Coyote Ugly

by Pati Nagle

  “What shall we do, Manuel?” asked Kaleo, a young tech whose dark eyes were tense with worry.

  Manuel glanced at Lehua. “I’ve been given orders by the Council,” he said. “We must make a change.”

  He gathered the technicians into a circle and led the chants of purification that preceded all major Maintenance functions. Feeling Lehua’s eyes on him, he hurried through the song, his hands weaving the air in the gestures of blessing.

  Then he looked up at Lehua. “Increase power to environmental systems by ten percent,” he said.

  One of the techs took a sharp breath. Lehua moved toward her console, pausing to look back.

  “We’ll be drawing on reserves,” she said.

  Manuel nodded. “I’ll inform the Governor,” he said, glancing at the screen. “After Nightfall.”

  He stepped back, breaking the circle, and as he glanced at them the techs avoided his gaze. Their silence followed him away down the hall.

  Few people paid any attention to the Nightfall and Dayrise rituals any more; even his own technicians had lost faith. Often as not he performed the ceremonies alone, but he did so without fail. He was Manuel. If he stopped performing the rituals, he would cease to be Manuel.

  As he strode down the corridor he heard the surge of new power into the environmental control system, sensed the change of air pressure as fans picked up speed, felt a breath of coolness as he passed beneath a vent. Welcome as it was to his body, the change only increased his anxiety, for now the physical plant was supplementing the fire of Malamalama with stored light from the great power cells. When their reserves ran out, the island would have no other source to meet its demands.

  He went to his house and permitted himself the luxury of a shower. The water was lukewarm, slightly stale. Donning a fresh green robe and his ceremonial headdress, he went out to the Grove of Malamalama and found the clearing empty.

  No dancers, no singers, no drummers. The only person in sight was the Council’s Watcher, standing on the dais between him and the Focus. With a sigh Manuel walked to his place at the foot of the steps, and stood alone in the silence.

  Closing his eyes, he listened to his own breathing and the distant sounds of activity muffled by the woods. He could almost imagine a miracle, a crowd of followers waiting breathlessly for him to lead the ceremony. He laughed at himself; easy with eyes closed.

  Easy to mumble incantations and trust in omnipotent gods to take care of you, but he believed—no, he knew—that Moku Wina’s people were their own caretakers, and he was responsible for seeing it was done.

  Manuel opened his eyes and stared at the shielded pole that marked Malamalama’s terminus. Above where the shielding stopped, at a level distant enough not to damage the eyes, the axis gleamed with brilliant daylight. Malamalama, source of all blessings, was after all just a machine.

  Sometimes he thought of going through the Manuals and removing all reference to ritual and worship, but when he tried to picture himself performing the functions of Maintenance without the gestures of blessing and reverence, it felt wrong. He was his father’s son. He had spent his life training to perform the rituals of Moku Wina’s heritage. His feelings, even the Council’s decision, didn’t matter. Maintenance must be performed.

  In a voice barely above a whisper he began the chant to Pele. He did not believe she was creator of Moku Wina, or protector of Oporto’s people. He remembered arguing with his father over the dedication to Pele. His father had told him it didn’t matter what he thought; Pele must be honored because that was part of the ritual, part of Maintenance.

  He danced alone, chanting softly, hands flowing through the air and his bare feet gripping the soft earth of the island. He danced not for Pele, but for his father.

  He followed the dedication with the Nightfall dance, then in silence he performed Calibration, his hands cutting knife-like through beams of light. One of the mirrors was slightly off-focus, and he sent a command signal to its driver to adjust. Every bit of light was needed now.

  Finally he shut off the Calibration light, and ascended the dais to stand before the Focus. He stared at the lever, carved with symbols no one believed in any more.

  “Manuel,” said the Watcher, startling him. It was Puna, the woman who had first been posted on guard over the Focus.

  “Yes?” he said.

