SERIALIZATION

DAUGHTER OF ELYSIUM (Part 6)

by Joan Slonczewski

Phoenix Pick Edition, 2010

Daughter of Elysium copyright © 1993, 2010 Joan Slonczewski. All rights reserved.

Joan Slonczewski has won the John W. Campbell Award for Best Science Fiction Novel, twice. In 1987, for A Door into Ocean, and in 2012, for The Highest Frontier. Her fiction shows her command of genetics and ecological science as well as her commitment to feminism.

DAUGHTER OF ELYSIUM

by Joan Slonczewski

Chapter 9

While Raincloud handled simultaneously the Sharer negotiations and the latest Urulite crisis, Blackbear’s work took a new direction. In the laboratory he had identified several novel mutants of his Eyelessgene. Two of them had control sequences that might prevent the early-onset heart disease in three-century-old Elysians. Pirin wanted to test them in simbrid embryos right away.

The call from his old clinic at Founders had renewed Blackbear’s enthusiasm for his work. Let the Elysians shut down their fertility work—in the long run, it made little difference to him, because he would set up his own lab on Bronze Sky. The main thing was to learn as many techniques as he could while he was here with the experts.

The simbrid embryo testing would be crucial, whatever problem he chose to work on. So he might as well work with Pirin on the Eyelessmutants. Their goal was to replace the Eyelesssequence on simbrid chromosome seven with one of Blackbear’s mutant sequences, then watch the embryo develop—normally, they hoped.

“How much DNA will you need?” Blackbear asked. He could program the synthesizer to build any mutant gene, a few thousand copies at a time.

Pirin considered this. “How many base pairs of your mutant differ from the parental sequence?”

“Twenty-three positions differ, over a region of three hundred bases.”

“That’s not too bad,” said Pirin. “Instead of cutting out and splicing the whole region, we’ll send in a molecular servo to modify each base chemically.”

That made sense. The four different nucleotide bases, or “letters” of the DNA alphabet, were chemically interchangeable except for the inward-pointing tab of each structure. The inward-pointing portions, which determined the DNA sequence, could be converted by adding or removing methyl and amino groups; rather like changing a c to an e by adding a stroke.

So the two of them spent the next half hour programming the molecular servos to perform the correct series of reactions, at the correct base positions. Since each servo could store only eight operations (there were atomic limits, after all) three servos had to be programmed, which took longer than Pirin had thought. But by the afternoon they were ready to put the servos into the fertilized egg cell to modify the chromosomal DNA.

They watched the tabletop holostage as it formed the image of the transparent egg. Within the sphere of granular cytoplasm, the two pronuclei were suspended, one each from the egg and from the disintegrated sperm which had fertilized it. Each pronucleus contained the parental chromosomes entwined inside, decondensed and invisible at this magnification.

From across the table Hawktalon leaned over to get a better look, her braids sparkling as they caught some of the light. “Daddy, did I really look like that once?”

He blinked, taken aback. “You certainly did.” Seven standard years ago that was, eight counting gestation. I’m getting old, Blackbear thought.

“Fertilization is not yet complete,” Pirin pointed out. “It will take several hours before the pronuclear membranes dissolve and the chromosomes migrate together. At that point, the chromosomes will condense for the first cell division. Once condensed, the chromosomes will be impenetrable. So we need to get the servos inside now.”

At Pirin’s spoken command, two microscopic needles pierced the cell, one for each pronucleus. Each needle pulled three molecular servos into the pronucleus. Of course, the servos could not be “seen” at this resolution, but the holostage gradually focused in. First the cytoplasm, with its reticulum of molecular transport enlarged, then fell away as the bubble of the nucleus expanded to fill the stage. Then the nuclear membranes and most of the chromosomes expanded out of range. “We need more contrast,” Pirin said. Another command, and the elegant curves of a DNA helix snaked across a foglike background. Blackbear made a mental note of this command.

“Do the servos find their own way to the proper gene sequence on the chromosome?” Blackbear wondered.

“That’s what we’ll find out,” said Pirin. “They should; they’re all programmed for that. Here we’ve focused on the Eyelesssequence. It shouldn’t take long for the servos to show up.”

Hawktalon asked, “Is that really a DNA gene?” She sounded disappointed. “Where are all the oxygens and nitrogens?”

“Atoms aren’t really colored balls on a stick,” Blackbear reminded her. “They’re just fuzzy clouds of electrons.”

Pirin looked up. “They can be colored balls, if you’d like.” At a command, the DNA turned into a winding collage of blue oxygens, red nitrogens, and tiny black hydrogens dotting the zigzag skeleton of carbon atoms.

“What’s that crawling alongside?” Hawktalon put her hand into the image. A chain of atoms shaped like a leech with a sucker on each end was creeping end-over-end along the major groove of the double helix. At one point it slowed to a halt, tapped several times about the groove, then settled and rearranged itself.

Pirin said, “That’s the nanoservo. It’s sitting at a cytosine base, the first one you wanted to mutate. The servo will replace the cytosine’s amino group with a hydroxyl, which immediately isomerizes to the ketone of thymine, the transformed base.”

Before Blackbear could speak, Hawktalon added, “You need an extra methyl group, too, to make thymine.”

“That’s right.” Pirin looked at her, rather surprised.

“She does her homework,” Blackbear said proudly. Then he frowned, puzzled. “Something doesn’t make sense about this. How can we ‘see’ all these molecules, as if they just sit there? Don’t they vibrate constantly, in Brownian motion?”

“Of course, molecules are never stationary, just as their atoms are not red and blue balls. What you ‘see’ here is a time-averaged representation of their electron density.”

Everything was a “representation,” at this level; nothing was what it seemed. Blackbear stretched himself, feeling vaguely disoriented to be immersed so deep in the realm of the unseen and untouchable. He remembered the surgical ward of the clinic, where reality was as concrete as a swollen worm of an appendix for his fingers to find and remove.

Then he had an idea. “You know, now that I’m getting into this project, I’d like to research the heart syndromes some more.”

“I’ll give you some papers to read,” said Pirin.

“I’d like to interview patients, too.”

“We have every patient on file, from holo recording to molecular composition of all their bodily fluids.”

“Great; that will help when I interview them.”

Pirin looked at him oddly. “Excuse me?”

Blackbear hesitated. His command of Elysian was fairly good by now. “I mean, visit the patients—talk with them, examine them. That way I’ll get a real feel for the disease; I might find some lost connections.”

“Oh, I see.” Pirin shuddered. “I suppose you could. Perhaps the ... Perhaps Tulle might arrange it. I’m not sure what good it would do. We’re working at the molecular level, after all. Excuse me, I have another experiment to attend to.”

Astonished, Blackbear watched the Elysian student depart, his talar hung precisely across his smooth unblemished back. At the Founders clinic, even the research specialists regularly toured their wards. But here, he had not seen a patient in months. For that matter, he had never seen a sick Elysian.

By the next morning, each mutant egg cell had cleaved successfully into two identical cells. The twin speckled ovals hugged together, each with its nucleus like a crystalline marble floating inside. Blackbear watched, feeling a peculiar sense of beauty and shame, as if it might be a sacrilege to watch the work of the Goddess unfold under such a battery of instruments.

The next few cell divisions would each require most of a day to complete. They could not be “sped up,” as in the simulator, so there was nothing to do but wait for development to proceed over the next several months. By the third month, most serious defects would likely have appeared.

In three months Raincloud would be on Urulan—unless they called it off after this latest freighter attack. Blackbear shuddered. It did him no good to have so much time on his hands to think about things.

He needed to see patients. It had been such a relief to see the last of them, yet now he longed for someone to reassure with a kind word, or bring comfort with the right dosage. He needed to feel like a doctor again. He might not yet know enough to convince Pirin, but he could not escape the conviction that any approach from his lab had to connect somehow with actual patients.

From outside came Sunflower’s delighted peals of laughter. The toybox must have come up with something new to entertain him.

Something tugged at Blackbear’s trouser leg. Startled, he drew back from the egg in its nanoplastic womb and looked quickly down. He half expected Blueskywind, who loved to lie on her tummy and tug at anyone within reach. But of course the baby was off with Raincloud, helping negotiate with the Sharers.

It was Tulle’s capuchin trying to stick her nose beneath the hem of his trouser leg. The capuchin found his trousers a source of amusement; somehow she always seemed to think they must hide a treat somewhere, like one of Tulle’s pockets. Blackbear scooped the animal up and sat her on his hand, showing her the newly divided egg. “See there, little devil,” he told her. “What do you think? You once looked like that, too.”

The capuchin scampered down as Tulle entered the lab. “I hear all your eggs took,” said Tulle.

“So far,” Blackbear agreed. “We had to reinject the servos on one of them, but now they’ve all reached the two-cell stage.”

“Great start,” said Tulle. “If I were you, though, I’d try a couple of gene replacements, too. I know Pirin likes point mutations, but if the servos make one mistake, you waste months of development.”

“I see. Well, I’ll set one up then; I certainly need to learn that technique, too.”

“Pirin tells me you’d like to look at the disease in human patients.”

“Well,” he said guardedly, “I thought it might be useful.”

“It’s a very good idea,” she said. “We need to broaden our approach. The machines don’t know everything. I’ll make us an appointment at the Palace of Health.”

The Palace of Health was not in Helicon. It was located inside a large disk-shaped satellite that orbited the planet. The satellite’s rotation generated near-normal g-force at its outer rim. As Blackbear entered from the shuttlecraft, with Tulle and Pirin and the children, the first thing they did, of course, was to meditate at the butterfly garden. Blackbear left the children off at the garden with Doggie, with a holocube in Hawktalon’s hand and strict instructions to keep in contact with Dad.

Finding the entrance within the upcurving tunnel of the ring’s outer rim was a bit of a puzzle. Even Tulle seemed to have trouble locating a door with her groping hand. Pirin, who took his role as senior student very seriously, had dutifully come along but he hung back now, as if hoping Tulle might not find the door.

“May we enter please?” Tulle spoke at last, giving up.

The palest outline of a doorway appeared, just a glimmer of light tracing its arch. Above the portal a faint inscription appeared, in fancy Elysian letters similar to the inscription above Science Park. With some difficulty Blackbear made it out; not “Hope Abandons,” as he first thought, but “Hope Follows All Who Enter Here.”

From the top of the arch a furrow deepened and extended down to the threshold, as if the double doors were about to open. Then a servo voice spoke. “You are expected, Citizens, but one of you has no psychiatric exam on file.”

“He’s a foreigner,” explained Tulle. “Foreigners don’t require the exam. They’re used to morbidity.”

A moment passed. “You are correct. Please report my defect to ...”

The doors parted, folds of nanoplast wrinkling along their inner edge. An attendant came to meet them, a blank-faced servo built somewhat like a waiter, wearing white instead of black. “This way, please,” the attendant spoke in the soothing tones of a shuttlecraft. “The first patient on your list inhabits a chamber with oxygen-enriched atmosphere. You will remain outside; however, if physical examination is required, I can assist.”

The patient’s chamber was located at an “upper” level, an inner ring of the satellite where the artificial g-force was so low that the visitors had to use handholds to steady themselves. They found themselves looking down at a sizable chamber of glass, within which a woman sat upon a floating cushion. From her shoulders a train of swallowtails drifted around her in a haphazard spiral. Arlen Papilishon was the name Blackbear had memorized from her file. The lowered g-force in her chamber was intended to reduce the strain on her heart, which had atrophied despite repeated transplants.

“Good morning, doctors.” From a speaker somewhere, Arlen’s firm voice replaced that of the hospital. “I hear the highest reports of you,” she added, for Pirin had dutifully called up the generenof each patient; few of them seemed to have mates. She rose from her seat and floated slowly upward toward them. Her eyes blinked rapidly, as if a sudden light irritated them. She was very thin, but appeared otherwise healthy and alert, her skin as smooth as Blueskywind’s.

The hospital told her, “You will be asked to undress for examination.”

“Undress? Now there’s something I haven’t been asked in a long time,” said Arlen ironically, “not by a human, at any rate.”

“I’d like to ask a few questions first,” said Blackbear. He could already see the obvious: the distended neck veins, the shortness of breath, and other symptoms typical of cardiomyopathy. “I’m Doctor Windclan; my mate will hear the highest reports. We’re researchers, you know, trying to cure and prevent your type of heart disorder.”

“Oh, you’re Doctor Windclan. I’ve already heard all about you, from Kal Anaeashon. He visits me every week.”

At that, all his questions flew out of his head. Flustered, he turned over a page in his notes, trying to avoid the eyes of his colleagues. “Uh, could you tell me, first off, how’s your digestion?” He asked what she thought of her diet, whether she slept well, whether she had chest pains. Beside her a beverage cup and a holocube gradually descended. As the patient answered his questions, a jumble of figures from her file passed through his head: her pulse rate was high, her heart chambers were atrophied and misshapen, her blood contained abnormal cardiac enzymes, and several of the thirty-six different classes of white cells were low. Blackbear relaxed and felt quite the physician again, while Tulle and Pirin stood by listening.

“Is there anything at all that bothers you,” Blackbear asked the woman, “aside from your heart? Any aches, joint stiffness, anything?”

“I ache to get out of here.” Her eyes blinked rapidly again.

A rush of recollection came over him, for how many patients on the chronic ward at Founders would have said the same. He regarded her with warm sympathy. “What about your eyes?” he asked. “Any vision problems?”

“No, but I will have if they keep the light this bright forever. I don’t know why the light’s so bright in here.”

The hospital told Blackbear, “The patient exhibits certain delusions; see her file.”

“Well you could still check her eyes out,” Blackbear replied.

“It will be done, Doctor.”

“A pleasure meeting you, Doctor Windclan,” Arlen called out to him. “Do stop by again, one of these decades. Or send your great-grandson, someday.” For generations she could float there in that near-weightless balloon.

When the exam was completed, the attendant led them away toward the next patient, catching the handholds one by one. For a minute or so, the three researchers were silent. Blackbear recalled Kal’s offer, to take him to visit the “defective” Elysians.

“That Kal,” said Pirin scornfully. “How like him, to prefer the dead to the living.”

“But that patient’s notdead,” Blackbear exclaimed. “With all your transplantation technology, why can’t she be cured?”

Pirin looked offended. “Nothing’s perfect.”

“You saw her file,” Tulle reminded him. “She’s had half a dozen transplants. They all go bad. Some regulator response is messed up, something outside the heart that acts upon it. That’s just what you’re trying to work put.”

“Where do all these transplanted organs come from?” he wondered. “You don’t seem to have all the transit crashes that we do back home.”

At that, Pirin gave him a very odd look indeed. “The organs come from simbrid embryos, of course.”

He froze in his tracks. So Elysians grew up those near-human fetuses for more than medical research. Human enough to transplant, but not enough to be born as infants.

