The Machine God (The Drifting Isle Chronicles)

by MeiLin Miranda

  Winston wrinkled his brow, but shrugged after a pause. "Well, your father was one of ours till he take one on the noggin, Peter, so I reckon your word's as good as his. Let him speak, gentles," he added to the Council.

  "Oh, very well, let's get it over with," sighed a fat old Councilwoman behind Eichel. "Standing out in the street like this is fatiguing."

  Peter described the strange flying machines worth more than everything on the island combined, the well-fed, well-dressed people now setting up camp in the turnip field. Perhaps he would explain how much the strangers had paid his family to use the turnip field another time, when his apparent landlord wasn't in attendance. Peter described the odd weapons they carried, and their effects. "And yet, they're kind and open-handed folk. 'Pon my word."

  Councilman Eichel stared at them, his gaze ever more calculating and his jaw working meditatively; he turned to the youngest Council member. "What do you think, Iris?"

  The young woman's heart-shaped face lit up and she clasped her hands before her. "I am fascinated!"

  "I thought you might be," drawled Eichel. The thinner of the old women glared at the Council head, frown lines deepening around her mouth; she drew a breath to speak, but Eichel cut her off. "I already know what you think, Imogen."

  "Oh, really?" she snapped, unabashed and obviously used to his dismissals. "I'm not sure everyone else here has your mind-reading abilities, Niles."

  "I suggest we take this into chambers, where we might discuss things in more private surroundings," said a grandfatherly, bald old man. "Perhaps the gentle in charge of this unique procession might join us?" the man continued. "And you as his translator, of course? We will provide refreshment and rest for his retainers."

  "All of us or none of us," said Adewole.

  Eichel shrugged. "We do not invite servants in with their betters, but we will follow your whimsical...traditions?...for now." He gestured at the Guard leader; conical hats bobbed above the crowd, and a path opened.

  Adewole translated what Eichel had said, and apologized for his own improvisation. "No, you did right," said the Major, "it's never wise to split the party."

  The way through the crowd led to a middling-sized building newer than the University but still very, very old. Over its great doorway, carved into its stone lintel, read the Old Rhendalian words:

  From the Center of the Earth to Heaven

  The words chilled Adewole, and he pulled his turquoise kikoi closer. The expedition followed the guards inside the Hall. Underfoot, mosaics bloomed, their colors unfaded even though they must have been laid down centuries before. Intricately carved rafters, richly hued hangings--it was as if every color missing on the rest of the island had been sucked into this building and hoarded.

  They came to enormous doors opening into a bright, official-looking room. A fire burned in a small grate, fighting the chill radiating from the stone walls even in late spring. Six opulent chairs stood upon a dais at one end, and here the Council members made themselves comfortable. The room contained no other seating.

  "This is all nonsense," said the irritated man who'd spoken so harshly to Peter. "I cannot understand why you've brought these people into Town Hall when they should be locked up in the Guardhouse. At best they're out of their minds, at worst they're positive oath breakers!"

  "The Osters are your tenants, Kolb," said the young Councilwoman named Iris. "Are you suggesting they've been hiding ten lunatics somewhere on your property--ten lunatics who've managed to acquire enough metal and magic to break the Oath without anyone noticing?"

  Kolb's face slackened. His expression turned inward; by the time he raised his eyes to his fellow Council members, he'd smoothed away the crafty look. "It can't be as he says, but I'll send my men to Kolbsgate and this particular farm right away."

  "We will send the Guard," retorted the Councilwoman Eichel had called Imogen. "If there's something to these stories, then whatever these people brought belongs to Risenton, not to you, Fletcher Kolb."

  An argument broke out: property rights; rights of the people, which Adewole interpreted as being the rights of the people on the dais rather than the people at large; possession meaning more than any claimed right; law trumping possession. "When we do claim these contraptions Peter Oster is on about, everyone should share the resources, not just the Families," said Iris.

  Councilman Eichel raised his voice. "Gentles, this is academic until we know what is there."

  Adewole had been doing his best to translate for Major Berger, but here he interrupted. "What is there, sir, belongs to our mission. You have heard young Mr. Oster's account of our weaponry."

