Dissension

by Stacey Berg

  Hunter looked at her flushed, drawn face. Illness was less familiar to her than injury; hunters were almost always lost to violence.

  Like Ela.

  “Will she survive?”

  “With the Saint’s help,” the priest said, deftly connecting the tubes to a complex pump of some kind, itself attached to wires that ran into the wall. “She’s young and has more bearing years ahead; it’s worth the effort to try. This will filter the blood until her own body can do it. The Saint manages the process.” He adjusted a dial, pale eyes narrowed in concentration. “I need more blood to prime the pump. Let me see your arm.”

  Later, lightheaded and barely conscious, Hunter lay on the cot next to the nun, listening to the rhythm of the woman’s breath slowing, smoothing into sleep while their blood flowed together through the machine. She imagined the particular fine thread of the Saint’s enormous attention devoted to just this task, the preservation of one cityen’s life, a tiny thing of no importance in itself, yet worth saving if it might yet be of ser­vice to the Church. So the Saint kept the balance, a constant calculation of resources, unending myriad judgments that had kept the city alive since the Fall.

  Hunter could not go to the sanctuary, but she could, in the small hours of the morning, slip into the gated yard and watch.

  She sat with her back against the fence, hands laced around a knee, as she had sat around a hundred campfires. Up so close, the glow of the spire washed half the familiar stars away. If she were in the desert, she would see a long tail spiraling off that constellation there, and the dim red eye that blinked over the horizon at this time of year just there, but from here even her sensitive vision could make out almost none of those familiar patterns. It was enough, even so, to bring those desert camps to her in detail, from the taste of the smoke in her throat, pungent and resiny, to the small hissing creaks the rocks made as they cooled in the night, to the way, trapped once by a pack of canids, she had lain with a pebble pressed painfully into her thigh for long hours when she dared not move.

  She wondered if the Saint had a thread of thought for her.

  After a while she let her forehead drop on her drawn-­up knees and closed her eyes.

  Her attention snapped back to the yard when the lights abruptly came on.

  It wasn’t unusual for young hunters to be out at this hour; they might have had an exercise or some practice they had come up with on their own, or maybe tonight they just couldn’t sleep either and had decided to get an early start on their day. What was unusual was to see a motionless figure on the ground, another kneeling beside it, and two more girls standing very, very still above them. Hunter uncoiled to her feet and took a silent step towards them, then stopped, easing back into the shadows: Tana, emerging from her own night watch, had gotten there first. The old hunter squatted by the body on the ground, a hand on its neck for more than a minute, unspeaking. Then she rose, the lines of her body hard, angry. “What happened?” Her voice conveyed no emotion at all.

  The kneeling girl stood slowly, wiping her palms against her thighs. “We were practicing choke-­downs.” That voice was cool, striving for nonchalance. Gem.

  “Why did you disable the motion sensors?”

  “To practice in the dark, Tana.”

  The old hunter blew out a breath. “Were you using safety precautions?”

  “Of course. Standard tap-­outs. She never gave one.”

  One of the other girls shifted slightly. Delen, it looked like. Tana turned to her. “Is that correct?”

  “I—­I thought I heard her tap out.”

  “And you?”

  The third girl looked from Tana to Gem to the shape at her feet. “I thought so. I’m not sure.”

  Tana said to Gem, “Are you certain of your report?”

  “If she tried to tap out I didn’t realize,” Gem said.

  Tana nodded thoughtfully, arms crossed, a finger pressed to her lips. “Four hunters beyond their first decade, in a practice setting, a controlled situation. One is dead and three are uncertain what happened. That is not an adequate performance, not in the least. Obviously you need remedial training. We will begin now. You first.” She crooked her finger at Gem, who didn’t move.

  “Respectfully, Tana, I disagree with your assessment. Our training has been adequate. We’re uncertain because Fay failed to tap out correctly. It was her fault.”

  Fay. The girl who had cried for Ela. Hunter’s fists clenched, nails digging into her palms. She forced them to open again.

  Tana appeared unimpressed by Gem’s explanation. “If that is the case, then others could also be confused. Therefore I want to be sure—­absolutely sure—­that each of you demonstrates adequate understanding of the proper tap-­out technique. Step over here.”

  Gem wiped her palms again over her thighs, the first hint of nervousness she had betrayed, but still did not move. Tana merely asked, “Which choke were you practicing?” The girls shifted again, no one answering. “Which one?”

  “The sentry hold, behind.”

  Tana raised an eyebrow. “A dangerous maneuver. Quite difficult to control, as we have discussed. That is why we don’t practice it in class. But since you felt the need, I will demonstrate. Over here, Gem. Now.”

  Gem obeyed this time, turning to stand stolidly facing the other girls while Tana stepped behind her. Tana snaked one arm around Gem’s neck, palm facing inward, the other pressing between the girl’s shoulder blades. Gem came up on her toes but made no attempt to counter. Hunter could hear the air whistle in her throat. “This is the common sentry hold,” Tana said in a calm classroom tone, “but as you see, it’s inefficient. She still can breathe. This way is better.” She turned her front hand so the palm pointed down and locked her other hand around it, pinching the girl’s throat between the sharp bone of her forearm and her lanky bicep. It was only a second before Gem’s hand slapped against her own thigh.

