by Geary Gravel
'This really Picasso?" the curly-haired young man asked before the Hut could comment. He had wandered away from his dark companion and stood next to the opaqued Screen, inspecting a small painting with casual interest.
"Why certainly," the Hut said. "The Woman in White. We have her on loan from The Museum. Do you paint, perhaps?" It chatted on, warming to the subject. "I'm pleased to find a fellow art enthusiast out here in the wilderness: we shall have to have a talk sometime! Did you notice the Fan Felsing half-white in the Library? Have I done justice to the brass with my arrangement, or do you find it self-indulgent?"
"Yours? I thought—"
"Oh, most of the practical planning is done by the architechs on Bluehorn. They do give us a modicum of artistic control once we're installed, however. I did so try to get a real hearth..." A note of true regret crept into the beautiful voice.
The sound of clicking sandals spiraled down the anteroom stairs and Emrys entered briskly, rubbing his hands and humming as he crossed the tiles. Striding directly to the table, he reached under its rim and ran his fingers over a recessed keyboard. There was a sound like a distant gong and seven cushioned seats looped down and outward from the underside of the table. He tapped another combination of keys and the sound was repeated on a higher note, as panels slid open and seven place settings rose into view. Wineglasses filled from the bot—
torn up and linen napkins unfolded themselves on the wide tabletop. At a final tone, like a small silver bell, Emrys waved them to their seats.
"Three bells for evenmeal," he said. "Two for midday, one for breakfast, though of course you're all welcome to eat when you please; the table is quite simple to operate from the panels in front of you or through direct commands to the Hut. Now, who wants bouillabaisse!" His fingers played on the hidden keyboard and fat, steaming dishes rose like balloons.
When everyone had been served, Emrys put the table on automatic and turned to his own meal. As he ate, he allowed himself furtive glances at each of his companions. That the others seemed to be engaged in the same sport reinforced his belief that most of them were strangers to each other as well as to himself. A Darkjumper was the size of a small city; the members of his team might not have seen one another until it was time to be packeted for planetfall.
They ate in silence, eyes rising and dipping, spending exactly the right amount of time studying a neighbor's face so as to seem casual. Emrys searched his memory of the acceptance cards, trying to recall if any of the members of this group were noted as being particularly religious. He had learned from experience, long ago on World Chalice, that certain sects could be notoriously sensitive concerning personal privacy. With such people it was always better to look than to ask, better still to keep your mouth and your eyes shut. But the others were doing enough looking: he grinned behind his napkin as the bright-haired woman stole a wondering glance at the man across from her, a somber-looking individual with skin and tightly cropped curls of an odd, sandy-golden monochrome. He didn't seem the sort to follow current fads in tint and brow paint and the subtle alterations in hue when he shifted position supported that observation; his skin had almost certainly been panked, the dermis impregnated with a photosensitive dye. The rich coloring was not easily removed and Emrys wondered if the man had indulged in panking for reasons other than decoration.
The bright-haired woman was watching the golden man intently, a small frown troubling her exquisite features.
Emrys looked away and found himself staring directly into
the eyes of the curly-headed boy seated half the table away. He automatically shifted his gaze to the portrait above the other's head, but not before the boy had flashed him a wide and friendly grin.
No embarrassment there, he thought ruefully, except my own.
The man on the boy's right, he of the sandy flesh and stern, almost scowling face, was not participating in the common inspection, being much too absorbed in the contents of his plate. Emrys watched shamelessly, fascinated, as the other chewed a mouthful of crumbly cheese-in-cake in small exploratory bites. With a mental shrug, he reexamined his own plate; palm-sized mushroom slices, asparagus with a citrus sauce, translucent wafers of the omnipresent mulel grain; all complemented by an assortment of mild drugwines, steaming chetto, and bowls of fruitwater. He had let the cuisine of old Earth guide his choices for their first meal together; surely there was nothing here which a University Scholar should find unusual.
