by John Barnes
"It so happens that in the original Charter, drafted by Queroza, there is a provision about 'maximizing the welfare of individual citizens.' What Queroza actually meant by that, one of your theologians might be able to tell you, but the question is irrelevant to the Council. The important thing is that we are able to interpret it to mean that Saltini will not be able to solve his economic problems by disemploying a large number of people, cutting them off from their salaries, and thus lowering consumption and cutting back on the demand for imports. We're going to force him to either begin a massive social welfare program, or face the loss of the Charter."
There was a dead silence, until Paul gave a long, low whistle. "So either he jumps through exactly the hoops you order him to, out in public, or else you just seize power outright here?"
"One or the other," Shan said, the smile never leaving his mouth or reaching his eyes. "With a bit of luck we can get all but the most extreme stiffnecks convinced that intransigence won't work. Of course, along the way, it removes the whole raison d'etre for the Saltini regime, which will very likely fall, since it's only staying on top by force. And any new regime will almost certainly have to cut some sort of deal with the opposition ... we have a number of suggestions, including that representation of congregations be proportional to population..."
"Which would mean Clarity's congregation would dominate the Council of Rationalizers," Carruthers pointed out.
Aimeric nodded. "Just out of curiosity, would Saltini have known that you'd won your case?"
"He'd have found out the same time we did at the Embassy, since the issue was being fought out as a suit in a Council of Humanity court, and the decision would have been sent to all parties at the same time."
"What time was that?" Aimeric seemed almost ready to spring from his seat.
"Let me think—we got the message at fourteen o'clock—"
Aimeric snapped his fingers. "We've got it, then. They granted the request for the expedition at half past fifteen." He looked around at bur baffled expressions, and then said, "Don't you see it? We have the missing part of the puzzle. We know what it is he wants to get our leadership scattered and mostly out-of-town for. When he goes to comply with that order, the public outcry is going to be tremendous—and with us on the sidelines it will all be from his diehard supporters. If he manages it right, he'll be able to claim almost unanimous support for himself—and if I remember the rules right from the nobility cases in Nou Occitan, if popular support for his position is close enough to unanimous—"
Shan stared at him, baffled. "Well, yes, then he could get the order rescinded. But one of the reasons we waited to bring this in front of a judge was to make sure that there was a sizable, strong opposition waiting in the wings—"
Aimeric shook his head. "If it works the way Saltini has planned, the opposition will be locked up in the dressing room. Margaret, you were absolutely right; we've got to come up with some kind of back channel communication between the expedition and our people here. Otherwise Saltini is going to make himself into the heroic defender of Caledon independence—and be in power forever."
FIVE
By the time we set out on the expedition, there were actually three separate ways for them to contact us, and two for us to contact them. We hoped that would be enough. We had subscribed to a remote voice line out of St. Michael, so that theoretically they could com us voice only, or we them, via Novarkhangel. Because I was a Council of Humanity employee, Shan had a pretext for installing a direct voice link to the Embassy on the cat I would be driving. Finally, we had a secret account for a widecast video antenna on a synchronous satellite over the proper area; the service was normally used by the more remote farms in Nineveh and Gomorrah for access to media programming, but we were able to rent an unused channel and get a scramble permit for it, and the footprint of the broadcast was wide enough to reach most of the way to the Pessimals.
We hadn't been able to find any decent covert way to secure video, stereovisual, or holovideo channels either for reception or transmission, but at least if Saltini shut down the legitimate channels we'd be able to get public statements made, even if not with pictures of us making them. We had to hope that would be enough.
Although we had loaded up all four cats the previous night, we had decided to wait for Morning Storm to clear, and thus give everyone at the Center time to have breakfast with each other and to suffer the inevitable dozen attacks of "I almost forgot's." There were either twenty-seven or twenty-eight of us, depending on how you counted Valerie/Betsy. Margaret had vacillated for days and finally decided that she'd rather go.