  Tana kept squeezing. Gem slapped again, hard enough for Hunter to hear clearly across the yard. Tana ignored the tap-­out, squeezing, until Gem began flailing, grabbing with both hands at the forearm barred across her throat, increasingly desperate until suddenly she gave a jerk and her body went abruptly limp. Tana let go and stepped back, letting the body fall unceremoniously to the ground beside the dead girl.

  Tana turned to the others, unconcerned. “Tell me what you observed.”

  Delen said shakily, “She tapped out, but you didn’t stop.”

  “Which arm did I use to apply the hold?”

  The girl took a deep breath. “Right, Tana.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw her tap out?”

  “Yes, Tana.”

  “Which hand did she use? You?”

  The other girl swallowed. “Left hand. Palm against her left thigh, twice. The second was clearly audible.”

  Tana nodded. “That is correct. Did I release the hold immediately?” The girls exchanged a look. “You should not need to consult with each other. Did I release the hold immediately?”

  “No,” Delen said, and the other shook her head, no.

  “Then you clearly observed me breaking a standard practice safety procedure, yet you said nothing?”

  “That is correct, Tana.”

  “Is that what happened when Gem practiced the hold on your sixth?”

  “I—­” Delen straightened. “Yes, Tana. That is what happened.”

  “And you are both now certain?”

  “Yes, Tana,” they replied in unison.

  “Then you’ve learned enough for now.” Her booted toe probed Gem’s body; it was met with a strangled moan. “Get her up. Apply the field-­healing techniques you’ve been taught, assuming that you recall those adequately and do not need additional training. If she is not fully recuperated in an hour, take her to the priests. Be sure,” she
added acidly, “to describe clearly what happened to her.”

  “What about—­” Delen barely glanced at the dead girl next to Gem, then looked away quickly.

  “What about her?” Tana asked, very softly.

  “We should call the priests, to harvest the ovaries,” Delen said.

  “Take her to them yourself,” Tana said. She looked down a moment at the two bodies, one beginning to stir, the other eternally still. “What a waste.”

  Tana stalked away from the juveniles. Hunter rose, thinking to follow her to the domicile, but the other woman turned abruptly, striding towards the sanctuary. “Tana,” Hunter called softly, not wanting to draw the 378s’ attention. “Tana!” She was sure the old hunter could hear her. But Tana kept going, straight past Hunter, through the door and into the sanctuary, where Hunter dared not follow.

  Tana didn’t come for morning teachings. Hunter collected two bowls of grain from the refectory and took them to Tana’s cell. The old woman lay on her bunk, hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. Hunter offered her a bowl. Sighing, she swung her feet to the ground, taking the food without enthusiasm. “I saw what happened last night,” Hunter said.

  “I know. I saw you watching there by the gate. What were you doing up at that hour?”

  “Your eyes are still sharp.”

  Tana made a disgusted little sound. The skin beneath her eyes was dark. “If Gem had remembered the counter for that choke-­down, she could have executed it easily. I remember being young and strong like that. It was very long ago. I was surprised that she panicked.”

  “She thought you were going to kill her.”

  “That’s exactly when she should not have panicked. I wouldn’t have. Neither would you.”

  “No.” Hunter forced down a bite of grain that tasted like dust. “We have to go to the Patri. She’s already wasted Fay. She must be prevented from doing more damage.”

  “I’ve been to see the Patri,” Tana said, staring at the pattern in her grains as if the Patri looked back from there.

  Hunter caught at her spoon as it nearly slipped from her fingers. “What did he say?”

  Tana’s mouth quirked, in that way that was not at all hunter. “There is a plan, Saint knows.”

  “Is he going to put her down?”

  “I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

  “But, Tana, she’s so”—­Hunter cast about for the word—­“unsound. He must see that.”

  “I’m not sure I know what sound is anymore.”

  The food in Hunter’s belly turned to ice. “What are you talking about?”

  “Gem, Fay . . .” Tana ran a gnarled hand across her eyes. “Myself. These last few annuals, the changes . . . I don’t know what to think. Sometimes I sit in the sanctuary like you, and ask the Saint. I think I’ve learned to read the patterns, Echo. But I don’t like her answers.”

  This was too like the crumbling rock at the edge of the cliff. Hunter heard her own voice thin, tinny, protesting like a child. “It’s blasphemy to question the Saint.” But this was Tana. Hunter said, “Whatever you think, you’ve always been a good hunter. A good teacher. You still are, Tana.”

  “Sometimes the lessons seem awfully hard.” Tana rose with a creaky effort, collecting her bowl and spoon. Then she smiled, a real smile, not the crooked grin. “I’ve always liked you, Echo, from that time you were a fierce little hunter tracking me through the city.” She sighed, a long outgoing breath. “Maybe you’re right. I hope so. We’ll find out.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Patri sent for Hunter the same day.

  It was long past the evening meal; though it was still just light, the yard was devoid of ­people. Hunter restrained herself from running, but her heart pounded as if she had been; she took an extra moment at the Patri’s chamber door to settle her breathing. Then she went in.