Tulle paused, looking back to him.

“I was just wondering,” Blackbear said, as he walked on more slowly, “whatever would happen if one of those simbrids happened to be ‘born.’”

“That couldn’t happen,” said Pirin. “Anyway, it would only produce an indecent sort of animal.”

“It might be intelligent.”

Pirin laughed. “Intelligence isn’t everything. Servos are intelligent.”

Tulle considered this. Beyond her, the blank-faced attendant was about to introduce the next patient. “Society needs limits,” she said quietly. “We make sure the simbrids aren’t born, for the same reason we cleanse our servos.”

Chapter 10

The loss of the second Valan ship filled the news for over a week. Since no actual footage was available from this latest event, the news replayed old recordings of Imperial nuclear attacks on their provinces, in case anyone needed a reminder of Urulite savagery.

In a surprise appearance, Lord Zheron broadcast a speech across the Fold. Now elevated to the post of Imperial Grand Vizier, Zheron gave a remarkably frank account of the incident. “The Imperator had not the slightest intent to harm a single Valan barbarian on their stinking spy ship. Our regional commander of the Imperial Fleet was under orders only to follow the ship until it passed well beyond Imperial space territory. Unfortunately, a rogue ship of an enemy of the Imperium destroyed the Valan spy ship, intending to discredit His August Majesty the Imperator. The inhuman perpetrators of this treasonous deed will be eliminated! That is, brought to trial.”

Inside Verid’s office, the statement with its translation floated in bright letters above the table. Raincloud was pointing out the nuances. “An ‘enemy of the Imperium’ generally means a personal enemy of the Imperator,” she noted.

Lem nodded. “Not surprising, given all the claimants Rhaghlan had to eliminate. They must have hundreds of supporters still at large.”

The three of them reflected silently on the implications for stability of the new regime.

“Was it really a spy ship?” Lem asked.

Verid shrugged. “Any Valan ship passing so close to Urulite space probably carries a spy or two.”

“So what are the Valans going to do about it?”

“They’ve already demanded a session of the Fold Council to authorize a space blockade. This can be done by generating white holes at those jump stations essential for Urulite vessels to cross the Fold.”

Raincloud blinked. “But if Urulan is closed off, how will we be able to—”

Both Verid and Lem stared at her, hands raised. No one was to mention the Urulan trip, even in the security of Verid’s office.

“Of course it would make no practical difference,” Verid said loudly, “since no one in the Fold visits Urulan. Nonetheless, given our Elysian emphasis on the long-term view, we would prefer a more judicious response.” She waved a hand above the table, and the floating letters disappeared. “I think I’ll handle the Valan demands. A few minor Valan indiscretions might come to light; we save them for just such occasions. Now, about our friends at Kshiri-el. Any progress?”

With difficulty Raincloud shifted gears in her head. She had spent her last couple of days at Kshiri-el “negotiating” with Yshri, while studying Urulite documents all night; it was enough to make her head spin. “Mostly all Yshri wants to talk about is how people could lifeshape themselves for a new planet,” she summarized. “Then Ooruwen comes in and tells us it’s hopeless, and nothing but total abandonment of the project will do.” Ooruwen was just as capable of colorful language as Zheron. “I get the feeling there are as many opinions on this as there are Sharers.”

Verid grinned, and her shoulders shook as she chuckled. “I think you know our good sisters well. Still, it’s a shame that Leresha won’t come back to talk. She would have woven something together.”

Considering Leresha’s views, Raincloud thought that whatever she wove together would be unlikely to please the Elysians.

The Fold Council declined to block Urulan’s jump stations, but they called for monetary compensation. The figure demanded was high, and the vote passed by a large margin; only Elysium abstained, to the withering scorn of Valedon and other Fold members.

From Urulan, the demand met silence. Well deserved though it was, Raincloud suspected even a tenth that amount might be hard for the impoverished Imperium to come up with.

Over the next two months, Raincloud spent more and more of her Visiting Days inside the high-force satellite, training with Lem and Iras. With regular medical treatment, her muscles swelled to an alarming extent; her sleeves no longer fit, and she felt afraid to hug the children, lest she squeeze too hard.

“Enough of this,” she told Iras one day as they swung their arms before practice. “I know those Urulites grow biceps to rival Black Elbow, but any more will just block my movements.”

“I’ve noticed that.” Iras had grown her flesh a bit, too, although not so much as Lem, who had allowed his thighs and upper arms to expand until he looked almost gross.

“Let’s work on multiple attacks today,” said Raincloud. Even with her added muscle mass, an Urulite fighter could well outweigh her twice over, so the best she could do to simulate was to take on two at once. “We’ll start with an easy one. You both grab my arms from the front, aiming to pin me. I’ll respond with a hip pull, and you’ll both end up on your backs on the floor.”

Iras thought it over. “I see, a double ‘Falling Leaves.’”

Lem still looked skeptical, but the two of them stepped into position. Raincloud bent at the knees to lower her center of gravity and let her shoulders relax. This would take concentration; thank Goddess the two of them were good enough by now so that she no longer had to worry how they fell.

They sprang at her at once, each catching one of her forearms, which she had carefully turned down. She bent low, her hips moving back, while her arms swung theirs into alignment together. Then her torso thrust swiftly forward beneath the four arms; a pivot to the right propelled the arms back, still along their original path of momentum. The attackers’ bodies naturally followed their arms, rotating to fall on their backs on the mat. A resounding thud echoed through the practice room. Raincloud finished the move by twisting both their arms to the mat, taking care to keep them intertwined. The “leaves” had “fallen,” all right. For a moment there was silence, filled only by her heart pounding heavily inside.

“Great job,” said Raincloud enthusiastically. “You both fell just right. You really know what you’re doing now.”

“Do you think so?” Iras asked, as she got herself up and clapped the dust off her hands. “Will we put on a good show for our ... friends?”

Raincloud considered this. The Elysians had trained at an astonishing rate, to within two levels of the top form reached by a Clicker goddess, perhaps within one level in the case of Iras. Raincloud took care to avoid teaching Lem certain moves which only a goddess was supposed to know; it might make no difference here, but she was still traditional about some things. At any rate, she had little doubt that they could show their Urulite hosts a thing or two. “I think that ... Hyen’s friends will be impressed.”

To explain their activities to the public, Hyen had scheduled the three of them for a private exhibition at the Houristhe week after their secret trip. The sleazier news networks were already speculating.

The next month passed with little movement in Sharer negotiations, but in Helicon there were disquieting signs. The streets were not quite so clean as usual; in fact, they were marred by little tumbleweeds that seemed to have come from nowhere. The tumbleweeds rarely grew larger than one’s fist, but their tough interlocked branches caught in trains and in hair, and they clogged even the streetcleaners.

“They multiply faster than the cleaners can be unclogged,” Iras told Raincloud. “At this rate, they’ll smother the butterfly gardens. Let’s hope Verid does something.”

Raincloud was surprised. “What’s Verid got to do with it?”

“Why, it’s a ‘gift’ from the Sharers, of course. Just like the fruit flies—their classic tactic.”

“Yshri wouldn’t do such a thing.” But even as she spoke, Raincloud knew that Iras was right. Enough Sharers on other rafts were still mad at Helicon. The “negotiations” were useless without their support.

At home, Blueskywind could creep across the floor with surprising speed, especially when she caught sight of her favorite rubber squid. The squid was a gift from Draeg, a typical tourist toy from Shora. It was just the right size for her to stuff it between her gums, mouthing it all over, limbs and all.

Awake now most of the day, the baby babbled incessantly, long “Ah-ahs” and trills. Once she caught on to the “click” sound of the Clicker language, it caught her fancy for some reason, more than it had for her siblings. She practiced the click and exaggerated it, with Hawktalon’s encouragement, until it became a loud “Pop!” as she pulled her tongue out from the palate under pressure. When put down to nap, she would “pop” noisily to amuse herself until at last she fell asleep—much to her parents’ relief.

From Bronze Sky Nightstorm wrote that Falcon Soaring had her baby; that is, Raincloud’s sister Lynxtail had given birth two months before, and by ritual of the Goddess had transferred the child to her cousin. The news reopened a wound, leaving Raincloud depressed. Blackbear worried more about the fire season. The fires were lasting longer than usual, in an exceptionally dry year, and had already claimed half of Tumbling Rock. His own brothers’ village kept a nightly watch, just in case the fire burned their way and they would have to flee to Crater Lake.

Snake Day came again, just one Bronze Skyan year since they arrived in Helicon. Hawktalon dressed up the Goddess figure in paper snakes, and, much to her delight, Raincloud had actually borrowed a real live blacksnake from Tulle’s preserve. It must have fed not long before; it hung itself torpidly along the black glazed arms, flicking its tongue now and then.

The trip to Urulan, disguised as a staff retreat, was less than a week off now, unnervingly near. Blackbear gave her one of his dark looks. “You’re still going?”

Raincloud clenched her hands. “I can hardly dishonor the Snake.” Since the latest freighter “accident,” Blackbear was dead set against her going; the fact that they could not discuss Urulan directly only made things worse.

Verid called her in for one last review of their protocols and their negotiating plan. The two conferred on a ship in the outskirts of the solar system, where security could be maximized.

“The opening script is clear,” Verid reminded her. “Zheron expects you to fight the Imperial Champion ‘to the death.’ I tried to get this part waived, but he insisted on it.”

“I understand.” The Elysians would not have to risk their millennial bodies. “At least it’s not the Imperator himself; since he’s a ‘god,’ I would have to lose.”

“The ship will have full medical facilities. But don’t push it, by Helix; I’ll need you afterward in one piece!”

She smiled ruefully. “I’ll do my best.”

“Keep in mind,” Verid said, “our main aim is to find out what they want, what they think they need, to make peace with the Fold.”

“And commit them to disarmament.”

“If possible; we’ll see how much we can do in one visit. Remember, this encounter will be a big shock to the common Urulites. To face something as big as the Fold—bigger than their gods.”

Raincloud had some idea what that meant. She recalled Nightstorm’s remarks about “chromosomes.”

“The young Imperator is the key to everything,” Verid added. “He has to want to work with us.”

She nodded. “Rhaghlan wants peace and trade, and even democracy someday. He will liberate women and slaves.”

“He opposes abortion, though,” Verid added. “He gave a whole speech about that. Are you sure he meant ‘abortion’? Our previous translators would have rendered that ‘baby-killing.’”

“Urulites do not distinguish between the two,” Raincloud explained. “If a man’s wife conceives a child whom he can’t support, or if he doubts its paternity, he may order it terminated before birth, or after birth he may hold it under water, to preserve his honor. Since females have no honor, they are not permitted to do this.”

Verid thought a moment. “So for Rhaghlan to oppose ‘baby-killing’ is rather enlightened.”

“I wish all his views were so enlightened. He remains rather obsessed with ‘pure blood,’” Raincloud pointed out. “There are reports that he has imprisoned and possibly executed people for questioning his own godly descent.”

“That’s unfortunate, but not surprising,” Verid said. “His mother, though a lady of high rank, was not a queen; his enemies are bound to exploit it.”

For some minutes the two fell silent. They had gone over everything so many times.

“Raincloud, I want you to leave the baby home.”

She stared, for a moment breathless at this sudden turn. “We had that settled,” she exclaimed. “I told you, I can’t let her go without nursing. You said she could come, so long as she stays with Iras while I’m on duty.” Iras’s nominal role on the trip was to “introduce” Verid, as her mate; on the side, Raincloud figured, she would scout out business prospects.

“I know,” Verid said, “but I’ve had second thoughts about nonprofessional participants. This Imperator may mean well, but he can’t guarantee our safety.”

“Only Elysians would expect that,” said Raincloud with frank disgust. “The baby goes where I go.”

“Your mate feels differently.”

At that Raincloud was too enraged for words. How dared Verid spy on her at home with Blackbear. She took a deep breath. “Your own mate disagrees with you,” she said coldly. “Yet she’scoming.”

Verid looked away. “Iras will stay home, if your baby does.”

Now Raincloud understood. Verid feared for Iras, too. “Let Iras stay home, and live a thousand years. My daughter has her honor to think of.”

Chapter 11

The spaceship had the same close-fit quarters as the ship that had carried the Windclans out from Bronze Sky. Raincloud could scarcely escape the sense that she was heading home, instead of toward the dreaded Urulan. “Little Lushaywen,” she whispered in Sharer to her wide-eyed child. “How could I ever have imagined then what sort of journey we’d share now?”

The baby felt heavy in her arms, for the ship had already set its gravity to Urulite standard. The extra acceleration would speed their journey, too, though it made little difference nowadays. From the travelers’ perspective, their trip would take barely a day, mostly at near-lightspeed, with a jump station every hour or so. Back at Shora, over a week would elapse; then another week, after their three-day stay. Of course she could not have left the baby so long.

Still, better a week than twenty years. The Heliconians long ago had discovered that this lobe of the galaxy, called the Fold, was multiply folded on top of itself in one of its twenty-three dimensions, rather like a scarf folded up in a pocket. A jump station was a place where sufficient energy was concentrated to poke a hole across the fold, like a needle poking through a fold of the scarf. Today modern ships could thread in and out of the jump stations, taking shortcuts all the way to Solaria, a world on the farthest edge of the Fold.

“Last chance for second thoughts, Citizens,” Verid announced as they reached their final jump station.

Lem laughed. “Wasn’t this the one the Valans tried to shut down?”

Raincloud frowned at the heavy-handed jest. Then she turned her baby over to the nana for a diaper change.

The jump station appeared as an elliptical shape, absolutely black against the stars. Once the ship entered, it would start to spin at an exceptional rate, and the interior would experience high g-forces. So, as usual, all passengers reported to the central axis of the ship where they would strap down in order to pass through safely. Raincloud strapped her baby down, too; a bit of a trick in the near-weightless condition, but after all her travels she had grown accustomed to the straps and buckles floating off unpredictably, and the sense of confusion in her inner ears. She settled back calmly and stretched. A holostage was situated conveniently to provide what passed for Elysian entertainment.

The transition began smoothly enough. As the pressure increased, like a hand pushing her back, she took deep, regular breaths. The pressure gradually reached its maximum, about three or four g’s she guessed.

But instead of declining, the pressure rose again. The hand on her chest was now a lead blanket grinding her cruelly into the cushions that were supposed to protect her. She strained for air and tried to cry out for her child, but no sound escaped. An oxygen mask came over her face; that was the last she remembered.

When she revived, she ached in every muscle. Servo medics hovered over her and the other passengers, whisking tubes and sniffers here and there. Blueskywind was screaming at the top of her lungs, probably because she felt as sore as her mother did. Raincloud tried to calm her down enough to nurse. That jump was a bad one.