  "Who knows how you fooled him," snorted Councilman Kolb. "I know how gullible he is--known him all his life--but you can't expect to fool us. Besides, you are just a handful. Whatever's in my turnip field belongs to me."

  The argument threatened to break out again, until Adewole boomed out a translation for Major Berger, echoing against the stone walls. "We are far more than a handful, and were my people to be attacked, hundreds more would be on the way in moments." Not strictly true, but Adewole was willing to sacrifice strict truth for safety.

  "How would they know--assuming there's actually a they?" said the fat old Councilwoman. Adewole explained they were in active contact with their fellows. "I don't believe it," she said.

  At a nod from the Major, Signalman Oberman unshipped his heavy pack and assembled his field radio on the mosaic floor. So much metal was enough to intimidate the old woman, and several Guards gasped aloud. Oberman cranked it hard, picked up the handset and listened. "Received, Base, this is Team One, Oberman reporting--over!" he bawled into the handset. "Hey, Sparks, the Major wants you to do him a favor. Talk to this old lady. You won't understand a word she's saying and she won't understand you, but she'll get the message--over."

  The Signalman offered the handset to the old Councilwoman; she demurred, but with Eichel's encouragement she came down from the dais and gingerly held it to her ear. The entire group heard a faint voice: "What old lady? Hello?" The woman screeched and dropped the handset; Oberman dived for it before it hit the hard floor. "Hey, Oberman, what's going on?" squeaked the handset.

  "Hold on, Base--over," he replied. To the Major, he said, "Anyone else, sir?"

  The stately man said he might take a turn. One by one, the entire Council listened to the confused Sparks on the other end, Imogen Lumburgher going last. "It's music magic," she grumbled.

  Another argument erupted over the nature of music magic; Adewole followed only partially and translated as best he could. "So they have a belief in magic," mused Berger. "I'm not surprised they think our technology is magic, but I wish to disabuse them of this notion. No one in this delegation is to claim anything we have or do is magic. We are not here to trick these people but to set up honest relations with them. That's an order. Are we clear?" Murmurs of "Yessir," sometimes reluctant, moved through the group. "Oberman, explain radio technology to the Professor here--just the basics. Professor, get it across to them that this is not magic but technology, technology we might be able to share but that they'll never be able to use let alone make without us."

  Adewole translated the non-magical basics of radio, of the autogyros, of the coilguns--now brought out for display--until his head spun. He had no way to translate technical talk well; it taxed him to his utmost to explain it all. The long demonstration, the longer walk, the journey's stress and over-excitement all weighed him down. It hurt to talk. "Please, might I have somewhere to sit? I have my own water, but I am in need of a little rest."

  "We are remiss," said Iris. "Niles, where might we house our guests?"

  "I keep saying: the Guardhouse," muttered Councilwoman Lumburgher, though she contemplated the mission more respectfully now.

  "We could each offer a room, except I don't have any to spare," said the fat Councilwoman.

  In the end, Councilman Frey--the stately bald man--placed them in one of his outbuildings, a small stone-and-timber edific
e usually housing his sedan chairs. "I think this used to be a stable," said Corporal Wirtz, eyeing the narrow stalls lining one side.

  "As long as it doesn't smell like one, and even if it did, you're under orders not to care, soldier," said Quartermaster Jagels. "Get that barrow unpacked."

  His own set-up performed, Adewole stretched out on the ground. His blanket roll didn't afford much comfort, but he didn't care; within moments, he fell asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  The formal diplomatic mission arrived a week after the landing; though the Risenton Council was offered a fact-finding mission of its own to Eisenstadt, all six declined in horror. The diplomats' arrival relieved Professor Adewole of most of his duties as translator; along with Ambassador Weil came a small cadre of Middle Rhendalian scholars. Adewole spent two weeks teaching them the Risenton dialect--some as he learned it himself--and by the middle of Juli he found himself more or less free to do as he wished. "I would very much appreciate having you on the island for consultation," said the Ambassador. "You still possess greater linguistic skills than the rest of the translation corps. While I almost understand the aristocracy here, the common people are near-incomprehensible."

  Adewole assured her his fellow academics would soon be up to speed but he'd be delighted to stay, "especially if I might be granted access to the University of Risenton Library."

