“You’re wrong. You miscalculate.”
“Really?”
The sentient moved closer. “Surely you know Prokaryon’s mineral wealth. Titanium, aluminum, let alone the gold. Metals long gone from the crusts of other worlds. And the gemstones—you know what mortals will do. You’ve seen it on Valedon.”
This was true. Elysians cared little for solid objects; they prized the protean delights of the virtual. But mortals were different. “There could be a gold rush,” Verid admitted. “I can’t rule the future.”
“You can help us fight.”
Verid met her gaze. Then her chin tilted a fraction. “If I put a hold on your colony, the others will call it favoritism.”
Mother Artemis spread her hands. “Verid, I ask you: Hold us all. All of the colonies on Prokaryon. They all are suffering as we are.”
“Most of them have already bought the promise of better land.” Verid rose from her seat, her talar swishing around her legs as she strode to the holostage. From the light emerged a landscape, the land of Prokaryon. Land of any sort was a mystery to Verid, who dwelt from birth in a city floating on a shoreless sea. But Prokaryon, with its unending rows of arch-shaped trees and its leathery rolling inhabitants, was a mystery beyond imagining. “So this is your land,” she mused, adding a Sharer proverb, “‘Land claims the dead.’”
“The land of Prokaryon is our death and rebirth.”
The Secretary sighed. “I’ll put a hold on your transfer.” Iras would be incensed, she realized. “But be warned, Nibur will force you out, one way or another.”
“We know. Thank you, Verid, from the depth of my soul.”
On the holostage, something had emerged out of the Prokaryan forest. One of the arching trees was not quite a tree. It had no fixed roots, Verid saw, only temporary roots extending forward and back, to gradually pull itself over. A mess of tendrils bearded it, clouded by insects. “Is that it, Artemis?” That verminous creature, the master of Prokaryon?
Mother Artemis sketched a starsign. “The Spirit alone will tell.”
Verid watched the creature keenly, committing every detail to memory. “When the master awakes and needs reckoning—send for me then.”
The Proteus was coming out of its last fold hole. Nibur had a private acceleration compartment for himself and Banga. The retriever panted quietly, accustomed to the nanoplastic restraints that shielded him and his master from the centripetal force as the ship spun down the hole through the space fold. At last the restraints dissolved, indicating they had cleared the hole. Nibur rubbed Banga behind the ears, and the eager tail brushed his arm.
Now he was impatient to hear from his staff about progress on Prokaryon. His staff called in, not as walrus today, but as angelfish, his latest variation on the ocean of Proteus. “Is the Opening on schedule?” On a remote uninhabited island off the western coast of Spirilla, the first steam would pour in. Of course, they had tested the white-hole connection already, in secret, two months before. Several delegates had wanted to see that before the vote.
“The white-hole link is set, and the water pump is up.” Energy from the white hole would vaporize water pumped from the ocean, which would swiftly cleanse some hundred square kilometers.
“Excellent,” he told the fish. “And how are the locals—all moving on?”
“The Three Forks bauxite miners are winding up operations on schedule.” The fish blew wide bubbles, its long parti-colored fins trailing. “But Colonial Corundum is stalling. They claim the wrecked L’liites are still alive; they say they found tracks.”
“Tracks? Of dead L’liites? What do they take us for? Tell them to cut it out, or we’ll send the Fold evidence of their misdemeanors.”
The fish bubbled, “The Mount Anaeon research lab still fails to respond.”
“We’ll send in the octopods.” No naked Sharer was going to make a fool of him. The Fold required preservation of all ecological research, but his patience had grown thin. Nibur watched the ever-shifting swirls of foam wend across the sand at his feet. He was tired of ocean, he realized. It was time to fashion something new of Proteus, something to stimulate the senses afresh. What should it be? The fiery landscape of Bronze Sky? Or the green hills of Valedon, with their cliffs full of ancient bones?
“One last colony remains, on a last-minute hold order from the Secretariat.”
“What?”
“The so-called Spirit Colony.”
Nibur was puzzled. What could Verid be up to, with this last snag? If she intended to hold him up, her attempt was vain indeed. He would ask Iras what she knew of it.