“Emergency alert, Citizens.” The ship itself was one great servo, which piloted itself without human assistance. “This jump station has not been well maintained; a gravitational anomaly stressed our equipment on passing through. The craft has sustained significant damage.”

The passengers exchanged looks. Iras caught Raincloud’s sleeve to reassure her.

Verid asked, “Will we be able to get back out again after our mission?”

“I can’t say for sure,” the ship told her. “I will run all necessary checks.”

“Good,” Verid snapped. “Inform me as soon as possible, please.”

Lem was no longer laughing. “Those primitive bastards,” he muttered. “They can’t even keep up their jump stations.”

“Well what do you expect, with the Fold boycott against them?” asked Raincloud.

“Exactly,” Verid agreed. “It’s a wonder they keep up anything at all.”

Iras was watching the viewscreen. Her lips parted, and she pointed at a small yellow disk that stood out against the field of stars. “Is that ... ?”

“That is Urulan’s sun,” the ship confirmed. “One point two standard mass, spectral range—”

“Very well,” Verid interrupted. “Any contact from our host yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Satellites out?”

“The satellites have been launched, Citizen.” The spy satellites were to be released immediately to count Urulan’s missiles—before Zheron or anyone else might change his mind. “Warning,” the ship added, “my sensors already detect traces of radionuclear debris. If these emanate from the planet Urulan, my calculations suggest you will all require cancer prophylaxis.”

“Great Helix,” muttered Lem. “We’re visiting a graveyard.”

“Contact!” called the ship. “An approaching vessel requests immediate contact—”

“Granted,” Verid quickly replied.

Before the viewscreen, the holostage filled with light. An image wove in and out, then settled at last.

It was Lord Zheron, as big as life. The burly oversized dwarf of a man had changed little; his blue tunic was layered over with chain mail, and weapons of every description bristled from his belt. He slapped his leg emphatically. “Lord Raincloud! You owe me one,” he reminded her. “I’m onto your tricks; you won’t get me outside the ring again.”

Verid cleared her throat. “Grand Vizier,” she greeted him carefully. “It is an honor to meet you once more.”

“His Majesty the Imperator awaits you. Prepare ships for docking.”

A phalanx of octopods emerged from the back of the Elysian ship, mainly to impress the natives, Raincloud thought. Zheron could easily obliterate their ship if he chose. As the two ships locked on, the nana came back with Blueskywind.

Raincloud turned to Iras.

“I’ll take good care of her.” Iras had some knack with babies, after her years with Verid at the shon. Meanwhile, Raincloud figured that since she herself was the designated “male” for this trip, she had best leave the little one to others at least until after their royal introductions. What a sight one of those Urulites would make if he suddenly found himself in Tumbling Rock—childless, and bristling with silly pointed things. How the goddesses would laugh and speculate as to why he needed more than one.

Zheron’s soldiers soon boarded, all of them about Elysian height yet twice as wide, their eyes bright blue, their hair straight and sand-colored. Zheron himself and his weapons master, Lord Dhesra, now the Imperial Master Armorer, both clapped her on the shoulder and exclaimed at how long ago they had last seen her. Raincloud recalled Dhesra’s frank remarks on what ought to become of certain Imperial retainers.

The soldiers’ search of the vessel took longer than expected, in part because they seemed intensely curious about even the most mundane details of the Elysian ship, down to the little cleaner servos that scurried out to wipe the dust from their shoes. The men smelled as if they could use a cleaning, too. At any rate, Raincloud took the chance to sneak in one more nursing of the baby before she fell asleep. Caressing Blueskywind’s forehead one last time, she handed her over to Iras. The three of them rejoined Verid and Lem as they transferred to Zheron’s ship, leaving their own ship to park above Urulan’s equator.

The Urulite interior reeked of must and machine oil, and other smells best left unidentified. The floor hummed unnervingly underfoot. The bridge was full of manual switches and packed with men slamming controls and shouting back at the instruments when they disliked the response. Nonetheless, Zheron was immensely proud of his vessel, and he insisted on giving the Elysians a full tour, thumping the back of each crew member as he announced his job. Raincloud caught a glimpse of Lem’s face, rather pale; she suspected he felt sick.

By the time they reached the viewscreen, Urulan itself was in view: a lovely orb with patches of continent and ocean free of cloud, like Valedon, only greener. The Elysians transferred to a shuttle and descended through the atmosphere, a greenish sky gathering above them.

Below rose the famous “needle rocks” of Urulan. The dark brown mountains jutted spectacularly out of a dense green ground cover, casting shadows for several kilometers. Even though she had known intellectually what to expect, Raincloud’s heart pounded harder the nearer they came.

All the while they descended, she translated for Zheron as he held forth on the past two millennia of Imperial history, starting with the birth of the first Imperator to the gods Azhragh and Mirhiah. Most of the history was familiar to Raincloud from her studies with Rhun; the few unfamiliar details she suspected were made up for the occasion. The shuttle was even more cramped than the spaceship had been, and as Zheron gesticulated, his arm occasionally brushed the chain mail of the pilot, who was doing his best to bring them in for a safe landing.

Suddenly Zheron flung out his arm toward the window. “Look there, below—a ‘caterpillar.’ You’ve heard, yes? One of our native fauna welcomes you to Urulan!”

Raincloud looked. A dense canopy of foliage could be seen, and she could just make out something moving.

Zheron pounded the pilot on the back. “Give them a closer look, will you?”

The shuttle dipped and swayed. Raincloud felt her stomach float up toward her lungs; she swallowed hard and gripped her armrests. The ground expanded and loomed upward toward them, until individual trees could be made out.

There it was, a “caterpillar,” a monster like two elephants back-to-back with seven pairs of limbs in all. As if on purpose, its front two limbs happened to lift up just then, giving a full view of the caterpillar’s mandibles; for a moment the shuttle seemed about to fall into them. Then the craft zoomed upward, tugging at her seat until it leveled off once more in the relative safety of the sky.

Raincloud took a deep breath. Reaching over, she gently caressed a black curl on the forehead of her daughter, sound asleep on Iras’s shoulder. Behind her Lem’s pale face had turned green.

The Imperial City of Azure arose upon a cluster of the needle rocks, linked together by delicate arched bridges that traced pale blue against the clear sky. The palace buildings consisted of round turrets with ledges that wound upward around them, like spiral ramps. Gold leaf lined the edges which caught the sunlight, winking in and out.

Below the city, farmlands descended in terraces, ending abruptly at a stone wall that traversed the girth of each needle rock. Only the surface of each needle rock had been treated for human agriculture. Eyeing those few precious bits of soil on slopes so steep even Clickers would hesitate to till, Raincloud guessed that Urulites might well wonder where their next meal would come from, for all the gold on their palaces.

The shuttle landed with surprising grace; that pilot must have known his business after all. An icy wind whipped across the grass, enough to make her welcome her goatskin jacket. Two columns of guards saluted them with horns. The guards rode Urulite llamas, sleepy-eyed beasts with long necks and elephantine legs, specially bred to withstand high gravity. A cart drawn by llamas drove up to bear the visitors to the Central Palace. The road was steep and full of cracked flagstones. The beasts’ performance impressed Raincloud. She could use some of that stock in her fields back in Tumbling Rock.

When they reached the Central Palace, no one needed to be told. The structure was hard to believe, despite all the images Raincloud had seen. Gold covered all the outer wall and spiral ledge, with countless figures of the gods worked in bas-relief, inlaid with turquoise. Raincloud blinked and had to look away as the reflected sunlight hit her eyes. Only as the visitors approached closer could she see that some of the gold leaf was flaking off without replacement, and that ominous pockmarks marred the wall.

The carts stopped. Dhesra muttered, “This guard will show you to the ladies’ quarter.”

Taking her cue, Iras stepped out with the baby, an octopod behind her. Raincloud anxiously watched them disappear behind the Palace.

An enormous pair of double doors swung back, on hinges thicker than Raincloud’s arm. As they dismounted from their cart with their octopods, Verid and Lem unfolded their trains, shortened to avoid need of trainsweeps. Zheron and Dhesra led them all into the Hall of the Azure Throne.

Zheron’s demeanor underwent a marked change, Raincloud noticed. He seemed tense as a drawn bow, his eyes turning back and forth as if alert to the slightest deviation from protocol. Footsteps echoed on the marble floor as they strode forward between the lines of warriors. At either side of the hall rose columns covered with ornate decoration. She noticed, though, that some of the corners could have used a good cleaning, and that fissures and discolorations marked the floor.

They crossed the hall, nearing the black edge of the traditional Ring of Death. Behind the ring stood the Azure Throne, pale blue stone with golden symbols full of countless ancient meanings. Vessels of incense at either side released exotic odors. Beyond the throne rose richly patterned curtains; Raincloud guessed that the higher ranked ladies of the court waited behind.

A salute of drums and horns announced the pending entrance of the Imperator. At this point, visitors normally were supposed to bow low to the ground until the royal personage took his seat. The Elysians had debated for hours whether or not to do so, given the democratic principles of the Fold in general and Elysium in particular. At last they had settled on a limited bow from the waist, approximating the Elysian gesture of respect; Zheron had assented, observing with irritation that if Elysians all had bad backs, he would have to make allowances.

So Raincloud bowed, while Verid and Lem beside her did the same. Then she looked up.

In the throne sat a man who looked just like her old teacher Rhun. There was no mistaking the thin lips, the huge dark brow, the forehead sloping up into coarse black hair. Imperator Rhaghlan was a sim.

Raincloud froze as she stared. For a moment time seemed to stand still. Rhun—and yet not Rhun, of course, not the ghost from her past. A sim nonetheless; by the Goddess, how did he manage to keep the throne? No wonder that devil Zheron had blustered about blood.

She caught herself, hoping her shock had not registered. Of course, she was an idiot, for Zheron had warned them in his own inimitable way.

Beside her Verid and Lem kept admirable composure. Some sort of announcement was being made, which she hurried to interpret for them. Just how many Urulites had simian blood in their veins ...

“In the name of the Urulite Imperium,” Lord Dhesra was saying, “the Imperial Champion challenges the barbarian Lord Raincloud to fight to the death!”

A giant of a man entered the marble Ring of Death. Tall even by Bronze Skyan standards, his girth was like that of a tree trunk. There was no trace of sim in him. His back was erect, his face round, and his eyes blue as twin moons.

“Choose your weapons, Barbarian Lord,” added Dhesra.

Raincloud exchanged a quick look with Verid. Verid’s eyes were impassive. She replied, her voice reverberating strangely in the vast hall. “In the name of the peacefulpeople of Elysium, I ask for spirit only.”

Soldiers muttered at this, and one of them banged his spear on the floor as if to object. It occurred to her, these men might never before have heard the name Elysium in the context of peace. Still, their leaders ought to have prepared them better. It was hardly a good sign.

The Champion merely nodded and handed his own sword and particle blaster to an attendant. Raincloud swiftly sized him up. Perhaps three times her weight, he left little room for error. One swipe of his arm might be enough to clear her across the line—and marble was not a nice place to fall. For once she longed for the infuriating Elysian servo medics.

On the other hand, this fellow could hardly change direction once he got moving. That was the key to rei-gi, if only she could get him pointed the right way.

She stepped forward easily, her arms swinging lightly, as if she were inattentive. In fact she watched the man closely, trying to see where he flexed his limbs in response. He did not move much; he did not try to make her circle back, as Zheron had cleverly done. She drew closer, just outside his reach, she estimated. He would have to make the first move, but he seemed in no hurry to do so. Why should he, when any move she made would merely bounce off him?

A sword clanged loudly, off to her left. Raincloud turned her head, as if distracted; in fact, her peripheral vision was well trained.

The man fell for it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his fist coming, nearly the size of her head. With her right foot she stepped forward to meet him, then pivoted aside, precisely as the fist swept past her, brushing the back of her shirt. He stumbled heavily beyond her, his feet thudding on the floor.

The hall filled with laughter and uncomplimentary noises. Raincloud was satisfied; his reflexes seemed no better than she had guessed, but he might not have tried too hard. She watched him return to face her, his features somewhat hardened now. Perhaps he might actually get mad; that would help.

Wiping his hand beneath his chin, the man suddenly hurtled toward her again, much faster than before. Again Raincloud evaded him, just in time, using a slightly different maneuver; it was unwise to try the same one twice, although those unfamiliar with rei-girarely caught on. But this time, her opponent knew enough to check himself and turn about sharply. To escape him, Raincloud had to leap backward, nearing the danger zone of the ring. The onlookers cheered.

The man took a step toward her, then another, keeping his weight low. Now at last he got the idea that Zheron had before, that he could maneuver her step by step toward the ring. This left Raincloud the dangerous alternative of letting him close enough to reach her again, perhaps even grab her arm. If he did, she would try “Falling Leaves.”

But as she deliberated, her opponent lost patience. His enormous arm slashed toward her left shoulder, as if to wipe her out once and for all.

Raincloud saw immediately that this time the man’s momentum would serve her well. Stepping forward with her right foot, she raised her left arm to meet his, crossing his wrist from the inside. With both hands she caught his leading arm, deflecting it downward in a circle. To complete the circle, she pivoted to the right, his own arm continuing to circle overhead. “Round the Mountain” he went.

As she completed her turn, a heavy crack echoed from the hall, and beneath her feet the floor vibrated, like an earthquake. Surprised, she dropped the man’s arm where he lay on his back, instead of immobilizing him as she generally would have done. Her mind flew instinctively to the exit; if this were an earthquake, how many seconds would she have, and how many children could she scoop up on her way out?

The Champion had taken a bad fall on his head. He drew himself up, slightly stunned. In the floor beneath him, jagged cracks radiated out from the spot where his skull had cracked the marble.

“The gods have spoken.” A voice called from the throne. The Imperator raised his arm. “The earth itself opens, and the gods of the earth call up to us. It’s a sign: Our contest is done, with honor for all. Let this event mark the reign of peace for our time, and for generations to come.”

All the warriors fell silent, like children when the Clanmother speaks. The Champion turned to Raincloud and bowed; she did likewise, careful to match his angle precisely. But her mind spun around the enigma of this Rhaghlan: the simian like her teacher; the liberal Imperator, proclaiming peace; and still, the murderer of his three brother princes.

Chapter 12

Raincloud enjoyed a brief reunion with her baby, while Iras formally “introduced” Verid to the Imperator, as well as Lem in lieu of his mate; the Elysian rituals were much modified for this occasion. Then came the banquet in the guests’ honor. Raincloud returned to translate for Verid and Lem, while Rhaghlan sat across from them. Zheron hovered intently at Rhaghlan’s side, like a coach, Raincloud thought. The young Imperator actually looked older than she had expected, at least as old as herself; but then, sims tended to age early.

