Bunny and Diego cleared all the seedlings to the sides of the room just before people began steadily to arrive and crowd into Clodagh’s tiny house, twenty squeezing into a space that would comfortably accommodate about a dozen. Clodagh explained to the villagers what the cats had imparted to her. Nobody questioned her, being accustomed to Clodagh and knowing that her information tended to be reliable, however she got it.
“So,” she said. “I think maybe it would be good if we started off in big groups together. Then folks can break off as we reach the villages they want to get to. When we’ve done what we’ve set out to do, we can join up again on the way back. That way if anybody gets lost or gets into some kind of trouble, there’ll be somebody to notice.”
The crowd voiced assent.
Sinead said, “Aisling and I will take Shannonmouth, since there’s trading we want to do there anyway.”
“I can’t believe McGee’s Pass is going against us,” Bunny said. “Remember how grateful the Connellys were to you, Clodagh, when you sent them that medicine for their dogs? After the dogs got well, they drove all the way up here to bring you that parka Iva Connelly made for you.”
“That was a few years ago, Bunka, back before they got the new shanachie,” Clodagh reminded her.
“That shouldn’t change gratitude any! I promise I’ll be very respectful of the new shanachie, just like I was with old McConachie. I’d like Diego to meet the Connellys and, anyway, they’d be the best ones in McGee’s Pass to tell us what’s going on.”
Clodagh paused. Sending youngsters to one of the trouble spots worried her until Sean said, “Yana and I will go with them and then on to Harrison’s Fjord. I’d like Buneka to join us there, so she can see the place where Aoifa and Mala began their expedition.”
“Good.”
The other assignments were made. Liam Maloney agreed to go to Deadhorse, then chanted a new song about the death of his mother while she was away from the planet being questioned by Intergal.
“Dog-woman, snow-woman, run-with-the-wind-woman
Mother-woman with the steaming springs
Streaming in her veins
Woman to whom the birds sang
Woman whose voice was soft with snow
Woman so warm, so warm
No ice could freeze her
No avalanche stop her breath.
“Her feet were stilled when they left the ground.
Her breath was stopped in closed rooms
Where the wind never blows
She turned cold in hot moms
Her steaming blood all bubbled away
Her voice stilled where no birds sang
Only the croaking of carrion-crows.
Aijijai.”
During the recital Liam had looked straight ahead, his eyes closed, his mouth twisting around the words with a mixture of tenderness and bitterness. When he finished his song and his eyes opened, they were full of pain and defiance, and when his mouth closed, his jaw set tightly.
Diego glanced down and away, and Yana saw that Bunny was holding his hand in a fierce, comforting grip. One of Lavelle’s last guide jobs, the one she was being questioned about when she died, had been to rescue Diego and his father from a blizzard. Diego had become very close to Lavelle during the trip and resented her unnecessary death almost as much as her family did.
“That is a good song, Liam,” Eamon Intiak said. “I have one I’m making to sing to everyone about how the company men snatched us up from the Earth and put us on Petaybee because they wanted our lands on Earth and now they want to take Petaybee.”
“Wait a minute, son,” Whit Fiske said, standing apart from Clodagh for a moment. His chin was raised a little defensively as he spoke, although his tone was as genial as ever. “I think most of you know me and know that I have a lot of feeling for what you folks are up against. But the company is a fact of life here, and let’s not make it worse than it is already.”
“You just say that because your granddad put us here!” Liam accused.
“No, son, I don’t.”
“I’m not your son. Your people killed my mother.”
“His name is Liam Maloney, Whit,” Clodagh said.
“Thanks, Clodagh. No offense intended, Mr. Maloney. You’re partly right. My grandfather was partially responsible for choosing Petaybee to terraform, and for the process that made the planet fit to live on, but he didn’t actually put anybody here. The resettling was done by another branch of the company. And yes, they had certain ulterior motives: at the time, those lands on Earth were very much prime real estate. But there were other reasons, too. So, before you folks decide the company is responsible for all your troubles, I think a little reminder of historical fact is needed. Does anybody have any idea what I’m talking about?”
