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Authors: Sheri S. Tepper

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“Office of Housing, Unmarried Men's Quarters, Number Fifty-four, sir. The tenants call her Old Stink, but officially, she's Hold Housing Fifty-four.”

Outside the door, the doctor was surprised to find Old Ben waiting for him. The anchorite drew him away from the windows and whispered, “Doctor, may I ask a favor, sir?”

The doctor hid his surprise at hearing speech. “Of course.”

“My order…they need healers, and they authorized my speaking to you. Would you consider allowing me to apprentice to you? The clinic isn't far from here, and I can work hard and learn well.”

The doctor stared at him for a moment, considering whether such an arrangement might involve him in any greater danger than he ran from day to day without it, deciding finally that it would not. “Be there in the morning,” he said. “I am glad to have an extra pair of hands, particularly clean ones.” And he shook the man by the hand and went back to the carriage, which had waited for him.

On the way back to the Fortress, the doctor took out his notebook and wrote down an account of the evening, as he did whenever he encountered anything at all strange. He concluded his account with a few words about Old Ben, who was an interesting fellow very much to the doctor's taste. He also wrote down the name Dismé Latimer, for it was the second time he had been made aware of that name recently.

12
nell latimer's book

O
ver the last few weeks, the International Prayer group has been covered by every magazine, the lead item in every web-cast. It's been on the cover of
MILLENNIUM THREE, NEWS-OP
, and
FAME
. It's been praised by several prominent conservative pastors and acknowledged by the President. The hundred or so Congressmen who have always made a ballyhoo about attending prayer breakfasts were pictured last week participating in a daily
IPC
prayer session. I am still able to sense the daily prayer time without knowing it in advance. The world can be smelling of sunshine one moment, and the next moment it is adrift in this thick purple odor that accumulates, like smoke, hiding the horizon.

Our interstellar visitor, meantime, even though it's no longer headed toward us, is still a major mystery. It does not act like a comet, or an asteroid. It's getting closer and closer to Jupiter—it will actually come closer to Jupiter than it did to Saturn—and every observatory in the world is watching, not that they'll see much since the transit will be behind the planet. General scientific opinion is that it'll be deflected slightly toward the sun, crossing the orbits of the outer planets again as it exits the system.

Whenever I see my carefully constructed shelter, I laugh at the irony. It'll take me years to save up that much money again. Oh, well, maybe I can use it for storage.

 

The transit of Jupiter has occurred. Everyone was wrong. The thing didn't hit the planet, it didn't get slightly deflected. It was whipped around Jupiter like a skater at the end of a line, and snapped into a new trajectory that's headed straight toward Earth, or, where Earth will be when it gets there. Incredulity and fury are the emotions of the day. Everyone's up against the wall, politicians, scientists, media people. Everyone feels betrayed. The danger was past, and now it's not, despite the fact that the math
does not check out
. This is fairly simple Newtonian physics after all, nothing arcane about it. The mass figures obtained from the speed and orbital change when the thing was nudged by Saturn are not compatible with the diversion caused by Jupiter. A thing with the mass derived from the Saturn transit could not have approached Jupiter at that speed from that angle and been changed to its current speed and its current direction. Some unknown force has been involved in changing the trajectory.

Everybody was watching, of course, so any conspiracy of silence is impossible. This time there is no chance at keeping it quiet. All the hysteria and panic we tried to prevent is happening. There is looting. There are rapes. There are riots. The National Guard has been called out. Order is being restored. This morning the President announced, totally without factual foundation, that even though Earth would be hit, the damage would be “sustainable.” At the observatory, the questions keep coming, over scrambled lines and by encrypted e-mail. Should the government recommend evacuation? Should people be told to dig storm cellars? It takes forever to get the answers, because we still don't have any figures that work! All we know for sure is that it's big—if one measures the outside, smoky layers—and what's inside can't be seen. Infrared does not help. The newest gimmick for looking inside things, “lazar,” yields only nonsense. Hubble shows us a featureless blob that looks faintly dumbbell shaped. A bitch. That's what we star-geeks had started calling it, the Bitch,
an epithet soon picked up by the press, and the critter is living up to its name.

