by Geary Gravel
3
Glazed and yellow, the eyes protrude under lids of scored tissue. The flesh is a marvel of decay: it sinks, stretches, is crossed by overlapping spiderwebs which are themselves divided by tiny fissures and crevices. Skin sags, clings, bellies like rags in the wind. The angle of jaw and cheekbone is unbearably sharp, as if pared away by razors. Beneath flesh ruins the skull has reasserted itself, rebuilding old dominions with wall and keep of barely hidden white, smooth as scoured shell. The crumpled ears are rotted buds, lost in the strands of a dusty congealed matter no longer resembling hair. Claws are the fingers, the skin above the knuckles swollen into knobs of reptile hide. Colorless lips hang open and the mouth leers, drool glistening in one stained corner—
"What is it? Dove!" Cil's face loomed like a pale moon, frightening Jefany for one inexplicable moment. "Calmly now. I'm here." The warmth of Cil's breath came through the darkness as she leaned closer.
"I was old—" Jefany gasped through the spasms of terror still clotted in her throat. "Old in the body—dying of age! Oh, it was a dream, a stupid dream!"
Strong fingers smoothed damp hair from her forehead. A steaming cup touched her lips and warmth passed into her body.
"More? No? Is it gone now?" Gil's voice was calm with understanding. "You should walk in the Garden of Earth tomorrow," she said. "Take time to wander there. Promise me."
Jefany smiled. "I know another place to wander. I'll take the time."
She felt for the warm arms, held them in her own damp hands. Then she pulled the other woman gently downward, soft dimmed-gold hair brushing her cheeks, closer, till the tiny face staring at her from Cil's dark eye was clearly her own, smooth and indistinct in its tiny mirror. The beautiful reflection smiled at her when she smiled at Cil.
She tipped the porcelain face back and watched it in the shadows, forgetting the mirrors, feeling enfolded. She could not speak, but lay there with her hand on Cil's cheek, and silence was everywhere between them like a balm.
"What is it called again, Choss?"
"Amba muti. It's very mild, just some color enhancement and a light euphoria. And I think you'll like the flavor."
"Raille, Choss, there you are. Come to the Hearth Room with us—we're going to have a meeting. Now!"
Emrys gestured from the far bend of the corridor. March was an impatient shadow several steps behind him.
"We're coming." Choss hastily replaced the flask he had drawn from his dark daycloak. "Damn!" he muttered.
Raille shrugged, stepping back into her room long enough to set the pair of ornate bowls back onto her desk. "There'll be another time," she said. "I wonder what's so important? Let's catch up."
They found the two men on the level below, conversing in low rapid tones before a section of hallway marked by a clear
oval of glass set in the floor. Emrys glanced up as they approached.
"Jefany's just gone into the Orrery. Perhaps we can catch her—" The inlaid oval flooded with glowing color as he spoke, bathing their feet in a rich, ultramarine radiance.
"Too late," March said. "Cycle's started."
"Perhaps if we knocked?" Raille looked inquiringly at the blank wall above the glass.
"She can't hear us." Emrys puffed out his cheeks, released the air slowly. "Hut. Open the door for me."
"The Orrery has been set for a three-hour cycle, Emrys."
"We can't wait. Open it now, on my authority."
"As you wish."
"What is it? What's in there?" Raille whispered close to Choss' ear.
"Stars," he replied in a reverent whisper. "The Orrery provides a simulation of deep space. Black vastness, stars ambient. It was put here for the same reason as the Garden of Earth. Some people spend practically all their time between worlds. Not so much anymore with the Darkjumpers failing—but for them, to be grounded to a planetary surface feels unnatural after a while. Then they can seek the stars and find peace, just as others will emerge renewed from the Garden."
A large circle of pale-blue color was forming on the wall in front of them. Through it, Raille thought she could glimpse a dark shape, as if something were suspended deep within the wall.
"Is it like being in a Darkjumper, then? Why didn't the Hut want to let him in? Is it dangerous?"