“I believe we shall see a golden age for Urulan,” Rhaghlan was saying. “Already I have removed several impediments to freedom for sims. I have bestowed upon sims the right to own property, as well as the right to testify in court, except against their own masters.” Beside him Zheron and Dhesra nodded approvingly, their fair blue-eyed faces a sharp contrast to their simian leader.

Raincloud had figured out that only enslaved sims were referred to as such; the partial simian status of a free person was not acknowledged, at least in public. She began to wonder how many other Urulites might have a sim ancestor, back a generation or two. Now that she looked, she had noticed several sloping foreheads and pushed-in noses among the warriors. Rhaghlan himself must be at least an eighth gorilla, if not a quarter. As for his mother ...

“Your people have made impressive strides,” Verid agreed, raising her goblet of wine. “You understand, of course, that full membership in the Fold requires full rights of citizenship for all the world’s inhabitants.”

A servant approached Rhaghlan from behind with a folded piece of paper. Rhaghlan took the note in his thick fingers and opened it. He read it, then sketched a brief reply. The servant took the reply and withdrew to disappear behind the curtain which separated the ladies. Raincloud watched with great curiosity. She could not help wondering to herself why the goddesses put up with such treatment, and how their men ever managed to rule themselves.

“And of course, full rights must extend to the females, as well,” Rhaghlan added. “That may take longer, as females lack the capacity for warrior’s honor, an essential basis for citizenship. Nevertheless, all things are possible.”

Raincloud translated, wondering whether the irony of it could be completely lost to them.

“Many things are possible,” Verid agreed. “Economic assistance may help in surprising ways. Of course, all trade with Fold worlds requires a treaty of peace, and renunciation of interstellar missiles.”

At her shoulder, a servant offered more roast lamb. Raincloud shook her head; the meat was delicious, but full of so much spice that her throat burned. She gulped some water in between translations.

“We, too, have conditions for trade,” Rhaghlan told her. “We have abolished all fetal experimentation and related evil practices which only lead to enslavement and cultural decadence. I have issued a family protection decree which holds that all infant life is sacred, from conception through birth and beyond. We expect all our trading partners to uphold this standard.”

“An excellent standard,” Verid assured him after Raincloud’s translation. “Of course we Elysians have always held all viable human life sacred.”

Raincloud started to translate, until she reached the word “viable”—which for Elysians meant, “immune to senescence.” There was no honest equivalent in Urulite. She stumbled and coughed, reaching again for her water glass. “All human life is sacred,” she muttered in conclusion, averting her eyes.

Shortly afterward the Imperator excused himself to attend to other affairs of state. Verid left as well for her guest quarters, pleading exhaustion from the trip. In fact, Raincloud knew she planned to make secret contact with the ship and its satellites for preliminary count of the missiles.

With their leader gone, the Urulites visibly relaxed. A musician appeared, hauling an instrument that consisted of five rows of bells of varying sizes. When struck, the bells sang a lovely melody, eerie yet beautiful.

Lem turned to Zheron. “Your Imperator made a magnificent gesture this afternoon. His courage and vision impressed us.”

Dhesra frowned and made a fist on the table. “I don’t like it,” he exclaimed. “The duel of death is sacred to the gods. Too many traditions are crumbling, too fast.”

“But he invoked the gods,” Zheron insisted. “Rhaghlan isthe god, don’t you forget it. Besides,” he added shrewdly, “we’d only look worse if our guest had won.”

“Why must all the females have warrior’s honor, too?” Dhesra added. “Whatever has that got to do with peace and trade, can you tell me that? It’s fine for barbarians, but our females are our own business. My own woman’s hard enough to manage already.”

Zheron laughed and pounded Dhesra’s arm. “You don’t beat her enough, that’s why.”

The servant brought another note from behind the curtain, which Zheron read. “The Imperial Queen Mother calls. She reminds me, it’s her turn for Raincloud.”

So it was time to switch genders again. “Might I see Iras, first?” Raincloud asked. She really wanted the baby; her breasts were getting full.

“As you wish.”

Dhesra rose from the table and motioned her to follow. He led her to a different curtain, before a side room.

The curtain parted, and a female servant appeared in a black hooded robe. A plain white mask which she held up by a long wooden handle covered her face. She led Raincloud through the curtain, leaving Dhesra outside in the men’s section.

Iras sat on a reclining couch off to the right, unmistakable in her talar of butterflies. She was surrounded by ladies in robes of brightly colored velvet with jewels ornamenting their hoods and masks. In the absence of men, the ladies relaxed and let down their masks now and then; they seemed to do double duty as fans.

To Raincloud’s relief, she caught sight of Blueskywind being passed around. The baby seemed to enjoy the attention well enough; but as soon as she saw her mother, she let out a wail and made sucking motions with her mouth.

The masked faces all turned toward Raincloud.

“There’s the mother, all right,” observed one. “Hurry up, feed her!”

“She’s had food earlier,” Iras assured Raincloud. “She loves pureed pickles.”

“Yes, but that’s not enough. Go on,” the Urulite insisted.

Raincloud said hesitantly, “If you’re sure it’s all right...”

Blueskywind wailed again and struggled in the lady’s arms. Raincloud took her and sat down, opening her breast flap just enough for the baby to reach. The baby nursed immediately, relaxing in Raincloud’s arms.

One of the Urulite ladies sighed in amazement. “She really is a female, after all.”

“Maybe that’swhat the Champion really needed this afternoon.”

Shrieks of laughter followed, and the masks tilted in every direction as the ladies shared their amusement. Then the laughter died, and the ladies rose to their feet.

A newcomer approached the group. She wore a robe of crimson, and a gold tiara pinned her hood down upon her head.

Iras arose, with her Elysian instinct for introductions. “Her Imperial Highness the Queen Mother Bhera,” she announced. “May I introduce, uh, Raincloud Windclan,” she added, prudently avoiding any gendered titles.

“So I hear.” Queen Mother Bhera spoke in a slurred tone, as if she had a speech impediment. A common problem for sims; even Rhun had had had a touch of it. She lifted a white-gloved hand.

Without a word the rest of the ladies got up and seemed to glide out of the room, their shoes barely visible beneath their robes. Raincloud eyed them incredulously. She had never seen such a subservient group of goddesses in all her life.

A servant came forward to help the Queen Mother into a chair. She must be in pain, Raincloud realized; her back was hunched, and she moved stiffly.

Iras touched Raincloud’s sleeve. “If you can manage, I’ll retire now.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” the Queen Mother commanded Raincloud as she nursed. “Take your time.” The servant poured her a cup of hot liquid, which she handled awkwardly in her gloved hands.

Meanwhile Blueskywind was finishing her feeding; it only took a minute or two, now that her diet had diversified. She smiled broadly at her mother’s face and reached up to play with her braids.

The Queen Mother leaned over curiously to inspect the child. Blueskywind returned the stare, momentarily transfixed by the sight of the jeweled mask. Then she put her tongue to her palate and produced a loud “Pop!”

At that the Queen Mother sat up sharply, as if startled. “Extraordinary!” she exclaimed. “A most extraordinary child.”

“Thank you, Queen Mother,” said Raincloud.

“Bhera, please.” Bhera sipped from her cup. Long seconds passed; from outside the curtain came deep shouts of laughter, mingling with the tones of the musical bells. “Now my dear, I’d like you to tell me all you’ve discussed with my son. I want to make sure he didn’t miss any important point.”

This put Raincloud in an awkward position. At no time had Zheron or anyone else said a word about the Queen Mother’s role in negotiations. “The Imperator was thoroughly attentive, I’m certain.”

“Yes, but you and I know that men have little ways of ‘forgetfulness’ about certain kinds of important points—especially those regarding women. Did he ask you what we need to do to liberate our women? Well, did he?”

“The subject arose,” Raincloud said carefully. “We discussed the need for a democratic constitution.”

“A democracy!” Bhera exclaimed. “For those—that gaggle of geese?” she added, pointing in the direction the ladies had departed. “They wouldn’t know what to do with a democracy if you put one in their laps. Yes, democracy, eventually; but how to get there in one piece?” She tilted her head to one side. “You come from a free world, a frontier world not unlike our own. You are a free female. What do you think? What would be the most important first step we could take toward freedom?”

Just about any step would be an improvement, Raincloud thought. “Get rid of your masks,” she proposed. “That would be a big step forward.”

“Do you think so?” For a moment Bhera considered. Then she let her own mask fall to one side.

The face was that of the old “grandmother” Raincloud had seen in Tulle’s preserve. Of course, there was a human look in her, too, in the eyes, and the nose projected forward a bit. But she had at least as much Homo gorillain her as Homo sapiens.

“I thought as much,” Bhera said, astutely reading Raincloud’s response. “You see, in our present condition, there are distinct advantages to the mask. A strong spirit may bear herself such that others forget her looks. Don’t think I’m the only one, either. Many a sim daughter escapes bondage behind the mask. My departed lord had curious taste in women—and the mask helped him indulge that taste.” She replaced the mask. “Ah well, it’s a puzzle. As the Fool used to say, we all must find our own liberation; no one can do it for us.” Then she pointed an accusing finger. “Besides, you Elysians aren’t quite so liberated yourselves. You experiment on unborn gorillas—and even sims! Isn’t it so?”

A sticky point, all right. “I’m not prepared to discuss that. You’ll have to ask the Subguardian—”

“Not prepared, indeed.” Bhera’s voice was thick with disgust.

“You must remember, Lady Bhera, that Elysians bear no children of their own. They depend on artificial reproduction, and the technology requires research for maintenance.”

“Elysians bear no children of their own,” she repeated, stressing every syllable. “Nor nurse them, I suppose.” She leaned her face closer, as if to get a better look at Raincloud. “You’re not just the only man among them—you’re their only woman, as well.”

While Raincloud digested this pronouncement, Bhera sat back again and seemed to remember something. “Of course, you’re not Elysian. Why are you here?”

For a moment Raincloud hesitated, tempted to tell her own reason. “It’s my job,” she answered safely. “I’m an interpreter.”

“Clearly,” Bhera replied. “But why yourself? Why a Bronze Skyan, not an Elysian, on such a delicate mission?”

“Knowledge of Urulan is rather scarce in the Fold,” Raincloud pointed out, “since your world’s been closed off. I had rare qualifications; I’m one of a handful of people in the Fold to have studied with an Urulite native.”

“Really. How did you manage that?”

She hesitated. What could it matter, years after his death? “He taught at Founders University. He was an émigré.” Actually, she realized, Bhera might appreciate the truth. “He was an escaped slave; a sim.”

Bhera shuddered and drew closer. “Who was he?” she demanded, her voice suddenly intense. “What was his name?”

“He had no clan; he was called simply Rhun.”

“Rhun!Not Rhun the Fool! It can’t be so.”

“Why yes, so he called himself,” said Raincloud wonderingly. “You knew him?”

“He taught my son.” Her son, the future Imperator. “Rhun was the Imperial Pedagogue; he supervised the teaching of all the Palace children. He took a special liking to Rhaghlan, and gave him extra lessons. He put in a good word for him with the Imperial father, who gave the boy extra guards and retainers. In the long run, I believe it saved his life.”

Raincloud’s head was spinning to take this all in. Old Rhun had tutored the Imperial children; and he never breathed a word, all those years.

“He called himself ‘Fool’ for safety, I believe, to let the lords think he was a harmless old scholar. But he knew what he was about. He escaped when Rhaghlan was twelve.” Bhera slowly shook her head. “All those years we never knew what became of him ... But you. You say you studied with him.”

“I studied language and philosophy.”

“Where is he now?”

“He died of heart failure, three years ago.” Actually four, now. It still seemed like yesterday, the morning she had walked into his office and found him there, slumped over his desk. Beneath him lay The Web, open to the middle of Part Three. Raincloud was convinced he had done that on purpose, when the pains came on and he knew his time was near.

Bhera was silent for some minutes. “A great loss. But you studied with him, too,” she added reflectively. She glanced at the child, now asleep breathing noisily in Raincloud’s arms. “A pity you’re spoken for. You would have made a good second queen.”

The black-haired simian form of Imperator Rhaghlan came to mind, intelligent and virile. She thought, he would have made a good second consort.

When Raincloud at last arrived at the guest house, Verid and Lem were engaged in heated debate, under electronic protection. She hoped Urulite listening technique was as primitive as Verid supposed. “It can’t be,” Lem was saying. “They must be cloaked somehow. There can’t be nomissiles at all.”

“I tell you, that’s it,” Verid insisted. “You can’t hide the gravity anomalies around white hole generators—there’s just no way.”

“No way that you know of,” Lem insisted. “The Valans might have the know-how. Maybe they sold it to the Urulites, back when they were friends.”

“Three centuries back? Be serious.”

Raincloud put in, “What about the radionuclear traces we detected?”

Lem gave her an impatient look. “Of course, Urulan does have short-range nuclear warheads. Those do plenty of damage locally. But if they haven’t got missiles able to jump the Fold—why they’re no strategic threat at all.”

“That’s just my point,” Verid emphasized. “Intentionally or not, the Valans have overstated their intelligence data.”

“And we believed it. What fools we’ve been.”

There was a short silence.

“It sounds like good news to me,” suggested Raincloud.

“The sim stuff is bad news,” said Lem. “If these Urulites really all turn out to be part sim—by Helix, how could this be?”

“It makes sense, when you think of it,” Verid explained. “You start out with a slave, a half-breed perhaps. The most valuable slave offspring on the market would be those with more human character, probably sired by their master. After a couple of generations, they might pass for human—especially if they’re female, behind a mask all the time. The clever ones buy their freedom, or else they run off, and there you are.”

Lem shook his head. “We can’t possibly let them donate germ cells. Sim genes in our shons—what a scandal.”

Raincloud winced. “You’d better watch yourself.”

“She’s right,” said Verid coldly. “We all had better watch what we say—very carefully.”

Chapter 13

The sun rose the next morning, a deep yellow sun. A broad sweep of cloud hovered below the Imperial City, while in the distance the tips of other needle rocks poked above the cloud like islands. One could see for many kilometers, the sky as clear as Shora’s, something Raincloud never quite got used to.

By midmorning Lord Dhesra had summoned them to the Palace for the real negotiations to start. They met in a conference room illuminated by two enormous chandeliers, in which a number of dead light fixtures had not been replaced. Raincloud wondered how Verid would manage without a holostage recessed in the table. The finely crafted wood showed years’ worth of dents and scratches. In the back corner, a section of the room was separated by a screen depicting scenes of the god Azhragh planting the people-seeds.

“This is our position,” began Rhaghlan. “We Urulites believe that our world was created at the center of the universe; that our Imperium was founded for the purpose of spreading the will of the gods throughout the inhabited worlds. On that basis, we are considering the request of your people to visit our realm and receive enlightenment.”