Paul really had to go and wasn't going to miss it anyway, and Thorwald probably wouldn't have gone under any circumstances—the idea didn't interest him except as a convenient stick to beat the peeps with. Aimeric had shrugged and said he wouldn't go on this trip but he expected to be in Caledony for a while; gossip was in part that he didn't want to go without Clarity Peterborough, and she was still under house arrest.
In many ways the biggest surprise was that Bieris was not going, but she apparently had a new series of paintings she wanted to complete first, and so she would be staying back in Sodom Basin.
Finally, we got everyone out into the street, as the sun came out and the last of the icy water was running off the Center. As long as I stayed there I never got tired of the sight of the graceful convolutions of the Center covered with the clear water, shining off of corners and diffracting little spectra everywhere, against the abrupt burst of amazing deep blue that marked the end of Morning Storm whenever a strong enough wind blew in. I drew deep lungfuls of the tangy, freezing air and found myself thinking that this was the first time I'd started a trip out into the woods without a hangover since ... well, since I'd lived with my parents. And there really hadn't been enough trips to the woods when I had lived in the Quartier.
"Bring 'em back alive, Olde Woodes Hande," Aimeric said, dropping an arm around my shoulders and giving me an unexpectedly hard hug.
"I'll do my best, yap," I said.
"What a great crowd," Thorwald said. "Anyone would think you were setting out for an unexplored planet."
He was right; friends and families brought the crowd around the cats, each of them emblazoned with "paul parton's outfitters and expedition service" in bright blue on its visibility orange surface (color theory was still a bit hard to get across to a Caledon, like wine appreciation to a teetotaler who had just become alcoholic). There was a lot of hugging and good-natured joking going on, and sometimes people would laugh a little too hard, as if they were a bit nervous or jealous. "This means more to Caledons than even the Caledons are willing to admit," I said, suddenly, before wondering whether I might give offense.
Apparently none was taken. "It's something that we're doing just because it's happy and fun," Thorwald said. "It's Inessential—and no matter what happens, now that the Inessentialism is an allowed tendency, there's some hope that there will be something more to life than work and prayer and reason. I look at this and I think, we've already won. Look at the kids running and playing around the cats, and the banners, and the flags flying from those cats. Those children will remember this all their lives, and nobody's going to be able to tell them that they were attached to the wrong values, or that mere appearances don't matter. I wonder if Saltini knows he's already lost? From here on, it's all what Major Ironhand would call 'mopping up.' "
I wasn't sure he was right, but I wouldn't have questioned or argued with him then for anything. I had a funny split vision, for one part of me could see that this impromptu parade—four vehicles that normally would have been hauling intercity passengers, or furniture, or bread, painted in gaudy colors, decked with crude clashing pennants, with a bunch of people in cold-weather workclothes around them—was small and almost squalid in the ugly gray streets of Utilitopia. But while my Occitan vision was undimmed, my Caledon vision could see the same street shining with fresh meltwater, and the bright colors thrown defiantly against
the grays and pastels, and the bold laughter of youth, of people who would no longer be told what to enjoy, or why, or how much. I chose to see it in the Caledon way.
Margaret, beside me, suddenly shrieked and waved. "Garsenda!"
She was coming up the street in a long, fur-trimmed cape, which swung open to reveal a matching purple costume, a soft baggy affair with a darker vest and billowing pants that hung down over the black kneehigh boots they tucked into. I noted a stir around me; the garment was so clearly an Occitan styling of Caledon clothing, and yet with her black hair flying out behind her and the whole soft composition ruffling and folding in the wind I had to admit that it was spectacular.
A spontaneous round of applause burst around me. "Bella, donzelha, trop bella!" Aimeric shouted.
Garsenda grinned in a way that I would once have thought oddly mannish, and dropped a small curtsy, Carefully keeping the cape out of the soggy street. People turned back to their conversations, but I noticed they kept stealing glances at her.