  To his surprise she stepped aside. “I think you were right,” she said, her eyes bright with worried tears. “The Council shouldn’t have stopped Nightfall. Please complete the ceremony.”

  Manuel caught his breath, and reached out his hand shivering with an instant’s joy at the thought of shifting the lever and plunging the island into Night. Instead he grasped the Watcher’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, Puna,” he said, “but the Council would see it as an act of war. There must be a better way to bring back the night.”

  “How?” asked Puna.

  It was a question that had filled him with despair for many days. “Pray,” he said helplessly. “Pray for guidance.”

  It was the best answer he had, and it was not enough. Feeling defeated, he turned away to descend the steps.

  “May I pray with you, Manuel?” Puna asked.

  Surprised, Manuel stopped halfway down the steps and looked back at the Watcher. Her eyes pleaded, and Manuel returned and took her hands, then began the chant he thought she was most likely to know; a chant to Pele, a simple song, one of the first learned by every child on the island. Puna sang with him, stumbling over some of the words, but when the chant was finished she smiled.

  “Thank you, Manuel,” she said, looking up at him shyly. “I would like to sing with you again.”

  Touched, Manuel nodded. “Tomorrow, we’ll sing again.”

  “Thank you,” she said as he stepped away. “Thank you, Manuel!”

  Puna’s voice followed him through the clearing and into his home. As the curtain fell closed behind him he suddenly realized he’d been doing everything wrong. He had been working alone—shutting himself away in solitary darkness, shielding his technicians from responsibility, trying to fight the Council singlehandedly—when what he needed was to add the people’s voices to his. It was not his faith that mattered, but theirs.

  Even if Pele was just a symbol, she stood for Maintenance, and he knew beyond doubting that Maintenance was necessary. Night was necessary too, and there were others who wanted its return.

  If he could win back the people’s support, the Council would not be able to ignore him. How many days in the unending day he had wasted! Tossing his headdress onto the bed, he caught his long robe in one hand, went back outside, and began to run.

  The first people he encountered were field workers, tending new crops. “Nightfall has passed,” he told them. One or two sneered, but he ignored them. “I know your work shift kept you from attending the ceremony. I came to offer a prayer for those who wish to join me.”

  They stared silently at him, and Manuel could feel the heat rising to his face. “Maybe some of you miss the Night, as I do,” he said. “Maybe you would like to have it back.”

  “You won’t get it back,” said a worker, turning away.

  “Maybe not,” said Manuel, “but I will pray anyway.”

  The workers looked at each other, then one put aside her shovel and came to him. Others followed, and Manuel led them in the same children’s chant he had sung with Puna.

  “We’ll sing again at Nightfall tomorrow,” he said. “Everyone is welcome.”

  Moving on, he made the same offer to everyone he found awake, Staff and Guests, at work or at play. Some ignored him but many did not, and each time he joined hands with a new circle and began to chant, he felt the strength of the people flowing through him.

  He walked all through the hours of night, returning to the clearing for Dayrise. When he reached it he found a small crowd of people waiting for him, many of those he’d sung with in the last few hours. Among them were a dozen or more dancers, decked in wreaths of fern and f
lower woven by their own hands, and musicians enough to perform the Dayrise chants. Manuel led the ceremony, then sang the children’s chant again with the people and sent them into the day with blessings while he continued his mission.

  He lost track of time as he walked all the paths of the island, seeking to sing with as many of its two thousand people as he could persuade to join him. He surprised his technicians by leading them in a chant of celebration he had not sung since the beginning of endless daylight, and laughed inside at their astonishment. They must think he had gone mad, and perhaps he had, but at least he was doing something.

  His legs and feet were aching with weariness by the time his wanderings brought him to the Council Chamber. It was empty; the Councilors were busy elsewhere, and he stood in the Chamber’s center and chanted a song praising Night while the Watchers at the doorway stared. Then he went outside and crossed the plaza to the Governor’s house.

  “Hoku,” he called, standing outside her window, swaying a little with weariness. “Hoku, come sing with me.”