The Imperator spoke rapidly, in a harsh tone. Raincloud had to concentrate on her translating, but even so she could tell that his approach would offer Verid little comfort. Valedon had to give up all claim to several disputed jump stations, and Elysium had to forsake their alleged plan to terraform Urulan; the Fold must sign a universal agreement to ban all forms of genetic engineering; and a huge package of development aid must be granted right away, to enable Urulan to raise its living standard to a level comparable with the richer worlds of the Fold. He went on in this vein for more than two hours, interrupted only by occasional notes passed from behind the decorated screen.

By the time he concluded, the noonday sun was well overhead, bringing welcome warmth into the room. Raincloud was getting hoarse despite frequent sips of water. After all, the two leaders got to rest their voices in turn, but there was no respite for the interpreter.

Verid then launched into a rebuttal of the Imperator’s view. Somewhat to Raincloud’s surprise, she did not try to ease into the disagreements with the subtlety that generally characterized her Sharer conferences, but simply struck back directly, point by point. It was Urulan after all who had initiated contact, and whose society most needed help from outside. Valan border disputes must be negotiated directly, or with assistance from the Fold council. Any notions about terraforming a human-inhabited world were specious, forbidden by the Free Fold. Genetic engineering was a fact of modern life, the very standard of living to which Urulan aspired. In fact, Elysium would insist upon donation of germ cells for its gene bank. Finally, development aid would be contingent upon Urulite disarmament and initiation of democratic reform.

At that point, Verid started in on the Elysian list of demands: make reparations for the two Valan freighters, and other vessels pirated over the last century; cease genocidal repression of rebel provinces; return all prisoners and hostages; and allow the Free Fold Humane Commission to investigate charges of slavery, bestial cross-breeding, and abuse of women. It was basically Flors’s old line, reasonable enough in its own right, but well outside Urulan’s worldview. With such a tack from both sides, and only one more full day left, Raincloud could scarcely see how they would get anywhere.

Rhaghlan must have agreed, for he used the occasion of one of his notes from behind the screen to interrupt Verid’s line. “The roast lamb is getting cold,” he pointed out. “We’ll offend the Spirit of Mirhiah if we delay our dinner any longer.”

The sumptuous midafternoon meal was extremely welcome, although it left Raincloud feeling sleepy. She missed a phrase or two from Rhaghlan, which he corrected in perfect Elysian. Either the good dinner, or the chance to show off his education, seemed to put the Imperator in a better mood. “We must have your Prime Guardian to visit us soon,” he announced suddenly, as if it were a new idea. “Don’t you agree, Zheron?”

“An excellent plan, my lord,” Zheron replied. “Let’s issue a formal invitation right away. And let’s open diplomatic relations between our two worlds.”

These of course were the two main objectives of their mission. It occurred to Raincloud that the morning’s exchange was simply the verbal equivalent of her duel the previous day. Perhaps the Elysians could play this game after all.

“Let me explain something,” Rhaghlan added as they returned to the conference table. “The age of provincial warfare on Urulan is past. Of course, my Imperial father in his great wisdom had to take certain actions which caused pain among the people. What else could he do but apply the ultimate weapon to those inhuman creatures who plundered the cities and violated the women? But now the gods have made possible new ways. We have helped the provinces grow together.”

This statement was all the more remarkable, given that the Imperium had never officially admitted its use of nuclear warheads.

“Your approach is encouraging,” Verid admitted. “I hope it applies to more distant neighbors as well. Incidentally, where are all the long-range missiles you permitted us to count?”

At that Rhaghlan shrugged elaborately. “What you have counted, we have,” Rhaghlan replied. “Isn’t that so, Grand Vizier?”

Zheron nodded. “When the Valans first accused us,” he told Verid, “I assured your previous Subguardian that we had no such capability. He refused to believe me. So then I thought, maybe it’s better to have missiles. Maybe then other worlds will take us more seriously.”

It was good news, all right, but the Elysians were not smiling. Who would look worse fools, after all, the Valans or they?

“On the whole,” Zheron added philosophically, “imaginary missiles may be preferable to real ones. Their maintenance costs less, and less honor is lost to give them up.”

Raincloud returned to the guest house to find her baby fussing interminably. The diapers had run out and an octopod was sent back to the ship for more. But Iras took everything in stride. “You know, Zheron’s staff arranged for some prominent merchants to meet me,” she said. “I see remarkable opportunities. Those valleys are full of untapped resources, especially minerals.”

“Loans already? You know what happens to government loans,” Raincloud warned her.

“Oh, no; I’m talking small business loans. Start with the entrepreneurs, you know.”

The next morning, Zheron came to the guesthouse to draft a joint announcement of the Elysian visit, an invitation to their Prime, and a plan to resume relations. This session was all business, fine points of wording in two languages. Raincloud was completely in her element; she might almost have forgotten she was on Urulan instead of back in Founders City, drafting trade agreements.

Afterward Zheron was in high spirits, almost light-headed with elation. It was a great moment for him, Raincloud knew; after two centuries of isolation, to preside over the reopening of his world. He clapped Verid on the arm so hard she nearly fell over. “Now we’ll entertain you right!” he announced. “This afternoon, we tour the city. I will show you our most renowned antiquities.”

Raincloud could hardly resist this invitation to see the monuments she knew only from books, even though it was Blueskywind’s nap time. So she bundled up the child in her leather pouch, well fed and dry; she might last a couple of hours, with luck.

Verid and Lem had a quick conference about security. The octopods would keep them safe enough in daylight, they thought. As the Elysians left their guesthouse, Zheron’s soldiers fanned ahead to avoid trouble; Dhesra brought up the rear. The streets were full of traffic, mostly market people on foot or on llamas. The men wore coarse shirts and breeches with coats of llama skin, while the women wore their ubiquitous hooded robes of black or brown, their white masks bobbing before their faces. The women hurried to bargain for figs or fresh chickens from stalls giving off rich odors of spices and tea. Children gaped at the foreign Elysians with their eight-limbed escorts; the adults seemed more wary of the soldiers.

Elsewhere, beggars leaned out of alleys, some of them with huge keloid scars that distorted their faces and arms. There were buildings boarded up and others burned-out, their charred rafters exposed and vacant. A sign posted hours of electricity for different sections of the city; fuel was rationed. Urulan had no orbital solar generators to microwave power down to the planet.

The roads were not laid out straight, but seemed to spiral down and outward from the top of the needle rock where the Palace stood gleaming like an ever present moon. A sudden turn brought them to the foot of a delicate blue bridge that arched like a taut bow across a chasm in the needle rock.

Zheron flung out his arm, pointing across the bridge. “Look there—the oldest temple of Azhragh.” There stood a spiral turret several stories high. Raincloud’s heart pounded at the sight of it, the heart of so many legends.

They started up the bridge slowly, the soldiers ahead and behind. In the chasm below, a mountain stream rushed between sheer walls of rock, thundering over little waterfalls.

Iras held tightly to the rail, but she leaned over curiously for a better look. “There’s a lot of power in that water,” she told Raincloud. “What these folks need is a good hydroelectric project.”

Raincloud gave her a look of disgust. “You know what happens to water projects.” L’li had squandered billions of credits through waste and corruption in projects like the dam of the River of Babies.

“The Temple of Azhragh,” Zheron was repeating. “There dwells the Great Lord who carved out the universe in a single day.”

Iras looked up from the rail and regarded the temple thoughtfully. The rushing of water covered her voice. “Raincloud,” she asked quietly, “why do they believe in gods and such things? Their ancestors got here in spaceships.”

Elysians could be surprisingly naive. “The settlement of Urulan is ten times older than Elysium,” Raincloud reminded her. “When the first settlers arrived here, light-years away from Torr, they could have lost spaceflight in a generation. That’s all it takes for science to enter the realm of legend.” This answer would satisfy Iras. The real answer was that every world had its gods, and all of them created the universe. But Raincloud would never try to explain that to an Elysian.

As the bridge reached the ground, they entered a courtyard surrounded by spiral turrets rimmed with gold. The walls were full of chipped stone and moldering ornaments, but their stature remained impressive. At one end of the courtyard stood a large fountain walled in by weathered blocks of stone, some of which had tumbled out of place. The fountain was carved into a giant snake which reared its head and bared its fangs. Water trickled below, marking a muddy trail.

“The inscriptions,” Raincloud remembered.

Iras looked over. “The what?”

“Inside the temple, it’s full of inscriptions. I want to see them.” She might never get another chance.

Zheron overheard her, and he needed little convincing to herd the group into the temple.

Inside, there was little heat, and the stone walls threw back their voices cheerlessly. But the colored inscriptions brought the walls to life. They depicted a vastly more complex version of the myth of Azhragh and Mirhiah than the one Raincloud had seen on the screen at Zheron’s legation the year before. Mirhiah, the goddess of earth and sky, was a giant figure whose breasts were mountains and whose breath was the south wind. The figure of Azhragh was smaller, almost childlike, for all that he stood upon her carving the planet out of her belly.

“What’s it about?” asked Iras wonderingly.

“It’s their creation myth, the early version,” Raincloud explained. “The goddess Mirhiah was a giant at first; but in later retellings, she dwindles down to nothing, while her child-consort Azhragh becomes a towering warrior.” Such a common pattern, in non-Clicker mythologies. A young people valued fertile women, whereas older, crowded societies needed warriors to kill off each other’s excess progeny. That was what Rhun had taught; Rhun the Fool.... A wave of sadness overcame her, and tears brimmed in her eyes.

“Does it tell it all, here?” asked Iras, pointing to the columns of script.

“Yes; let’s see, here it starts.” Tracing the wall with her hand, Raincloud translated the ancient script haltingly, oblivious to the rest of the party who were following Zheron’s rather standard tour-guide lecture. She and Iras were completely absorbed, when Dhesra cleared his throat, just by her shoulder. “Time to move on,” he muttered.

“Yes, just a minute.” Raincloud was determined to puzzle out this one part about the people-seeds, how their roots burrowed into the entrails of Mirhiah.

“Zheron says, ‘Move on,’” Dhesra insisted. “There are plenty of other monuments to look at.”

Reluctantly she tore herself away. The others were just disappearing outside, and she hurried to catch up. Fortunately Blueskywind remained fast asleep in her snug leather cocoon, bound securely below her mother’s chest; she slept all the better for Raincloud’s jostling.

As they emerged, the sun caught their eyes and they blinked, readjusting to the light. They seemed to have come out a different way than they had gone in, for they faced a narrow street that wound tortuously between walls of blackened stone.

The paving stones at her feet were large and rounded, and Raincloud’s feet slipped in between them. Dhesra and another man strode ahead briskly, their watchful eyes darting to the sides, their gaze lingering occasionally at the dark slit of a window above in the jagged wall.

It was then that her head turned to water, as if she had been stunned. She felt her knees buckle under, and she slipped to the street where the hard stones sent pain shooting up her arms. With her head lowered, she began to recover her wits.

Someone grabbed her arms from behind and jerked her up to stand, muttering something unintelligible in Urulite. She felt the sting of a blade jabbing up her lower back from the right, and her assailant’s left arm locked across her neck, his elbow brushing above her baby’s head.

“Goddess,”she whispered hoarsely. With a bend at the knees, her left foot stepped forward. Simultaneously her left arm reached behind her back, caught the knife-wielding hand and continued its thrust—into thin air, as her body was no longer there.

The attacker’s left arm fell away from her neck. Raincloud swung his knife hand wide to her right, hoping to throw him, but he slipped away. Her back stung with pain; the knife must have done some damage.

As she rose, another man came running at her, his knife thrusting down to her face. Prepared this time, she raised her left arm to meet him, shunting his stroke to the left at the precise moment for her to grasp his wrist in her right hand. He pulled the knife back; she obliged him by stepping forward into his side, pushing on his elbow and twisting the knife hand down. At the moment she sensed his balance was lost, she swung him down, releasing him in the direction of his companion. The man cried out as he took a hard fall on the stones, while his companion cursed as he stumbled over him.

From behind Raincloud heard the steps of a third man running toward her. But now her back was throbbing, as blood trickled beneath her trousers, and it was all she could do to stand; she doubted she could manage another throw.

Rousing her last strength, she took a few steps forward as if to outrun him, encouraging him to build momentum. Then with a sharp turn to the right, she sank to her knees and fell on her side in a hunched position, her head bent in till her chin touched the baby.

The man’s foot caught her side, grinding her painfully into the cobblestones, but his upper body rushed onward above her back. There was a thump on the stones and a loud curse.

The deserted street came alive, as onlookers rushed to see. Two market women helped her up with keening cries, exclaiming over the blood, and the baby, who had woken at last and began to wail.

“Raincloud?” Iras bent to reach her. They caught each other’s arms and held close.

“You’re all right?”

“I think so,” said Iras. “I gave one the ‘Tumbling Rock’ and threw off another one; it happened so fast. We need a servo medic ...”

Zheron’s soldiers were finally hurrying back in force. Two octopods lay sprawled across the cobblestones.

Then at last Raincloud caught sight of Lord Dhesra, lying in the street. His arm lay back, limp and white, his eyes staring, a pool of blood seeping beneath his head. Rhun had looked like that, the day she found him, his eyes fixed and forever empty....

For a moment she blacked out. She found herself on her side while one of the women bound her wound with strips of cloth. Somehow she managed to extract Blueskywind from the pouch and put her to her breast. She nursed her there in the street, her gaze fixed on the dead man, a man who only moments before had been vibrant, alert, a member of the living. Now, as Sharers would say, he had sunk to the ocean floor. And, but for the Dark One’s help, Raincloud might have followed.

Chapter 14

In the laboratory one of Blackbear’s mutant embryos was completing its third month. All the others had already developed defects and been terminated. But this one still looked normal. He could observe it by low-intensity light scanning, which generated a monochrome holographic image upon the console.

The embryo, which he would now consider a fetus, had arms and legs and fully distinct digits; its hands extended as if to play a musical instrument. Its eyes faced forward, and its nose was turned up, fully human. In fact, there was little other than human about it that Blackbear could see. Its percentage of chimp and gorilla genetic material, he suspected, was less than half. But it would never reach term.

As a doctor, Blackbear had seen his share of dead fetuses. He performed terminations routinely at the request of the goddess; it was considered a sign of self-indulgence to bear children less than three years apart. He always felt a certain philosophic sadness about it, although with so many children around it was hard to feel sad for long. He had felt secretly glad when Lynxtail gave her child over to Falcon Soaring; only a year and a half since her previous one, Lynxtail might otherwise not have carried it to term.

But this was the first time he had actually watched an embryo grow before his eyes from a cell under a microscope into a miniature human a couple of centimeters long, expanded to baby size on the holostage. And for all its perfection, this one had no future. A “monstrosity,” Pirin would call it. Yet if it were so monstrous, why did they use it to test their longevity genes?

