Or perhaps it was only luck that Hand Four was assigned to sweep the kitchen cellars. They were efficient and ruthless and disciplined and several cook’s helpers died by the time they came to a final locked door and heard muffled whispers inside. But when the Hand burst through, revealing several huddled vermin, the Leader barked “Hold!” before they could strike. These were different from the others. Smaller. Their color was odd. They offered no resistance. They appeared unarmed. For a second that seemed eternal, the Hand Leader watched a tableau vivant of five Warriors staring down two awe-struck boys, who cowered behind grim-faced, eleven-year-old, green-eyed Deela Azhad. Lord Sargon would know the enemy. It barked orders. One Warrior bolted to fetch a Runner. One stayed on guard. One moved out to inform the Mining Communicator to prepare for a message relay to Beacon Hill Station. The rest moved on.
Founder’s Retreat, Oquirr foothills, New Utah
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” announced the Mayor, “It is my great pleasure to introduce the True Church Temple Junior Choir!” The room dissolved into cheery applause as well-scrubbed children in lapis robes filed in to bracket the long, blank, curving reception hall wall that dissolved to reveal the purpling landscape and twinkling lights that lined the road to the pinking blush that was Saint George. “Please join them, as they lead us in our annual Founder’s Hymn of Thanks!”
The first note surged just as the final ray of sun struck the Angel Moroni at the tip of the distant temple spire, casting a golden glow onto the sunset wash that painted the stones below. Though Mormon-led, the hymn was shared, and it welled up from the childhood hearts of every New Utahan in the room, in varying approximations of the key set by the choir. It was not long, but for its few verses, the scattering of guests from Maxroy’s Purchase and parts beyond felt themselves very much outsiders to the alien tune that filled the room.
The city fell into shadow as the final chords died away, and the room burst into another round of spontaneous, cheery applause. All surged forward to play the inevitable round of can-I-see-my-house-from-here, while the Mayor’s husband pointed out key landmarks to the invited offworld guests. LaGrange drew back, as her silent pager went off. She plugged in the ‘tooth, noting with mild shock that it was not the Duty Officer, but Linda Libiziewsky who had called.
“Jeri! Get back here! Get everyone down here! It’s the MPs! They’ve seized control of—” but her words were interrupted by a distant flash, then boom, then another, then another. The crowd gasped as the Temple flared a brilliant white. Other flashes popped across the city; imagination filled in activated sirens.
Suddenly, every officer in the room moved to a Saint Vitus’s dance of slapping pockets. The Police Chief hunched, one hand cupped to ear, barking “Status! Status!” the other extended toward the Mayor in the universal wait sign. The Mayor herself was icily calm. The Bishop stood gap-jawed in horror.
LaGrange barged through to the Mayor. “I need the police to secure His Grace!” The Mayor looked to the Chief, who did not interrupt his conversation, but nodded.
LaGrange spoke to the Bishop. “Your Grace, I’ve just activated a Zone Emergency order. Zone security has been breached. The city police will escort you to a safe location away from the disturbance. I will take control of the Zone Escort that brought you here.” The Bishop nodded and moved off to consult the Choirmaster. The children dissolved away in the company of their parents.
Major Trippe made an elegant show of calling out: “Guard! To me!” as the ceremonial posts formed up inside and out, ready to spring to the city’s defense, but the effect was lost on its intended audience. The room rapidly emptied, as to a person the Saint George natives shouted words or punched codes to activate emergency contact with Ollie Azhad.
Shit, thought LaGrange. Shit, shit, shit. How do I avoid the MPs and get off this mountain? She called Linda again. The line was dead. So was the line to the D-O. She looked around. Trippe was preoccupied with something. The house guards were stripping off their Delft. She moved deliberately, identifying a few TCM locals. “Go in with the Battalion!” she hissed. “Then secure the command post. Local orders only! Pass the word to those you trust! The MP battalion’s compromised!”
And then LaGrange found herself face-to-face with Dame Lillith van Zandt, accompanied by Slam-Dunk Hooper himself. “S-TWO?”
“Sir!”
“What the fuck’s going on down there?”
