Dryland's End

by Felice Picano

  The reporter had gotten control of herself and was now attempting to put some order into what had just happened and what it might signify, explaining that the Matriarch Herself had just been denounced by Her own systems head for health.

  “Do you know what you’ve done?” Taylor asked Rinne.

  “I’ve just retired. Without a pension.”

  “You’ve just cracked the Matriarchy in half single-handedly.”

  “No. They did it themselves. I just pointed it out, in case anyone couldn’t already see,” Rinne said.

  They both turned to watch the T-pods landing inside the nest’s wide entrance. The reporter was counting them, speculating aloud that the final one would contain the Fast’s captain, who had not left until the ship had already been crippled, and who still wasn’t accounted for.

  The other Fast crew members were alighting and stepping out of their pods. One crew member hadn’t made it, two others reported: they had watched in horror as his pod was caught in a beam from the MC forces Fasts.

  The all-male crew members were looking around in bafflement at the holo-team and the remaining refugees. They were unsure what to do next. One more T-pod could now be seen approaching, and already the Fast’s captain was recognized inside it. He was about to enter when they heard and then felt the explosion outside.

  “The Fast! It’s going!” someone yelled. The ground began to rumble and the air around them to thump. Rinne was holding onto Taylor, but they were separated, thrown apart. She fell on someone – Lill, maybe – but at the correct angle to see the last T-pod begin to drop, and to be knocked aside by the falling nest entrance.

  The noise was tremendous, the tremors below equally titanic, and as the nest began to cave in, Rinne felt the darkness closing over her. Damn it, she thought with perfect illogical logic, now that I’m finally free, this has to happen!

  Regulus Prime rose over the gardens of Melisande, divided in half by a single thin, dark horizontal line. A purely atmospheric effect, She knew. As was the sun’s pinkish coloring – the only hint that it had once been a red giant of a star, spewing out vast amounts of energy per second, enough to light up a thousand solar systems, expanding and glowing fiercely during its expectedly short lifetime, committing nuclear suicide. And almost succeeding, except for one small glitch in its elemental makeup or in the ratio of those elements to its precise size or to its gravitational pull or to something – no one had quite deciphered the reason why this star, among the millions of red giants, had gone nova time and again and then finally settled into a long, benign senescence: its single remaining unburned planet, once so distant it had been solid ice kilometers thick, suddenly thawed into a paradise. No one knew exactly why, although ask any planetologist and she’d give you her theory. But the miracle of it had been rare enough for Wicca Sixth to select this as Her capitol, and for Her successors to view it in wonder and to feel themselves equally gifted, equally conversant with miracles.

  Now Wicca Eighth needed a miracle.

  She sighed and sipped at the flowery herbal tea that alone formed the earliest breakfast of what She feared was going to be Her very long day.

  She had hardly slept for the dreams. Strange dreams of a type She’d not had since She was a neonate. She had been dashing along an endless purple meadow, grass almost reaching up to Her (in the dream) powerful four legs. She had snorted, sensing or hearing something in the distance; something fearful, not easily understood, bright, sharp, hurting. She had looked up at the blazing blue sun that tinted the landscape, and had seen nothing, but had felt discomfort, then alarm, and had begun to trot, gallop, rush across the fields as though to warn, to alert the others, before whatever it was struck.

  Thankfully, She had awakened before it could become manifest. Her sleep chamber had been perfectly, dimly lighted to Her precise specifications – as usual. She had floated a quarter-inch above the sleep platform – as usual. And checking the flow, the air-current sheets, blankets, and pillows had – as usual – adjusted themselves exactly to the ever-changing temperature and electrolyte balance of Her sleeping body. Nothing was different or technically incorrect. Why, then, the dreams?

  Why, then, was it that before She completely broke the surface beyond the ooze of the dream state, She had seen a face – a face that seemed familiar, yet which must have come from many centuries ago, because She didn’t remember it, or only vaguely, a male face, that had looked at Her? Until it had said quite clearly, “Today, Prosecutor Allwyn ... the great galactic wheel has turned... . Now I am all! ... And you – you are nothing!”