"Not for us. Unpleasant for her, I'm sure, if she's already into the sequence. It's not like a ship at all. It's pure space itself in sen-dep: they have a sensory-deprivation tank in there much like the one the Pathfinder on a big ship uses, but after they cut out everything, they start feeding you input again on the visual alone, and it's like being adrift in—in starness, with nothing around you but space. You don't even bring your body, you're just eyes, just seeing." His expression had turned distant, peering. "I don't go in myself anymore, because the last few times I didn't want to come out. It can be overwhelming when you're not accustomed to a life out there—addictive, especially
if you're the solitary sort to begin with."
The circle was clearing slowly to a translucent bluish haze. Suddenly the haze evaporated, and they were looking at Jefany floating in a clear, heavy liquid, her nude body drawn up head to knees and a slender braid of silver wires disappearing into the side of the tank from beneath her netted hair.
The liquid swirled golden as they watched. Jefany jerked at the end of the silver threads.
"The Hut has introduced a mild stimulant into the nutrient bath," Choss told Railie. They watched in uneasy fascination as Jefany's face twitched and her hands began to grope at her sides, churning the golden fluid.
"She looks like it hurts," Railie said. "This is an awful thing to do."
Jefany's eyes opened abruptly. Her mouth worked soundlessly as she stared out at her audience.
The tank was rotating within the recessed port, liquid slowly draining away as the hatch at the top lowered to face the corridor.
March eased the dripping figure from the wall opening, supported her while trembling legs struggled for balance.
"Jefany." Emrys grasped her shoulders. "It's vital. We have to have a meeting about the kin, a discussion."
"Whuuu—" She coughed, tried to speak again. "Why would youuu—" Her throat spasmed and cloudy fluid streamed from her lips. She pushed Emrys' hands away, wiped liquid from her chin with the back of her arm. "What have you—done?" she gasped, her eyes on him wide and wondering. "The stars—"
Raille stepped between them, clasped Jefany's arm.
"Come with me," she said quietly, smoothing the other woman's brow with her palm. To Emrys she said: "Go on down to your vital meeting. We'll join you when she's able."
But Jefany shook her head, splattering the wall with cloudy droplets. "No. Just get me a robe. Please. I want to go to the Hearth Room. I want to see what was so important."
Marysu was the last to take her seat at the table.
"I am truly tired of these incessant gatherings. You're disturbing valuable work," she remarked to no one in particular.
"I hope this gathering can be relatively brief," Emrys said. "But it concerns everyone's work. I have a proposition for you." He glanced at the doorway. "Ah, now we are complete."
The empath moved slowly into the room, glided behind Emrys, and stood motionless, facing the rest of them.
"Mm, I had a feeling..." Jefany said quietly.
"What's he doing here?" Marysu said.
"Needs to be." March spat the words as though they had soured in his mouth.
"You accept his presence without an argument?" The linguist looked from golden frown to white blankness. "I see the world's turned upside down while I sat in my room."
Emrys commanded their attention with a gesture. "You all know we've hit a snag with the Dance. Resistance to the templates that grows instead of lessening. It's as though a process of gradual immunization is taking place: each day March increases power on the suive-machine; for a while it works, then he has to increase it again. The kin's tolerance to our interference is getting higher and higher—but there's a
limit, I'm sure, and we've probably already reached it. How long before we start causing him physical damage? And there are other considerations: the idea that our work on this kin may be influencing the rest of them. That could explain the dispersion of the power. It could also eventually harm all of them instead of just one."
Marysu drummed her fingers on the tabletop. "What is your proposition, old man?"
He turned to her.
"I propose that we let the empath help us tak6 control of the kin by giving it—loaning it—an artificial mind."
Around the table, faces clouded by fatigue or ennui came instantly alert.
"You're joking, of course," Marysu said, blue eyes staring.
"No. Not at all."
"Can this be wise?" Jefany spoke wonderingly at his side.
