A Rumor of Angels

by Marjorie B. Kellogg

  Verde took the long way around the square, noting that the booth by the front gate was manned by several men he had never seen before, wearing Terran army insignia. He whistled soundlessly. The army. The Colonial Authority must have called in reinforcements to deal with the rioting. He stole a glance through the steel grating. It was quiet outside. The guards smoked casually, but the street was littered with cans and bottles and charred debris. Farther down, smoke rose from the sodden remains of a shop. For once, Verde’s feelings about the thick wall and locked gate were unambivalent. The outer city was undoubtedly in worse shape than the Quarter.

  He was headed for Luteverindorin’s house when it occurred to him to wonder how much Clennan and his boys knew about his normal patterns of movement, and therefore which Koi they would have under surveillance, if they were smart enough to think that far. He decided merely to scout that end of town and return to the cellars while his luck held. He chose a circuitous route along one side of the big central square, but halfway down the line of buildings, the street he was aiming for was suddenly choked with armed men marching in rank. Verde fought the instinct to shrink into the nearest doorway. There was no hope that his orange tunic would be missed against the stark white walls, perhaps the rationale behind the choice of orange in the first place. He kept his head low and his steps calm, but his nerves tautened until he thought he must break and run. The soldiers marched right by him with little more than a glance in his direction. Verde congratulated himself on the success of his disguise. He slipped down the street they had come from, nearly breaking into a trot until he heard shuffling ahead. He padded cautiously to the next corner and found the street again crowded with soldiers, a large detachment leaning about polishing their stunners without talking.

  Now Verde was getting worried. He plodded across the intersection in plain view, not breathing until he was out of their sight. Then he stood for a moment calculating how long it would take him to reach any one of the hidden entries to the cellars, first at a disguised walk, then at a dead run. Seven minutes at a walk to the nearest. He headed in that direction, cursing the impatience that had brought him out of his hiding place.

  A mere block from his goal, a burst of radio chatter sounded in the next street, followed by the sharp clack of weapons being raised to ready. Seconds later, the Quarter erupted with soldiers.

  Verde’s heart started up madly, and he knew he must calm himself for his health’s sake. He assumed the soldiers were searching for him, and spent some thought on what to do if he did get caught, but gave it up with a laugh, knowing suicide was the only answer. And here he was worrying about his heart. His escape route blocked, he put his faith in his disguise and sat down in a doorway pretending to doze.

  But the soldiers were not searching. They had divided into groups of three and were going from house to house, banging on doors, bursting in and rousting out the occupants, driving them into the middle of the cobblestone street. Barefoot children, old women in their nightclothes, half-dressed, pulling scant clothing over their nakedness, the Koi went so calmly that the soldiers grew suspicious and shouted their orders, shoving them into line, driving them up the street. If there is violence, Verde noted, it will not be the Koi who started it. The bedraggled mob neared his doorway. He was glad that those with any reckless streak in them had already followed James Andreas into the tunnels. He sank his head farther into his shoulders, despising the necessity to remain quiet in the face of such an outrage. But he was powerless, like the Koi, and a wanted man, it seemed. The best he could hope for was that the soldiers would drag him along with the rest.

  The soldiers spotted him. One stalked over and grabbed him by the arm. “Get in line, gramps,” he ordered, shoving Verde toward the others. His companion broke down the door Verde had vacated with the butt of his rifle, a heavy-duty weapon that Verde could not recall having seen in the colony before.

  Gentle hands supported him as he was pushed into the line of prisoners. They returned his desperate glances with murmured Koi greetings, an assurance that his secret would be safe with them. He felt secure that even his imperfect Koi would sound fluent enough to the soldiers and asked those near him if they knew where they were being taken.

