Outies

by Pournelle, J. R.

  “See?” said the lieutenant. “Nothing there. Fits in with that Swenson’s report about what happened around Saint George. At some point, they went in, cut drains through the marshes, laser-leveled the fields, and brought in heavy cultivators. Didn’t last, though, and once it wore out, they abandoned it. Pity. They turned really productive wetland into salt desert, for the sake of a few decades of crops, at best.”

  The major nodded, and rose to leave. “Ok. Get some sleep, but keep looking for anything important. I’d ask better questions, but I can’t think of any yet. See what you can come up with.”

  12

  Paternity Suit

  Enki answered Ninmah: "I will counterbalance whatever fate—good or bad—you happen to decide."

  Ninmah took clay from the top of the sacred water in her hand and she fashioned from it first a man who could not bend his outstretched weak hands. Enki looked at the man who cannot bend his outstretched weak hands, and decreed his fate: he appointed him as a servant of the king.

  Second, she fashioned one who turned back the light, a man with constantly opened eyes. Enki looked at the man who turned back the light, the man with constantly opened eyes, and decreed his fate: he appointed him as a servant of the king.

  Third, she fashioned one with both feet broken, one with paralysed feet. Enki looked at the one with both feet broken, the one with paralysed feet and decreed his fate: he appointed him as a servant of the king.

  Fourth, she fashioned one who could not hold back his urine. Enki looked at the one who could not hold back his urine and bathed him in enchanted water and drove out the namtar demon from his body.

  Fifth, she fashioned a woman who could not give birth. Enki looked at the woman who could not give birth, and decreed her fate: he made her a weaver, fashioned her to belong to the queen's household.

  Sixth, she fashioned one with neither penis nor vagina on its body. Enki looked at the one with neither penis nor vagina on its body and gave it the name eunuch and decreed as its fate to stand before the king.

  —Enki and Ninmah, The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature

  House of Sargon, Mesolimeris

  Moties weren’t given to emotional displays—at least, not to displays that humans could easily interpret—but Lagash’s reaction to being greeted in a stream of archaic languages was unmistakable. The old Keeper visibly wobbled on Enheduanna’s arm, and the bone-wrenching feeling that Asach was beginning to recognize as sub-audible communication between Masters ensued.

  Before they could react, in the mish-mosh of languages they thus far shared, Asach said: “I talk Anglic. You hear many words. You stop you hear words you understand,” then punched on the auto-translator, now beefed up with fifteen languages judged by the Blaine experts as the widest-possible cross section in time and space known from the Motie Library of Alexandria.

  “Good Morning.” Fifteen possible variations screeched and twittered from the cowl of Asach’s cloak.

  “My name is Asach. You know this already.” Trilling and rumbling ensued as the cloak sent the translations.

  “Do you understand any of this?” Zipping and—then Lagash shouted the word that even Laurel could understand.

  “Hold! What is that?”

  Asach glanced at a sleeve, noted the indicator, and set it as the default translator.

  “I have made lists of words. Do you understand?”

  The Masters heard in their own language something akin to: I awrát weaxbredu tala ealdspræca. ðu ackneaow? That is, it was about as close to Mesolimeran as Old English was to Modern Anglic. It meant nothing to Enheduanna. But to Lagash, it was very like the language of the oldest form of the oldest myth known.

  “Listen,” said Asach, “then repeat in your own language.” Asach activated an auto-learn program. It was crude, but it rapidly built a syntax and lexicon by comparing the projected phrase to the one spoken back.

  Lagash was fascinated. It appeared that overnight Asach had acquired the ability to speak by projecting words directly from the chest and throat, without involvement of the mouth or lips. The interactive program itself was also interesting. Motie-designed, it was succinct. It did not suffer from the agonizing slowness of working directly with the human. Within an hour, it was as smart in Mesolimeran as a bright child. And it already knew Anglic. Enheduanna joined in. Machine-assisted, their mutual patois came faster and faster now.

  “We must have food now. We must have cleanliness. We must have these feces and urine removed. We will sicken and die. We already feel ill from hunger.”

  “The Protector grants meals. It is not in our power.”

  “Please inform the Protector that we request an audience.”

  “The Protector is aware of your request.”

  Asach was finally irate. “Inform the Protector now!” Interestingly, what boomed from the cloak was not merely a translation. There came a greasy undertow to the air: transmissions in the sub-audible. Enheduanna flinched. Lagash answered.

  “Yes, milord. We inform the Protector now.”

  Bowls of dark green jelly arrived within the hour. It looked like slime. It tasted like manna. Next came a cleanup crew, and chamber pots. Next returned Lagash and Enheduanna.

  Then the real work began. Five thousand word groups are enough to communicate like a five-year-old child. Ten thousand enough to make your way about as an adult in a foreign land. Twenty thousand enough to speak with the expertise gained by a university education. The simplest Mesolimeran myth contained thirty thousand word groups, with tenses and cases unknown in any human language. The Masters worked until they had exhausted the downloaded vocabulary. Then they all worked until they had exhausted their shared Tok Pisin and Anglic. At the end of the day, Asach’s headache was blinding. Enheduanna seemed unfazed. The working group had bonded. They could communicate with relative ease. Simple questions followed.

