Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (43 page)

“Not much travel.”

“Natives and norms don't travel that far or that much. The touries use flitters. This one belongs to Him. For special use. Now, on the beach side of the Greenbelt, that's where the plush houses and the better restaurants are. This side is the trade district, and closer to us is where most norms and natives live.”

The flitter's nose swings northward.

“There are a few large estates in the higher hills north of Sybernal. You can see the white there … and there? The owners keep to themselves. For all I know, some may be gods or demigods.”

“Doesn't anyone know?” asks Martel, aware that his voice carries a waspish note. “Doesn't the government keep track?”

“Private property is private property, and trespassing is strictly forbidden.”

Martel frowns. Rathe Firien's response doesn't exactly qualify as a direct answer.

“I'm not sure I understand,” he finally says, pulling at his chin.

“Let's just say that the right to privacy from one's fellows is fully respected here. Generally, even the gods leave you alone. So long as you don't hurt anyone else.”

“But—”

“I'll explain later. Right now you're getting a quick tour, remember?”

Martel can sense her amusement, as well as an underlying sense of fear. He reflects, and decides that the feeling is not just fear. As the flitter cabin swirls around him he breaks off the mental stretching and concentrates on regaining his equilibrium.

Aurore is going to take some getting used to, Martel.

“Wouldn't gods have palaces on mountaintops?” The question sounds stupid even as he asks it, and he shakes his head.

The pilot lets the question pass, and swings the flitter back toward the town.

Martel studies the terrain beneath.

In the distance to the southwest of Sybernal, a flash of light, brilliant red, catches his eye. He strains to make out the regular and angular shapes nearly on the horizon, shapes that seem familiar. His memory dredges up the map he had studied and supplies him with the answer—the shuttleport, one of only two on all Aurore. The flash has to have been an in-beacon call.

A single highway, no bigger than the thin strip called the coastal highway, arrows away from the city-town of Sybernal toward the port. Martel cannot spot any traffic at all on the roadway to the shuttleport, and only a few dwellings lining it.

The homes beneath the flitter cluster closer together the nearer to the center of Sybernal they are, Martel notes, although even those most closely packed have individual lawns and foliage surrounding them.

For all the whiteness of the roofs, for all the emerald green of the grass, the gold-green sparkle of the sea, and the darker green of the trees, something is missing. Martel cannot decide what it is, but there is a subdued drabness about Sybernal as seen from the air, a certain lack of color.

“There's the CastCenter, where you'll be working once you get fully adjusted.”

“What?” Martel has not been following her gesture.

“Over to the right. The circular building on the low hill with the roof grids? That's the CastCenter.”

Martel picks out the structure, notes its position, slightly to the northwest of what would be the center of Sybernal if one were that clearly defined. If his estimate of distances is correct, he could probably walk the distance from the farthest point in Sybernal to work in less than a stan.

Sybernal is not exactly the largest of cities, not a booming metropolis, particularly after Karnak. But his briefings had indicated that Sybernal is by far the largest city on Aurore.

He shakes his head again. He has questions, too many questions.

“Not looking forward to work?” asks Rathe, apparently misinterpreting his headshake.

“It's not that. It's just that I've got more than a little adjusting to do.”

He turns away from her and stares out through the bubbled canopy toward the south. Is it his imagination, or is there a snowcapped peak just over the horizon? He can feel that there ought to be just such a mountain, but is there?

The land that stretches away from Sybernal toward the south lies in gently rolling hills, composed of roughly equal sections of cultivated fields, forest, and golden grass meadows.

The emerald lawns of Sybernal are at odds with the golden field grass.

Another contradiction, unless the city grass is an import.

The air is clear, cloudless, yet the high golden haze, uniform from horizon to zenith, conveys an impression of mistiness. Martel knows that impression is false by the clarity of landmarks, such as the hills to the north, and the sharpness of the thin highways angling into the distances.

They are nearly over the coastline now, and only faint traces of whitecaps streak the ocean. The breakers streaming into the beaches are sternly narrow.

“We're going to land near the South Pier and have something to eat. I'll answer some of those questions you had, and then we'll look into housing for you.”

“Oh … fine.”

Fine, right, Martel? Not much in the way of formality here, is there?

She eases the stick forward, and the flitter responds, dipping toward the pier.

 

vii

“Before we really get started … the first and most important point is to defer to the gods.”

Martel sets the jasolite beaker down on the transparent tabletop.

“Let's have that again. About the gods.”

About the gods.

He rubs his forehead at the mental echo. Any lapse of control has immediate results.

“You're tired.”

He hears the concern in her voice and senses the compassion. He hates it, hates being pitied. He hated being understood when Kryn had felt sorry for him, and he hates it now.

“Not tired. Careless. Go on. Why must one be so careful with the gods?” He picks up the beaker and takes another sip of the liqueur that warms his throat on the way down and seems to dull the ache in his head. Springfire, Rathe had called it.

A stray glittermote, a shining black rather than the usual gold, settles on his shoulder, flickers twice, and vanishes.

“You know about the gods, Martel. The ones like Apollo who can kill with a gesture, manipulate your feelings with a song, throw thunderbolts if they feel like it…”

Martel looks away from her freckled face and east toward the incoming surf. According to his scattered knowledge, Aurore shouldn't have tides as substantial as it does.

“Apollo can't do all that,” he mutters, not caring totally, but knowing that what he says is true.

“No, probably not all that, but each god can do at least one thing out of the ordinary, and by that I mean beyond the normal range of esping. Now, technically speaking”—she stops to purse her thin lips before continuing—“there are distinctions between potentials, demigods, gods, and Elder Gods. For a newcomer, even as esper, all god types are dangerous.”