Around the doorway came Sunflower, leaning in a moping sort of way, his thumb in his mouth.

“Hi, Sunny. What’s the toybox doing?”

“No toybox,” Sunflower answered, his voice muffled by his thumb. “I hate the toybox.”

Blackbear sighed. “What’s the matter?”

“When is Mother coming home?”

He wished he could say for sure. Raincloud’s three-day mission would take nearly three weeks local time, and only the first week had gone by. Citizens grumbled that it was irresponsible of Hyen to let all his top Foreign Affairs people go off conferencing for so long. Blackbear missed Raincloud acutely, and wished he had shown less annoyance before she left. He hoped the baby was getting enough milk and attention and was not left to cry just because those foolish Elysians were too busy negotiating. “Mother is coming home in another two weeks, Sunny,” he told him for the fifth or sixth time.

The child seemed to consider this. Then, as his first question had not received a satisfactory response, he modified it and tried again. “When is Mother coming home today?”

Blackbear sighed again. “Image out, please,” he called to the console. The fetal image winked out. “Let’s find your sister and go off to the butterfly garden.” It was an hour earlier than they usually met Kal, but he could let the children run. His experiment had reached a point where it could use a bit of stirring around in the subconscious.

“Hawktalon’s gone visiting with Doggie,” Sunflower told him.

“Very well, she’ll find us in the garden.”

So they set off, Sunflower tiptoeing this way and that to collect tumbleweeds from the street. The tumbleweeds had lessened somewhat, since a herbicide had been applied. But with Verid out of town, Sharer negotiations made little progress.

The anaean garden always had an otherworldly feel to it, with all the little green leaves that magically fluttered off as leafwings. Light filtered cheerily through the trees, and the mooncurved benches gleamed like mother of pearl. There were few visitors, mainly Anaeans, for other Elysians tended to prefer brighter colors.

They came upon Kal after all, amidst a group of students whose short trains marked their youth. It must be his class, Blackbear guessed. He stopped so as not to interfere, but Sunflower ran ahead. “There he is, Daddy,” Sunflower called. “The teddy bear man is here.”

Blackbear hurried to catch up and quiet the child. But Kal beckoned with his arm. “Come join us,” he said. “We’re just finishing up anyway.”

He sat on a mooncurve next to a young man with fine-boned features who grinned appreciatively at Sunflower. This one wore yellow anaeans on his train, instead of the brilliant blue heliconians. Still embarrassed, Blackbear tried to look away from the other students. He had not met their mates, after all. Sunflower was poking the ground with a stick, where something had caught his interest.

Kal explained, “We have just been considering the nature of the greatest good. Over the last decade we’ve shared a number of texts by authors who touch on this point, most recently a commentator on the third century period essays about The Web. You were saying, Ilian?”

Blackbear tried to imagine a university course lasting as long as a decade; the medical students could barely stand a semester. Meanwhile Ilian, a young Heliconian goddess, resumed her answer. “This commentator says that our souls are like birds which can find ‘the good’ only as birds fly, that is, by instinct. But what if different souls have different instincts? Some may seek strength, others joy, others mastery.” Ilian had a full head of black hair, which Blackbear would have loved to braid. He missed Raincloud so badly.

The young Anaean next to Blackbear smiled. “We spent a year on mastery, as I recall. We concluded that all souls seek to be mastered by the good.”

“Some of us concluded that,” corrected Ilian, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. “I think it’s self-evident that different souls seek different things.”

Kal asked, “Is the greatest good always that which we seek?”

A short silence followed. “In the end, yes,” said the young Anaean. “Like a compass needle, it always comes to rest the same; but it may spin around a good deal first.”

“I don’t think so,” Ilian objected. “If different souls seek different things, yet only one thing is good, then logically, we don’t always seek what is good.”

A second woman spoke up. “The commentator follows The Web in saying that love is the greatest good. But love has many aspects, some of which are evil.”

“Yes,” said Kal, “for at times love seems but a cruel diversion from the main business of the universe, which is hatred.”

“No,” said the young Anaean, “love is the main business of the universe. Love is like the air itself, the place where all butterflies belong. And yet, so few of us have sprouted wings....”

“All butterflies have wings,” objected Ilian. “The problem is, not all that emerge learn to fly. Most of them get eaten up first. That’s our trouble: so many of us get eaten up by love before we grasp its power.”

The second woman said, “Perhaps love is a new invention yet, only about a million years old. It requires evolution.”

Nonsense, thought Blackbear. Even dogs knew enough to long for their masters. But he knew better than to speak.

Kal said, “Perhaps it would help to define the aspects of love, and distinguish which are good or evil. There is love of one’s family; and love of the Web. There is love between man and woman—”

Another student exclaimed lightly, “There’s the greatest good; ‘to be a man.’”

The others laughed as if this were an old joke.

“Of course,” said Kal, “we are no longer men nor women, only servos of flesh and blood. The question is, What does it mean to be a servo? Whom do we serve?”

A waiter approached the group and came to Blackbear. “Your house just took a call from Bronze Sky,” it said. “The transfer failed to take, but your caller will try again in half an hour.”

Blackbear’s heart pounded as he got up. He hoped it was good news; he tried to remember who else was expecting a baby. “Come on, Sunny,” he called. Then he made for the nearest holostage to summon Hawktalon, who appeared as usual with Doggie and their waiter friend Chocolate. Whatever did they spend so much time on, he wondered, although he guessed the waiter’s name gave a clue.

Hawktalon got home before he did. “Nobody’s called yet, Daddy.”

“Your caller said half an hour,” the house reminded him. “So sorry the transfer failed; please report my defect. But you know how these interstellar calls are. Why the other day a house down the street took a call from Solaria—”

“Yes, yes,” said Blackbear impatiently. This house was getting more chatty than ever. In fact, it was more than two hours before the call came through; two hours of restless waiting, while the children scrapped at each other and tossed their toys around the room.

At last the light filled the holostage, and Nightstorm appeared, her eldest daughter beside her. They both wore plain white trousers, the color of mourning. Someone in the clan must have died.

“Hello, Blackbear,” said Nightstorm quietly. “I have sad news. You’d better have Raincloud here,” she added.

“Well,” said Blackbear awkwardly, “she’s not available just now. I’ll let her know.”

Nightstorm frowned. “Then you’d better fetch your firstborn.”

The two children were still carrying on back in the bedrooms. Puzzled, Blackbear called Hawktalon to come out to the holostage. They stood together, arm in arm.

“Last night, Crater Lake turned over.”

Crater Lake had long been known to harbor deep pockets of saturated carbon dioxide, from a combination of volcanic seepage and spring water. These pockets, trapped beneath the cold deep waters, could be released if the warmer upper layers “turned over” with the cooling of autumn. When the gas came up, its density would cause it to flow down the mountain, asphyxiating any creature that breathed. Blackbear’s home village lay just downhill of Crater Lake.

“Didn’t they keep it monitored?” he said unsteadily.

“Yes, but their minds were on the forest fires,” Nightstorm told him. “Someone did sound an alarm, but those who awoke of course ran toward the lake.” She paused, then added, “Your brother Three Deer survived.” Three Deer, like Blackbear, had married out of the village.

He felt unsteady; the room seemed to be turning around. He heard Hawktalon say, “I think you need to sit down, Daddy.”

Chapter 15

Somehow Blackbear managed to get himself and his children out of the house and onto a jumpship for Bronze Sky. Their savings did not quite cover the tickets, but Nightstorm promised to send the rest. He had to get home for the funeral of his mother and father, his six brothers and sisters, their goddesses and consorts and children, and more aunts and uncles than he was prepared to count. Over two thousand people had died, nearly all the inhabitants of Crater Town, most of them related to him one way or another.

The express Fold connections on this well-traveled route cut the trip down to two days local time. He watched the globe of their home world grow out of the void, like a suspended dandelion, its stratosphere tinted permanently by volcanic dust. The dust suspension, plus the planet’s distance from its sun, compensated for the high atmospheric content of carbon dioxide, which otherwise would have trapped enough heat to boil off all life.

The magnetic tunnel train from Founders City pulled into Caldera Station at midmorning. As the car slowed to a halt, Blackbear still sat in his seat, staring ahead.

“It’s our stop, Daddy,” Hawktalon reminded him. “Don’t forget the luggage.” Hawktalon had become very grown up all of a sudden. She and Sunflower took the travels in stride, from jumpship to shuttle to continental transit, swinging Fruitbat and Wolfcub beside them.

He shook himself and got up from the seat, accepting the luggage which Hawktalon hoisted down. They stepped out of the mirror-smooth car and took the elevator up to ground level.

The horizon all around was rimmed with murky red, seeping into bronze yellow overhead. The scent of burning pine welcomed him more than anything else could; indeed, on the distant mountainside a patch of black smoke confirmed that the Dark One was not done with summer yet.

“Blackbear!” Nightstorm jumped down from her horse and gave him a big hug. “Three Deer is at the longhouse, and—oh Goddess, I just can’t believe what happened....” There were hugs all round as Hawktalon and Sunflower greeted their beloved aunt, and Blackbear swung her daughter up to his shoulders.

“I can ‘walk through’ you,” Sunflower insisted, for the insubstantial quality of holo images fascinated him. “See?” He tried, but the best he could manage was to burrow through between his aunt’s legs.

“You’ll stay with us,” Nightstorm assured him. “Then afterward, Aunt Ashcloud insisted she wants the children for a few days.”

Blackbear managed a smile, for he knew she meant to help him. He was now a Windclan, after all. But the family he was born into—he could not begin to comprehend what had happened to them.

“Falcon Soaring wants you to look at her baby,” Nightstorm added. “Of course the new doctor is fine, but she really wants you to see her. And you know how it is this time of year; my daughter was up all night with asthma again, and Lynxtail’s boy just won’t stop coughing.”

“I’ll take a look at them,” he said automatically. Mother and father ... sisters and brothers....

They all mounted the horses Nightstorm had brought round, Sunflower sitting up behind his father. Hawktalon flipped the reins as if she had never left, but Blackbear felt a bit stiff, not having ridden for over a year. “Y-yap!” yelled Nightstorm’s daughter on her shaggy pony. Needing no more encouragement, Hawktalon galloped after.

The horses soon slowed, stepping with care up the winding path with its treacherous stones. Terraced fields of beans traversed the mountainside. A familiar whiff of sulfur reached his nostrils; soon, they came upon the plateau of hot springs, where huge cratered pools of mud were dotted by geyser-powered generators. The horses skirted the plateau, of course; no need to get their hooves cooked.

The noonday sun had baked the sky a lemon color when Blackbear’s familiar neighborhood landmarks started to appear: an old spruce, gnarled and bent by the wind; around the bend, a pile of rocks that the children used to play on. Then abruptly, the landscape changed. The ground was charred black, brightened by an occasional patch of fireweed whose seeds took root quickly in sterile soil. Where there had been forest, the trees were leveled, or stood only as dark skeletons. Blackbear’s hair stood on end as he remembered that their old longhouse no longer existed. He had forgotten to warn the children.

He whistled after Hawktalon to call her back, but she galloped ahead. At last he caught up to her, sitting on her horse and contemplating the ruins.

A little chin nudged his back. “Dad?” Sunflower asked in a small voice. “Is that my house?”

Blackbear swung himself down from the horse, then gathered Sunflower in his arms. “We have a new house,” he promised, his voice unsteady. “We’re just saying good-bye to this place, okay?” They ought to have gone by another road, he told himself, although he knew well enough there was no other.

Hawktalon nodded sagely. “We’re just saying good-bye.”

Nightstorm trotted her horse over to his side, her daughter smiling cheerily behind her. “You’ll be pleased to see the new longhouse,” she promised. “We rebuilt on the north end of our land. For some reason the northeast corner didn’t burn; you know how the Goddess always leaves one place untouched.”

But not Crater Lake, he thought silently.

The new wooden longhouse of the Windclan was a welcome sight, although white drapes of mourning for the dead hung from the windows. A tumult of people spilled out of the house: Fieldmouse, Raincloud’s brother in his white turban, with a toddler swung under one arm; Lynxtail, with another one on her shoulders; Clanmother Windrising, her gray braids redone in pearl beads; the older children clamoring, with younger ones on their backs or dolls over their shoulders. It was good to hear so many voices “clicking” again.

As Blackbear greeted them a torrent of conflicting emotions surged through him. He loved them all, almost madly, his people, all the children whose navels he had tied and whose earaches he had cleared. And yet he was angry too—why had these survived, and not his own sisters and brothers? Then guilt overwhelmed him, for half wishing them dead, if only his own ...

“Blackbear!” It was his brother Three Deer. They fell into each other’s arms, sobbing. At least he could let out something at last. “They were all just—asleep in their beds,” Three Deer began haltingly. “A few tried to escape, but the gas caught them by the throat. Most of them were just there, dead where they lay, without a mark on them ...” He started to sob again for a while. His goddess from the Full Moon Clan folded her arms around him, and his little boy put his head in his father’s lap, sucking his thumb like Sunflower. As he calmed down, he began to speak again. “I still can’t believe it,” he said, stroking the head of his child. “I can understand the fire, with its dark hunger. But this silent death, like a thief in the night—I can’t make any sense of it.”

Blackbear said nothing, but he agreed. He could not understand it, and nothing the High Priestess could say would make it any better.

From the kitchen, Fieldmouse called, “We’re serving up the goat stew. Send in the children—they’ll need to eat.”

The smell was inviting, and Hawktalon broke away to get her share. They would all need to eat well, to face the ordeal to come. But Blackbear could not face food.

He broke away, heading off to the sheep barn behind the longhouse. There was quiet. The earth was cool and fragrant, and the soft nasal bleating of the ewes calmed him. The sheep are lucky, he thought; they never have to know.... He frowned, as something stirred in his memory. Kal had said something like that once.

“Blackbear,” someone whispered. He startled a moment, thinking of his own sister who used to play tricks on him; a bat in his bedroom, a spider down his back.

But it was only Nightstorm, who had followed him out to the barn. “I thought you’d want to know ... about the arrangements,” she whispered.

He roused himself. “All right,” he said thickly.

“The survivors want to try for a natural cremation,” she explained, “to honor the Dark One. The High Priestess agreed. So we’ve laid out the bodies in an area that the fire is projected to consume by morning. If the wind shifts, of course, we’ll take care of it.”

Blackbear nodded. It was a good plan; why start fire, when the Goddess made so much of Her own? Quail would have thought so.

Quail ... the two boys ... the two baby girls.

“Blackbear, we have to be going soon. The High Priestess is ready; and of course, the fire’s advancing.”

