by John F. Carr
When Castell heard, he was livid for an instant, then dropped into sudden, disconcerting calm. “The child must visit friends or relatives in the out-farms,” he said. “And Chosen children must be in groups of three or more and accompanied by Chosen when inside the fort.”
Outrage still roiled in me, but his words held such convincing harmony that I had bowed and crawled out to spread his words on the matter.
It was only the next night that a drunken man slapped an arm around my shoulder in the town square and asked me, with volatile breath and a leer, where he could find the brothel about which he’d heard such exciting things. Earthly corruptions flourished in Havens miserly environment.
“Keeping our peace separate from their discord does nothing, I told Reverend Castell. “If anything, it weakens our song. Harmony cannot play counterpoint to cacophony and chaos.”
Reverend Castell spun towards me and pointed at my face. “How dare you quote Writings to me, who helped my father compose them. How dare you interpret to me what my father and I wrestled into words.”
“But you’ve got to realize that our settlement’s fraying at the edges. Reverend, our children are beginning to mock the ethics of their parents, because they see such mockery every day around them.”
“Yes, the secular always makes intrusions—”
“Incursions, more like,” I said, so frustrated that I wasn’t even aware that I’d interrupted him. “The Shangri-La Valley may soon be a bowl of blood.”
“Your terms of war begin to try me,” Castell said.
“Then I’ll speak them no more.” And I turned to go.
Having to drop to one’s knees to leave a room makes melodramatic exits difficult at best. This was no exception, and before I got my head past his curtains he made me laugh by saying, “Oh, get up, for harmony’s sake, I can’t be expected to sing to your posterior.”
Despite my anger, I laughed, and then I returned to my place beside him and he said, “We must institute town meetings and community votes. Church membership shall be a requirement for voting privileges, but those lone voices who pledge to learn the ways of Harmony will be eligible to serve our cause, and can eventually qualify to join our chorus. Let each of the Chosen choose someone to indoctrinate, and distribute Writings to all who require them.
“And as for you and the acolytes, we must increase their numbers, as well. I charge you, Kev Malcolm, to be Deacon, along with the best two acolytes under your tutelage. For every acolyte choose two Beadles, from the newcomers, young people like yourself.” Here his voice lowered and he leaned close to me. “Your new role is protector of the Harmonies. Deacons may decide upon strategies, ensuring their harmony with the Writings, and Beadles shall deploy tactics to ensure compliance with Writings among the Chosen and the Pledged.”
Swallowing hard, I nodded. My palms sweated and itched. My knuckles throbbed, too, and I wondered how much he knew of my many scuffles with disrespectful, resentful Earthers. I dared ask, “Does this mean we must set aside our pacifism?”
“Our church needs a buffer, and the Deacons and Beadles shall provide it,” he answered. Then he scowled. “Our pacifism remains, but absolution for necessary lapses among those not yet full church members may be granted; we must always seek harmony, but we may adjust the strength of our voice to compete with the cacophony roaring around us.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m asking you to manage a group partly outside our beliefs and convictions, to ensure that we can thrive. In return, you’ll be doing a service vital to the survival of the Church of New Universal Harmony.”
Part of my mind thought it was a deal with the devil, but my bruises and sore hands argued otherwise, calling it a practical compromise in the face of uncompromising difficulties.
VII
No good deed goes unpunished, they say. In our Writings there is an entire chapter devoted to advice on how to avoid disgusting the infidels we must live among. Much of it is attributed to Benjamin Franklin.
One of the most important pieces of advice is to keep those around you out of debt, for nothing disgusts like owing something. Knowing this from our Writings, I would still have acted as I did when Reverend Castell, the acolytes, and I encountered the drunks.
In the lead, the reverend hummed as his long stride carried him across the town square and into one of the market streets, where goods and services were exchanged. We were on our way to the docks, where the shuttles had been bringing down immigrants, to officially receive the small food plant as a goodwill gift from CoDo reps and Kennicott executives.
