Some of the Dhogs brought with them livestock—bakis (a variety of plump scavenger fowl) and prudos (the porcine equivalent of an ambulatory fertilizer factory). Dhog livestock had been bred for the ability to turn almost any organic substance into nourishment. The beasts, like their human masters, could survive on dry husks and chaff, and thrive on a meal of rinds and scraps. Both the bakis and the more substantial prudos would be butchered and roasted on spits around the bonfire to be lit at dusk.
As soon as they had heard that Rohee was dead, the Dhogs had begun collecting combustibles and had a large heap of flammable material amassed in the center of the dilapidated New America Square in the heart of the derelict section of Dome.
The Old Section had been, a little over three thousand years before, the site of the original Cynetics colony ship’s landing. It was over New America Square that the first temporary dome had been erected on sterilized ground, and there the first Earthmen touched alien soil. But that was long, long ago—so long ago the current inhabitants could not even imagine that their crumbling ruin of a home had not always existed.
The Old Section had had a succession of names: Empyrion Base, Colony Administration, Plague Central, Fieri Ghetto, Dome Project Headquarters. As each name implied, the uses for the sprawling section, with its structures in ranks radiating from the central square, had been varied. Now it might have been called, simply, Sanctuary, for that was its current function—providing a home for Dome’s nonbeings, the unfortunates who had, through one transgression or another, forfeited both Hage and stent, whose poak had been erased and their names expunged from the Hage priests’ official rolls.
A Hageman who suddenly found himself without Hage or poak had only two choices: suicide or the Old Section. Most chose to join the Dhogs, accepting an existence—it could scarcely be called a life—of continual want amidst almost unimaginable squalor. To be a Dhog, the lowest of the low, was to be a nonentity, neither alive nor dead, but somewhere between the two, waiting for either to happen.
It was impossible to reach the Old Section from the Hages unless one knew the secret entrances and exits maintained by the Dhogs. Since no one did know—not even guides whose psi entities stubbornly refused to cooperate where the Old Section was concerned—new nonbeings were forced to wait until the Dhogs made one of their infrequent visits to the Hage refuse pits. The wretch who managed to convince the Dhogs to take him in was assigned to one of the sixteen families which were responsible for caring for their own members. The families worked to raise livestock and make any articles the family needed for survival.
Raw materials were scavenged from the Hage refuse pits—always a chancy enterprise since any Dhog caught in Hage was subject to the harshest abuse: torture always, and often death. So hated were they among the Hages that Dhogs risked life and limb simply by setting foot in Hage; hence they tended to move about only at night, and then only in twos and threes.
Though the refuse pits were their primary targets on their scavenging forays, anything not nailed down or too big to carry off was fair game for a Dhog: tools, vessels of various types, unattended cargo—these were the most highly sought rewards for a night’s work. The Dhogs were careful never to take too much, or make their theft blatant, for they feared retaliation—against which they would be virtually defenseless. Even more, they feared making the Hages wary and overcautious, preferring a little carelessness on the part of their providers. If a tool that had been forgotten and left out disappeared, that was one thing. But if an entire tool bin were ransacked, that would force tighter security and stricter policing of all Hage goods, and that was one additional hardship the Dhogs definitely did not care to precipitate.
Therefore, their thefts were always judicious and cunning. Though it hurt terribly sometimes, they would leave a great haul untouched—a stack of ipumn bales left overnight on the wharf, or Hyrgo grain sacks waiting outside the granary—making off with just a single item so suspicion would not fall to them.
Giloon Bogney ruled his people with a genius composed equally of shrewdness and common sense, keeping order and dispensing rough justice, holding the reins of power with a firm, if filthy hand. Cleanliness was not a Dhog attribute. Water was to drink, not to wash in. The water teams had a hard enough time keeping up with their families’ needs without worrying about providing wash water. People washed only when the opportunity presented itself, which was seldom.