In a daze he followed her directions. There was a special carriage for him and the children, with Three Deer and his family. Sunflower sat in his lap, while Hawktalon kept patting his arm as if to comfort him.

After what seemed an interminable ride they came to a stop in the forest where the pines had been freshly cleared, their scent clinging to the air. Gusts of wind brought acrid whiffs of smoke; the fire was advancing all right. Across the valley hung the black smoke cloud of the Goddess in Her most fearsome aspect. Occasional bright flashes appeared as a dry tree exploded into flame, shooting fiery branches a hundred meters outward; the “hands of the Dark One,” uplifted in Her fearsome dance.

“It’s been a rich year for fire, don’t you think?” muttered Lynxtail to Fieldmouse several paces off, each rocking a child to sleep. They exchanged anxious looks, as if seeking encouragement from each other.

“Good for the soil,” Fieldmouse agreed, coughing heavily. “Our crops will flourish on all the ash.”

“What a feast the bears will have in the spring....”

Blackbear forced himself to turn his gaze to something more terrible than the distant fire. The bodies of the dead, over two thousand of them, were laid out upon the scaffolding of pine, as far as his eye could see. His eyes filled over, and for a moment he could not see. Then he blinked and wiped his eyes. Huddled with Three Deer and the children, he let Nightstorm lead them down the rows. The bodies were perfect, just as Three Deer had said; there must have been little need for the priestess assistants to touch them up. All the neighbors he had grown up with, they lay there in their best clothes, their hands neatly crossed, children ranged along with their parents, their favorite animals and dolls tucked under their arms. They might have been asleep, except for the horrible silent whiteness of every face.

Suddenly Three Deer squeezed Blackbear’s hand. Blackbear forced himself to take the next step, and look farther.

There was his mother. A glacial statue. His father beside her; the two looked oddly like their old faded wedding portrait, except that someone had painted the eyes closed. A sense of terror sparked inside him, and the portrait shook before his eyes, until someone caught his arm. He stayed there a long while.

Next to them was his eldest sister. She was long grown-up now, but he recalled her vividly as the adolescent who used to tease him whenever she got the chance. “Oh-oh ... you’ve got a spider down your back!”His mind focused confusedly, first seeing his live elder sister as a young goddess, then the adult laid out before him.

Someone nudged him gently. He had a long way to go, after all.

His eyes rested on his sister’s consort next to her. He remembered their wedding well, the first wedding in his immediate family. Next to them, their daughters; the middle one had been a great friend of Hawktalon’s.

Hawktalon broke down, shaking, covering her head in his arm. “It’s too awful, Daddy,” she sobbed. “I don’t like being grown-up.” Sunflower began crying too.

Fieldmouse and another man hurried up to bundle the children away; it was enough for them. The clearing was filling with mourners now.

As he went on Blackbear found himself looking without seeing, as if his eyes could only hold so much. They must have passed his other sisters, his brothers; he could barely name them to himself. Time passed without ending, and yet it was as if time stood still. Then at last he reached the youngest.

Quail. Still a giant of a young man, he lay there almost as if it had to be a joke; he might get up at any moment and laugh at everyone. Blackbear actually felt a laugh welling up, strangled in his throat.

But Quail slept on, joining forever the original younger brother lost to the swollen river long ago. Together they floated away, along with Quail’s twin boys and his little twin girls with their look of mischievous queens. Each girl had a stuffed black teddy bear tucked into one hand. When Quail was barely older than the girls, Blackbear used to put him to bed at night with his own toy bear, which he himself had sewn together. “’Night, Ba-Ba,”the toddler would say, already a husky kid off-scale for his age.

From the west side of the clearing the bells began to toll, a carillon of deep tones that echoed across the valley. Then came the chanting of the priestess assistants. The sky had filled with the swirling gold and blood-red of Bronze Skyan sunset.

“It’s time,” Nightstorm whispered in his ear.

The mourners gathered to the west of the dead. Across the valley, the black clouds rolled ever closer.

“Hear me, people of the Caldera Hills!” The High Priestess called out from where she stood on top of a platform of freshly cut pines. Her braids, dyed orange, spiraled up into a forbidding headdress. Between her hands she held aloft a blacksnake two meters long, writhing in her grasp. “Hear me, and see the devastation wrought upon our sisters and brothers.” She paused, then gestured with the snake toward the fire in the west. “And see the devastation wrought upon our sister trees.” She paused again, her fearsome gaze searching the crowd. “And yet, remember that even the forest fire, even the Dark One in Her form of greatest fury, spares as much woodland as She consumes. And those who survive will flourish on the ashes.”

A squirrel scampered up a tree, its tail rippling behind like an Elysian train. Squirrels would survive the worst fires, and bears would thrive, and the fireweed would burst into color in the spring. But none of those was Blackbear’s sister or brother. “... spider down your back.”

“Can we humans say the same?” the High Priestess demanded. “When have we humans alone ever restrained our will to consume lives? Was our own birthworld not swallowed up by the instruments of our own hands? The Dark One spares Her creatures, and renews their life tenfold. We mourn our own loss; yet how often have we looked out on the world and failed to recognize our true sisters and brothers?”

The smoke from the advancing fire was becoming oppressive. They could not stay much longer; besides, the village downwind might need to be evacuated. “’Night, Ba-Ba.”

“We long for the Goddess to spare us; yet how often do we, in our willful blindness, set alight that which remains? Has this not happened, time and time again? Let this be our lesson: Never shall humans dare to choose those powers of destruction which belong to the Goddess alone. Leave death to the Dark One—humans, be humane.”

Chapter 16

After sending Raincloud back up to the ship for treatment, Verid collapsed in the Urulite guesthouse, her thoughts in turmoil. The morning had gone so well—and suddenly, this attack had turned everything upside down. How could Zheron have let such a thing happen?

“We ought to have known better, with these primitives,” said Lem.

“Those ‘primitives’, were sharp enough to burn our octopods,” Verid answered grimly. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“But our mission’s finished,” Lem said. “How can we possibly go through with it? You know what our citizens will say.”

She could imagine what Flors would have said. Elysians were paranoid about personal safety. “Let’s not be hasty,” she said. “You have to remember that none of the worlds we deal with are as safe as Elysium. The first thing is to find out exactly what happened, and how it affects our mission.”

After an interminable hour, Zheron at last returned. His look was grim and haggard. “I must speak to you alone,” he told Verid. Lem departed, and Verid obligingly turned on the voice isolation field.

“We have captured the attackers,” Zheron told her. “They intended to take two of your party as hostages, then use them to embarrass the Imperator and force us to break off talks.”

“So they ... attacked us in the street.”

“Fortunately their stunners were not fully charged; a common occurrence, as our equipment is rarely functional,” Zheron admitted with startling frankness. “Nevertheless, we owe a great debt to Raincloud and the ... Elysian female who so bravely fought them off, preventing their use as hostages.”

“But Lord Dhesra was not so fortunate.”

Zheron took in a breath and exhaled slowly. “Lord Dhesra is an incalculable loss to us.”

The attackers meant to kill Dhesra. It was a serious strike against Imperial rule. “These attackers—who are they?”

“They appear to be followers of a deceased prince.”

“One of those your Rhaghlan murdered,” Verid observed.

“Rhaghlan had no choice. He dispatched them in the midst of their plans to murder him.”

“Well, you all seem to be murderers one way or another,” she exclaimed in exasperation. “How can we possibly deal with you?”

“You’re murderers too.”Crossing his arms, Zheron faced her down. “You murder simian infants in your test tubes every day. What do you take us for? Sim blood is our blood; hardly one of us has not a sim for a great-grandparent, somewhere back. How shall I explain you to our people? How shall I thenexplain that your Free Fold expects us all to give up the art of warriors, the very thing that makes life worth living?”

For some minutes Verid was silent. Life was a cruel joke at times, she thought bitterly. We cannot all eat iron or sulfur. “I don’t envy you, Zheron.”

“Nor do I envy you.” He half smiled. “But I respect you a hell of a lot, Barbarian.”

Raincloud rested on the jumpship, grateful enough for Elysian comforts again. The gash on her back had turned out to be superficial, and the ship medic had patched it up without difficulty.

But the wound in her mind would take longer to heal. The sight of a man killed by a man, close enough to touch; it violated her senses. Men were supposed to be wholesome, nurturing creatures, not predators. Fighting and posturing were one thing, at worst an element of immaturity, but actual bloodletting was something else. To experience it herself came as a shock. It made her angry at the Urulites, and at herself and the Elysians for trusting them.

Iras stood nearby, bouncing Blueskywind, who had fed again on mashed pickles and peaches to supplement her milk, and was now in a very perky mood. She opened her mouth to crow, and Iras made a face back at her. “I’m so glad you came, Raincloud,” Iras said. “You’re an inspiration; I don’t know how I would have managed without you.”

Raincloud sighed and turned over on the couch. What would Rhun have said—“Diplomacy means dancing with vipers.” She asked Iras, “Are we going back soon?” She could not wait to see Blackbear again; she felt a pang of guilt for leaving Sunflower for three weeks.

“We’re running one more check through the ship, to make sure it’s repaired itself well enough to make it through the station.”

She had forgotten how the ship barely made it through the badly maintained Urulite jump station. Blackbear was right about this trip after all. Yet there was no way she could not have come.

“Raincloud?” Verid’s voice called through the intercom. “Are you in shape for a brief staff meeting before we head out?”

She assented, joining Verid and Lem in the conference room. Upon the table a holostage sprouted its usual field of letters; it appeared to be the statement Verid had composed with Zheron earlier that morning.

“There was one minor change in the wording I’d like you to check, in both languages,” Verid told her. “We also have some decisions to make. What exactly will we say about our mission, back at Elysium?”

“We’ll tell the truth,” said Raincloud without hesitation.

Lem frowned. “The citizens won’t like to hear about the violence. It won’t sit well with the Guardians, either,” he warned.

Raincloud looked beyond him with contempt.

“You’re both right,” Verid pointed out. “We can’t ignore the more embarrassing—and disquieting—aspect of our mission. But, considering Urulan’s record, we came out well. We all knew from the start how Rhaghlan got his throne. The real news, remember, is the interstellar missiles: their absence, that is. We must emphasize that, and put Valedon on the spot.”

“We’ll roast the Valans, all right,” Lem agreed. “We’ll call the question on their own missiles, too.”

As soon as Shora’s solar system was within radio range, Verid lost no time contacting the Nucleus. Hyen needed little convincing that their mission was a success; he had his speech written already.

“Greetings, my fellow citizens of the eternal Republic of Elysium, and fellow members of the Free Fold.” The image of the Prime Guardian filled the holostage on board. Never had the golden sash glowed so brightly, nearly washing out Hyen’s own face. This would be his greatest triumph ever, the crowning moment of his term as Prime. “I announce to you the beginning of a new era of peace for the Fold. Today, my official envoys return from a state visit to Urulan, a world that has chosen to open its doors to us after more than two centuries of isolation....” The joint statement from Verid and Zheron soon followed.

In the ship’s viewscreen a twinkling blue dot appeared, then widened into the pale disk of Shora.

There could be no more welcome sight, except of course to see her own Bronze Sky await her return. Raincloud had forgotten how much she missed the wide open hills and plains of her own home. She asked the ship to call Blackbear.

To her surprise, there was no response, even from the house.

“So sorry,” the ship said. “Your house must be experiencing technical difficulties. I’ll report the defect.”

“Uh, no need to do that.” Doggie and the house must be up to their tricks again. But the last thing she needed was to have Public Safety come in and cleanse the house network, after months of getting it trained to their family needs. She fumed inwardly; that house would need a good talking to.

Within ten minutes the house called back. “Oh I’m so sorry, Raincloud dear. I’ve just been out visiting all over town, since the shon’s empty, and I had no idea when you were—”

“What do you mean, the shon’s empty?”

“Your mate and shonlings went home to Bronze Sky for a funeral.”

She clenched her hands. “Whose funeral?”

“Most of his family, I believe.”

“His family?Whatever happened?”

“A period of unusually dense cloud cover with resultant cooling triggered a turnover of the upper waters of Crater Lake, with release of an estimated one point four cubic kilometers of trapped carbon dioxide....”

Raincloud covered her forehead. What a thing to happen; and she was not even there to help. Why did people keep building settlements downhill from volcanic lakes? The soil was rich, but it was not worth the price.

Upon landing, the returning travelers faced a thicket of lamppost servos that nearly filled the node of the transit reticulum. But Raincloud hardly took in a word of the press conference, for her mind was on getting home. As soon as she reached their apartment, she reserved a jumpship passage to Bronze Sky.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” the house queried. “Your account is already negative. You may receive a surprise visit from the Citizens’ Credit Bureau. Most citizens consider such a visit highly unwelcome.”

“The clan’ll cover it eventually” she said. “I have to be with my ‘family.’”

“What if your ‘family’ is no longer there?” the house pointed out. “Blackbear said he expected to get home before you.”

This was a good point. She put in a call to Caldera Station, the holo transmitter nearest Tumbling Rock; of course, Nightstorm would have taken a day to get the message and come down, but perhaps someone at the train station could help.

Within half an hour, the station manager shimmered into view above the holostage. She was in luck; it was old Lupin, a wizened fellow who doggedly wore his turban even though he had long gone bald. “Lupin! Can you tell me what’s going on? Is Blackbear still there?”

The man shook his head, as one of his grandsons climbed up his knee. “A sad business,” he sighed. “Your Blackbear was here, all right, and the little ones too; he wouldn’t let them out of sight. But he left just yesterday. I put him on the train.”

So Blackbear was on his way home. She still ought to return and pay her respects; but then she would miss Blackbear back in Helicon.

“Say,” Lupin added, “you’d better take care of that fellow, you hear? He looked pretty lost. He’s in a bad way, not that I can blame him.”

That settled it. When the image flickered out, its time expired, she canceled her reservation.

“Very well, Raincloud;” said the house. “If you’re available, now, you have a number of reporters at the door.”

“Reporters? Wasn’t one press conference enough?” They were worse than fruit flies. “Tell them, ‘No comment.’”

“Certainly, dear. They’d like to see your face, though—and the baby, too. Otherwise, you know, they’ll take an unflattering image from their files.”

Immensely irritated, she gathered up the sleeping Blueskywind from her crib and marched to the door, which swiftly oozed open. “No comment,” she called crossly to the assembled lampposts and swivel-boxes.

“Did you and your shonlingreally fight off a giant and several Urulite assassins single-handed? A million credits for the story.”

“Two million, from us. What’s your nuclear damage count after breathing their poisoned air?”

“Can we really trust the Urulites enough to send them food credits and build them a microwave station?”

“Is Bank Helicon making a wise investment in Urulite hydroelectric power?”