It was midday, if peak activity among the populace meant anything. Crowds of newcomers mingled at the stalls, pilfering here and shouting there. Many were children, their faces wan, their eyes alert, almost feral.
“Hunger punishes us,” Castell said, over his shoulder. “Have the botanists reported any progress, Kev?”
“No, Reverend.” They’re not botanists, only farmers elevated into research because of the population crisis, I thought, pressing my lips tight to prevent the quibble from escaping. Along our quick walk we saw many failures of harmony, but Reverend Castell never paused. He never looked to either side, for that matter. The acolytes kept a wary eye, while we Deaks walked tall, for I’d chosen the biggest of us for the post of Deacon, and Beads patrolled more surreptitiously, melding with the crowds.
“What of the muskylope expedition?”
I rolled my eyes. “My sources extend to the island only occasionally, and I’ve heard nothing of late, but Major Lassitre sent only a squad. They’ll bring back some meat, probably, but not enough to matter.”
A few of the younger acolytes exchanged looks of surprise and alarm, and I regretted having to report to Castell in front of them. Three of our older acolytes had vanished, probably to join the outcasts, while one had been found dead, head crushed from a vicious beating. Any nudge in any direction was liable to cause overreactions these days.
That day, especially, we should have left the acolytes back in their quarters. Newly appointed acolytes should have been tending candles and helping set up for ceremonies, not being terrified by plainsong truth and unembellished bluntness of language. Nor should they have had placed on their minds the oppressive facts demonstrated by the arrival of thousands of immigrants into a settlement that could barely support the souls already here. With each step we witnessed new variations of disharmony.
Violence, crime and corruption rampaged through Castell City, now that the newcomer families found their last hopes waning. As population waxed, living space and cooperation waned. The recent drop shipments by Anaconda Mining—one of Garner “Bill’s” secret deals exchanging mining rights on Haven for off-world supplies—shook the Reverend’s faith, but the building materials, farming tools and food stuffs allowed the colony to house and temporarily feed the new arrivals.
As the harsh realities of Haven set in, despair sparked fury and the urge to find scapegoats.
When Reverend Castell asked me if we were not close to the spot where one of our own had been found dead, I nodded. “There, in fact,” I said, pointing into an alley. “He was found by that wall.”
Veering from our agreed upon route to the docks, Reverend Castell entered the alley. It stank of sewage tossed out back portals by slovenly householders. It also offered no Bead coverage, as they hadn’t known he would visit this place.
Kneeling in the putrid muck and mud, Castell examined some of the loose stones fallen from the low wall. “These were used. They stoned him to death.”
“It was worse than that, Reverend,” I told him. “In his back were imprints of a hammer and curved cuts, as if from a scythe.”
“Murder.”
No one answered that word. “A constabulary is needed,” I said.
Reverend Castell stood and turned to face me. He no longer towered over me, as I was taller, but his personal force caused me to step back a pace as he said, voice low and overly controlled, “I’ll have no shattering of the peace by secular verm
in open to the temptations of profit and pleasure.”
The heat that came from him took away my breath. I nodded and bowed my head. Ever since he’d been in the fire-pit, Reverend Castell possessed an intensity beyond any human understanding. Although his actions and words that day remained unexplained and baffling, the fact that he’d withstood the coals pulsed around him like an aura of hellish divinity.
One of the young acolytes whimpered, and the sound caused Castell to break concentration. He returned to normal, although still he scowled.
He stepped over the low wall, into a tiny courtyard, mostly filled by a dewpond, which was all but dry. “Perhaps he’d thirsted,” Reverend Castell said, gesturing toward the small lens of water at the bottom of the dewpond.
“Reverend, this place is a brothel.” I pointed up at the back of one of the buildings. “And I smelled distilled spirits on the body.”
“You’re accusing a brother acolyte of—”
“I’m reporting facts, Reverend, nothing more. Brigands might well have killed him here and poured whiskey on his body to scoff at our faith in Universal Harmony.”
Reverend Castell’s face relaxed. “Yes, that makes sense. Yes.” He rubbed his hands together, neither for heat nor for eagerness but in a gesture of nervous indecision.