A flicker of dull green: Emrys saw that the ravenous diner had but one eye. The man's left socket was occupied by a smooth-fitting oval of milky green. When the light struck it at a certain angle, he could discern scratches of some sort on its surface, but he was unable to see them clearly.
Noticing that the others were nearly finished, Emrys concentrated on his own meal for the next few minutes. After the table had swallowed most of the utensils and empty platters, he pulled the thin white squares out of his pocket and placed them on the table in front of him.
"Well!" he pronounced with careful cheeriness, instantly regretting the shroud of silent anticipation that settled over the table.
He began again with a false chuckle. "Well, shall we see who we are? My name is Jon Emerson Tate, though I'm called Emrys by most people, and that will do admirably here. I have your notes of acceptance with me. To expedite matters, suppose I just read them off and you can identify yourselves." He peered at the first card.
"Per choss? Historian?"
The dark-bearded man nodded.
"Per Cil? Planetary analyst?"
The bright blonde lifted her hand with a self-conscious smile and murmured something he couldn't quite catch.
The data sheets were so brief, he thought. Nothing to tell me if I've chosen well or badly. Emrys distrusted the trend toward one-word names. Originally a Drifter fad, the brevnom had spread to University and become immensely popular, a social necessity overnight. Yet it seemed to him unpleasantly characteristic of the Community's blend of instant surface intimacy coupled with an unyielding basic formality. He heard a cough.
"Uh, Per March? There's no Major listed here..."
The golden-sand man raised his head, shade and hue of his face altering subtly with the movement. Emrys realized with a start that the incongruous false eye was actually an art object: a piece of the cleverly carved stone the ancients had called chade on the First World. A minute pastoral scene from some long-dead agrarian culture gleamed dully at him as March turned his head to one side, grunted, and returned to his third course of mushrooms and mulel. Emrys waited for further comment. When none was forthcoming, he shrugged and passed to the next card.
"Per Marysu?"
"Hdr, but the accent is properly on the ultimate, not before." Her voice was melodious, strong, with clear sharp edges that bespoke certainty and self-confidence. She was slender, dark-skinned. Elaborate brow paint covered her bare scalp with a bestiary of fanciful creatures. She was wearing the latest Centermost fashion, an amorphous splashpattern which wandered slowly over her body. Reacting to changes in skin secretions and body temperature, it revealed and concealed at random various portions of her body, sparkling from within like a web of violet fire.
Marysu held her head erect and met his gaze with sardonic, ice-chip blue eyes. Fascinated by her dramatic beauty, Emrys pulled himself back to the message squares with an effort.
"You're given as a philologist and panlinguist." Something tugged at his memory. "Are you the linguist who deciphered those well cavern hieroglyphs on Marik?" She inclined her head slightly forward. "Ah. Impressive work. I read the transcripts with great interest."
Emrys fumbled with the last two cards. He knew the next name as well as he knew his own. It belonged to the copper-haired woman seated so close to the bright Cil: the woman whose gray eyes he had been avoiding for almost two hours, ever since a velvet-soft voice in the dark meadow had confirmed her presence. There were so many things to ask and to explain that he had found himself suddenly terribly unsure, groping for a
place to begin.
"Jefany. Per Jefany."
At last he looked at her directly and saw that she was unchanged, as lovely as her picture in his mind, warm and glowing next to the golden Cil, whose slender hand she held lightly in her own.
"Humanist," he read with a faint smile, while memories gathered in a deep crystal pool at the center of his thoughts. Longing to sit and stare at her now that he had looked once on those familiar features, he forced himself to move on to the last name.
"Raille Kristema Weldon na Weldon," he pronounced carefully. It seemed more like a grand title than a name after the fashionable brevity of the others. Someone gave a short laugh. "Na indicates 'of in Weldonese," Marysu said. Emrys looked inquiringly at the curly-haired boy, who shook his head emphatically and laughed again. "I'm here with her," he said with a nod to Marysu. "Name's Jack. No specialty or anything, but I like to paint some, for fun."
"Sta. An ornament," the panlinguist confirmed drily. "Less expensive than jewelry."