He shrugged and sighed wearily.
"Look." He raised his voice slightly above the disapproving murmur. "We're not going t6 get there any other way. It's failing. It's too slow, even if we could count on March's being able to eventually establish complete control. We've got to get this out of the way now, so we can work on the thousand and one refinements we need to make before we face the Sauf Coben. But it's not just a question of speed. It's not working, and using more power to make it work may burn out our subject for good."
"What makes you think that he—"
"The empath has power. He has skill. He's demonstrated that for me—" He held up his hand for silence. "At my own request. It was quite effective. If he says that he can give us control over the kin, then 1 believe him."
"So do I." March measured the black-and-white figure unemotionally. "Time past, in the field. Working on eye focus for hours—no good. Mindpick flits past us and kin's eyes're trailing him like they're on a stickerstrip. He's got power, affirmative."
"The question remains if he will use that power to help us," Jefany said, drawing the long robe up around still-damp shoulders. "And if so, why?"
"We've discussed it extensively. I asked for his assistance last night and he agreed to help us. That's all he's agreed to. I don't know how to unearth his motives any more than the rest of you, but you're welcome to try, so long as you remain civilized about it. The crux of the matter is that he's offering himself as an instrument for our use, when we badly need such a tool. We have to take advantage of this offer—it may well be our only hope."
"You asked for his assistance last night," Cil said. "Did you promise him our cooperation last night, as well?"
"No. We'll vote on it, of course," Emrys replied. "It involves us all. He has to use our minds when he goes delving into the kin—as a point of reference, nothing more. It's absolutely painless, he assures me. No ill effects."
"Our minds!" Marysu cried. "God's geek! I'm not letting, him crawl around in my head!"
"You ask too much, Jon," Jefany said softly. "None of us will willingly allow him to touch our minds."
"The kin's eyes," Raille said suddenly, emerging from her thoughts. "I remember. I saw it, too. Oh, I'm sure he could help us if we let him."
"Do you think your appraisal is worth anything on this matter?" Marysu said with a crooked smile. "Marse'qua, this little tete-a-tete sounds like what you've been begging him for with your own eyes since he dropped on top of you in the fields."
Raille colored and lowered her head. When she raised it seconds later, she spoke evenly, her eyes on Marysu.
"I'm afraid you're going to hear my appraisal anyway, Marysu. Whether or not you choose to place any value on it is your own decision.
"The kin's life is not its own to control. You all seem to have accepted that fact without much argument. Every day you witness the workings of an existence which is completely governed by a highly complex pattern not of your own devising, and you accept that existence as a fact." She gestured at the silent empath. "Now, why can't you also accept his existence? Why can't any of you understand that his life is also governed by a pattern we cannot readily comprehend? Why is it so difficult? Because he has vocal cords and so can speak to you? Because he wears your clothes and eats your food? You praise the kin for its beauty and grace out in the field, yet you shudder when Chassman enters this room, and when he leaves you whisper about his lifeless face and automaton's walk."
She scanned the faces in the room, her own brow creased in puzzlement. "Why does he infuriate you? If you're standing in the kin's way when it walks through the meadow, and it happens to tread on your toe, do you become angry with it? Not if you're thinking rationally. Better to scold the earth for turning under your feet. And you've all watched Chassman for so long now, you've seen exactly how unchanging and inflexible his actions are. If his own narrow pattern now allows him to aid us in saving this world and its inhabitants, then we must bend ourselves to blend with it, not struggle out of the way.
If it confuses you to imagine him helping us, then don't think about it that way, because he's truly not doing it out of love, or out of hate, but simply because he can do it. For God's sake, let him!"
From My Journal:
I can't believe they're not going to let me be a part of it.
Emrys said they needed one person to stay uninvolved in order to operate the medipal sensors and monitor the physical condition of the others. I was chosen because I've already been using the equipment for a few weeks to check on the kin.
But it's easy to operate. Anyone could learn how to do it in half an hour.