Yana groaned inwardly. Fiske, with what she was sure were good intentions, had put his foot squarely in his mouth. For a diplomatic man, he had lousy timing. People here didn’t read and write, and their songs tended to be about personal events or about the conditions they survived on the planet: at least, she’d never heard any historical ballads. Should she speak up and give Fiske some support? Would it do any good? She wasn’t a native Petaybean, either.
“You’re talking about the War for Unification, Whit?” Sean asked.
“Among others,” Whittaker answered, trying not to show how relieved he was. “Half the ancestors of those here in Kilcoole would have died if we hadn’t evacuated to Petaybee the faction they were part of—the ones who were getting their asses kicked.”
“And those doing the kicking?” Bunny asked, cocking her head in a semicritical fashion.
“Went to other habitable planets. We weren’t about to settle ancestral enemies together,” Whittaker said with a snort. “The company figured that, with warring factions split up, enough new land to go around, and no traditional enemies to fight, their energies would be put to good use and there’d be enough of them left to hand down the good traits they had submerged to fight. Then the company could restore the fought-over and very battered real estate on Earth. Everyone would end up with more than they would have had otherwise. Most importantly, they’d end up alive.”
“Ah, sure and I’m moved to tears, Doctor darlin’, to hear how kind you’ve been to us poor savages,” Adak surprised Yana by saying with his brogue-deepened sarcasm.
“I’m not trying to whitewash the company or its decisions,” Whittaker said. “But there were some altruistic and ethnic preserving reasons operating at the time. Company people aren’t all bad, any more than everyone on this planet is all good. The sociologists who designed the population balance tried not only to mix people used to cold weather with those who weren’t, but also to mix groups who might get along with each other and share characteristics that would make for a more successful adjustment to the environment.”
“Yes, and we turned out very well, Whit, thank you,” Clodagh said, and tugged on his webbed belt for him to return to her side, exhibiting her approval of what he had explained. “It was a good point to make. What we want to do is to stand together and tell the company what we want, what Petaybee wants. Just makin’ somebody else to blame isn’t gonna help the planet. We got to get people to understand, and you can’t do that while you’re shoutin’. Now then, Eamon, why don’t you go speak to the folks up at New Barrow?”
When everyone had a destination, Clodagh handed out the seedlings, goodwill gifts for the hoped-for long growing season. Some people were using the trips as an excuse to visit relatives they hadn’t seen in a while, and by the time everyone left, the venture had lost its bitter edge and was infused with something of a holiday spirit.
5
Merde alors! thought Marmion de Revers Algemeine as she looked out the shuttle window at a piebald landscape covered half with mud, half with dirty ice and snow. What have I gotten myself into this time? Oh, well, I promised Whit! No one in their right mind would want Mad Matt to make a unilateral decision on anything, up to and including
when people should be allowed to use the sanitary facilities.
Vice-Chairman Matthew Luzon had already started his “program,” Marmion suspected, when he insisted that the shuttle pilot divert to the site of “this so-called” volcano the planet was supposed to have—extruded? No, the word was erupted. They were also to swing past the area where Whittaker Fiske and everyone were supposed to have had their senses taken over by this soi-disant “sentient” planet. Marmion rather liked the notion of a planet with a mind of its own. So few people could boast that sort of decisiveness. Especially Mad Matt. She chided herself for using that term: who knew when she might tactlessly blurt it out by mistake? Her tongue sometimes didn’t wait for mental censorship anymore. Did that show she was getting some sense? Or losing what she had?
No, she wasn’t losing an iota of her good sense, she told herself firmly, remembering the fiscal coup she had just contrived with three supposedly moribund technical companies. They’d each had something the others needed, and none of their CEOs had had the sense to compromise an inch in a takeover, hostile or friendly. So, last year, she’d instructed one of her holding companies to buy out all three. Banging the right heads together and leaving the sensible ones in charge had resulted in such a whopping great net profit after taxes that she’d soon have to form yet another holding company to hide that financial triumph. No matter how Mad Matt—no, no, no, Matthew—boasted of his own recent successes, she’d done better than he had by several billions. But she wasn’t one to brag.