“Forgive my inept phrasing, Reverend.”
He glanced up at me, then registered what I’d said and nodded, his hand coming up to touch my head. I felt his thumb making the sign of the octave staff upon me, but there was no thrill this time. Perhaps it was a sign of immediate doom.
As Reverend Castell led the way out of the alley, we found ourselves surrounded by a crowd of drunken newcomers. The reverend began a simple harmony, and we Deacons and acolytes joined.
When a group barred Castell’s way, he changed direction. When he found all ways blocked by scowling miners, he stopped. I saw Reverend Castell’s shoulders straighten, and he radiated warmth again, although not heat. He smiled benignly. “You have an interest in us, I see,” he told the men, his tone light; and friendly.
One stepped forward and shoved Reverend Castell on the chest.
Castell laughed. “You have touched us all.”
The acolytes cowered together in a knot behind me, probably because I’m the biggest, even among the Deaks. I stood just behind the Reverend Castell, trying to glare like him at the people hemming us in, hoping that I might intimidate them into leaving us to our peace.
Insults flew then. They called us Holy Joes and made jest of the harm part of harmony. They denounced our pacifism, mislabeling it apathy and inertia. “You’ve done nothing to help us, and you’ve given us nothing but a hard time when we try to enjoy ourselves,” they said. “You Harmonies control things and get first pick of provisions, and then you put us down for taking the little we need to live on, calling it theft instead of simple survival.”
“Peace is ours to offer,” Castell answered. “Those activities you label enjoyments are but forms of disharmony. Can you not see the harm you do each other when you intoxicate yourselves and wrestle in lust without regard to increasing humanity? And as for—”
In the back of my mind I knew it was the wrong tack. This crowd needed no sermons on moderation. “Reverend, I see a group of Kennicott guards across the street, watching. Perhaps if we appealed—”
He interrupted me and commanded the acolytes to begin a song, and so we sang. The crowd, laughing and jostling us, tried to shout us down, but our combined voices cut through the hubbub with chromatic purity.
Even as I sang my gaze sought routes of escape. My heart thudded, and my palms were slick with sweat. And yet, as we sang, the mob began quieting to listen. Reverend Castell’s old magic almost appeared again. For a few seconds we serenaded our tormentors, and that’s when Castell, giving us a sign to proceed, shouted, “Acknowledge, then, how the harmony of organized singing defeats the scattered cacophony of lone voices crying in this wilderness of pain.”
I doubt if a third of the crowd understood more than half his words, although they rode the crest of our harmonics to echo throughout that section of Castell City.
“You like peace?” someone yelled. “Then maybe you’ll like being in pieces.” Guffaws erupted at the pitiable jest, like stubborn donkeys braying in self-defeating frustration. It was like being back on the freighter, in transport to Haven, except far worse without the need to hide violence done upon us from the eyes of ship’s officers.
A man almost as tall as I, belly flopping, dashed toward Reverend Castell and swung a fist.
The reverend collapsed, clutching his throat.
Stepping over and in, I raised my hands, but the man kicked the fallen Reverend. The kick struck with such force that I felt the impact through the air.
Glancing down, I noticed that the attacker wore miner’s boots, which are heavy and often steel-toed. Reverend Castell moaned.
Around us, the crowd laughed and waited.
Kneeling, I helped Reverend Castell to his feet. He stood bent over, clutching his kicked ribs.
That’s when the attacker leaned in to deliver a head-butt to Castell’s face, which spurted blood and snapped nasal cartilage.
Red tinted my vision, but from within.
Reaching out, I grasped the man’s throat and squeezed, trying to crush his larynx even as I twisted my left arm around to snag his right ear. Part of the ear tore off.
As he croaked and coughed I let him bend over, then slammed the heel of my right hand up into his lower jaw.
Teeth shattered. White shards flecked with red spewed from him as he toppled.
Another man came at me, and I whirled away from him, timing it so my elbow would take him in the throat. I missed, but connected with his temple as he tried to duck under.