“Sir, I can’t raise the D-O. I’m heading down to find out.”
“No, you’re not. You’re relieved, Captain. The Mormon Battalion is heading out to restore order. Major Trippe now has operational control. Report to him.”
Like hell I will, thought LaGrange. “Sir,” she said.
As LaGrange departed, Lillith van Zandt maintained her mask of empathetic horror. “Please excuse me, Colonel. You clearly have much to do.” He made a half bow. She turned to leave the room, and spied her target. “Colchis! Oh my, it’s too horrible! You will be all right? Where will you go?” She did not, he noticed, actually expect a reply. “Please excuse me. I really must inform Governor Jackson. He assured me that New Utah was perfectly stable. I really don’t see, under the circumstances, how we can move forward.”
Barthes was non-committal. “Yes, things do seem to have become difficult.”
“Very sad, these outbreaks of civil disturbance. I must tell the Governor how fortunate it is that we have his Saints Battalion here to restore order.”
She was grace and light personified as she glided from the room flanked by her security detail, but he heard a sharp change in tone as her voice echoed down the corridor. “What?! When? Unacceptable! Find out! Not my problem! Do it!”
Now that, he thought, is the Lillith I know. It was time to get hold of these Azhad people, and Renner and Quinn, pronto.
Van Zandt then passed beyond Barthes’ hearing and out of sight of all but Clegg’s hand-picked escort. They left the building, stepped into her personal shuttle, and sped toward the Lynx port.
14
A Sharp Correction
Gudea, the ruler in charge of building the house, the ruler of Lagash, presented the Temple with the chariot "It makes the mountains bow down", which carries awesome radiance and on which great fearsomeness rides and with its donkey stallion to serve before it; with the seven-headed mace, the fierce battle weapon, the weapon unbearable both for the North and for the South, with a battle cudgel, with the mitum mace, with the lion-headed weapon made from nir stone, which never turns back before the highlands, with dagger blades, with nine standards, with the "strength of heroism", with his bow which twangs like a meš forest, with his angry arrows which whizz like lightning flashes in battle, and with his quiver, which is like a lion, a piri lion, or a fierce snake sticking out its tongue—strengths of battle imbued with the power of kingship.
—The building of Ninirsu's temple (Gudea, cylinders A and B): c.2.1.7
East slope, Swenson’s Mountain foothills, New Utah
A subtle play of sunlight and shadow on lichen-stained rocks rippled down the slope toward them. A Runner slowed and stopped to address Enheduanna, who called a Warrior forward. The Warrior wore a belt whence it pulled a hand-sized object, then turned so that it faced midway between the early evening sun and a distant ridge capped by a promontory that leaned outward from the mountain.
The object flashed, and the pair became aware of an answering twinkle. A fast, three-way conversation with overtones of a mixed-breed kennel ensued among the Mesolimerans: rumblings, twittering, barking.
Enheduanna addressed Asach and Laurel. “The Lord’s Grip has found three creatures. They are small. So high.” Enheduanna’s lower right hand hovered near Laurel’s waist. “One is female. Two are male. My Lord Sargon wishes to know: what are these?”
Laurel looked appalled. “You’ve captured kids?”
Enheduanna was confused. “You believe these to be the offspring of grazing animals? They appear human, except that, in proportion to their bodies, their heads ap
pear to be larger than yours. Also their coloring is different. These are another caste? They were found—” Enheduanna paused to consult briefly with the Runner—”in a food preparation facility. Perhaps they are edible?”
Now Laurel was confused. “No. I mean kids. Human children! I cannot believe this! Is this how you help? You’d steal children?”
Enheduanna ignored the outburst. “These were found, not stolen. My Lord would know whether they are helper castes. Subordinate species, like—” Enheduanna muttered a word. Unhelpfully, the cape translated [Pit ponies. Probable cognate: Watchmakers.] The first term meant nothing to Enheduanna; the second meant nothing to either of them. Enheduanna grappled for words. “They are like Miners, but smaller, with four arms. If left to themselves they become vermin.”
Laurel shook her head. “No! We have nothing like that!”