  He received no answer, and with a laugh he sat beneath her window. He plucked a leaf from a ti tree nearby and tore it into strips, fingers clumsy as he twisted them together, one end held between his toes and the pungent juice making his hands sticky.

  He began to sing, not a chant this time, but a song of love, a courting song. He had sung it softly to himself a thousand times, alone in the darkness of his room, with Hoku’s face shining in his imagination. Now he sang it out loud, heedless of who might hear, his hands caressing the air now and then before returning to the rope-weaving.

  Manuel had gone mad, the people would say. It might be true, but if so it had happened long ago.

  As he sang of starlight on the island’s waters he became aware he was not alone. He kept his eyes on the twist of leaves in his hands and tied its ends together as he finished the song, then turned to see Hoku herself, in Governor’s red, with the Council behind her.

  “Manuel,” she said in a voice that matched the sadness of her frown, “what are you doing?”

  Rising to his feet, Manuel held out the bracelet he had made. “This is for you,” he said.

  Hoku’s hand came up to take the circle of dark, glossy green. As she looked up at him a flash of regret replaced the frown, and all his anger melted.

  “Come sing with me, Hoku,” he said softly, taking her hand. “We haven’t sung together since we were children. Analani e—remember?”

  “Manuel,” said Hoku, “you are not yourself. You need some rest—”

  “We all need some rest,” said Manuel, laughing. “That’s what I’ve been telling you! Never mind, come and sing! All of you, come sing!”

  He beckoned to the Council as he led Hoku by the hand down the path toward the far pole and the Grove of Malamalama. They followed, probably with the idea of preventing him from doing anything they disapproved. It didn’t matter to Manuel. He squeezed Hoku’s hand as she walked beside him on the path.

  “I love you, Hoku. I don’t think I’ve told you that in years,” he said softly. “It’s more true now than ever.”

  Hoku didn’t answer, but neither did she pull her hand away. She walked on beside him, gazing at the path beneath their feet, the bracelet in her free hand.

  They crossed the waterbelt on Manuel’s favorite bridge, and long before they reached the Grove they began passing through a great crowd, hundreds of people, more than Manuel remembered seeing all together in many years. The people reached out their hands to him as he passed, and he touched their fingers with his own.

  When he reached the ceremonial clearing he led Hoku up to the steps before the Focus, with the Councilors close behind. The voices of the people filled the clearing, some questioning, some cheering Manuel. He smiled, then held his hands up for silence.

  “People of Moku Wina,” he said aloud, smiling, “many of you have sung with me today, and my heart is filled with gladness. Sing again with me now.”

  He led the same song—the children’s chant to Pele—a song with no significance toward day or night. It was the voices chanting together, the hundreds of hands moving in unison, that mattered. He heard Hoku’s voice join the others, and saw her lovely hands rise in gestures of happiness and love, the bracelet of ti leaves circling one slender wrist.

  At the end of the chant the people cheered, and the ipus began to play the rhythms of the Nightfall dance. Voices from the woods joined Manuel’s in the chanting; he saw the hands of the people echoing the dance.

  Those who didn’t know the song chanted “Po, Po”—calling for Night, Night—and kept up the chant while he performed the dance of Calibration.

  The voices rose higher as he approached the Focus. The Council clustered on the dais, and he faced them, smiling, with open arms.

  “Councilors,” he said, “you honor your people with your presence at the Nightfall ritual.” He saw Councilor Haveland ready to speak, and continued. “I thank you for what you have taught us in the time since the last Night. You have shown us what we can accomplish by using all of Malamalama’s blessings. That is a good thing, but now we are using more light than Malamalama can give us. Now we are using the reserve power from our storage cells. The island needs to sleep, just as we need to sleep.”

  A roar of agreement went up from the crowd, so strong it surprised Manuel. He glanced at the people, then at the Councilors, who looked uncomfortable. Manuel went on.