"Companhona," Margaret said, "I'm so glad you had time to come by, but there are two questions I've got to ask you.' Where in God's name did you get such beautiful clothing, and do you think I could get something like it for myself?"
Garsenda smiled and tossed her hair; a few months ago I'd have been captivated, but I very much doubted she'd have done anything so informal and so boyish in my presence. "Maggie, there's a whole collection now available through the Occitan booth at the Bazaar. It turns out that some of the most popular young Interstellar designers decided to try to design just from Giraut's written descriptions. Believe it or not, by Occitan standards this is very simple and plain; I don't think they could quite believe what they were being told. Since I've got your sizes, if you'll permit me I'll just put in an order for the pattern and have them make it up so it's waiting when you get back—my gift to you."
"Oh, nop, nop, that's too much for—"
"Oh, goodness, I still don't understand Reason," Garsenda said, winking at me over Margaret's shoulder. "Especially not an ugly word like 'nop.' Especially not from someone who's made me so welcome here."
''You're going back?" Margaret asked; it looked like Garsenda had successfully distracted her, anyway.
"For a couple of dozen standays. Business is so brisk that I'll be going back and forth for ages; the Caledon trade turns out to be the royal road to riches, and I'm beginning to find I like being rich, especially when you consider what I have to do to get rich this way, and what I would have had to do to get rich by marrying it." She smiled. "Don't worry, Mag, we'll see each other many times again. Now take your gift like a companhona, not like a stiffneck."
As I was thinking, wondering how the word "companhona" had so quickly become acceptable for adult women, the two of them hugged, and Garsenda went on to explain, "Besides, I'm making a couple of speeches as soon as I get out of the springer in Noupeitau. There are several big support demonstrations going on for the movement here, and I'm supposed to go speak to them. Occitans haven't changed that much—if I don't look absolutely stunning, tropa zenzata, they won't listen at all. And there's so much to tell them ... oh, well, we all have to get going. I'll be in Noupeitau in three hours; isn't that strange?" She turned to me. "Any messages for home?"
I grinned. "Love to Pertz and to any other old friend you see; tell Marcabru the challenge I sent him was an understatement and that I want revenge because his mother gave her pubic lice to my best hunting dog. And—uh—those poor jovents I cut down in Entrepot—"
"Don't you dare apologize! You made their social careers!" Her deep blue eyes twinkled; how could I have spent so much time with her and never known her? "I'm getting presented at Court when I get back; I'll give Marcabru his message out in public. Anything to say to Queen Idiot?"
I shook my head. "I don't think it's Yseut's fault that her entendedor is a rude, drunken fool, or that he probably only wanted her because of his mama's-boy mammary fixation. So I have no grudge against her."
"I'll be sure to quote you exactly," Garsenda said. "We wouldn't want her to think you felt any malvolensa toward her, so I'm sure both of them will want to hear your explanation."
Margaret and Thorwald were staring at us open-mouthed, and Aimeric broke in. "I think you're shocking our Caledons."
I was about to offer some confused explanation, but Garsenda beat me to it. "Well, then I might as well horrify you further. This is all career advancement. Giraut can't afford not to have a certain kind of reputation, and a blood grudge to fight out with the Prince Consort is the kind of thing that will make his reputation. It may seem silly to you, but those are the rules we live with—and at least it does tend to select against hot tempers and people who are easily rattled, which is an asset in the leadership." She grabbed my face and, before I had time to think, gave me a quick, hard kiss, not erotic at all, just a fierce sort of physical "I like you." "Now take care of yourself and get back in one piece," she said. "And when you make Prime Minister I want to be Manjadora d'Oecon. Maggie, keep this maniac from killing all of you. I'll see you all a few standays after you get back."
There was one more round of hugs, and she was gone, the cape and hair swirling and flying behind her.