"I see." Emrys looked around the table, wondering what to say next. As if sensing his uncertainty, Choss, the dark-bearded historian, rose hesitantly to his feet.
"The jump was more than usually fatiguing," he said softly. "Forgive me if I retire to my room."
"Certainly," Emrys said. "The Hut will guide you. I've been extremely thoughtless to keep you all here. One knows the aftereffects of the Darkjump, and all of this could easily have waited till the morning."
"No apologies necessary." Choss smiled formally. "The meal was most refreshing and greatly appreciated. A pleasant night to you all." He left the table with a small bow, and the others began to trail after him, March abandoning his half—
consumed fourth course with visible reluctance. Emrys noted the drooping shoulders and unsteady legs as they drifted into the anteroom. It was obvious that their unnatural circumnavigation of the distance between the Centermost worlds and Belthannis had taken its toll on the voyagers.
"Jefany—" He obeyed a sudden impulse. "Could you stay for a minute?"
The red-haired woman whispered something to Cil, turned back, and resumed her seat. They looked at each other.
"You came," he said simply, feeling something close to relief for the first time in several hours.
She smiled faintly. "Fair evening, Jon Emerson. Pers Emrys. Jon." She ran long fingers through her fiery hair in a weary gesture he found achingly familiar. "I fear I'm as tired as the others. Do you suppose all of this might wait until the morning, too?"
He fumbled for an answer, something witty to make her laugh, or tragic to ensorcel her with sympathy. But she was already rising, and he watched in silence as she passed between the stone lions.
Later, Emrys went up on the roof, to stand on the sundeck and stare at the moons. The air blew thin and brittle. He had switched off the weathershield an hour before, so the wind was playing halfheartedly with his hair, causing it to flicker and flow like a dark flame sculpture. His scalp was numb; his fingers were stiff, curled into cages.
Music crept soft and blue from the open glass door at his back. A cup of forgotten moodbender rested on the wooden rail next to his elbow; the moons competed for its shadow.
The wind was quickening, beginning to sting his eyes as it passed, and he imagined a rippling black shape swooping down out of the darkness. The image was something from a childhood dream, he thought, or perhaps he had really seen it once on another world, long ago. He closed his eyes and the black shape rode the wind currents like a dark cloak, gliding, diving,
circling the sundeck, aiming for his face with its slashing barbed tail. His eyes stung sharply, and he winced. Tilting his head against the wind, he retreated from the dream creature's attack and drank deeply from the sweep and murmur of the music.
The melody was sad and ancient: a First World composition, perhaps, or one of Maubry's Several Masks. Everything seemed to mesh as he listened, and for a few seconds all made sense: starlight and shadow, shape and essence, torment, age, death, injustice...
He felt a note that didn't belong and something warm stepped out into the darkness, humming softly beneath the music. He turned and explored her face in the moonlight.
"So sad," she said after a moment, breaking all the patterns of his night.
"You could hear the music downstairs?" As always his own voice surprised him: green leaves on a dead tree.
"I felt the wind."
He glanced over his shoulder. The doorway was a black square. "Too used to being here alone," he said. "It shouldn't be left open when the shield's off."
"They won't feel it. Not in their warm rooms, sealed up asleep." She hummed with the music again, deep in her throat, moving slowly to its tides against the railing. "I think this world needs your music, anyway. Especially now, like this. Something to talk back to this shivering wind, a letter of introduction from the invaders." She stared out at the night. "Hai, you can see the smallest moon move." They watched it for a while.
Finally he spoke. "Why did you come up? I thought you were exhausted?"
"I was—I am—though I think it hits the young ones harder. I took a prodrug, I took several. Couldn't sleep. I was talking with your Hut when I felt the wind. And here I am." She paused. "That reminds me, Jon. Why won't the Hut say anything about the Evaluation? It tried to shift subjects twice when I mentioned the indigenes, and I could tell it was becoming uncomfortable."