Martel doesn't believe it, half doesn't care. But Rathe is so earnest, and he is expected to ask. He does.

“Why?”

“They all can tap the field, and that's an energy source not open to nongods, not even to you.”

According to his chrono, it is approaching local midnight, but the light level has not varied. While the tables on the balcony are only half occupied, those who are there keep their own schedules. Martel has observed three breakfasts, several midday meals, and after-dinner liqueurs delivered by servitors since he and Rathe had been seated so much earlier.

“Does everyone keep their own schedule?'

“You weren't listening?”

Another black glittermote settles on the pale gold collar stripe of Martel's tunic.

“I am, and I was. So many things to ask.”

“All right.” She sighs. “Yes. Everyone keeps his or her own schedule. How could it be otherwise? It's always day. Some stick to an arbitrary day/night schedule. Some follow standard Imperial. Others take naps around the clock. Gods never sleep.”

“Gods, gods, gods. All I seem to hear is about gods.”

She sets her expression. “And it's all you will hear until you show some signs of understanding who they are and what they can do.”

She is serious. Martel can tell.

He spreads his hands in surrender. “So tell me about the gods.”

“If I only could…” she starts.

Martel opens his mouth.

“No. Don't interrupt. Please. I'm not used to espers. Why you were assigned to me—Don't look into my thoughts … just listen.”

He nods, seething at the idea that he would indiscriminately rummage through anyone's mind, wondering if he can, really can, at the same time.

Rathe sips her own liqueur, looks out at the breakers, and begins to talk, the words falling in a rush.

“Everyone says that Aurore is the home of the gods, and lets it go at that. Everyone thinks it's nice we don't have big government or much crime. Or that assassins can't even get off a shuttle here. Or Imperial spies or agents. I guess it is. But no one mentions the other side of the cred. We don't have a choice. The gods do. We don't.”

“What do you mean?”

She goes on as if he has not spoken.

“We don't have any police, you may have noticed. No courts. No written laws.”

Martel has not noticed. The brochures and infopaks he had read hadn't mentioned this aspect of Aurore.

“We have gods,” Rathe Firien pushes on, “and they punish criminals. Rather, the demigods do. If the demigods exceed their rights, they get punished. By the gods. Simple, Right?”

“If you say so. But who judges the gods?”

“Other gods, all of them, or so I've been told. But that really doesn't concern you.”

“What does?”

Rathe does not answer. Just shakes her head. Her short, fine hair fluffs out momentarily. With the light behind her, she seems to wear a crown, an image incongruous with the warmth and approachability she radiates.

The warmth is why she has the job she does.

Martel cannot think of anything to say, and the silence stretches out. As Rathe purses her lips prior to speaking an answer strikes Martel.

“Severe punishment?” he asks.

“Not necessarily severe, but certain. Unavoidable. Just.”

“You didn't mention merciful.”

“Mercy isn't the question. Justice is.”

“But how?”

“The punishment fits the crime. Common thieves lose their right hand.”

“That's punishment?” asks Martel, thinking about bionics and full-clone grafts.

“It is when the nerves refuse to take a graft. Ever.”

“Oh … oh.” Martel understands. Anyone who can alter the nerve structure to such a degree, the chromosome patterns, has powers beyond the normal.

“What about the more severe crimes?”

“Most don't get committed. They screen all incomers. People who have committed minor crimes get blessed. Very few criminal types escape. That leaves crimes of passion, and even a lot of those are headed off. Gods can sense trouble, when they choose to.”

“Total conditioning.”

“Not exactly. Just if you're antisocial or antigod. And it's not really conditioning. An absolute prohibition locked into your soul. Or a compulsion. A pyromaniac can't touch matches. He couldn't even light a signal fire to save a life. A man with a violent temper can't raise his voice or lift a hand in anger … even to stop a beating or a theft.”

Martel shudders. Imperial justice is bad enough. But an absolute justice? He shudders again.

“It isn't bad. Really, it isn't. It works. You won't get cheated. You won't get mugged. Very civilized.”

If it's so civilized, dear Rathe, why do you sound so bitter?
He holds the thought to himself.

“And everyone has a job, and is happy to have one.” She paused, then added, “Except mothers of small children.”

“You will work, and you will be happy. Is that it?”

“Not exactly. If you want to work without a blessing, you'll never draw attention. If you don't want to work, and don't cause problems and can pay your service taxes, that's fine, too. You can't expect to live off society.”

Martel squeezes his lips together. Somehow, Aurore doesn't sound quite so ideal, quite the paradise he'd imagined. All this was just the first lesson.

He drains the last of the Springfire.

“What about the second lesson?”

“You've already heard it. Two rules. Defer to the gods. Don't hurt anyone. That will cover most things. That and paying for what you use. That's it.”

“That's it?'

“Does there have to be anything else?”

He thinks, looks out at the too-regular breakers, then back at the red-haired woman.

“I suppose not. What if you hurt someone accidentally?”

“If it's unforeseen and unintended, nothing. If you are careless, you'll be judged and punished.”

Why do you know so much, Rathe? Why so much sadness beneath the friendly surface?

She pushes a small infopak across the table to him. Against the transparency of the surface it hangs in midair, along with the two beakers.

Martel ignores a faint bead of sweat on the woman's upper lip. The sea breeze has stopped momentarily.

“Possible lodgings. Available singles. You can choose house, conapt, or room.”

“What would you suggest?”

“For you, I'd think a small house, as far away from others as possible. Until you have your mental defenses built.”

“How could I pay for it?'

“No problem. The owner or seller knows you'll pay, and you're already on salary at the CastCenter.”

Martel hadn't understood that section of his contract when it had been presented … why the pay had started when he arrived on Aurore, rather than when he started work. It made more sense now. But he felt guilty about the back pay, if there was any.