  Councilwoman Lumburgher was in nominal charge of the University, and upon applying to her, Ambassador Weil was repelled. "I suggest you try directly, Professor," she said. "You have dealt with Henrik Blessing. I'm sure you can manage Imogen Lumburgher."

  Adewole learned what he could about the Councilwoman, asking questions among Peter Oster's friends and the people he met in the marketplace. She was suspicious of her neighbors, notoriously tight-fisted, a jealous guard of her family's place in Risenton society, and an amateur historian. Armed with what he knew, he obtained an appointment and now sat in the receiving room of the Lumburghers' ancestral, stuffy town residence. To his surprise, the Councilwoman set refreshments before him: delicate little oaten pastries topped with rosehip jelly, and spicebush leaf tea. Unlike the bitter dregs they drank in Eisenstadt, it warmed from the inside and left a peppery taste in his mouth.

  At first, Councilwoman Lumburgher remained firm, but when Adewole explained his intention to translate the books and research the island's history, she sucked in one cheek, as if to chew it. "I could not permit the books to be moved."

  "Of course, I would not dream of removing them. I doubt they would survive the stress--they are very old, are they not?"

  She stroked the crepelike skin on the back of her hand. "Many predate the Rising."

  "You are a historian yourself," he said, sipping his tea. "What can you tell me about the island, ma'am, that you think I should know?"

  Councilwoman Lumburgher launched into a recital of her family's lineage in a memorized rhythm approaching poetry. She traced her ancestors back to the Rising--an hour that would have tried the patience of most. Adewole sat listening, elbows propped on knees, hands clasped between them, completely focused. The woman's lined and suspicious face relaxed into something reverent as she recited, as if her spirit traced her bloodline in the chant.

  When she finished, he leaned back in his chair. "A beautiful recitation, ma'am. I have heard illiterate people, such as those on the tiny islands fringing Shuchun and the isolated villagers in the Tirrash Mountains near my home give similar histories from memory. Did you have portions of this from the Library's books?"

  The old woman flushed, spidery, broken capillaries mottling her cheeks. "I cannot read them, I fear. No one can. The language is forgotten. Though I am quite literate in the modern tongue, thank you," she added tartly.

  "I do not doubt it for a moment, ma'am," he said.

  "I don't want you in the Library. You won't be able to read the books. You'll just chop them up as curiosities. You people seem to think that's all we're good for up here."

  In fact, Adewole had warned Major Berger about soldiers pocketing artifacts, everything from lightcrystals, the precious, mysterious rocks lighting up more than one Risenton home, to angler bugs. Word had been sent through the ranks: such activities resulted in court martial. The Major's exact words were, "If you take anything off this island more than the dirt on the soles of your shoes, I will pitch your sorry ass over the side myself." The petty thievery had stopped, and items had mysteriously re-appeared from where they'd been taken.

  "Councilwoman Lumburgher, please believe me, cutting up a book of any kind, old or new, is to me akin to cutting up a child," said Adewole, horrified at the suggestion. "I could not do it, for any amount. It is a form of murder. And I can read the forgotten language, I am certain of it. It is a runic variation of Old Rhendalian. I translated the old inscriptions on the University gate and the Town Hall, after all."

  "So you say." Her voice dropped to a superstitious whisper. "'To know the world is to know God.' Why would anyone write such a horrible thing--for all we know, you're making it up!"

  "I can only give you my word."

  The Councilwoman put down her cup. Her sharp eye fixed him. "Your word. Well, in the time you've been here you've comported yourself more like a gentleman than most of your sorry lot."

  Adewole thought their 'sorry lot' hadn't been all that sorry. Major Berger and then Ambassador Weil had dealt fairly with the Risentoners, perhaps more fairly than even the Jerians would have. In exchange for Eisenstadt's continuing presence on the island, the government offered food, cloth, technology and other supplies. Adewole worried perhaps the Eisenstadters' hands were too open; the islanders might develop a dependency, but as poor as they were and as determined as Eisenstadt was to maintain a presence on the island, it seemed inevitable. Already the Ambassador and Major Berger were trying to persuade select Risentoners like Peter Oster and his brother to take free passage to the ground--a stipend, an education and employment. So far they'd had no takers; the autogyros terrified the superstitious Risentoners, but they wouldn't be frightened forever. It made Adewole's work that much more pressing. Who knew how much longer there would be a Risenton to document?