Iras soon emerged from her own compartment. Her train was bundled behind her, the easier to disembark. As Nibur joined her, half a dozen octopod servos emerged to defend them from any attack or contagion. Elysians always brought protection, outside their idyllic home world.
“I trust my ship served you well, Shonsib,” Nibur said.
“The smoothest trip I ever made.” Iras’s hair flowed down the butterflies of her talar, every strand in place. “I should travel more often.”
Nibur smiled. Iras was known for her reluctance to leave the comforts of Elysium.
“All set for the Opening?” Iras asked.
“A new beginning for Pavonis Three.”
“You certainly wasted no time.”
“It’s best this way,” Nibur said. “Like taking down a historic building—once the first corner goes, no more protest.” The docking was taking longer than it should, because of new quarantine regulations. Mortals and their sickness—they should manage their bodies better. “While we’re waiting, perhaps you can explain to me this little problem with the so-called Spirit Colony?”
Iras frowned. “Verid’s last gesture. What’s a month extra?”
He nodded politely.
“There is another matter, in fact, which may prove more, shall we say, significant?” Iras smiled. “The diversity score you reported for Spirilla’s ecosystem: one-point-five on the scale of one to ten, am I right?”
He nodded. “The equivalent of commercial farmland.”
“That was the average score, Shonsib. But you never mentioned those small regions whose species diversity scores eight or nine. The eastern mountains, for instance.”
Nibur shrugged. “Prokaryon’s masters must have their own nature preserves.”
Iras looked at him with interest. “Do you believe in the hidden masters?”
“I enjoy a good fantasy as well as anyone. Actually, my staff is well aware of the mountain diversity. We are sampling all species for transplantation.”
“Nonetheless, Shonsib, I’d like to take a look at this…nature preserve. Mount Anaeon, to be precise. There’s a Sharer research lab.”
“As you wish.” Inwardly Nibur swore to himself, much annoyed. He had promised Iras to show her anywhere, betting that her soft city habits would keep her to well-charted ground. “If we lose an octopod down a cliff, we can always produce more.”
“Precisely. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must freshen up before we face the snake eggs.” Iras left, her talar unfolding behind her.
Nibur shrugged. After all, he did need to check the relocation of that laboratory. And while there, he could be seen supervising species collection.
Then it dawned on him. Of course—Mount Anaeon would be the next incarnation of Proteus. Sheer mountains, full of elegant arching trees and quaint rolling creatures to embody his messengers. An esthetic challenge beyond compare.
“News just come in,” called an angelfish. “Solaris Sun-racer sold its last lanthanide site to Aldaran.” Aldaran was owned by a Valan house, controlled by an Urulite holding company owned in secret by Proteus. “We’ve reached fifty-one.”
Fifty-one percent. Euphoria filled him like a drug. A continent was nothing; Nibur now owned a controlling interest of all holdings on Prokaryon. In effect, he owned the world. And he could show all the Fold that when the last Prokaryan landscapes dissolved, they would not vanish—they w
ould be immortalized.
TWELVE
After the strange encounter, Rod’s head ached for the rest of the day, but no “visions” returned. He wanted to tell Khral, but now he doubted his own motives. Besides, what would it sound like—a tired man’s vision in the sun. Everyone knew the tumbleround smell affected the brain. But their microzoöids could not infect humans.
In the morning the floor of the kitchen was soaked from a leak in the roof. So he climbed up to check the roof, then spent an hour preparing dried ring fungus to use for repair. Chae helped him chop it into small pieces, then add water with a special powder that made them like paste. He then climbed carefully up the ladder to apply the paste to the cracks. In the sunshine, the paste would harden as impervious as concrete.
Overhead, far above the roof, a vast flock of scarlet helicoids came migrating westward. Rod paused, overcome by the sight of tens of thousands of the whirling creatures that filled the sky to the far horizon. All the beauty of this land could be wiped out, at the whim of humans light-years away. Mother Artemis must have met with the Secretary by now. He hoped for a neutrinogram, but the holostage was still occupied by the protesters from New Reyo.
