Raising The Stones (40 page)

“A third sign of mental enslavement would be a continued attempt on the part of the controlled ones to convert others. Did anyone attempt to convert you to any point of view?”

Shan laughed shortly, without amusement. “No, Uncle. No and no. We’re not going to find what concerns me through applying the conventional questions! No, and no, and no. They did nothing, said nothing, indicated nothing. They look normal, act normal, except that they’re far more contented than people should be …”

“Contented?” Reticingh interrupted. “What do you mean by that?”

“They give the impression of being … satisfied. No. Not satisfied. Pleased with life.”

“Well, from what you tell me, it’s a healthful life, without much stress. And, unlike most populations, the people on Hobbs Land are self-selected to be those who want to live that kind of life. I suppose by now most anyone who wasn’t well-suited to it has given up and departed.” He stared at Shan innocently. “They are allowed to depart if they wish?”

“They are,” said Shan unrepentantly. “Still, I believe something …”

“You believe something bad, evil, threatening is happening. You don’t know why, you don’t know how, you don’t know what, but something’s wrong, is that it?”

“I want to tell the Scrutators how I feel. Just for the record.”

Reticingh threw up his hands again. “You have that right, Shanrandinore Damzel. If you had not the right on your own account, I would obtain it for you, as the dear son of my old friends. Still, think about it carefully. You have told me nothing convincing. Others may question your judgement.”

“For the record,” said Shan stubbornly. “I insist.”

“Very well then,” agreed Reticingh. “For the record. I will make the arrangements for a hearing and inform you when I have done so.”

Dismissed, Shan Damzel went out through the hall and onto the high walkway along the parapet, which led to the top of the grand staircase. He had come up that staircase, slow flight by slow flight, eschewing the gravities which would have lifted him without effort. Climbing to the ramparts of the Chowdari Temple of the Overmind had the weight and force of ritual, a significance beyond the mere physical effort. It was a symbol of trial, of overcoming inimical forces. The grand staircase wound around the temple, a long flight beginning at the southeast corner of the temple and climbing to the northeast corner, then turning across to the northwest, to the southwest, then up to a point directly above the starting point, where he stood now. From his present vantage point he could look down into the drill grounds where thousands of young Baidee, tunicked and turbaned, identical as grains of sand, engaged in weapons practice.

Odd. It hadn’t occurred to Shan before, and would not have now except for Reticingh’s comment about the orchestra, but was not the subordination of one’s own judgement in accepting military orders “fooling with one’s head”? When Shan had been among them, the troops had been harangued for hours at a time by their officers. They had been converted to a proper frame of mind to make them move and march and maneuver as proper soldiers. They had come to an absolute uniformity of opinion upon some matters, many matters.

Shan turned away from the parapet and wiped his forehead. It wasn’t the same thing. One could choose not to take part in military service. The alternatives were unpleasant, but one could choose.

He turned back, focusing his attention on the wheeling thousands. Some of these very men might be under Churry’s command in the brigades. Some, perhaps, were members of The Arm of the Prophetess, about which Shan had heard whispers. If there was no response from the Circle of Scrutators, and it seemed unlikely there would be none, then there was one body of dedicated Baidee who would see the threat to their traditional freedoms. One group who would realize such a threat could not go unopposed, to spread, perhaps to spread widely.

He wiped his forehead and swallowed bile at the back of his throat. There would be one group he could count on. And at least one dedicated Baidee to lead them.

•
On the moon
Enforcement, Overmajor Altabon Faros tried to think of anything in the universe except his wife, Silene. Often he woke in the night to the sound of her screaming words at him, only to realize words could not come from her lips again. Unless. … unless he could get her away from Voorstod. Elsewhere, she might have a new tongue cloned. Elsewhere she might be well again, herself again. Otherwise, there were certain secret sweet names she had called him which were forever silent. There were certain sweet plans they had made which were forever dead. If she herself were dead, he would have grieved and forgotten, but she lived and might go on living if he could quit thinking about her enough to go on doing what he was supposed to be doing. Only by doing it successfully could he save her life. So Faros spent evenings and early mornings concentrating on what he knew about what he had to do. Everything he knew about Enforcement. Everything he knew about Authority.