 

Day before yesterday, Neils put all the papers into his briefcase and he and I went to D.C. where the Joint Chiefs of Staff were waiting to hear the final words. How big. How fast. How much damage.

The answers were: Too big. Too fast. Total damage. I didn't do any talking; I just pulled up the proper pages as Neils needed them, but I saw the very high brass swallowing deeply before they admitted they had nothing in the arsenal that could possibly shove it away or blow it up. They might crack it, they said, but Neils brushed this off with a don't bother. Cracking it wouldn't help. The pieces will still come down. One piece or twenty, the effects will be pretty much the same. We'd worked on that equation for weeks.

The biology-geeks, who were also present, said yes, well, it looked to them as if the Bitch intends extinction on a wide scale. Fimbulwinter, so to speak. No sunshine for a very long, long time, and Ragnarök, or at least the death of us little terran Gods, though it's entirely possible that some people, some animals, some green and growing stuff could survive if it or they could find enough to eat during a very long cold spell and didn't freeze to death in the interim. We left them with this faint ray of hope. I guess it was better than nothing.

Jerry professes to being “hurt” that I hadn't told him about the Bitch, originally, even though I explained that we'd all been sworn to secrecy in order not to start a panic. His response to the situation is to join the IPC in the mass local prayer meetings they've started in addition to their simultaneous international sessions. Jerry said I could make up for
lying
to him by going to the meeting with him. I did not lie, but it isn't worth arguing over.

I've always been a deist, in the sense of having a belief in the essential order and purpose of the universe, but my idea of an omnipotent and omniscient God has always been of a being utterly beyond our comprehension who sets creation
in motion knowing that intelligence will inevitably evolve inside the system, either because He, She, or It just knows, or because He, She, or It has played this game before. God intends that intelligence (or those intelligences) will apply itself (themselves) to the development of purpose and meaning. If I prayed to my God, the only response my belief would allow would be, “I gave you a mind, now use it!” When we married, I thought Jerry had similar ideas.

Jerry now believes, however, in a God concerned almost entirely with mankind on this one planet, a deity who spends a good part of his time peeking through people's bedroom windows and who has a hell and lots of roasting spits ready for sinners. Despite this, I felt I owed it to Jerry to share his feelings and needs with him; he'd done the same for me often enough. I'm fairly good at sitting quietly while others go about their pursuits, anybody who's worked in any kind of a hierarchy can do that, so I did sit quietly in the middle of a considerable crowd, though I was almost overcome by the purple.

 

During the last few days the Bitch has changed course and speed several times. The first time, everyone cried and slapped someone else on the back and took a deep breath. Then it changed back again. Then it slowed down. This time the elation was muted and brief, because within hours it speeded up again. On one of the TV religion channels that Jerry has begun leaving on all day, someone finally said what a lot of people had been thinking: Earth isn't going to be an accidental collision. Earth is the target. I'd had the thought, but I'd rejected it. I glared at the screen, yelling, “That's crazy. That's crazy. Why would we be the target?”

And Jerry patted my shoulder like he'd pat a pet dog, and he smiled his lofty smile and told me since everyone had been praying for divine intervention, I shouldn't be surprised it was coming. He put his arms around me tenderly, and sort of rocked me, as though I were an infant with the colic.

I yelled at him. “How can you smile! How can you be so calm?”

“Stop tearing yourself apart, Sweetheart.”

“Jer, I'm not…tearing myself apart any more than is justified! I'm just terrified, that's all. For all of us!”

“You have to submit to it, Nell. Nothing you can do in the next few months will change what's going to happen. The children and I have accepted it. Stop crying.” Something in the satisfied, almost luxurious way he said it bothered me a great deal more than the mere content of the words.