“Brother,” hailed Geode from below. “Come quick to the holostage. It’s Sarai.”
“Sarai? How did she get through?” The L’liites must have left, thank the Spirit. But whatever could Sarai want of him, Rod wondered as he descended the ladder with care. “Keep the paste wet, Chae,” he told the boy waiting dutifully below.
Geode kept a discreet distance from the holostage, for Sarai unnerved him. In the column of light the unclothed Sharer could be seen pacing back and forth, her breasts swaying. She seemed even more agitated than usual. “How dare you tie up your holostage and refuse me.”
“It was hardly our choice,” Rod told her. “We’re glad our visitors finally had enough.”
“I had to pull medical privilege.” Sarai glared at him. “It’s not fair,” she exclaimed. “My competitor has all kinds of help in her work—and what have I got? Nothing.”
It took Rod a moment to realize she must be referring to Khral. “It’s true,” he agreed carefully. “Khral works at Station, with many collaborators.”
Sarai stopped and stared straight at him. “You help them, too. Your colony sends you to collect their samples. Why can’t you send me an assistant for a change?”
For a moment he returned her stare. Then he looked down. “We are forever in your debt, Sarai,” he told her, thinking of Gaea running, her precious legs healed. “I would help you if I could. But now we face…hardships. Brother Patella has yet to return, and for a time we have lost our Reverend Mother. I can’t possibly be spared to help you; nor Khral either.”
“It’s not you I need. I need someone intelligent.” She waved a hand impatiently, then gave a very fierce look. “That girl, the one you brought last time.”
He stared again. “You mean ’jum?”
“That’s right.”
“Impossible,” said Rod curtly. “’jum is a child. She needs proper rearing.”
Sarai threw up her arms, and the webbing flashed between her fingers. “I knew it! I knew the one time I asked you Spirit Callers for something, you’d say no. After all I’ve done for you.” With that, the holostage went dark.
Shaking his head, he turned to Geode. “Can you imagine?”
The sentient folded up his limbs. “Well, I don’t know.”
Rod frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, well—we might consider it, that’s all. After all, we’re short-handed, you and I. We could send her there until Reverend Mother returns.”
“Send a child to that mad Sharer?” Rod was nearly speechless. “How could you? You never liked ’jum in the first place; you wanted to leave her on that hill—” He stopped, shaking. “I’m sorry,” he said wearily.
“No, you’re right. I don’t take to older children; I’m not so good with them. I know the babies; I can hold them, and feed them milk. Whereas I just don’t know how to…feed ’jum.”
“Nor do I,” Rod admitted. ’jum now spent all day alone in her room, making figures with sticks and pebbles. The other children kept their distance. At times, Haemum seemed to reach her, but Haemum had no more time. Nor had Rod the time for the hours of one-on-one attention the precocious child craved. Those L’liite hunger-strikers—if only one of them cared enough to adopt her.
Geode said, “Why not ask ’jum herself? She listens to you.”
Rod gave a grim smile. “We’ll see.”
He found ’jum sitting on the floor, amid an array of little sticks arranged in intricate triangles and squares. She seemed absorbed by some internal calculation, and he had to call her name twice before she looked up. “I have something for you to think about, ’jum.” He tried to hold her gaze. “Do you remember Sarai, the…lifeshaper, the one who cured Gaea?”
’jum nodded.
“Would you like to go and stay with her?”
At this, ’jum nodded, her chin raising and lowering as if her whole body nodded, too. Surprised, Rod felt slightly hurt. “I can’t stay there with you,” he warned.
“I know.”
He tilted his head. “Why, ’jum?” He recalled how Sarai took to the child, intrigued by her grasp of numbers. The pair had much in common—perhaps too much. “What is it you like about Sarai?”
’jum seemed to struggle for words. “Sarai lives…on a high place. I belong there.”
There was no question of taking ’jum on a three days’ journey to the mountains, leaving Geode to manage alone. They had to call for help fast, in case the L’liites tried to reoccupy the holostage. Diorite’s newly sentient lightcraft would have helped out, but instead Rod found himself calling the research lab.