  She had gotten up, unwilling to remain in bed for Her usual levee, and had ordered Her morning drink – it had been brought in instantly and the governmental day had begun, an hour or two Sol Rad. earlier than expected. At first, none of Her usual courtiers were ready, and the apartment servants were still sleep-eyed. She had dismissed them all to be alone, and finally to allow Herself to think of him, Ferrex Sanqq’, who had invaded Her waking dream with the certainty of his words – possibly the only words anyone could speak capable of terrifying Her.

  Why him, of all those She had trod on to reach this altitude? Many had been greater than Sanqq’: more prestigious, more powerful, more inventive.

  Now She hoped they would never find him on Pelagia. Hoped he was dead. Or that they had been killed before they could find him.

  She intuited, as She had intuited few things in Her long and eventful life, that if he wasn’t dead, if Alli Clark’s Fast returned with him, that he would present the solution, save the Matriarchy – or, if not that, then the species. She’d intuited that the minute the news of the Cyber microvirus had been confirmed. Ferrex Sanqq”s name had instantly come to mind, and fool that She sometimes was, She had acted on Her impulse.

  Better to have all womanhood, all Delph.-hood, perish than have Sanqq’ be their savior.

  She turned on the holo-wall to see what new disasters, if any, had occurred in the few hours She had managed to close Her eyes.

  The twelve-panel wall was tuned to all of the major Inter. Gal Networks: the nine Matriarchal ones, the two from the Orion Spur Federation – the earliest inhabited and most densely populated sector of the galaxy – generally given over to business and Inter. Federation politics, and finally the Hesperian Network.

  She actually watched only the last two holo-stations. Matriarchal News was so perfectly censored that it was virtually useless for information. Lately, She suspected, most women on this and other worlds also watched only the O. Spur and “City” News.

  That was how She had heard of the anti-Centaur riots on Trefuss and Benefica; of the killings of Centaur advisers on Eudora – supposedly the three most politically stable Matriarchal worlds. It was Hesperian provocation, of course, with help from those Eve-damned hooded Se’ers always lurking about.

  But it was disturbing. She had immediately taken it as a warning for Melisande.

  She called in Tam Apollon and told him that while She was certain his malefolk were safe on Regulus Prime that, if they wished, thought, felt ... Within the hour Sol Rad., they had gone into protective custody; even She didn’t know where on Melisande they were. Or even if they still were here, or whether they’d left by Fast for their homeworlds in the distant Norma sector. She didn’t want to know. It was enough for Her to know that they were so fearful, and despite their usual flawless courtesy and diplomacy, that they felt safer out of sight, in hiding, even back home. That, as much as how much She actually missed Tam Apollon’s presence, his soothing words, his sage advice. That must have been why She had dreamed of that charlatan Sanqq’. Yes. She must try to remain calm. The tisane helped.

  For a few minutes, all on the holos seemed as it had on any other recent morning: cosmetic and fashion suggestions; how to redial your modified Cyber for the new comm.ed direct-nutrition channel; a visit to a Young Pioneers piscid farm set in the newly irrigated areas of planet seven of the Algenib system; yesterday’s Plastro-Beryllium commercial orders (in multi
tons) amid the Scutum Arm worlds; Xenon and Radon price shifts among the Horsehead Nebula planet markets. It was all perfectly everyday.

  Then She saw the holo from Deneb XII on one of the Orion Spur channels: a replay, part of a News Summary with Comment, and there (without sound) – Eve’s gratitude! – was Gemma Guo-Rinne, her MC standard coiffure knocked to one side, her MC traveling cape covered with orange dust, her face slightly bruised from flying debris, and once again Rinne was saying those stiletto words that had arrived like a thunderbolt last evening on the Hesperian Inter. Gal. News.

  Now the replay holo once again swung outside to fasten its view upon the crippled Hesperian Fast hanging in Deneb’s blue-orange sky like a great wounded New Venice shark-whale. Then it once more focused tightly upon a single tiny T-pod coming toward the holo-team before everything began to shake. And beyond the T-pod She could clearly see the Fast imploding, the nearly indestructible Plastro-Beryllium suddenly bending inward at impossible angles, until it looked like some sort of arthropodic skeleton. Then the holo shook and, even in silence, She heard the roaring explosions, and the picture fell, pointing askew madly before it stopped at a ceiling view and then went blank.