  He had been waiting for her; the print on his desk was closed, his hands, fingers interlaced, resting atop it. He studied her, expression neutral, for a long moment. Finally he said, “Sit down please, Echo.”

  She sat with both feet on the floor, hands in her lap. She forced herself not to clench them into fists. He had arrived at some decision, she saw it clearly in his face. She must make herself ready to receive it. She focused on the room, the stacks of prints, the paper-­strewn desk. The window framed a view across the yard, small, but centered squarely on the sanctuary. She wondered for the first time whether every Patri had sat here, or this one had chosen it specifically.

  “I erred,” the Patri said, “in leaving you so long in the desert. I was busy with the new Saint, and your performance with the arrays was more than adequate, so I did not consider the disadvantages of such prolonged separation from the Church. The independent functioning of a hunter is an asset, but it must be balanced with obedience. It is only since you returned that I realized my mistake. I must confess, Echo, I have been surprised by what I see in you.”

  The walls pressed inward. She breathed slowly, deeply. He is going to have me culled.

  He smiled faintly. “The Materna has reminded me, however, that all that time alone left you without proper guidance. Your deviations have been minor, considering. And as the Materna has also reminded me, an intelligent man does not waste a valuable resource from temper, or in haste. I have a new mission for you. I know your performance will ease my mind.”

  The shock was so great that she could not identify what she felt as relief. Numb, she asked in a voice that she struggled to control, “How may I serve, Patri?”

  “I have begun to hear things about the city, rumors that disturb me. From the nuns, mostly.”

  “The nuns?” Her mind struggled with the change of focus. She forced herself to think. “Patri, I know we can never disregard information, but the nuns seem somewhat . . . less than reliable as observers.”

  “That’s true, but they do talk.” He smiled wryly. “Most of what they say is gossip, city nonsense. But there is a common thread running through it, more than usual. It seems to circle around a man, a cityen. The girls don’t know this man, but they know about him. Not facts, but stories, which is even worse. Little pleasantries about things he’s done. A kindness here or there, extra food to a family having a hard time, a few men to help in a garden if a cityen falls sick and can’t, that sort of thing.”

  “I heard the nuns in the refectory speak of a man like that,” Hunter recalled. “But how could one man, doing so little, disturb the Church?”

  “He hasn’t, yet. But he could someday. There is something on the boards I don’t understand, a pattern the Saint is trying to show me. . . .” He pursed his lips in exasperation. “Her thoughts are not like ours. I read the boards, of course, but sometimes I despair of ever truly understanding. But I can foresee a time when cityens begin to turn to such a man as I’ve described, instead of to the Church. At first innocently enough, only for those little things, but gradually more and more. A clever man, a patient one, could cultivate loyalty among the cityens.” His eyes narrowed, and his voice grew harder than Hunter had ever heard it. “The tithe is coming, and I’m concerned that it will provide a focus for the misguided.”

  “You think cityens will refuse to tithe?” She couldn’t keep the consternation out of her voice. “Even they couldn’t be so shortsighted.”

  “They are undisciplined by nature, Echo. I don’t expect them to like or even understand all the things the Church must do. That is part of my burden, and I accept it willingly. But I fear that a time may be coming when they think they know better than we do. They talk of change, and I will not tolerate anything, anyone, that threatens the plan the forebears put in place, that saved us all. We’ve come too far, and it is all still too fragile. I won’t let it go to waste. That is why these stories worry me.”

  This was a tactical problem, something Hunter could understand. “Do you want this man put down?” she asked.


  The Patri’s eyes opened a little wider, then he shook his head, amused despite himself. “Thank you, Echo, no. That might bring its own complications. I don’t want to make a martyr of this Warder, as they call him. No, this is a time for subtlety. I need to know what’s happening. How to control the situation, or even better, to arrange for this man to discredit himself. It may not be difficult, no matter how the cityens view him now. For all their intensity, men’s passions are short-­lived.”

  Hunter turned possibilities over in her mind. “It should be straightforward to find such a man and observe his behavior. His activities would only serve their strategic purpose if everyone knew about them.”

  Fingers steepled. “I agree. However, the hunters who routinely patrol haven’t discovered anything. There may be nothing to find, but I’m concerned that their familiarity with the city may obscure their vision. You bring a different perspective.”

  Different brought a small shiver of unease. She thrust it away. She would perform adequately; he would be pleased. “When shall I begin, Patri?”

  “Three days from now. The cityens have taken to marking the solstice with a fest. It will provide an opportunity to observe many of them at once, and a focal point, perhaps, for plans this Warder or another such might make. You will be a hunter sent by me to show the Church’s support for the celebration.”

  Camouflage. Something else she understood. “I’ll prepare at once.” The sense of anticipation was familiar; the darker thing behind it, less so. She wondered if it was fear. Gem would mock her, if she knew.

  Gem. In the stress and its relief, Hunter had forgotten. “Patri, I must report on another matter.”

  He had already reached for a print; now he returned his attention to her. “What is that?”

  “Gem Hunter 378, Patri. Last night she killed another of her batch.”

  “I am aware of this, Echo. Tana and I discussed it.”