Enheduanna’s tone became sharp, firm. “But we know that you do! Your people are often accompanied by four-legged creatures that carry you and your burdens!” The Warriors bristled.
Laurel looked incredulous for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Ponies? You mean horses? Mules? Those are animals, not humans.”
Still pondering the implications of a cognate for Watchmakers, Asach decided that it was time to step in. “Yes, Master Enheduanna, this is true. But the creatures they use as Porters are not related to humans. Seer Courter believes that what you have found are human children. Bearers of lines. ”
Enheduanna paused and thought for a moment, then barked again. The Warriors relaxed. “In that case, I understand your concern. Please, understand the Protector’s concern. If these were like Miner’s Helpers, and shared your physiology, it would have been important to keep them segregated. To prevent an outbreak of vermin.”
Laurel had a sudden image of three terrified kids, separated and manhandled by Doctors. “They’ll be scared. In shock. How long have you had them? Where did you find them? We need to talk to them!”
Enheduanna ignored the questions. “Yes, this is why the Runner came from the signal station. Please speak. ”
Laurel looked around, confused. “I don’t understand. You will take us to them?”
“You will speak to me. This Warrior will send your words to the beacon station. The station will relay the message to the children. There is a similar arrangement at their end. None there speak Anglic, but Runners will assist them to signal exactly what was said. The Grip is also in communication with Lord Sargon.”
Great, thought Asach, a three-way conference call using hand-held mirrors among an overgrown teenager with a chip on her shoulder, a bunch of aliens, and three terrified kids. I predict an early end to this alliance.
But the mirrors were more sophisticated, and Laurel more practical, than Asach had imagined.
“OK, ask them their names.”
“Please, you must say exactly what you want us to send. Most of this will be phonetic. None but me—and, we hope, the children—will actually understand anything but my translation. It would be better if we had a Mining Communicator. They are best and most precise at this. But this Warrior will do what it can.”
To Asach’s surprise, Laurel nodded, as if what they were about to undertake was an everyday occurrence. “OK, got it. First, say this: Don’t be scared. I am just a big Tweety Kitty. I am talking to you for some friends.”
Asach’s first thought was: so they do know what Tweety Kitties are. Asach’s second thought, looking at a Warrior, was: If one of those things piped up claiming to be a Tweety Kitty, I’d have nightmares. Asach’s third thought was: If that Warrior playing mouthpiece on the other end ever finds out what a Tweety Kitty is, we’re all dead. Asach had no time for a fourth thought, because an answer came in, in an odd warbled jumble that distorted the vowels and scrambled the consonants. Nevertheless, if you unfocussed your eyes and let the bits you couldn’t quite make out slide past, the tone sounded exactly like three different children all speaking at once.
“That is so cool! How did you do that”
[Whispered.] “Shut up Damien! Didn’t Dad teach you anything?” [Shouted.] “Prove it!”
“Dee-Dee, I’m hungry!”
Less experienced a linguist, Laurel needed more concentration. But she’d had a lot of practice disentangling pilgrim’s accents, and that talent served her well. “OK,” she said. “They don’t sound too bad. Say this: Hi! My name is Laurel. Then ask the biggest one first: What’s your name? ”
Further progress was hampered by what seemed to be a combination of incomprehension—questions like “What’s your island?” and “What’s your number?” and “Were you at the Gathering?” being met with silence mingled with interjections like “Huh?” and “What island?” and “We were inna building.” that made no sense— and the girl’s intransigence, questions like “Where are you from?” and “How old are you?” being met with interjections like “Ow! Dee-Dee!” and “Shut up!” and “Don’t be stupid. They could be anybody!”
Finally, it was the youngest of all who broke the impasse, when he whined in the background: “Deelie? I don’t understand! Didn’t Daddy send the Tweety Kitties to rescue us from the bad men? I need to pee! I want Hugo!”
To Laurel, this made no sense. She’d assumed all along that the kids had somehow strayed—or been snatched from—the Gathering camp. She broke off her posture of concentrated listening and spoke directly to Enheduanna. “I don’t understand. Who found them? Where did they find them? When? Where are they? What building are they in?”