The image of Khral coalesced on the holostage. Rod suppressed his sharp delight at seeing her, afraid she might see into him. But she greeted him the same as ever. “Oh yes! Rod, are you ready to help out in the field again? We made some fascinating observations of tumblerounds, but the work could go faster.”
Recalling his encounter, he shuddered. “I wish I could, but we’re short-handed until the Reverend Mother gets back.” The dreams meant nothing, he told himself. And yet his pulse raced with feelings he should not have. “Those microzoöids that live in the tumbleround—you’re sure they can’t infect humans?”
Khral shook her head. “Still no sign of that.”
“You will let me know if you…find out anything? I mean, if the tumblerounds are dangerous in any way, we ought to know.”
“Of course, I’d let you know. But really, you’ve had those beasts around for years, haven’t you?”
“That’s right. But this year, the tumblerounds seem…different. As if somehow they’ve awakened. And their smell can knock you out.”
“Really. Their secretions do contain psychotropic agents, but Prokaryan biochemistry often produces those by chance. Come up and hear the latest, when you can. Quark will be glad to pick you up.”
“Actually, if Quark isn’t too busy, he might take us back to Mount Anaeon.”
“To Sarai? Thank goodness,” she exclaimed. “Sarai hasn’t spoken to me since I told her we’d gotten the micros to grow. I tried to flatter her as best I could, but she absolutely went berserk. She thinks I stole her data.” Khral shook her head. “Now she’ll have to see you. Maybe she’ll relent and let Quark give her those strains that finally shipped in from Science Park.”
So the child called ’jum was brought to the brow of Mount Anaeon and left there, within the tunnels of Sarai’s laboratory. As Sarai watched the child, she found herself thinking and feeling things she had not felt for many a year. To be sure, the L’liite child was pitifully foreign, not a web between her fingers, and small for her age. But her eyes were bright and keen; they did not miss a nook in the cavern, between the leaves of secretory plants with reagents dripping slowly, nor amidst the touch pads and speaker points of the Valan-built holostage. Sarai’
s own daughters had once looked the same.
Her daughters, and her beloved Aisha; for a moment the memory was too terrible to live through. Sarai felt herself slip away, into whitetrance. Her fingers turned white first, then her limbs, as the breathmicrobes in her skin bleached white, and her blood concentrated within her critical organs, leaving just enough circulation to keep her alive. Aisha, and their daughters. Long after the day the storm-maddened seas had swallowed them, they dwelt there still, somewhere below the ocean deep. Sarai had fled that ocean; she had flung herself as many light-years distant as she could, even burrowed into stone. Yet the ocean remained, inside.
Now, outside herself, she could not ignore this foreign child, who had shared her will to come. The child was alive in this world and would share her care. So Sarai returned slowly to the world of the living. Slowly she stirred, flexing her fingers and stretching the webs, still pale. It occurred to her that this child might never have shared sight of whitetrance before, living among those ignorant clerics. But the child sat watching, her eyes wide but calm. Sarai regarded her approvingly.
“Ushum,” she whispered, softening the child’s name into something the ocean might have spoken. The poor thing was covered with eczema; whatever were those clerics thinking? Sarai clucked at a clickfly, who called over several of its sisters to alight upon the child and deposit secretions to soothe her skin. “Sit still, Ushum, until the clickflies are done; they will clear your rash.” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s about time you came,” she added curtly, afraid of too much tenderness. “I need help with my work; there’s so much data to collect. And something tells me you’d be good at counting photons.”
The child nodded. “All the photons in the world.”
Sarai felt her pulse quicken. After so many years struggling on her own, it was a heady experience to find someone who might share the excitement of her work without stealing it. That Khral, for instance, with her tricky sentient friends. What a fool Sarai had been to send them her precious microzoöids. After all the trouble she had gone to, all the mixtures she had tried, Sarai had stumbled by chance on just the right proportions of zoöid and phycoid that her little sisterlings needed to grow. She was sure those stupid scientists would never get it, and would have to beg her for the recipe. Instead, with all their fancy machines, they tried tumbleround flesh—and it worked. And that Khral had the gall to call her and brag about it.
The Children Star Page 14