The others will probably lose consciousness for a short time when he goes into their minds. I have to wander around the room from one to the other, keeping watch on their hearts and brains and nerves while he's touching them.
So there's nothing to fear, they assured me, nothing to worry about. He'll never even come near your mind. You're the lucky one, they said.
Don't they realize what they've done to me?
Three hours of debate! Choss thought. He stopped inside his door and drew the brown tunic off over his head, tossing it to land carelessly on his crowded desktop. He unfastened his breeches and stepped out of them, leaving them behind on the floor as he stumbled into the habitual.
He was halfway to his pallet when he noticed the scrap of paper protruding from beneath a pile of chips almost hidden by his rumpled tunic. He felt a tingle of electricity as he retrieved the note: it was good to feel needed again.
Written on the paper in the familiar blue-black ink was a single word:
Alchemy
He leaned against the desk, half disappointed, bemused.
Is this a question? he wondered. Finally he slumped into the desk chair and scrawled a few sentences for her on the back of the slip, for once too weary to hunt for a fresh message square so that he might add this scrap to his collection of notes and other items received from her over the past months.
He went to his pallet and sat down, legs sprawling, lips moving as he reread the definition, leaned back against the pallet and regarded the ceiling, arms folded behind his head.
I'd be a lot more upset about what Emrys is planning to do tomorrow if I weren't so exhausted. Best to keep it that way. She wanted it, after all, so she must have it. And it was really my vote that gave it to her.
Frowning at the ceiling, he closed his eyes and was asleep almost immediately. The scrap of paper fell from his fingers and lay on the floor by the edge of the pallet.
CHAPTER 12
And this was in the night.
Most glorious night
Thou wert not meant for slumber.
Oh, let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, A portion of the tempest andofthee.
LORD BYRON
1
Raille stopped short at the entrance to the Hearth Room.
The room was empty for the first time since she had arrived on Belthannis. Not just empty of people, which she had been anticipating, but of everything.
Bare walls, bare floor. No wanderlights floated in the domed ceiling; the room was lit by a sourceless, overbright, white radiance. Only the drag
on remained to prove it was the same room, set in gold among the cold tiles, inscrutable, staring up with glittering eyes to where she paused in the doorway. On the dragon's back, in place of the great table, was the heavy velvet and silver bain-sense from the Library upstairs. The room was completely silent, making her realize for the first
184
time that some sort of in the background sound had always been there before. There was nothing to be heard: no soft wind effect or distant waterfall, no drowsy music or muted marketplace murmur.
She had caught the room between masks, something she had never thought would be possible.
The Hut was always careful to work its changes in this chamber when there was no one about. She had been told that the dwelling's designers felt this necessary, in order to preserve the illusion of permanence and completeness that they wished to achieve, the impression that each new incarnation of the room was as it had always been and would always remain. And the ruse worked: sometimes she didn't notice changes in the room's appearance until she had been sitting there for a span of hours; then it would come upon her as an awareness of altered mood, gradual, never jarring.
Occasionally the Hearth Room had been occupied continually for long periods of time, challenging the Hut's tactical ability and forcing it to alter the room piece by piece: She remembered a whole day when, each time she had entered the room after only a few minutes' absence, she had been aware that something had changed while she was upstairs: a glowing statue removed, or a bowl of floating blossoms introduced.
She stood still and scanned the room, conscious of the artistry that the Hut had wrought in the Hearth Room over the months, most of it perceived in the effect of warmth and safety and relaxed belonging, the urge to draw together with one's own kind, the sense of harmony. Empty, the room was an enclosed space only, bare and cool and bright, and she knew that if the others entered at that time they would scatter, drifting over the floor to separate places, no great table to center them, nothing seen or heard or felt that could coax them into liking one another. How much more terrible their many debates and arguments would have been if enacted in this sterile cavity, she thought with a shiver. Hating conflict, she felt a surge of kinship for whoever had created such an instrument for Group survival, such an effective counterbalance to tension and discord.