Meantime the high level conferences went on, every day, late into the night. How much should the public be told? After interminable top secret debates it was decided there was no point in telling the world that everyone and everything was going to be almost totally destroyed. There is nothing people can do about that, so why spend the last months of life in hysteria and panic and mass rape and looting and god knows what? Let people alone. Lie to them. Tell people it's going to hit in the Arctic, there'll be some damage but nothing we can't overcome. Let people die with some dignity. The insiders issued this from on high, like the Ten Commandments, graven in stone. Let governments do what they can to provide help for survivors, if any, but don't panic the populace, because if you do, there'll be no survivors.

Neils says there have been a series of one-to-one summit meetings among the leaders of those countries who either know the truth or are likely to find out on their own, and after a lot of breast beating they've all agreed to what they called “Death with Dignity Solution.” What all the governments did do, including our own, was to pick up amateur astronomers, confiscate their telescopes, and swear all the professionals to secrecy. After this happened I saw Selma Ornowsky again. She dropped by the observatory (which was guarded) and when I went down to get them to release her, she and I had a few words together.

“They're calling it the Bitch,” she said, only slightly bitterly. “I guess that's all right. I don't want it called the Ornowsky Catastrophe.”

I hugged her, and we parted. There was nothing I could
say. The grapevine had it that some mavericks, including friends of mine, had been locked up when they wouldn't swear not to talk. There's also a worldwide clamp on the media. The media moguls and the ACLU fought it at first, sort of a knee-jerk reaction, but they sagged once they got it through their heads that widespread disorder will reduce the chance of any survival at all, and the right to sell a few more papers in the months we have left is irrelevant.

Of course, all the top level meetings haven't gone unnoticed. Even with the media gagged, there's still the Web, and the powers that be are floating several outer space stories to cover all the astro-cum-military activity that's going on. The U.S., in cooperation with the Russians and the Chinese, announced a new international lunar settlement, “To be accomplished before our space effort is compromised by the asteroid.” The best we can figure, the moon will not be hit. A sizeable agglomeration of hackers has been hired to do nothing but flood the Web with details about the new moon colony.

The publicized Lunar mission is also the basis for a secret Mars Mission. Half the hardware needed to start a settlement is already on Mars, but the Mars settlement was planned to take place in “pulses,” with automatic, robotic accumulations of hydrogen and oxygen going on between arrivals, each arrival scheduled after the essentials have been stored. Since there won't be time for that to happen, we're putting everything we can on the moon or in orbit around it, including the international space station and some of the telescopes, hoping the people there can pick up on the Mars Mission. For long-term survival, it's estimated Mars gives four or five times the probable success Luna does. The selected colonists will be young and fertile, and if they don't go to Mars, they can possibly get back to Earth later on, if they survive and there's anything here to come back to.

While that's being done, the powers-that-be have also adopted a last-ditch survival plan for earth. Everyone in the field agrees it's the lengthy period of darkness that's the major threat, so warehouses full of survival goods will help.
Builders have already started on a great many huge, widely scattered, “Disaster Relief Warehouses.”

In addition, the U.S. Government wants to build a redoubt, a kind of combination fortress and library, in which all mankind's knowledge and art can be preserved so the survivors won't have to discover it all over again. Geologists and engineers are doing studies of several widely separated sites for this redoubt, and they'll decide where it goes once they figure out where the Bitch is going to hit, which is a damned frustrating question because the thing continues to change speed and course for no discernable reason except, perhaps, to show us it can.

13
the fortress at strong hold

T
he Fortress of Strong Hold was built originally as a simple castle with a keep and a wall. Over time, however, it grew like a cancer, bulging at first into the area between keep and wall, then breaching the wall itself from within. Masonry piled on masonry as roofs became balconies for higher rooms, as walls became foundations for higher walls, as the shadows of seasons and centuries flickered across stones heaving upward as though thrust from below.