  No one had overheard anything, but when they reached the great square, long lines of trucks from the vegetable farms awaited them. Verde was aghast. They’re rounding up the entire population of the Quarter, he realized. He caught a glimpse of Luteverindorin stumbling as he was hauled into a truck on the other side of the square, then he too was being prodded toward the back of a truck and had to fight to keep from falling himself. They were packed in body to body until no one could move. The younger Koi squeezed tightly together to leave room for the old people to breathe. The loading doors were slammed shut and a metal bar slid into place. Verde closed his eyes and tried to ignore the beads of sweat running down his face. He could not free an arm to wipe it away. The truck started up with a crushing jolt that was only the first taste of the next hour’s agony.

  When they finally jarred to a halt, the doors were yanked open and the bruised and shaken occupants were blinded with a flood of hot sunlight. They were herded out onto a hard-baked dust field enclosed by an impressive electric fence, no trees, no shelter, only some dry grass surviving in scattered clumps, and not a sign of water. Just the sun and the dust and truckload after truckload of suffering Koi being penned up like animals.

  Verde searched through the crowd until he found Lute. The old man was dazed and coughing. Verde took his arm and led him out of the thick of the dust. He eased Lute onto the ground, then dropped beside him, panting.

  “What is in their minds now, I wonder?” wheezed Lute when he had breath enough to speak.

  “That son of a bitch Clennan is behind this, I’ll bet.” Verde surveyed the corral with a growl of impotent rage. “No water, no shelter. Do they want us to die out here?”

  “It would save them ammunition,” Lute commented.

  The old man’s dry smile brought Verde up short, defusing his anger. “Right, Lute. If I learn to think like you, I’ll live longer. Concentrate on positive actions. First thing we’ve got to do is organize a group of Terran speakers to demand some water. I’d do it, but I’ve got to lie low.”

  Lute continued to smile through the dust, like the sun setting in chiaroscuro. “Ah, Mitchell,” he said fondly. “Were you to find yourself by some great error in that Terran hell your legends tell of, you would be firing off letters of protest for better conditions to old Scrooge himself.”

  “Old Scratch, that is,” Verde corrected, moved to gruffness by such indefatigable good humor. “You sit tight for a while, I’ll go see what I can do.”

  It was not until twilight that water was finally hauled into the detention camp. It came in metal barrels labeled with army stenciling, and it was hot from sitting all day in the broiling sun. A crate of plastic cups was dumped alongside, plus a truckload of cracking tarps and a bundle of bent aluminum poles. Verde looked it over in dismay. There was not enough of anything. For the night, they spread the tarps out on the dirt, too exhausted after a day in the sun to worry about how they would protect themselves from it on the morrow.

  In the half-dusk, searchlights snapped on at the four corners of the compound. Verde squinted into the glare. There was a commotion at the gate as a line of shiny green jeeps pulled up to disgorge more brass than Verde had seen since his last Armed Forces Day on Terra. A burly man in dress uniform led the parade among the trucks and crates. Verde crouched in the dirt and watched him walk the perimeter with a gaggle of officers. The searchlights escorted them like celebrities. A bodyguard of infantry marched ahead and behind, kicking up a cloud of dust that blew across the yard into Verde’s watchful eyes.

  He searched for Bill Clennan’s square-shouldered profile among the group, figuring the Intelligence man to be always on hand to show visiting dignitaries around personally. But the burly, balding officer was doing that, as if he owned the place. He talked and
gestured, his voice raised above the others’.

  The army. Verde chewed his sunburned lip. So much army around all of a sudden. He noted that the officer ignored the prisoners entirely.

  After dark, the food arrived, a tasteless soup in half-barrels and trays of meat hash. Verde was starved enough to eat it but had to refuse like the others, on the chance that some alert soldier might notice a lone meat eater. It could have been soy hash, growled the old conservationist to himself. This is either Clennan’s idea of an insult or he’s learned less since he’s been here than I thought humanly possible. Even the most insulated of the colonial bureaucrats had figured out that the Koi were vegetarian.