He knew the moon Authority was a small one because nothing larger had originally been needed. There had been room for twenty-one Phansuris and Ahabarians and Thykerites and Moon and Belt people together with their secretaries and aides and servants. Over the centuries, however, Authority had become corpulent, adding an advisory here, creating a panel there, appointing a temporary study commission that survived over the centuries to create other (temporary) commissions of its own. Now Authority filled every cubic inch of the moon’s hollowed-out interior and domed surface, and its constant complaint was that there was no room for all its people. Authority had become an entity larger than its purpose and too unwieldy for its duties. It was swollen, gross, quivering with indulgent fat.

And the people were the same. Faros had met them. He knew they were effete and decadent and mostly old, living in environments of unquestioned, though artificial, beauty. Though they went away, from time to time, they always returned, to be soothed by privilege and to divert themselves with endless machinations.

Despite the numbers packed into Authority, the moon itself was no larger than it had ever been, no larger and no better defended, which was to say, not defended at all. No one on Authority had ever considered defending the moon, certainly not against Enforcement. Those on Authority did not often think of Enforcement and had never used it. Even when Thyker had been invaded and the twenty-one Members had considered mobilization, Thyker had dealt with the matter itself before one vote could be taken, before one soldier could be awakened and programmed and sent out to wreak destruction.

Authority was incapable of imagining its own demise, a demise that was already hovering over it, implacable fate held in the trembling hands of Altabon Faros and the hard, unfeeling ones of Halibar Ornil.

Ornil. Stocky and thick-skinned Ornil, whose forehead was low and whose eyes were narrow. Who walked with a lurching stride, like a wrestler, and whose hands hung away from his body, as though they were not quite part of him. Whose uniform was always slightly untidy, even moments after he put it on, and whose connection with the aristocratic Overmajor Faros had never been understood. Only Faros knew that Ornil was there to keep watch on him, and he to keep watch on Ornil. The prophets trusted no one. Trust had no part in the Cause.

Occasionally, when it would seem natural for them to do so, the two Voorstoders spent some time together. They did not drink stimulants or take any recreational drug. They did not patronize the brothel maintained at Authority’s expense—Faros from lack of appetite, Ornil from prudence. But they might take a meal together while Ornil muttered his assessment of what he assumed was closest to them both. The successful culmination of their mission.

“Thyker first,” Ornil had postulated on the most recent occasion. “We’ll send the Enforcement army against Thyker first.”

Faros knew it would not be Thyker first. To say so would make him suspect, however, as though he questioned the will of the Awateh, to which he was not privy. So, he said, as he always did, ‘That’s up to the Awateh,” being careful to give nothing away, stroking his long, tapering fingers as though they ached and wishing Ornil could talk about something else.

Ornil ruminated, chewing over his ideas as he did his food, messily, noisily. After a time, he said, “Except Thyker does have all those biological weapons. If not Thyker, I’ll bet we go against Phansure first.”

Faros sipped at the lukewarm drink before him. “If the Cause conquers Phansure, then it can force the Phansuris to build as many more soldiers as it might need for any purpose. So it would seem Phansure could be an early target.”

“Not first?” Ornil glared at him from beneath his brows. “Why not first?”

“Perhaps the Awateh has considered Authority as the first target.” The only one that made any sense. Which was not to say the Awateh would necessarily do it. Much of what the Awateh did had no sense to it. Only cruelty and pain.

“Authority?” Ornil thought about this, laboriously, as he thought about most things. Then he smiled. “Of course. Authority.”

Faros sighed and tried not to think of Silene. “Whatever they do, it will be very soon now. The new man arrives shortly.”

Ornil’s eyes gleamed. He had no wife in Voorstod. He had no children. He had no family for the prophet to chop up like meat for the pot. Ornil was a dedicated man.

While Ornil gloated, Faros went back to writing scenarios in his head. If the army was dispatched against Phansure and Authority, and if the prophets followed the army, would it be possible for him, Faros, to get to Voorstod and rescue his family while the Faithful were otherwise engaged? While Ornil muttered and chuckled and muttered, Faros plotted how he might get his wife and children to safety.