Each addition brought new chimneys and flues, little pipes entering bigger ones that plunged into larger yet, eventually evolving into enormous smokestacks that pythoned aloft through a stony accretion that reared and ramified, heaving itself into an irregularly pinnacled mountain, stabbed through with light wells and air shafts, pierced with alleyways and wandering flights of precipitous stairs, with so many tunnels penetrating the fabric of the place as to make it spongelike, mostly dark within, terribly dark below where tenebrous tunnels lit by feeble lanterns stank of mold and tallow.

Every scraggy pinnacle was topped by a roof, some large, some small, some peaked, some flat, many of them occupied by attic itinerants, transients of the tiles, migrants among roof-mesas and airshaft-arroyos, sooty dwellers both upon and within the massive chimney whose many vents spewed
filthy smoke into a reproving sky. Here lay a plank athwart a chasm, and across it scampered scrawny chimney boys, brush laden and black from brow to ankle. There a century-old tree, rooted in a soil-filled gutter amid the stones, was slanted by the wind over a vertiginous shaft to become a leafy bridge between abutments. There on a larger flat were towering treadmills occupied by teams of a dozen or more felons, walking endlessly in all weathers to pump water up into the tanks suspended in the great chimneys whose smoke warmed the baths of the officers. Another even larger set of lawbreakers walked sporadically, in accordance with a system of bells, to raise or lower the elevator that served the highest ranks on the upper floors.

Here was a chimney-side huddle of huts whose denizens performed some necessary if unspeakable function in the structure upon which they lived, like so many ticks upon a dog, invisible in their poverty, hunger, and dirt. Here was the Bat-keeper of the Shrilling Cave (once the rooftop chapel of a sub-sub-sect, now fallen into ruin) and the Pigeon-keeper with his apprentice boys and their cooing cote. Here too was the roof-dwellers' own treadmill-winch, hidden in a far recess behind an ancient parapet, cobbled together from short bits of lumber and tangles of wire, its rope woven of a hundred shorter pieces, its line dropping deep into a half forgotten airshaft so its creaking would be lost in the sound of the ever turning water-mill. This winch brought up any and everything needed for the rooftop community to survive: a few bricks, a sack of flour, a stolen bucket, an abandoned baby. All such was on the lee side of the chimney, the dirty side, ash-laden, smoke-spewing from a thousand hearths, boilers, laundries, ovens, oasts, and incinerators.

 

The windward side of the great chimney is a different matter indeed. There, sandwiched between the great chimney and the parapet wall that plunges sheer to the clangorous cobbles and shout-echoing walls of the street, a roof garden floats like a green islet above the fetid humors of the town below. The elaborate and elegant penthouse that gives access
to this marvel is the territory of the Commander in Chief of Bastion, General Gregor Gowl. If the Fortress is the armory of Bastion, its barracks, its HQ, its market, and—in its higher reaches—the living quarters of its officers and their families, then this roof garden is their park, their promenade, their place to take the sun and air and let the babies play, all by kind permission of sorrowful Scilla, the Commander's wife.

On this afternoon the rooms of the penthouse are thronged with brightly dressed visitors. Beneath gay umbrellas, the tables beside the reflecting pool are crowded. Flowers nod in the light wind. People chat. Members of the Bishop's Holy Guard set aside their weapons to pass trays of sandwiches and cookies. Scilla pours tea and her younger girls, including five-year-old Angelica, join the children of guests to dart like hummingbirds among potted roses, toddler voices rising in shrill gaiety over the ritual feigning and fencing of their elders.

The general is at the center of all this, impeccably dressed in his white dress uniform, belted, bemedaled, roped and ribboned in gold, affably accepting the compliments of his guests on this, the sixtieth anniversary of his birth and the twentieth of his accession to the leadership of the Spared. He is hand in hand with Gregor Gowl III, penultimate child got by Gowl upon Scilla, only son, much longed-for heir, a boy who can be neither disciplined nor swayed. “A chip off the old block,” cries Gowl, as he admires this six-year-old terror of the Fortress. When Angelica was born, yet another girl, Gowl declared himself weary of begetting, and Scilla spent most of a span saying fervid thanks in the tiny, hidden Lady's chapel where men did not go.