“You can’t really deny that that’s one of the shapes volcanoes assume,” she said, having heard what Matthew was muttering to one of his numerous assistants.
“And, my dear, how ever did you know there are various types of volcanoes?” Matthew asked in that smarmy voice of his. His assistants smiled fatuously at him and superciliously at her.
“Because I have a master’s degree in geology,” she said, smiling sweetly at all of them.
“But it’s not doing anything now,” Matthew remarked, and pointed out the square window that gave a good view of the “dimple” of the cone as the shuttle circled. Not so much as a wisp of smoke or a belch of ash was visible, but for kilometers around the land was shades of gray from cooling lava or wet, mud-streaked ash.
“If you’ve seen enough, Dr. Luzon,” the pilot said over the intercom, “I’ll proceed to the cave-site coordinates.”
Matthew flicked a hand at one of his assistants, who immediately issued the actual order.
“Are we going to land and investigate the cave, Matthew?” Marmion asked ingenuously.
“I just wanted to orient myself for the purpose of further on-the-spot investigations.”
“Wise.”
He made a big show of peering down at the site when they reached it minutes later. Marmion needed only to confirm that the rocky upthrust of the cliff was visibly a limestone formation and most certainly riddled with caves. Since Whittaker Fiske was unlikely to fall for illusions, much less delusions, she’d take the rest of his report as valid until she had substantial reason to doubt it. Whit was not one to jeopardize either his position with Intergal or his reputation with wild and improvable statements.
“This is the right place?” Matthew asked, his expression bland, but Marmion knew not to trust that.
“We’re right over the coordinates I was given, Dr. Luzon,” the pilot said. “The stream is visible and the ledge, and my scanner’s picking up the copter footprints on the nearest possible landing surface. Several footprints, and different size copters.”
“Can’t deny the evidence, can we?” Matthew said. “All right. Proceed for an aerial pass over that town that young Fiske mentioned. Kil . . . something.”
“Kilcoole, Matthew,” Marmion said helpfully, as if aiding someone with a faulty memory. There was not a thing wrong with Luzon’s memory: it had proved far too accurate too often. Perhaps not honest, or properly evaluating the memories, but the details were always indisputably proffered. Details were Matthew’s chief weapons—the details that others might forget or misremember. Then he’d pounce with that deadly and devious accuracy of his.
Kilcoole, as seen through the shuttle windows, was a hodgepodge of widely spaced roofs, some merely darker patches under well-branched trees, with narrow brown tracks, bordered by muddied boardwalks. Not many people were about, though she saw some industrious souls making repairs, and a few others digging up garden-size squares behind their houses. She approved of such occupations. She enjoyed taking care of the extraterrestrial flowers and plants she nurtured in a cleverly connected succession of domes, set at the required temperatures, gravities, and air mixtures that the exotics required. She had fond memories of once being able to get hands and nails dirty, mucking in the small garden of the first house she and Ulgar Algemeine had bought. How young they had been!
She mentally shook those fond memories away and listened to what Matthew was saying.
“Crude in the extreme. How long has this—this place,” he asked, managing to pour a great deal of contempt into the one word, “been established—if you can possibly call that huddle of huts ‘established’?” His assistants did not answer and Marmion had no intention of interrupting him. “And this . . . place harbors the dissidents? Kilcoole, indeed. Kill cool is what we shall do to such pretensions.”
“Are you sure of that?” Marmion asked in a languid tone. “I feel we are perhaps a tad overcivilized at times, Matt, dear. We’ve lost the common touch—”
“Thank God,” Matthew said explosively.
“—that would permit us to evaluate the struggle against climate and conditions. I do find it appealing that amid all the snow and mud, they’re already starting gardens!”