  “You have given us the freedom to work through the hours of Night. Now I ask you to give us the freedom to rest. Can we not offer our people both choices?”

  Hoku was frowning slightly. “What do you propose, Manuel?” she asked.

  “Change is a good thing, as you have taught me,” said Manuel. “On Earth the days change in length. I propose a new system that will allow us to have longer days some of the time and longer Nights some of the time, as on Earth. Then we can still achieve more without exhausting our light completely.”

  The Councilors exchanged glances. “We must discuss this,” said Councilor Gary.

  Manuel nodded. “I will bring a plan to you tomorrow,” he said. “My staff and I will determine the most efficient use of the energy at our disposal.”

  “Agreed,” said Hoku, glancing at the Councilors. “In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime,” said Manuel, lowering his voice so that only the Councilors would hear, “we’re depleting our reserves to run the environmental control systems. Let us have a Night to allow them to recover. You can call it a holiday if you like.”

  He watched their faces anxiously. The Councilors did not look pleased. “Shall I ask the people what they wish?” he said softly.

  Hoku glanced at him with sharp amusement. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said. “Councilors, the Custodian’s words make sense. Any opposed to declaring a holiday?” When none spoke, she turned to the waiting people and raised her arms. “People of Moku Wina, your Custodian has made a wise suggestion. The Council will meet tomorrow to review a new plan for the use of Malamalama’s blessings. In celebration of this, we declare a holiday from now until Dayrise. Let torches be lit to honor Pele, and let Night fill the island so that the torches can be seen by all!”

  A cheer broke from the crowd, and accompanied by the roaring of drums, Manuel stepped up to the Focus, placed his hands on the ornate lever, and shifted it downward.

  Darkness surrounded him, a black so deep he felt an instant’s primal fear of blindness. Then the light of stars penetrated the viewbays, and the cheering rose higher as torches were kindled and began to dance through the woods, scattering away from the clearing. Manuel stood gazing at the stars for a moment, then turned away from the Focus.

  His eyes were still adjusting, but he knew the shadowed figure standing still before him was Hoku. He smiled at her through the Night.

  “Well said, Governor. You are very good at your function.”

  “And you are good at yours,” said Hoku. “This will be a good ch
ange, I think.”

  Manuel could see Hoku’s hand, pale against the shadows of her robe. He reached out to take it, and led her slowly away from the others, down the steps to the clearing.

  “I have another change to propose,” he said. “Won’t you walk with me by the water?”

  Rocket Boy on Call

  The last message he’d received from GGL was tagged “urgent,” so he hadn’t taken time to clean up, but as Sonja glanced up from her desk he wondered if it was a mistake to report fresh out of the cockpit. She looked so righteous in her pristine white business uni with turquoise accents, he felt downright slimy.

  Her eyes were glassy until she shifted focus to him; then her gaze flicked down and up, taking in the full length of him. He pulled back the hood of his flexsuit and ran a hand over the short, unwashed stubble on his scalp.

  “Tasha said ASAP,” he said, trying hard not to stare.

  Long-boned, with just enough curves, and a Scandinavian complexion made more pale by living in a shielded environment, Sonja woke the hunger in his long-isolated body.

  “She had to take a call. Finish your report?”

  He handed her a data chip, and she fed it to her desk.

  Her eyes went distant again.

  He glanced around the compartment, which was amazingly stark given its size. Though only Sonja was here at the moment, she shared the workspace with her two partners—both equally hot—and he knew it served them not only as a business office but as a research lab. He wondered if they had a daily service come in to keep it this clean.

  Sonja nodded a couple of times as she scanned his report, then ran her hands over a virtual keypad.

  “There you go. Thanks for a job well done.”

  “My pleasure.” He verified the transfer of credit to his account, and sent back a receipt.

  “Ready for the next assignment?”

  He stifled a sigh. He was tired and sore from chasing down the pirates that had been siphoning bandwidth from GGL’s client. The fight had been quick but exhausting. It wasn’t just his ship that needed a recharge.