The roof garden is no less a symbol of the general's power than the uniform he wears. On the day six years ago when his wife finally presented him with a son, he decreed into existence the garden Scilla had long begged for. Within days, it was a fact: arbor, potted trees, reflecting pool, fountain and all. Some of the guests arrive at the garden easily, for they are of the Regime's elite who live only a floor or two below.
They are entitled to use the elevator, and they have servants to climb and carry for them. On today's occasion, however, they are joined by their counterparts from Apocanew and Newland and Amen-city who have been clambering toward this height all their lives, a longer ascent by far than merely a walk up the hill to the Fortress capped by a climb of fifteen or twenty stories to the top. Here are the pretenders to power, the holders of irrelevant office, the receivers of trivial titles, the elected but impotent representatives to the Congress of the Spared. As compensation for their inconsequence, they are accorded the honor of an invitation to the general's birthday gala. Some of them, aware that fortunate liaisons have been known to arise from mere childhood acquaintance, have brought their children along today, to meet the general's children and bask in their glow.

The general moves among his guests with a sham congeniality that fools no one. Even five-year-old Angelica, currently in hot pursuit of the Colonel Bishop's youngest daughter, plans her darting and fluttering to keep herself well away from her father. The general's wife occupies herself at the tea table where her handing of cups is aided by the wives of senior officers, one of whom, the Colonel Bishop's wife, leans forward to say, with some envy, “Angelica's turning out to be so very pretty!”

“Yes,” agrees the general's wife, with a wary glance at her youngest daughter. “It's surprising, for she was an ugly baby. Every day she looks more like my first child, Ovelda, the daughter who died.”

“I remember her, of course,” says the bishop's wife. “She was a sweet, dear girl. Every time I go to the Hold bottle wall, I stop and greet her.”

“Kind of you,” murmurs the general's wife, tears filling her eyes.

“I notice there's a fence around the roof garden now,” the bishop's wife comments approvingly. “So much safer.”

“Oh, it wasn't a roof garden then,” said the general's wife, staring at the fence atop the parapet that surrounds the roof on three sides, the fourth guarded by the looming mass of the
great chimney. “Our quarters were down two floors from here. We never came up here. We never knew how Ovelda got up here. There was nothing here, no reason for her to come.”

“But there is a fence now,” persisted the bishop's wife.

“Yes. No other child will fall all that terrible way again. Crush themselves like that. Die like that.”

“Now, now, my dear, she isn't dead. She's in the bottle wall, awaiting the final days. She was just Angelica's age, wasn't she?”

The general's wife looks down at the hands writhing in her lap, for a moment unable to understand they are her own. She clenches them until they will lie still, and when she looks up again, it is with guileless and tear-washed eyes. “It was twenty years ago, and she was my first child as Angelica is my last. She was just Angelica's age, yes.”

The bishop's wife, who is a kindly woman, reproaches herself for being so thoughtless as to have raised the matter and to have continued it thereafter. Through sheer ineptitude, she is about to make matters worse when a tall, uniformed figure steps forward to call Scilla's attention to a grassfire that has blazed up in the commons outside the city wall, a scene full of smoke and much comic rushing about of horses and wagons, with people waving rakes, falling over their feet and getting in one another's way. The intervenor is Colonel Doctor Jens Ladislav, and with a jester's charm he gathers a clamor of nearby ladies into an appreciative chorus that laughs at the preposterous spectacle until the painful subject of Ovelda's death has obviously been forgotten.

“Thank you,” murmurs the bishop's wife, as the doctor moves away. “I shouldn't have reminded her of Ovelda. You know about that?”

“I've been told that the general's wife has never recovered from her daughter's death,” the doctor says softly. “Strange, with so many other daughters, that Ovelda should still preoccupy her attentions.”