When the last of the family heads had been formally greeted by their leader, Giloon signaled for the foodstuffs to be taken away and readied on tables provided for the purpose. Moments later, the squawks and squalls of the prudos and bakis rose above the festive commotion. A cry went up from the throng, numbering close to fifteen thousand by Giloon’s estimation, for nearly every Dhog who could walk, hobble, or crawl had come: “The fire! The fire! Light the fire!”
Giloon cast an eye toward the dome far above; the last light of day glimmered weakly on the sectioned panes. He shrugged and called for the fire team to bring a brand. A runner was dispatched at once and returned moments later, threading his way through the crowds, firebrand lifted high.
The flaming torch was presented to Giloon, who, with exaggerated pomp and ceremony, took it and moved to the center of the square and the large mound of combustibles there. The Dhogs parted and formed an immense ring around the pile, their dark eyes and grimy faces keen in the torchlight.
Giloon raised the torch in his pudgy hand and said in a loud, ironic voice: “The Big Man be dead!”
“Better him than us!” shouted someone from the crowd, and everyone laughed.
“And it’s being no too soon!” Giloon continued. “We knowing he liking the Afterworld—he sending so many of our people there always.”
“He maybe gets a Dhog welcome,” added the voice from the crowd.
“And maybe gets a Dhog oversoul to lead him,” shouted another wag. More laughter came as Giloon lowered the torch to the pile. The bundled rags used for kindling leapt to the flame, and the bonfire blazed. Freshly butchered carcasses were brought forth on spits by the dozen and set all around the perimeter of the blaze as closely as possible. Soon the aroma of roasting meat mingled with the varied scent of the burning rubbish.
Games and music began—both rude and uncouth to a more civilized observer, but spirited nonetheless. Tall, standing torches were lit throughout the square, and lines began forming at the beverage and food tables. Every face wore a carefree expression, for tonight of all nights there would be plenty to eat and drink for everyone, young and old alike.
Giloon, with his personal entourage, strolled the square, talking to his people, sharing their merriment, and receiving mock condolences as well as genuine toasts to his own health and longevity. As a leader, Giloon was appreciated and honored by the Dhogs, who admired his legendary shrewdness.
His feats of stealth and guile were remembered and told as exemplars to the young. Like the time he had diverted a whole shipment of rice from Hyrgo Hage to the refuse pits simply by switching destination tags. The rice was sitting on the Hyrgo docks awaiting transportation to Saecaraz. He had scoured the Saecaraz refuse pits for the tags and then affixed them to the grain sacks. It had taken all night, but he had only to collect the sacks from Saecaraz the next night. The reward for that one exploit was over a thousand kils of rice, and everlasting glory.
When he finished making his rounds, the Dhog leader retired to a platform that had been set up overlooking the square. There, in the company of his closest friends, he entertained the heads of the Dhog families and watched over the festivities. It was a wild revelry: raucous, gluttonous, riotous.
The celebration lasted far into the night with dancing, singing, eating, and drinking until not a single Dhog was left standing. Children and older adults huddled in impromptu heaps; young people paired off and crept away for more intimate sleeping arrangements. The bonfire dwindled and died as dawn tinted the smudgy carapace of Dome overhead. Sirin Rohee was dead, and the Dhogs had celebrated.
It would be the last celebration for many of them.
FOURTEEN
“It was grotesque,” said Cejka, grimacing in distaste. “I have never seen anything so … so bestial in all my life. Not even at Trabantonna! Whole Hages swarming in drunken madness! Seven Jamuna were killed when Chryse torch dancers accidentally set a draped pylon afire and the crowd surged away; three were trampled and four crushed against a rimwall. And theirs won’t be the only bodies found tomorrow, I fear. Rohee’s funeral is a death orgy! You were wise to leave when you did, Tvrdy. I am still shaking from it.” The Rumon Director held out his hand to show how it trembled.
“At least it’s over,” replied Tvrdy, pouring out two glasses of souile and handing one to his friend. “A drink will calm you.”
“But it’s not over, as you well know.” Cejka took up his glass, saluted Tvrdy, and took a sip. He sat back with a sigh. “This is quality souile, Director,” he observed. “In memory of Sirin Rohee?”