•     •     •

•
Maire, Sam, and
Saturday arrived in Fenice to find themselves in the midst of a festival. The quincentennial, they were told. The city fluttered with banners; there were musicians on every corner, a parade down every street.

“You’ll stay for the concert this evening,” said the young officer who had met them, one who had stared curiously at Maire Girat as he wondered what it was about this woman that had made his commander seem so nostalgic and faraway. “Commander Karth insists that you be his guests for dinner and the concert. He says he’ll escort you on to Jeramish tomorrow.”

“If Commander Karth wishes us to stay,” said Maire. “Another day will make no difference. What is the concert to be?”

“A new work commissioned by the Queen. Stenta Thilion is to play for us on the harp.”

“A Gharm harpist playing for the Queen?” queried Maire, with a wry twist to her lips. “Have things progressed so far?”

“She is much admired,” said the officer, defensively. “By all men of goodwill.”

“And by us,” said Maire, defusing him with a smile and a shake of her head. “I have no sympathy for Voorstod views, lad. It’s why I came away, long since. And I would not be here now, hating the idea of returning, if I had a choice.”

Saturday was regarding her clothes with dismay. “But we have nothing to wear to a fancy concert, Maire. We have only our farm clothes.”

The young officer smiled. Girls were all alike, no matter where they came from. His own wife had said the same, and when he had laughed at her, she had told him uniforms made it easy for men.

“If you’ll accept the Commander’s hospitality, Ma’am,” he said to Maire, nodding to show that the other two were included. “His daughter would be pleased to provide something suitable.”

•     •     •

•
Without warning, on
the very morning of the day Maire arrived in Ahabar, Epheron and Preu seized Jep up and carried him off on a trip to Cloud. They took him, so they said, because “The Faithful wanted to get a look at him.’’ They left the collar on him, taking the box that controlled it along to prevent his running off or causing trouble. He was given a coat to hide the collar and a cap to hide his head, very much like the caps the Voorstoders wore to keep their long hair clean and out of the way. The men of the Cause affected ringlets flowing down their backs into which coup markers could be pinned during special ceremonials of the Cause, so Preu Flandry had once remarked to Jep after he had sneered at Jep’s close-cropped curls.

“Coup markers?” Jep had asked Pirva. “The Cause?”

Pirva had not looked up from what she was doing. “The Cause is their society, their religion, their brotherhood,” she had said, the words dripping like acid from her mouth. “It’s a killers’ club. A man gets a coup counter for each Abolitionist or Gharm man, woman, or child he has killed out there in Ahabar or the Three Counties. There are special counters for bombs set off in the three counties, no matter who is killed or mutilated.”

“They do not set off their bombs in Ahabar?” Jep asked.

“So far they have not risked bringing the Ahabarian army into Voorstod. With every year that passes, though, while the Authority sleeps and Ahabar withholds its power, the Cause pushes itself closer to the brink. Some of the members have hair to their knees, with coup markers set every inch, but they are not content. So long as another man has as many, their sense of competition will not let them rest. They will carry their murders into Ahabar sooner or later.”

“Mugal Pye has this long hair?”

“Him, down to his knees. And Preu Flandry. And Epheron Floom, though his is only a wig to make up for all the time he spent out there in short-haired Ahabar, spying.”

Remembering what Pirva had told him, Jep was content to wear the cap. He did not want to be thought one of them, but no doubt it was safer than to parade his distinction. For all he knew, some Voorstoder might decide to kill him as an outsider or Gharm sympathizer and ask for a special coup marker to memorialize the event.

The trip to Cloud was by flier, at first moving along the coast, where there were no roads for surface vehicles and where the heaving seas would have made water travel unpleasant at best. Voorstod had made no investment in short-distance Doors, no more than Hobbs Land had. Few planetary populations did, except where there were great cities separated by considerable travel time, as upon Phansure, where the volume of travel between cities was large and constant. Fixed-destination, constant-flow Doors were too expensive to obtain and operate to be economically feasible otherwise.