“It was the way she died,” says the bishop's wife. “So strangely.”

“Oh, very strangely,” agrees the doctor, his eyes wander
ing from the ladies at the parapet to the general, who is standing beneath the arbor at the center of a congratulatory group. The doctor was twenty-two when Ovelda fell, and he has heard the story. A plunge from the roof and a small body lying unseen long enough that some predator—dog? cat? wild creature?—had time to eat certain organs before it was discovered, leaving the rest untouched. There had been mention of demons, of course. Whenever anything of the sort happened, there was always mention of demons.

From his vantage point among his colleagues, the general also notices the resemblance between Angelica—now dancing in jubilation at having tagged her quarry—and the long-dead Ovelda. The likeness evokes a disturbing itch-ache of both body and mind, and the general moves restlessly in discomfort and distraction.

“I'm sorry?” he says to the young man who is being introduced. “What was your name again?”

“Trublood, sir. Captain James Trublood-Turnaway.”

“Ah. Part of the great Turnaway clan, eh, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. Definitely part of the clan, and proud to be under your leadership, sir.”

For the moment, though only for the moment, the general forgets the feelings that have troubled him in recent days and preens himself on being a man among men.

 

The general had recently grown slightly dissatisfied with his life. He told himself he had been a man among men even before receiving help from Hetman Gohdan Gone, that he was entitled to flattery and honors on his own, but still, on the morning following his birthday celebration he woke discontented. He thought it odd to stumble upon disquiet now, after everything he'd achieved, but he had to admit he had mostly pretended at enjoyment during the festivities. And though he could recall rewarding moments in his past, he was not truly enjoying his life as it went on, day by day. During the past few days, in fact, he had been recalling the desires and feelings of his youth, drawing contemptuous comparisons between what was and what he had once imagined.

Long ago, he had seen himself all in white on a white horse, and he had become that figure, yes, but it was a long time between parades. Even when there were parades, horseback was not an unmixed pleasure for a man who spent most of his time at the dining table, in bed, or behind a desk.

On this particular morning, every memory and thought was complicit in convincing him something essential had been missed along the way, something of enormous importance, something that would make a lasting mark on the people of Bastion or even on the people of the world! Certainly he could not be satisfied by simply growing older, holding on by his fingernails until he could be decently bottled! He didn't want a mere place in the bottlewall, subject to the insincere blather of those making Cheerful and Supportive visits. He wanted to be remembered for more than a few years' duty to the Regime. Oh, by all the Rebel Angels, he wanted a shrine to himself, a monument to a reputation that would survive his bottling by a thousand years! Or until the world ended, whichever came first!

The idea kept him sleepless three nights in succession, and in the end he did what he had done many times before. He sent a messenger to Hetman Gone, requesting an appointment, and he comforted himself with such ritual phrases as “He's always helped me; I'm sure he'll help me now.”

These incantations were purely formulaic. General Gowl had never really thought about Hetman Gone except as an adjunct to his own life, as a man may do when he says, my spouse, my children, my doctor, my man of business, or, as in this case, my sorcerer. General Gowl took at simplest face value all matters unrelated to himself. Since he had never come face to face with a relentless opponent or fought a real war, such easy presumption had served him well enough. Though there was a good deal of evidence that Gone was not merely a man (if only Gowl had paid attention) Gowl thought of him as a person, one with many talents, but still, only a man.

He had not seen the Hetman during the Hetman's nocturnal pursuits. He had not accompanied the Hetman when he
moved with unnatural speed down the roads of Bastion in the late hours of moonless nights. He had not attended the revels that the Hetman directed in mist-filled chasms or on stretches of lonely shore beside rain-pocked seas. He had not seen the Hetman's servants without clothing, or the Hetman himself in like déshabillé. In fact, though he had listened to the Hetman quite closely on many occasions, he had never really looked at him with the speculative eye of an alert and skeptical nature. He had never asked himself whence the Hetman had come, and when, and why.

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