Matthew snorted. “Gardens? More than square-meter plots are required to adequately feed even this indolent population. They can’t expect Intergal to continue to support them with expensive importations of subsistence rations.”
Marmion raised one hand in a gesture of indolent appeal. “I don’t believe rations are imported to Petaybee, Matthew. Do check, one of you,” she said, flicking her fingers at his assistants, “because I have the oddest recollection that they are actually self-sufficient.”
“Not with the quantities of fuel and—”
“Fuel is for vehicles, not humans, Matthew. Haven’t you got those figures for me yet?” Her attitude remained indifferent, but the slight edge to her tone made the skinny one of Matthew’s sycophants tap with greater rapidity at his notepad.
“No, sir, ma’am, no rations are imported for the indigenous population.” Then he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbling up and down.
Marmion had to look away. The poor dear: Matthew would probably taunt him about that when he was in one of his moods. And the other young men—Matthew only had young men as assistants, which rather gave away something, at least to Marmion, that Matthew would probably rather not have known—were all reasonably attractive and looked fit and able for anything physically taxing. Trust Matthew to make the most of comparisons.
“Thank you, dear,” Marmion said to the skinny lad. “And do tell me your name again . . . my memory, you know.”
In point of fact, Matthew had not bothered to introduce any of the assistants, although she had pointedly introduced Sally Point-Jefferson, her personal secretary; Millard Ephiasos, her research assistant; and Faber Nike, whose position on her staff she had not designated. Too many people presumed that Faber’s large muscular frame and quiet deference marked a deficient intelligence and lack of personality. Too many people were wrong. Especially those who thought Faber was a bedmate. Marmion made a habit of hiring versatile, multitalented people. It saved money and engendered loyalty and discretion.
“My name is Braddock Makem, madam,” was the reply, couched in the lowest possible audible tone.
“Thank you, Mr. Makem.” She smiled. It never hurt, and for all she knew it might gain her a discreet ally on Matthew’s staff.
“Stop trying to charm my staff,”
Matthew said testily, giving Makem a piercing glare. Makem’s apple did an unhappy series of perpendicular maneuvers.
“I’ve given up on that score long ago, Matthew,” she lied shamelessly. “You really do know how to incur loyalty among your staff. I could use a little of that genius.” Then, because she was near to laughter at the expression on all those startled earnest faces, she abruptly focused her eyes on the passing landscape. “Ah, the river that suddenly deiced itself. My, it is turbulent,” she said. “And overrunning its banks, too. Flood control apparently is another local lack. But, oh, glance over toward the clear fields, Matthew. Someone’s out there doing something to the ground. Plowing? Is that what you call it? And what on earth would you call the beasts they have harnessed to that queer device?” She had everyone on her side of the shuttle to see this archaic activity. “Well, isn’t that nice, Matthew. They heard you.”
Matthew favored her with a sour glare. She could almost see the phrase “they’ll hear me loud and clear” coming out in a bubble from his tightly shut lips. Certainly that was the expression evident in his glare.
A little noise, like a suppressed cough, issued from the seats behind her. Faber, more than likely, she thought. He’d never said as much, of course, but she knew he despised Matthew Luzon. Almost as much as she did, and Sally and Millard for that matter. She’d chosen this team very well indeed.
Then the shuttle was within sight of SpaceBase and its ridiculously colored auxiliary buildings. Who had the tastelessness to use such awful colors? Marmion wondered. Probably every color of paint rejected throughout Intergal had ended up here, on the walls of this eyesore.
She did not, however, as Matthew did at length, comment on the condition of the landing field, with its craters and cracks and the blocks of plascrete that had been elevated by the seismic activity. As they seemed localized on the field, Marmion was quite charmed by the notion of a sentient planet that could so specialize its internal effects to cause the most discomfort to the inhabitants it did not wish to remain on its surface. A most considerate friend and formidable enemy, such an entity would be, if it was possible.
Power Lines Page 5