  Councilwoman Lumburgher resumed, and he pulled himself from his thoughts. "You may study in the Library under one condition. The other Families will have it their roles in Risenton history are greater than the Lumburghers'. I want your reassurance you will not be swayed by them."

  Adewole swore he would let no one sway him in his work, though the promise was not quite the one the Councilwoman thought she'd extracted. He refilled her tea cup. "Then I might have access to the books?"

  The old woman sighed, picked up her cup and smiled. "You may. Are all your people so courtly, Professor, or are you original?"

  Embarrassed, Adewole bowed his head. "I love books, ma'am. Anything I do is in service of knowledge."

  "In service of knowledge, eh?" said Deviatka that night at dinner. They were still living in the Freys' former stables, though it had been transformed. Quartermaster Jagels's crew scrubbed the outbuilding so energetically the mortar between the stones nearly washed away. Ofira had caught every mouse in the vicinity, and politely spit her pellets into nearby compost heaps. The autogyro convoys had brought up the professors' clothing, Deviatka's guitar and Adewole's bansu, camp furniture, bedding, carpets and other comforts, and now the ancient rooms were almost homelike. Even Adewole's trunk had been brought up from Mrs. Trudge's boarding house; now it served as his wardrobe.

  Corporal Wirtz did their cooking and cleaning up; otherwise, the two professors had the place to themselves. The Ambassador and her staff had rented Councilman Kolb's house at a rate the locals thought foolish, and Major Berger split his time between Camp Turnip--their original landing site, officially North Camp--and the new East Camp just outside the City. "I didn't know you were so glib, old thing," Deviatka continued.

  "Glib?" said Adewole, fork halfway to mouth. "I want access to the Library. How are you faring? Anything interesting?" />
  Deviatka grimaced. "I'm doing more support work for Berger and his lot than anything else, though I am finding some damned odd devices I can't explain."

  "Such as?"

  "Well, take those priests, or whatever they are, the Choir," said Deviatka.

  "Not priests," said Adewole. "Never priests, not here. I do not understand yet entirely, but their concept of god as we understand it is more akin to what we would call a demon. To even mention god is to bring down great social disapprobation."

  "To be fair, no one thinks very much of gods in Eisenstadt, either," said Deviatka.

  "No, but one can discuss gods there without fear. Otherwise there would not be so many Jerians in residence."

  Deviatka laughed. "I never have understood your people's fascination with humbug."

  "I would take it as a kindness, Deviatka," said Adewole, "if you would not refer to my religion as 'humbug.'"

  "Ah, I'm sorry, Ollie, didn't mean to put your back up," said Deviatka. "I didn't know you were a believer." Adewole didn't know for certain if he believed, but his people's pride, and his mother's, meant something to him. "Here," said his friend, "may I offer you another slice of this lamb?"

  "You are very good, Karl," he smiled.

  "Not at all," Deviatka grinned back. "In any event, these Choir members--if I believed in magic, or gods, or some such, I would swear they have some kind of power. It seems to lie in these pendants they wear. I watched a Chorister comfort a soldier. Poor girl broke a leg, was in a great deal of pain before Doctor Ansel and his crew could get there, and the woman sang this song…" His face grew dreamy. "It lulled the soldier right down, barely awake. I didn't grow drowsy myself, mind, but I felt so…I don't know, calm, as if everything was going to be all right. I love music as you well know, but this was different." He shook himself. "It impressed my translator so much he memorized the song, put everything he had into it, sang it over days, but it never worked for him. He went to Melody Hall--their church, or temple, or whatever--came back all aglow, quit the translator corps and off he went to join the Choir! I wasn't too bothered, I almost don't need one now anyway, but the man looked like you do when you've uncovered a new folk song or something. He took me to Melody Hall and they showed me these necklace things, pretty little baubles I thought, though many of 'em looked a little worse for wear. You'll have to come look at them--Ollie, would you believe it?" he said, leaning across the table. "They contained black mercury! I haven't found it anywhere else on the island."