  “Where are we?”

  “At the House of [idiomatic translation of a proper name for a powerful and fertile leader with jurisdiction over former wastelands, descended from wanderers=Sargon], [idiomatic translation for a formal rendering of the proper name for the-land-between-the-mountains=Mesolimeris].”

  “Why are you holding us?”

  “At the order of Lord Sargon.”

  “For how long?”

  Lagash answered. “Tomorrow, Lord Protector Sargon will begin the interrogation. Then the Excellency will decide.”

  Then, thankfully, they departed. Asach beamed everything to Renner and Barthes, with a simple request: “Send More. Find us.”

  Asach awoke before dawn, surprised to discover the cape draped at the foot of the stone chaise, and Laurel bustling about the room. How it was possible to bustle in an unfurnished space containing nothing save two couches, two chamber pots, and a washbasin was unclear, but that’s what it felt like. Laurel’s outer garments were neatly folded; she was vigorously splashing and rubbing and running fingers through her hair. Asach observed this though half-closed eyes, then pointedly yawned and stood, facing the opposite direction, fumbling about in the cape.

  “Here.” Asach proffered a comb, and a sliver of soap, one arm stretched rearward.

  “You have soap?”

  Asach shrugged. “I travel light, but carry the essentials.”

  “Essentials?”

  “You’d be surprised how many diseases are prevented by judicious hand-washing.”

  “You can turn around, you know.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I just didn’t want to reveal myself to them. People are all right.”

  “So you’re not shy? Embarrassed?”

  Laurel snorted. “After twenty years of camp life? Please.”

  Asach sat on the chaise while Laurel lathered. “You seem to be feeling better today.”

  Laurel nodded.

  “Welcome back.”

  Laurel paused, mid-froth. “Back?”

  “You’ve been sort of on auto-pilot.”

  Ano
ther scrub; a rinse, her answer bubbling through the water. “Auto-pilot?”

  “You know, like—oh, never mind.”

  There was nothing to dry with. Casting about, Laurel settled for the back of her tunic. “I just had a lot on my mind.”

  “I’d say.”

  “But now, I’ve been fed manna by the hands of Angels. Just like the prophesy. So I feel fine.”

  Asach groaned inwardly.

  “Manna?”

  “Yes.”

  “That green slime?”

  “Yes.” Interestingly, her manner was not in the least defensive.

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “That’s what it is.”

  “I see. Where does it come from?”

  Laurel looked at Asach with that aura of incredulity reserved on any world for a rural denizen comprehending the utter stupidity of an urban gobshite. In most cases, this had the odd effect of making the rube look stupid in the city slicker’s eyes. Asach was, however, better attuned to the reality.

  “Humor me.”

  “Well, what do you think we’ve been walking through for—however long it’s been.”

  “Grass of some kind?”

  Laurel snorted. “Grass? Grass won’t grow here. Uncle Collie went broke trying.”

  “So manna is—?

  “Manna. It is what it is. The angels grow it. We cut it for hay when we can, but they don’t like that.”

  Asach’s head reeled. Then the Introduction to the Swenson’s Ape report came into focus. Then the lower-case tone of angels registered.

  “And where do—angels—come from?”

  Laurel gave the I-can’t-believe-a-grown-person-is-this-ignorant look again, then shrugged. “This is the first time they’ve come back to the Outback in my lifetime. I guess from the Way Outback, but I don’t know.”

  “The Way Outback.”

  Laurel smiled. “Well, this all used to be the Outback, but after the rigs moved in, we had to call everything the other side of those mountains something.”

  “The rigs.”

  Laurel nodded. “The sand miners. Upriver. They are totally poaching, but there’s not much we can do about it.”

  Asach was getting more than a little confused about this chain of revelations, and decided to return to first principles. “OK, so, the angels come from—further east, beyond those mountains, and when they come, they grow manna. Is that about right?”

  She nodded. “Or south. From downriver. They didn’t manage to drain it all. There might have been some left along the coast.”

  “Some of what? Angels? Manna?”

  Exasperated, Laurel sighed. “Both, of course. You don’t get one without the other.”

  Asach pondered this for a moment. “And, how long, would you say, the angels have been here?”

  “Here? Like I said. A year—two, tops.”

  “No, I mean on New Utah.”

  “On Heaven? Oh, forever, I guess. Before the Founders.”

  Asach had a spinning sensation in the pit of the stomach. “Before the Founders? How would you know that? How would anyone know that?”

  “Well, I just know they were here when he got here. That’s what kept him alive?”

  Asach was confused by the religious possibilities of this statement. “He? Do you mean he, or do you mean Him?”

  Laurel rolled her eyes. “Well, of course He has been here, for all of eternity. But I meant him.”

  This did not help. Asach plunged forward. “Him who? Which him?”

  “Swenson. John David Swenson. Swenson’s Valley, where we are now. Swenson’s Mountain. Where you saw His Eye.”

  Swenson’s Apes, thought Asach. “But before the Founders? How?”