In a few minutes, we'd actually gotten everyone in the cats who belonged there, and we were on our way slowly up the street, an impromptu parade of well-wishers running along beside and behind us. I hardly dared take my eyes from the street in front of me, for some of our enthusiasts were small children and I was afraid one would run in front of the cat; maglev treads made it possible though unpleasant to stop instantly, but you had to hit that brake hard, and right away, to do it.
As we went, doors were constantly popping open and people rushing out to wave; Margaret, beside me on the jump seat, waved back enthusiastically.
"I didn't know you'd seen that much of Garsenda," I said. "I guess since you were going to the Bazaar every day—"
"We really did spend a lot of time together." She lowered her voice so that only I could hear; Paul was sitting quite near us. "She's sort of like Val without the neurosis or the nasty aggressive streak. I really love her."
"Where is Valerie?" I asked, turning up the outside mikes a bit so that everyone could hear the crowd noise better and incidentally to mask our conversation.
"In the tail-end cat. Waving like a queen, I'm sure. With some gorgeous boy who just got lucky from the waiting list a couple of days ago. The waiting list for the expedition, I mean, not Val's waiting list. The waiting list for Val is longer but the line moves faster." There was a certain pleasurable spite in her voice.
I snickered but kept my eyes on the road. Margaret didn't look anything like an Occitan's idea of a donzelha, but she certainly could gossip like one. Perhaps if I'd been raised in a kinder culture, or a more hypocritical one like Caledony, I'd have been shocked, but to me it was one more thing to love about her.
"I didn't know people called you 'Maggie,' " I said.
"My family does. My mother came by the Bazaar and Garsenda picked it up from her. I used to dislike it because my family did it, and besides I've noticed you usually call us all by our full names."
"Well," I said, "Margaret is not only pretty, it's almost the same pronunciation as the Occitan 'Magritza.' "
She leaned against me, I suppose risking the lives of children in our path, but I didn't much mind. "I think whatever you call me, I'll like."
"On the other hand, if you ever call me Gary, let alone 'Raut," I said, quoting the two nicknames I seemed to have been given by name-droppers pretending to know me, "I will probably—"
"Scream," she said. "It's what I do when people call you those names. I'm afraid Caledons are natural shorteners and nicknamers; the one I really hate is 'Thorry' for Thorwald."
I had to laugh at that one myself.
There was one jarring note as we drove out of town. I was handling the second cat, behind the lead cat driven by Anna Terwilliger, who normally spent her four hours as a freight-cat
driver. (I could only hope she was a better driver than poet.) I couldn't quite see why she suddenly slowed down, but I was right on top of it and managed to keep a decent interval. Anna's cat shook hard twice before I saw that she was "jigging," flinging the tracks parallel to each other, hard to the side, which after several hard yanks allowed the cat to move at almost ninety degrees to its usual direction of travel and thus straight over to the other lane. I didn't know why she was doing it, but I followed suit all the time, and a glance in the rearview showed the other cats were following as well.
Then she had enough clearance and went around into the other lane, and as I followed her I saw what the matter had been.
There were almost fifty of them chained to the lampposts, stretching their chains out to lie down in the street, with PPP cops standing around watching them. They all had signs or banners, and they shouted at us and the people following us, but all of the signs and most of the shouting were in Reason, which the extremists had taken to using exclusively, so I couldn't follow. As we went around, almost climbing onto the sidewalk to do so, I was able to spare Margaret a questioning glance, and she translated. "They say they're on hunger strike. They're unemployed, and they'd rather die than accept the 'dole' when their insurance runs out. Some of them are demanding that insurance be abolished so that 'the unfit' can die more quickly."
"Do they mean it?" We passed the last of them and I swung the cat back into its proper lane.
"I'm sure some of them do." She sighed. "And some of the rest of them don't but will be pressed into it, now that they've made public statements like that."
"But how can they call themselves 'the unfit' if they're pious enough to die—"