  She turned up the sound on screen # 12 to hear the Inter. Gal. commentator’s update.

  “In the nine hours Sidereal Time since then, we have received no further transmissions from our holo-team on the planet,” the commentator was saying soberly. “All attempts to contact Admiral Thol, Black Chrysanthemum of the Cult of the Flowers, who ordered the attack upon the Hesperian and Matriarchal citizens that you witnessed have been met with complete silence. All of our attempts to contact any diplomatic or Persean Arm official of the MC for comment have also been met by silence. If there are any survivors of the Massacre of Deneb XII, we have been unable to ascertain how many, where they are, or in what condition. We will interrupt any preprogrammed material with any new information.”

  The Massacre of Deneb XII – it already had a name, Wicca thought. Well, Thol had always wanted to make history, and now she had. The fool!

  “We’re now bringing you a live Inter. Gal. transmission from Hesperia’s Quinx chamber. Premier Lady Llega Francis Todd speaking.”

  Llega looked harried, Wicca thought. As though she had not gotten any sleep in a day Sol Rad. Not even the few dream-riddled hours Wicca had managed. Evidently, this was a comm.ed address from the Quinx Council, an address that had begun a few minutes previously.

  “... the Deneban Settlers Association which holds the MC forces and Alpheron Spa hostages who were taken before the tragic incident occurred,” Llega was saying. “Quinx Vice Premier Mart Kell has offered to represent this council in joining an Inter. Galactic Negotiation Group proposed by President Leue Win Arner of the Orion Spur Federation. We call on the Matriarchy to respond to those requests and to join with us in seeking a method or methods whereby we can call a halt to the atrocities visited upon Deneb XII and find a peaceful resolution to the situation. President Arner is willing to open up a totally secure Inter. Gal. Comm. among Procyon, Hesperia, Deneb XII, and Melisande – or, in fact, any other locality the Matriarchy may prefer – for this purpose. A formal comm. to this effect has just been delivered to Wicca Eighth by the Orion Spur Delegate to the Matriarchal Council. We await a response.”

  Wicca had heard enough. She turned off the sound on #12 and looked over the wall. There was Rinne again on another O. Spur holo, and an earlier – and heavily edited – segment of the same report on an MC channel. No matter how much they edited it, attempted to turn it to their advantage, they would still fail, She thought. Too many Humes on too many worlds had tuned in to it while it was live and had seen for themselves.

  Eve take Rinne! And now Llega Todd’s “plea” would be all over the other networks within an hour Sol Rad. Wicca would have to respond or ... She could no longer remain silent.

  She heard her court assembling outside the sleep chamber.

  “Come in!” She said loudly and confidently, and as the group of women entered, She gestured for her hairdresser, whispering to her, “A chrysoprase tint today, I think. Style it back and high: serious, yet not quite tragic.”

  Before her ministers could even begin to speak, She signaled for quiet. “I’ve heard the Hesperians. Naturally, we’ll join the Inter. Galactic Negotiation Group, in order to forestall any further errors. You’ll secure the comm. yourself, Mer Etalka, and handle it personally, making certain a line remains open to wherever I may be at all times, with an extra audio channel open between Ourselves only. And” – turning to Her defense minister – “Mer Palladia, I want a full in-person holo-comm. with Admiral Thol before Mer Etalka opens channels with the O. Spur people. Closed lines. And Mer Palladia, should Thol pretend to be unable to speak to Me for any reason at all, she is to be relieved of duty instantly. Make that clear. Now” – She turned to the others as the two ministers rapidly left the chamber to fulfill their orders – “I want full reports and commentary from the rest of you. Rumors, comm.s, talk overheard in lifts and on conveyances. Omit nothing, no matter how trivial or ludicrous you may think it.”

  She waited for the first woman to speak. She remained in full control.

  And Ferrex Baldwin Sanqq’ remained merely a bad dream.

  Mart Kell stepped out of his ion-bath and considered how he ought to dress himself for the holo-meeting. His valet sprayed and air-brushed his hair so it gleamed with topaz accents and waved up high on one side before leveling off to a flattop. Next Valens sprayed and air-buffed Mart’s face and body with the lightest possible dusting of Beryllium so his skin would take on a ghost of its platinum glitter.