Enheduanna made motions of surprise. “The Protector acted as you requested. The sand mines are cleared of vermin. These children were found an hour ago, in a basement. They are outside that building now. The Protector concluded that they might be a variety of vermin because no females were in evidence. Are they past the age of requiring parents?”
Deelie, Hugo, bad men, rescue, Warriors, mining camp and the past tense suddenly added up to gooseflesh. While Asach pondered the interstellar implications of news that Motie Warriors had just wiped a remote, undefended outpost off the map of a human world, Laurel remained focused on the practical problem of communicating with frightened kids.
“Did they kill anyone?”
“The children?”
“No, of course not. The Warriors. Whoever Sargon sent.”
“Yes, as I said. They exterminated all vermin. Farmers are clearing it now.”
Laurel blanched, as she pictured the slaughter of an entire mining camp, its crew consigned to a compost heap. But she stayed on task.
“Did the children see dead bodies?”
Enheduanna conferred briefly. “Yes. Outside the food preparation area.”
Laurel thought a moment, but reached a quick decision. “OK. Do this. Remove the bodies. Tell them: Laurel says its time for lunch. Take them inside, to the kitchen. Use a clean route. Don’t let them see bodies or blood. Tell them: you can eat anything you want. No matter what they say, answer yes. If they want to prepare food, let them. Just don’t let them have knives. Be sure there are no human bodies or blood in the food prep area before they go in! Tell the boys: find the bathroom. Follow them, but let them go in alone. They will know what to do. Listen and report what they say. Bring them back out when they have eaten.”
“And then,” interjected Asach, “get them to us as fast as you can.” Because the fate of your planet may well depend on it. There were a lot of ifs here. If the mine was operated by unlicensed offworlders, and if they were poaching mining rights on somebody else’s land, and if Ollie Azhad could prove kidnap, and if they could all get back safely, then maybe Sargon’s raiders could be painted as extrajudicial heroes working in favor of human interests. But if word got out that Moties had attacked or harmed human kids—well, that was pretty much it. Anything reported five hundred years ago by an oddball scientist about local wildlife would be chaff in the wind.
Asach pictured an interstellar escalation from there that would serve no interest. Asach thought of The Lads, waxing m
ushy over Deela’s green eyes. The chances that nobody at that camp had reported the attack were remote. They had to assume the worst. It was essential to control the spin. Renner had to know what was up. So did Barthes, for his own safety. And of course, so did the Azhads. Non-interference be damned.
Asach begged off for a bathroom break around the bend, and flashed the message.
Founder’s Retreat, Oquirr Foothills, New Utah
LaGrange slipped from the building, dodged into shadows, and could not believe her luck. Of all the possible vehicles in all the city, Majlid’s pulled up, his scruffy farm-boy cousin riding shotgun. Two of Ollie Azhad’s best boys. Straight-shooter TCM, but local, and no friends of Maxroy’s Purchase. The tall, silver-haired Imperial emerged to wave them down just as she stepped forward to seize the door handle.
He was kindly, unflustered. “I do beg your pardon—Captain? Is it? I’m not very good with insignia. May we help you?”
She was well aware of the strictures: those were quite clear. No, strictly speaking, he couldn’t. That is, he was not allowed to interfere with her official capacities. And who knew who the MPs were in bed with? She hesitated with indecision.
Majlid broke the impasse. “Hey Jeri! Need a lift? Is it OK with you, Mr. Barthes?” He grinned. “Zone Security, so you’re safe with her!” Then to her, earnestly, “Do you believe this shit?”
At which moment Trippe emerged, thankfully buried in conversation with Hooper. LaGrange ran out of options. Without waiting for a reply, she jerked open the door and dove in. Trippe looked up to see Majlid’s bulk opening the rear passenger door for the Librarian. The goofy cousin waved and grinned from the front seat. Barthes’ aquiline nose caught the lamplight as he climbed in. They pulled away, and Trippe bent back to his conversation.
Barthes spoke first. “Would you perhaps be more comfortable on the seat? There’s plenty of room.” Although, he noted, not as much as there had been. Full Plate now lined the floor and every door.
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