Tvrdy gave Cejka a dark look. “Sorry, a bad joke,” Cejka admitted, taking another sip.
“We drink not to Rohee’s memory, but to our own,” said Tvrdy. “And because I mean to deplete my stock. Once the Purge has begun, all will be confiscated, no doubt. I, for one, would rather see it poured into the cesspit than allow even one bottle to fall into Jamrog’s hands.”
Cejka looked stricken. “Don’t talk so! Even if you are joking—and I think you are not—it produces bad ether. We must not even think of a Purge.”
“You said it yourself just now: it’s not over yet. In fact, today was only a beginning. The funeral was a signal to any keen enough to see it. Jamrog means to eliminate all opposition to his total authority.”
“As he did away with Rohee? He can’t do it. The Threl will not allow it. If he moves against even one of us, the rest will—”
“Will what?” Tvrdy snapped. “Stand by and watch him do it? Yes. Don’t lie to me, Cejka, and most of all don’t lie to yourself. Even if we all opposed him—which would never happen—he’d disband the Threl. If we sought to overthrow him, he’d have us executed as traitors. Jamrog will make himself answerable to no one.”
Cejka stared into his drink. “Your words are harsh, but true. You speak my fears and I do not like it, but I know you are right.”
“We are dead men, Cejka. We have no hope.” Tvrdy’s tone caused Cejka to look up sharply. He’d never heard the Tanais Director so depressed.
“No hope? This is souile talking, not my old friend.”
“It is reality! Jamrog was more powerful from the start than we ever suspected. He hid it well. We put too much trust in Rohee’s ability to guard his own selfish interests, and not enough in Jamrog’s ability to use those interests for his own ends.”
“You overestimate him and underestimate yourself,” pointed out Cejka.
“He murdered Rohee, by Trabant! And no one has breathed a word against him. Wake up, Cejka. We have lost.”
Cejka rose stiffly, drawing himself up full height. “I will not stay here and listen to you rave, Tvrdy. You are no coward. Why do you talk so?” Tvrdy made a weak gesture, but Cejka continued. “We have been through too much together for me to believe you mean what you say. Go to sleep, Tvrdy. It has been a long day. Tomorrow will look different to you.”
“Yes,” replied Tvrdy morosely, “tomorrow will look different. It will look worse!” He shook his head sadly. “Sit down, Cejka. At least let us enjoy this fine souile like good friends. It may be the last time we drink together.”
“I think I should go,” said Cejka quietly. “You need rest. You are exhausted. You must sleep.”
“We’ll have plenty of time to sleep, Cejka—once we’ve joined Rohee.”
Cejka turned away and strode toward the lift tube on the opposite side of the room. “Good night, Tvrdy. I will talk to you again when you are sensible.” With that, he left.
Tvrdy poured the last of the souile into his glass and drank deeply, then got up and walked to his balcony to watch a pink dawn tint the planes of Dome’s crystal shell. He tilted his head back and drained the grass, held it for a moment, and then hurled it from the balcony. “That’s one treasure you won’t get, Supreme Director Jamrog,” he said and went to find his bed.
Yarden was up at first light, excited to begin her new life as an artist. Since her talk with Gerdes, it was all she could think about. She imagined all the wonderful paintings and drawings she would create—whole rooms full of beauty. She would dedicate herself heart and soul to art, and would pursue it with everything in her. She would learn all Gerdes could teach her and study the great Fieri masters; she would develop the talent she had been given and, in time, become a master herself.
Yarden dressed in a sand-colored chinti, which was what the Fieri called the suit of blouse and loose, knee-length trousers they all wore. She pulled on soft boots a shade or two darker and crept quietly down the stairs to the kitchen on the first level of the small house. There she set about making breakfast.
When Ianni joined her a little while later, the sun was up and bright in the trees in the garden just off the open kitchen. Fieri architecture revered open spaces, so that their homes always had at least one entire wall exposed to the outdoors—usually overlooking some restful scene: a garden, the lakeshore, a park. Ianni’s kitchen was arranged so she and her guests could eat in the garden when the weather permitted. Given Empyrion’s paradisiacal climate, this was nearly every day of the year.