He fell as if poleaxed.
I panted now as hard as any human can, sucking in air by the hectare as I sought to control my rage. I kept seeing glimpses of the Rockies, and fragments of my fights at the orphanage. Harmony eluded me. My vision remained tainted by my own unspilled blood.
The crowd of bullies backed away from us now. Some laughed nervously, while others kept up their verbal abuse even as they retreated to their bars and brothels. A few Beads, dressed in rags, kicked and thumped, but their efforts were drowned out by sheer numbers.
When a hand came down upon my left shoulder from behind, I turned to meet that attack as well. My fist flashed upwards.
It stopped millimeters from Reverend Castell’s face.
He glared at me as I dropped my arm, but the glare held no terrors for me just then. “How dare you?” he said, voice cracked and whispery from the punch he’d taken. A bruise darkened his throat where his robe hung torn.
“They hurt you,” I said.
His face contorted. “You’d so easily discard our precepts. For what? My corporeal safety? It means nothing if my spirit’s in discord.”
Hanging my head, I begged forgiveness.
Reverend Castell’s voice dropped an octave, from baritone to basso profundo. “You are no longer attuned to Universal Harmony. Your warlike talk belies cacophonous thinking.”
“I strayed,” I said, crying. “I lost the melody and wandered, but I’m—”
“Silence. Our hands carry peace, which is ours to offer. Your hands dropped that fragile vessel. You shattered peace and for what? So your hands could be raised to harm another? Your song has ended.”
Nausea swept me to my knees, and after gagging I said, through tears, “Please Reverend.” My forehead came down to rest atop his feet, which were bare and cold. Mud smeared my face.
His feet pulled back, and I glanced up.
The Reverend cried out, “This lone voice knows our song, and asks to rejoin our chorus of Harmony. His shouts, although disruptive of our melodies, flew from a proud heart and noble intentions. His sour notes are absolved.” And, after tossing back his head and laughing loudly, he clapped thrice, then reached down to help me to my feet.
Even as I st
ood and looked into his eyes I wondered if Reverend Castell had planned such theater all along, but the unworthy thought mattered little as I realized what we had accomplished.
From then on, goading violence from a pacifist would be like poking an over-inflated balloon. And the crowd had seen me forgiven, absolved. That meant even lapses of pacifism might be condoned. We’d become unpredictable. Along with the buffer provided by the Beadles, such a reputation went far towards ensuring that we Harmonies would at least have a chance.
I followed Reverend Castell to Havenhold Lake, where we greeted uninvited guests who had come bearing gifts.
— 5 —
THE SHIMMER STONE SCAM
John F. Carr
2041 A.D., Haven
Edwin Hamilton wasn’t surprised, after almost a two-year absence, to find Castell City—now there was a joke, more like Castell village—just as disorganized, dirty and uncivilized as when he had left two years ago. Maybe worse. A lot more bums and disreputable-looking types on the prowl, some of them as thin as winter-starved cows. Even in his disheveled state, he was attracting unwanted attention.
A good thing he had left for the hills to look for the motherlode. He had to make an effort to keep the grin off his face.
Many of the structures were subterranean with false wooden fronts, whose only purpose appeared to be to funnel the freezing winds down along the narrow thoroughfares. It didn’t help that the streets were mud and half-submerged planks. A swaybacked dog, with ribs poking against its hide, growled as he walked by. It eyed him warily, but backed away when he lifted his walking stick.
He had just left the Reverend Charles Castell, who was nothing like his father, Garner “Bill” Castell. Charles was a sad sack who talked in parables and took himself far too seriously; he had none of his father’s humor or charisma. Bill had been the kind of con man who could sell glow-in-the-dark condoms to a prostitute. That was, until he got religion.
They had met in Colorado back when Edwin was selling gold mining stocks to doctors and dentists, always the best marks. Bill had teamed up with him for a while and they had made a killing. Castell had dropped out of sight just before the whistle got blown, but that was typical of his “luck.”