  But one of the guards patrolling the food line noticed that the hash was left untouched. He strolled over to another guard and jerked his thumb toward the greasy trays. “Not good enough for them.” He nudged his companion in the ribs. “Good enough for us last night, wasn’t it?” The companion laughed, put his hand to his stomach, and moved off.

  So they’re feeding meat to this army, Verde mused. He tried to kill his hunger with soup, then stretched out in the dirt near Lute, who had mercifully fallen asleep as the sun set. Sunburned and weak, Verde was at a loss for ideas. The maintenance of the Wall had been shifted to the detention camp for the night, to allow those who had been in the cellars at the time of the roundup to get some rest. At dawn, they would have to take over again. Such exacting work could not be done in noise and dust and heat.

  What to do? In the morning. Lute was going to try once more to contact the fickle shanevoralin. They had not been seen since James Andreas had vanished into the huruss tunnels. The glassmaker thought he could persuade them to carry a warning into the Interior. But what could the Others do to aid the colony without exposing themselves? Perhaps they already had their hands full with James Andreas. Perhaps they were in fact flocking to his vengeful banner. Who could tell what went on beyond the mountains?

  Verde floundered in doubt. Could it be, he ventured to ask himself, that James had the right solution? The only possible solution? He let his swollen eyelids droop. He had to believe that tomorrow he would know what to do.

  Chapter 32

  On the rail to Quaire’en, the huruss rocked, raising ghostlike memories of Jude’s first ride.

  Was it only three nights ago? She toyed with the memory, replayed it into fantasy. I should have followed him into the forests. We could make love on the pine needles.

  A smile intruded, dazzling under wide gray eyes as clear as spring ice.

  The crowd roared in silent approval. Halm shouts. The great brick courtyard overflowed with men and women intent on the dazzling smile.

  DAMN YOU, JAMES ANDREAS!

  The halm shouts echoed his name in praise.

  At her feet, the gria stirred in her sleep and whimpered.

  Chapter 33

  The once luxuriant lawn of the Transport Terminal lay beaten into dust under the boots of incoming troops. Heavy machinery had cut deep tracks, turning up the sod like a plow. Bill Clennan stood hands on hips beside the elderly jeep he had commandeered for the day. Though he had parked in the green shade of a huge spruce, the merciless heat wrapped itself around him, making it difficult to move except in slow motion. He watched a new shipment of arms being loaded out of the corridor, crate after crate of recent-issue laser rifles to replace the regulation stunners. On Ramos’ order, killing weapons were being brought into the colony for the first time. He saw the plastic-shrouded bulk of a mobile laser cannon, first in a grinding line of two, six, a dozen of them. And all about, a slow-moving swarm of men, working as if their own limbs weighed as much as the loads they were struggling with. Nothing but troops and weaponry was incoming these days. In order to wrest power from the Colonial Authority, Ramos had immediately declared martial law, and closed the incoming corridor to tourist traffic.

  The outgoing corridor was besieged by long lines of frightened tourists with their baggage and their children, fleeing the continuing waves of violence that not even Ramos and his strong-arms could stem completely. Mountains of vegetables rotted in the sun, awaiting a slack moment when there might be room for their transport. There was shouting and coughing and babies crying, but dominating the chaos was the ominous chug of the laser cannons pulling away from the terminal.

  Clennan had no official reason to be out at the corridor. Some curiosity he could only label as morbid, given his present state of mind, had drawn him away from the endless and pointless hours with the Natives in the Interrogation Wing. So far, from the hundred or so who had been strapped down, drugged, probed, and manipulated, nothing new had been learned. His attempts to prove Koi guilt in the death of Lacey had aroused a far greater horror in his prisoners than he himself felt, as if the cause of death was evident to them, though they denied this, and more threatening than the loss of one Terran delinquent would indicate. Questioning the Natives was the most frustrating job Clennan had ever been faced with, yet their calm strength impressed him. He was mystified by their uncanny ability to evade the persuasions of his drugs and wires. Even as he raged at them from behind his glass panel, he began to admire this strength, and at last, when their suffering began to work at his own rising guilt, to subtly encourage it. As each fruitless session ended, he would tell himself that Ramos would never get anything out of the Natives, and he would know that the certain sense of pleasure this gave him was perverse, yet there it was.