“Good morning,” said Yarden cheerfully as Ianni entered the room. “I thought we’d have fruit this morning. I’ve already set our places outside.”
Ianni gave her a look of approval and said, “Now I know you feel at home here. This is the first day you have fixed breakfast.”
“Have I been an inconsiderate guest? Believe me, Ianni, I didn’t mean to be. Really, I never thought—”
The Fieri woman shushed her. “I didn’t say that for you to chide yourself. I am happy to serve you. But when you start serving me, you are no longer a guest. You are family.”
Yarden smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, Ianni. You have done so much for me, I’ll never be able to repay you.”
“It is not to be repaid. What I did for you, I did for the Infinite.”
“I understand,” said Yarden. “But I still want to express my gratitude for all you’ve shown me and taught me. And most of all, for introducing me to Gerdes.”
“Were you not even a little disappointed when she said you would never be a dancer?” asked Ianni as Yarden handed her a plate of fruit. They walked out into the garden to the table and chairs surrounded by shrubs flowing with cascades of scarlet flowers. Little fuzzy insects, like tiny balls of lint, toiled in the blossoms, spreading fragrant pollen from flower to flower.
“Disappointed? Maybe I was, but only for an instant. Gerdes told me the truth and I accepted it,” Yarden explained as they began to eat. “She also gave me hope that I could become an artist of a different kind. And since she had told me the truth about my dancing, I could trust her about painting.”
Ianni nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “You are anxious to begin, I know, but I wonder if you might consider delaying your study for a time?”
“Delay it? Why?”
“It’s just an idea,” Ianni said as she speared another piece of sweet, succulent ameang, a pulpy tree-grown fruit with tender white flesh. “I thought perhaps you might like to come with us to the Bay of Talking Fish.”
Yarden laughed at the name. “Talking fish? Are you serious?”
“The name comes from before the Burning, so I suppose it does sound strange to you.”
“Strange, yes, but more fanciful—whimsical, I should say. I’m fascinated; tell me about it.”
Ianni put down her fork and began telling Yarden about the wonderful creatures of the bay. “In the Far North country, in the region of the Light Mountains, there is a great ocean inlet that forms a bay—a body of water much bigger than Prindahl.”
“The fi
sh live there?” asked Yarden, her eyes dancing, picturing this magical place.
“No, the fish live far out in the deep ocean. But once every seven years they return to birth their young in the gentle waters of the bay.” Ianni paused, remembering with a look of quiet rapture on her face. Presently she came to herself and continued, “It’s a long trip; we travel by river through the mountains, and it takes several weeks.”
“It must be quite an experience—the way you speak of it.”
“The Preceptor could tell you better than I—I don’t have the words. But yes, it’s utterly exalting. We go, as many as can make the journey, and arrive at the bay a few days before the fish arrive. We wait for them. Then they come. You can see their tail fins riding high in the water as they enter the bay. They know we will be waiting for them, and they begin to leap and play.” Ianni’s eyes lit up as she told about the fish. “It’s the most beautiful sight: thousands of blue fins shining in the silver water as they come. The leaders bring the school right into the shallows, and we wade out to greet them.”
“Do they actually talk?” Yarden had some idea that the noise the fish made sounded like talking. Ianni’s answer surprised her.
“Not the way you mean. They talk, yes, but not with words—it’s more the way you do, when you choose to. We talk to them in our minds and hearts.”
“Really!” Yarden looked at her host in wonder. “The fish communicate sympathetically?”
“It’s very similar, I believe. Mathiax could tell you more about it.”
“Unbelievable!” The more she heard, the more fanciful Ianni’s story seemed. “But, you—that is, the Fieri don’t use mind-speech ordinarily. You have not developed it among yourselves.”
“True,” admitted Ianni, “but with the fish, it’s different. We can speak to them, and they speak to us. Oh, it’s wonderful, Yarden! I want you to come with us.”
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 9