"Poor Hut." He sighed. "I told it not to discuss the matter until I've had time to prepare the Group."
She looked sideways at him. "Prepare us? How? For what? They wouldn't tell me anything on University, of course. We're
supposed to come to the Evaluation clothed in objectivity. But here, now, why this mystery? All your hush and shadow makes it sound like something illegal."
He looked unhappy in the stark multiple moonlight.
"I bribed three very respectable planning computers to get you all here, Jefany. Especially you. It was very difficult. I don't like to corrupt machines—it's like deceiving children."
"Bribed? Was it that important to you? Hai, can you trust these machines? If someone should give them a better offer you might find yourself walking on the Deepside."
"Yes. I don't know." He shrugged. "I think their sympathies were with me anyway. It's always so hard to be sure with them, but it won't really matter in the long run. If I fail to accomplish what I want on Belthannis, much more will be lost than a few waking years."
"You are planning something with the Evaluation, then. Something illegal."
"Oh Lord, yes. At the very least illegal."
"UnLawful, then? You're planning to break the Laws of Man?"
"Some of the Laws have been changed, misinterpreted over the centuries, Jefany. A few have become very bad."
"I see." She thought for a moment, watching his face. "And you want the members of this Group to help you. Now that you've seen them, do you think they will?"
"I don't know." He sounded half-asleep, drained of energy. "There are things they have to see and hear before I can even ask them. Tomorrow, or the next day, if I can't postpone it further. And there's still that last member, that Weldon person. If I can make them wait for her, until the Group is complete..."
She was silent as the old song ended and a new one began. Then she said: "And how did you know I'd accept when you— what shall I call it?—requisitioned me? After the way Chwoi Dai ended—"
"I didn't know. But I had to have someone here who could see things clearly and keep me out of the traps. With you, if you'll stay, and with the others, if I can persuade them to join me, we may be able to win this one. To win them all, perhaps."
"Even Chwoi Dai?" She shuddered at the memory.
"If it's still possible," he said quietly. Then he felt for her
, wrists in the dark and held them. "Stay with me, Jefany. You're different from anyone I've ever known. I think I need you here very much."
The woman gave a small laugh, almost a cough. "If you'd said th
at fifty years ago..." But he had said it like a child, and he was looking at the stars again, fiercely, like a child.
"This is very important, isn't it?" she said after a few moments.
"Jefany." He lifted his hand and turned her face toward his as the moonlight slipped across it. "What I can do here I will do."
"I understand, Jon." She moved slightly under his touch. "I will try not to be frightened by that."
He shook his head. "I am frightened, deeply frightened, for what I've found here. If I cared less for you, I would ask you to halve that burden. I may yet."
"Sharing happens between us, as always. You need not ask."
He gave a small, almost painful, smile of gratitude. "These others, the rest of our Group Resolvent," he said after a while, "I don't really understand them. Perhaps it's because I haven't traveled so much lately. I feel out of touch with the newest crop of people. I can't even say what it is about them that seems so strange to me. Perhaps just a lack of purpose. Do they know where they're going half the time these days, or are they too busy worrying that the ship will break up around them? Do they know what they want to accomplish beyond tomorrow's dinner? I swear some of them scarcely seem human themselves. That very intense linguist with her pet artist. The man with the chade eye—d'you know he can't even read Inter? It was specially noted on the data sheet they sent me at the beginning. He was a soldier in the Blink Wars, he's done the Dance, the one that kills. God knows what he's been doing at University—or why I let myself choose him for this!"
"A lot of people can't read," she murmured.
"But everyone's so detached, so aimless. Floating from one world to the other, like windbuds, like that Jack. Another illiterate, I think. He's on the Drift, you know, you can see it in his eyes. And they're all becoming Drifters. Don't they feel the future coming as we do, Jefany, don't they ever wonder about it, worry about whether they have a place there?"
She shook her head. "It's the age, Jon. The age of the Community and the age of humankind and the age of people like us. You know we're not real anymore, you and I, not as they are. The elder race. Extinct.