  And so he had left the shelter of the air-conditioned Intelligence Complex and driven out to witness the militarization of Arkoi firsthand. He had to understand why a course of action that would have stirred his ambition and his most patriotic urges a month ago now filled him with dim dread. It was as if the influx of men and laser weapons were a personal threat, one he could not yet articulate, beyond recognizing that their arrival trespassed on territory that without his being aware of it had grown precious to him.

  He was unused to self-analysis and thus unskilled, but observing others for hints of an answer, he noticed that vague unrest permeated that part of his staff which had lived in the colony the longest. When one of them was on duty in the interrogation booth, he displayed a lack of enthusiasm equal to Clennan’s own. Then there was little trouble enforcing humane procedures during the questioning. There were other signs: pointed graffiti in the lavatories; rude cartoons on the staff notice boards, with a focal character redrawn as a paunchy military officer, petty arguments between the old staff and Ramos’ reinforcements; sudden dead silences in a room when Ramos or one of his aides appeared. It was also known that the roundup and detention of the Koi had practically caused mutiny among the colonial police normally assigned to the Quarter, public enough that Ramos had seen fit to make an example of the most outspoken by transferring them to the work details at the corridor.

  From his patch of shade, Clennan could see two of them lugging a big metal container toward a waiting truck. Their tanned bodies stood out among the pale, sweat-drenched backs of the new recruits, bringing a satisfied smile to Clennan’s lips. Those two would not be victims of the epidemic of heat prostration and major sunburn that was crippling Ramos’ precious citified army.

  And then, as he did at least ten times a day, Clennan thought about Mitchell Verde. He had given up hope of finding him, though he still had a few men detailed to the search, to satisfy Ramos mostly, men whose personal loyalty he could count on. He did not want Ramos to get to Verde first. In fact, he was not sure he wanted Ramos to get to Verde at all.

  He knew he was preoccupied, that he had allowed Verde to become a fixation, tinged, it was becoming clear, with envy, because Verde knew. He was a part of Arkoi, could come and go and disappear into it at will, assimilated, inducted into its mysteries. Verde was the reason Clennan listened hard during the interrogations, Verde was the reason that a pile of old teaching tapes of the Koi language now crowded Clennan’s desktop, along with several dusty cassettes from the Museum of Cultural Anthropology. Verde was no longer his quarry but his q
uest.

  The door of the incoming corridor hissed shut. Clennan checked his watch automatically. The next shipment was due in thirty minutes. Shipments every thirty minutes, twenty hours a day.

  Clennan decided he had had enough. Was it the heat or his troubled thoughts that had his stomach churning as he eased himself back into the ancient jeep?

  As he turned into his cluttered office, a hand grabbed his elbow. It was one of the interrogation technicians, pink-faced, still a boy. Clennan guessed he’d been crying.

  “What’s up, kid?”

  “We lost one. Bill,” the boy blurted. “Ramos is down there and we lost one.”

  “Lost what?” he asked, although instantly, he knew.

  The tech leaned against the smudged wall, eyes wide. “He’s a devil. He enjoys it!”

  Clennan gripped the boy’s shoulders gently. “What happened?”

  “This poor lady… he just kept yelling, ‘This is the one, I’ll break this one!’ And when she didn’t scream or anything, it made him madder.”

  “And?”

  “Well, she died, Bill.” The tech gazed at him uncomprehendingly. “It wasn’t anything I did, it was just like she’d had it and turned herself off.” He shook his close-cropped head. “So then Ramos gets up and slaps me on the back. ‘Good job, son,’ he says.” The boy broke. “ ‘Good job,’ ” he sobbed. “Like it was me who killed her.”