  Laurel was dressing now. “Well, duh. He was the surveyor. Came out with Murchison in 2450. I mean, how do you think Founders got here—threw a rock and got lucky? Swenson was the First Colony’s guide.”

  “But I thought he was some kind of local suttler. Provisioning settlers; surveying new claims, making records of local fauna along the frontier…” Asach trailed off, as Laurel rolled her eyes again.

  “Uh huh. It’s not like he came once and just died.”

  Asach was dumbfounded. Days of work, and most of the answers had been sitting right here all along. Stupid, to underestimate the literalness and pragmatism of these people. Find a planet where you can escape open persecution? It’s Heaven. A rock looks like an eye and shoots radiant beams of light into the sky? It’s God’s Eye. Animals arrive and grow food in deserts where nothing can survive? They’re angels growing manna. No further supernatural explanation required.

  “Why didn’t you say? Why haven’t you told me any of this before?’

  Laurel shrugged again. “You didn’t ask me. And you made fun of me when I tried.”

  Asach sighed. It was easy to forget how intimidating even the smallest offhand remark made—or not made—by the middle aged could be to one so young.

  “Well, thank-you. For telling me now. I apologize. Please believe me. I never intended to make fun of anyone. I’m sorry for it. I actually hold you in very high regard. You are extremely capable, and you have not had an easy life.”

  Laurel nodded once, and handed back the soap and comb in silence.

  “So, how do you know all this?”

  “Swenson? Everybody knows that. Well, everybody in Bonneville. I couldn’t say for Saint George. And anyway, he was my Great-Something-Great Grandfather. On my mother’s side. Technically, I still own all of this. All of it. Land, water, timber, fish, game, mineral, and near-space rights. Not that any of that gets recognized. Or that I’d do anything much with it if they did.”

  Asach nearly choked. On any Imperial world, that big a holding meant—well, a lot. Probably a title. The questions were piling on. “But you’re a Himmist?”

  Laurel looked genuinely puzzled. “Yes?”

  “And so was your mother.”

  “Oh, yes, definitely.”

  “But Swenson—”

  Laurel laughed. “What, you think no Himmist every married a Sixer? In Bonneville? You think that, you don’t know much about people, what?”

  Asach remembered the ecumenical microcosm that was Michael’s household and smiled.

  “Religion’s in your heart and mind, not in your genes. Otherwise, why’d a Sixer like you be here as a pilgrim?’

  Asach paused. “That’s a big assumption. Is it that obvious?”

  Laurel smiled. “Just a guess. It’s nothing you’ve said. But you have a way about you. The way you react to what others say sometimes. The way you put questions. Anyway, I know now.”

  Asach nodded. “Fair enough. Why isn’t your claim respected?”

  Laurel slumped to the couch, downcast again. “When the True Church came from Maxroy’s Purchase, early on they claimed jurisdiction over land rights administration. The first thing they did was disallow all prior claims, pending ‘review of standing.’ That didn’t mean much for a very long time, because for all their bold claims, they were only a tiny outpost colony, and Sixers still held the majority. It got worse when the True Church took over on Maxroy’s Purchase, because then they claimed control of the New Utah tithe to MP. Even so, there was nobody much out here. But when the TCM started enforcing tithe collection,” Laurel shrugged, “that’s when it got really bad. If I claim my rights, they’ll claim back tithe. Then they’ll own it all. That’s how they bankrupted Uncle Collie. ”

  “But if you could enforce your claim?”

  “I wouldn’t. Well, I would—enforce the rights—but I wouldn’t farm.”

  “Why?

  “Because that’s what Great-Whatever-Grandpa wanted. It’s written in his old Book. He said they‘d made a big mistake trying to farm this. He said that if we just left it alone, the angels would return.” She looked up beseechingly at Asach. “And he was right. They did. Just like he said.”

  Asach nodded firmly. “Absolutely. Angels and manna.”

  Mind reel
ing, Asach headed to the washbasin, but was spared disrobing decisions by Sargon’s arrival.

  Once again, the Master filled the doorway. “I am informed that you are most certainly a Master.”

  Dumbfounded, Asach dropped the soap but did not reply.

  “Explain to me,” boomed Sargon’s voice, “the meaning of ‘Second Jackson Commission Representative of the Empire of Man.’”

  Calmly, carefully, Asach crossed to the couch and donned the cloak; switched on the translator. “Excuse me, your Excellency. Could you please say that again?”

  “Perhaps I was unclear? I was correctly speaking Anglic, yes?”

  Asach bowed. “Certainly, your Excellency.”

  “In that case, explain. Also explain the meaning of ‘Seer and Defender of the Church of Him in New Utah.’’’

  Against all reason, Asach felt compelled to comply. It was, after all, their planet. But Laurel leapt into the breech before Asach could work through what that meant in terms of non-interference.

  “I am a Keeper of the Eye on Swenson’s Mountain that heralds your return.”

  Sargon turned slowly from the waist. “Swenson?’

  “Yes.”

  “Eye?”

  “His Eye, on the mountain.”

  Sargon turned back to Asach, without comment.

  Asach sought to clarify the untranslatable. “The light. The green light that shines every twenty-one years, from the top of the mountain. Where your Warriors, uh, found us.”