies, and keep ‘em isolated until she can lose ’em or chase ‘em home.” He shook his head. “And all that’s gotta get sorted before the tramline opens and sisters from MP and New Cal arrive. And most of them, well they usually come, because somebody in their island came, so they have some idea of what’s goin’ on. But the wild fishes like you, who swim in from the starry ocean?” He shook his head again “That’s a lot for a kid her age to take on, on top of everything else.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Asach simply, and genuinely.

  Collie smiled. “Don’t be. She says it’s all about ‘doin’ it right,’ but really it’s just to get one more thing off her mind. Like I said, it’s mostly just a way to stay organized. It’s not really all on her. It’s not like she’s the only one. She picks up the Threes and Fours from her island, plus whichever else other ones gets sent to her island. There’s other Seers, and other islands. They don’t all go to her. So she wants to hand you off to a Seer for Twos. Twos and Threes. In other words, to the Seer whose done it all once, and taught her.”