  No nose-ring or even earring, although he had many spectacular ones. Now that he was the Quinx Vice Premier, Mart was allowed to put on the official tiara that Branklin had seldom worn and never looked good in anyway. It seemed at first to be a simple enough headband but, upon closer inspection, proved to be a marvel of craftsmanship: five bands of slightly different colored Beryllium strips woven in and out and around one another so none ever touched. The entire crown was so light, yet of such very pure alloys, that when Mart placed it over his head, it floated a millimeter off his brow.

  No tunic, he decided; he’d be bare-chested, with the Plastro-trimmed City Jet black cape thrown over his right shoulder, connected by a long, transparent stay to his loose-fitting trousers. No ornamental codpiece, not even the Hesperian knee-boots; that would be flaunting himself at the two women in the Negotiation Group. Even so, his flat torso, well defined by the low sweep of the cape, its musculature accented by Beryllium glitter, would keep his maleness, his City-ness, before them at all times. That was essential. He was meeting the others as at least an equal. Not as a servant of the Matriarchy.

  Mart had selected his own apartments in the O’Kell UnLimited sphere to take the holo-meeting. It possessed privacy, grandeur, and he could accept the three other life-size holos and still easily tune into others to keep informed on what was happening elsewhere. Naturally, a line would be open to the Inner Quinx once the negotiations began. But what he was most interested in now, was the Near Norma Arm blockade.

  He had wanted to lead the Hesperian Fast forces to the Centaur homeworlds, to direct the blockade himself, to ensure that all went according to plan. But as he had told North-Taylor Diad (was Diad still alive? Mart felt so, despite the visual evidence of those holos from Deneb XII), Mart was “riding the wave of history,” and that meant he must remain in Hesperia, first as Vice Premier, and now for the negotiations.

  Kars Tedesco was leading the Fast forces. It would be his name that would resound in decades and centuries to come when all had been accomplished. And, Mart had to admit, of all those on the Quinx, after himself, Tedesco was best equipped for the task – not only by virtue of his ability, but also by reputation. The youngest and only male child of an economically and politically powerful dynastic line that reached back to the founding of the City, Kars was a few decades older than Mart and had already bee
n in postgraduate studies at Hesperian University when Kell first entered. “Black Kars” he had been called behind his back, not for the color of his skin, which was relatively light-hued, but for his naturally City Jet – colored hair, which he wore high and long and which he had accented by wearing ebony garb. “Black Kars” also because of his darkly brooding habits of solitude and antisocial behavior, and because of his sudden near-homicidal rages, which left unsuspecting students, alumni, and innocent onlookers in need of med. care.

  Given Tedesco’s menace, it was only natural that as a student, Mart had been magnetically attracted to him. They’d had the requisite social encounter, a bit more bruising than most Mart had experienced. Then years passed before they spoke again. It was only after he had actively become an Oppos. that Mart discovered that Black Kars had been one of the movement’s founders and leaders during his decades as undergraduate. It had been one of Tedesco’s early colleagues who had finally seen that the two met each other. It had occurred at one of those louche interspecies drug and sex orgies held deep down in the City’s core – this one in a Cyber recreational center, at a Hume off-limits level only a few kilometers above Hesperia’s still madly radiating “hot” Beryllium core.

  By then, Black Kars had already taken his seat on the City’s five major commercial exchanges and was being nominated for a seat in the Quinx’s upcoming elections. But he had been as wild as anyone else at the orgy, moving from group to group until Mart had looked up from the sextet he had formed with two Arth.s, three intelligent Cybers of various genders, and a female Hume to see Black Kars standing there, naked, his transparent Stele-Soma head mask almost opaque as he inhaled the drug. Tedesco had dropped onto the group and, shoving limbs in all directions, had swooped onto Mart like a well-aimed missile.

  They had never spoken of that encounter, and it wasn’t until some decades later when Mart himself joined the Quinx that Kars even acknowledged his existence again. Perhaps that was for the best, now that Black Kars was a respected politician, business leader, and, most surprising, family man.