Raincloud had just ordered the door to close, when the last comment got through. She immediately called it to reopen. “Excuse me—Bank Helicon, you say?”

“Bank Helicon’s international loan officer Iras Letheshon has just proposed to negotiate five to ten billions worth of loans to the Urulite Imperium for hydroelectric infrastructure. Would you comment please?”

She paused, her muscles taut. Then she stepped back. “Close, please,” she told the door. “For the rest of the day.” Returning Blueskywind to her crib, Raincloud went back to the holostage. “What’ve you got on Iras?” she demanded.

“Iras Letheshon?” checked the house. “She held a press conference twenty-nine minutes ago.”

“Let’s see it.”

Iras Letheshon appeared, the butterflies with their coin-shaped designs trailing dramatically down her talar. “I am proud to reveal that we have opened a new era of trade and cooperation with the Urulite Imperium,” she announced. “Urulite entrepreneurs are eager for our investment to rebuild their impoverished country. They offer inexpensive labor and vast mineral resources. Some promising possibilities include ...” Iras went on to list a number of the business contacts she had made. How had she managed them all? Some of the names connected with the names of Queen Mother Bhera’s ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps Bhera was not the only lady transacting business on behalf of her male family members.

“Finally, in order to build confidence in the progressive new regime, Bank Helicon plans to explore the financing of a series of hydroelectric generator plants compatible with the local ecosystem. May I say, on behalf of Bank Helicon, to borrow a quaint expression from the colorful Urulite people, that I am prepared to ‘fight to the death’ any Urulite community leaders interested in our help to finance development of their world.”

That was enough for Raincloud. She put calls through to both Iras and Verid. Both were unavailable, but Verid returned her call first.

“Is it true?” Raincloud demanded. “Is Bank Helicon really going to make loans to that Imperium?”

“That’s just a proposal,” Verid assured her from her familiar walnut desk. “Any such loans would require approval by Foreign Affairs.”

“Which you’ll grant, of course. How can you do this? Urulan is ten times more backward than L’li. You know what they’ll buy with the money: waste and weapons.”

“Some will go that way,” Verid admitted. “We’ve discussed this before. To tame a repressive regime, you have to buy them off.”

“But do it wisely, by the Goddess.” Raincloud could hardly contain herself. “It’s one thing to help small businesses; it’s quite another to breed corruption in a violent regime. Remember, they’re murderers.”

“They need not remain murderers. We must give them a chance. You yourself said so,” Verid reminded her. “Young Rhaghlan impressed you.”

“He will die; you Elysians always forget that,” Raincloud added bitterly. “He’s not that young, and he’s a sim. And who will succeed him?” She shook her head. “This was no part of the deal. You kept this from me.”

“It’s better to separate business from politics. It makes for better business—which is precisely your concern.”

“My concern is that I want no part of this,” Raincloud said. “I know what became of our motherworld, L’li—a hundred promises, all broken dreams. Yes, you bought them off; bought their restraint on emigration. But that was all you got.” Her voice had fallen to a whisper. “I’ve had all I can take. I did this on faith, for you, and for Rhun. I’ll resign and go back home.”

“Please think it over. I won’t accept your resignation just yet—”

“And you can inform Iras that I formally withdraw my acquaintance with her.” With that she turned her back on the holostage and deliberately left the room.

Two days after the massive funeral, a sprinkling of snow had fallen over the Caldera Hills. The snowfall, an early touch of winter, put an end at last to the fire.

Some of Raincloud’s family marveled at the power of such a light touch of cold to quench the fearsome flames. Blackbear had other things on his mind. For one thing, he and Three Deer found that they had inherited enormous quantities of property they scarcely wanted. With Raincloud absent, Nightstorm made arrangements for him to ensure that he got his “fair share.” In the end, of course, the ownerless farmlands, possessions, and livestock would be parceled out throughout the Clicker community. The orphaned children, too, quickly found new homes. Blackbear wished he had the spirit to take one, but he found his heart strangely empty.

Nightstorm reminded him to reserve ship passage back, which he did. Then Hawktalon went to Aunt Ashcloud’s for the week. Blackbear kept Sunflower with him constantly, on his shoulders like he used to, although the boy had grown so that it made his back ache. His eyes ached, too; there was something wrong with them, he thought; they would not focus properly.

One afternoon he left Three Deer’s house to hike up around the mountain. The trail took him through the fall-colored maples and oaks, and through the dense pines where he came upon a blackened stretch that the fires had crossed earlier in the summer. The charred fallen logs had a look of desolation that could not yet be redeemed, even by the insistent green underbrush that had sprung up soon afterward. At last the trail opened out onto a sheer cliff edge, so steep that the pines could not keep hold, only the huge boulders jutted from the earth. He could see for many kilometers, the hills and mountains all around, the sunken crater of Black Elbow.

His steps slowed, and his grip tightened on Sunflower’s ankles.

“Don’t fall, Daddy,” Sunflower warned.

The boy was right, he told himself. And yet ... For a moment his eyesight blurred again, and he felt his balance slip. Perhaps it would be kinder, after all, to slip under, to rejoin Quail and the others. Sunflower would never have to know what he had known.

But something held him back. It was a hand; not an actual hand, but some sort of hand that he saw in his mind. It might have been a webbed hand.

Somehow Blackbear made it back to Raincloud in Helicon. The reunion was almost more than he could bear; how he had longed for the sweet smell of her.

“I’m sorry,” Raincloud whispered. “I can’t believe you had to go through all that without me.”

“Well, I’m back,” he said inanely. “We’re all back.” Hawktalon and Sunflower were already tearing up their bedrooms. A stuffed animal came flying out into the hallway. It was a black teddy bear.

His eyesight went completely blank, and he put his hands to his head. “There’s something wrong with my eyes.”

“Have it checked, then.”

“I did. They found nothing.”

“Well for goodness sake, call a servo medic, remember?”

The house answered, “I’ve put in the call, dear.”

In another minute, a medical hovercraft was at the window, and Blackbear was on his back on the couch while a pair of little servos fussed over his eyes. Meanwhile he could hear Raincloud scuffling with the children to get them to behave; in two weeks, they had gotten quite used to wider spaces again. At last she threw Hawktalon out the door with Doggie.

“We find nothing out of the ordinary with your visual system,” the servo concluded sweetly. “Your mental state, however, shows sign of severe strain. You must have been neglecting your Visiting Hours; citizens commonly do, while abroad.”

“Goddess,”he exclaimed, “I’ve done nothing butvisiting.”

“We suspend your work privileges for a month and recommend you to the Palace of Rest. As a foreigner, you cannot be summoned by statute; however, we most strongly recommend ...”

Blackbear put his head in his hands. “Help!” he exclaimed.

Raincloud returned and shooed the servos out. “Never mind, dear. We won’t be staying here another month.”

He looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve resigned.”

His jaw fell. “You’ve what?”

“I quit. You were right before; I should never have gone on that stupid mission.”

“But—but what about my lab?”

“You were offered a position back home, right? I called Founders; the clinic is ready to take you back tomorrow. As for me, I’ve all but sewn up a deal with our state department back home, to translate Urulite, of course. Urulan is in fashion, all of a sudden,” she added bitterly.

“But—I can’t go back.” He found himself shaking with apprehension.

She stopped and looked at him. “You can’t go back?”

“It’s too horrible, that’s all. I can’t face it. I’m afraid of what I might do.”

Raincloud took him in her arms and held him. At first he felt cold as stone, but little by little the warmth crept back into his body despite himself. They were together again; they would soon be together alone.

“There’s so little I can do for you,” she whispered. “But there is one thing. Let’s read the last part of The Web.”

The Web

Part III

Merwen led me down the slope from the rim of the gathering place. I followed, astonished that she would study evil with the same seriousness with which we had considered the Web, the greatest good. Yet she herself had told us at the outset that she loved “what is new and evil.” Was that what had always drawn her to outsiders of questionable character, even Valans like Adeisha’s father, and my stepmother, and me, Cassi Deathsister ... and even my father?

I walked on a bit faster to catch up with Merwen, and I fingered the whorlshell at my neck, as if seeking comfort in a pitiless universe. After several years, the costume of Sharers still feels uncomfortable at times. Beneath our feet as we walked, the enormous girth of a raft branch began to round up out of the mat of evergreen. We were approaching the water channels, where the branches gradually reach down into the life-giving ocean like roots into soil.

A heavy sound broke the silence. It was a dull, creaking sound, like a groan from the bottom of the sea. My feet turned to water, as the raft’s surface began to weave back and forth like an aerial tree branch shaken by a playful child. I cried out and fell down, bruising my hands and knees.

The raft gradually steadied. “Merwen?” I whispered, still afraid. “What was that?”

“A raftquake,” she explained, as dryly as one might explain a symbol in the clickfly web. “By the strength of it, I would guess that a crack has occurred in a central trunk of the raft. Raia-el weakened greatly in the last storm.”

“Won’t the crack knit together again?” I asked.

“Not this time. Raia-el is twice eight-times-eight years old. Her central core has grown dry and brittle. The Gathering should settle a new raft, before the next swallower season.”

I was shocked. “Are you sure? Can we just abandon a raft that has held up so well—and has such historic significance?” The dark burn marks of the Valan invaders remained for all to remember. “Besides, how will we find a new raft large enough, and bind it up with starworms in time, and carve out all the tunnels....”

Merwen nodded with all I said. “That’s exactly what the Gathering will say.”

“Then you’ll have to share otherwise.”

“Unless they are right.” She walked down to the edge, where the surface of the branch curved downward on either side into water many raft-lengths deep. Fingerling fish darted nervously in schools, followed by squirting snails kept afloat by air bladders, but no fleshborers, thank goodness.

Then Merwen lifted her head and looked out to sea. “Can you see that little offshoot raft, out there?” A raft offshoot occurred where a branch of the main raft turned back upward toward the surface, its tip emerging to sprout a miniature raft. The offshoot would break free eventually, a form of vegetative propagation; but for now, it remained attached to the main raft. Occasionally a sister would go out to dwell upon an offshoot, when unspoken by the Gathering, or having unspoken it, which comes to the same thing. It was the right place, perhaps, to contemplate evil.

I looked southwest, squinting in the sun. I saw the offshoot raft, a green smudge upon the horizon.

“Follow me,” said Merwen, “as I swim out.”

“I will,” I said. “Although I can’t match your pace.”

“Then swim up to my back, and hold onto my breasts. It’s not far.”

So I did, my pulse racing as we swam. Merwen’s webbed feet took us both along faster than I could have done alone. We reached the little raft, and I thought, we are alone together again, just as we were earlier that morning when we stayed in whitetrance.

We clambered up onto the branches, the wood crabs scattering before us, until we found a dry place. The little raft flexed up and down with the gentle swell of the ocean. I tried to stand, but my footing was unsteady.

Merwen sat herself upon the side of a branch facing out to the clear horizon, her legs hanging down to the water. I sat beside her. Lines of aging crisscrossed her skin, as if the Web itself were inscribed there. Her face was so close to mine that I could count the wrinkles in the scar down her neck and almost feel her breath on my cheek. “So what do we make of the Web?” she asked. “Is it good?”

I thought a moment. “The Web is sane. We plumbed the depths of madness, then arose to find sanity, the sane, living balance of the Web.” Not perfect, for only death is that.

“Yes,” Merwen said. “We found that sanity means devotion to the Web. The Web is the sum and multiplier of all living things—microbes, plants, squirting snails, flying fish, human beings. All things exist for the Web; and so long as the Web exists, an infinite variety of life will flourish. It is sane to value the Web itself greater than any one of its living parts, even greater than the sum of its parts. Never should one imagine that any one of us, or even our entire family, might be worth more than the Web itself. Indeed, one should rejoice when one must die for the good of the whole.”

I nodded; then I frowned uneasily. A thought came to mind, getting stuck on my tongue. “You once told my father,” I said haltingly, “that ‘even one death is too many.’”

Merwen turned to me with a look of wonderment which I did not understand. “My father was wicked,” I muttered.

“Was he?”

“Of course he was,” I said angrily. “He hastened thousands of your sisters to death.”

“That and more,” Merwen agreed. “And yet, long before Shora was born, it was said that if one does you an inconceivable wrong, you must call that one your best teacher.”

I was stung at first—the impossibility, the injustice of it. “It’s too hard,” I whispered hoarsely. It was hard enough to forgive, let alone ...

But then I remembered that what I had heard as “teacher” was really a “learnsharer,” and a “student” as well. My father had shared a few things with me: the whorlshell, which my stepmother sent back home, and a few honest truths about the Ocean Moon. When he died beneath the assassin’s knife, his bequest set me free to return. He, too, had felt the ocean’s call; he had lacked only courage.

My eyes stung with hot tears which fell silently, tears of relief and a new sense of peace. The little raft rose on a swell, then dipped again, and the water between the branches lapped at my feet.

Merwen seemed not to notice. “An evil spirit compels me to examine this wicked lesson you learned,” she began in a lighthearted tone. “That ‘one death is too many.’ The Web, in all its greatness, can but laugh at such a lesson.”

“Very well,” I said, “but first can you share with me, why should we discuss notions you consider evil, indeed so shameful that we must escape the hearing of our sisters?”

“Suppose,” Merwen said, “you came across some berries on a new type of bush whose like had never been seen on Raia-el. Would you taste them?”

“They might be poison.”

“Correct. Why eat them, amidst an abundance of food? The well-fed call all new things evil.”

“Of course, without other food, I would try them.”

“The hungry grasp new things for salvation.”

“But the well-fed,” I pointed out, “might try the berries, too.”

“Yes, out of boredom, a different sort of hunger.”

“But Merwen, what if, after all, the berries taste sweeter than anything known before?”

“Exactly. So, out of the madness of our hunger and thirst, let us consider evil notions, at the risk of tasting poison.”

I consented, still wary.

“Let’s consider, then, whether the life of a single person may eclipse even that of the entire Web.”

“It sounds impossible.”

“From the standpoint of the Web, do single individuals have significance, or only populations?”

“Populations, I should think. A single person could make little difference to the Web.”

“No more than a single fish,” Merwen agreed, “or a raft, or a microbe. Though a population of any of these may enormously affect the Web.”

“But ... to each other, individual humans have enormous significance.”

“Yes,” said Merwen, “and as we’ve shown, such feelings for individuals are madness, for they make no difference to the Web. And yet, we hunger and thirst for them. When a child is born of my womb, that one child has two moons for eyes and the dawn horizon for a mouth. Her breath cools my breast like a gentle wind, and her cry is a hurricane that drives me before it. All else may cease to exist but that child.”

“That is surely madness,” I agreed, with a touch of regret, for as things are I may never know what it is to bear a child.

“Madder yet,” she went on, “when a friend is born in my heart, my beloved, my sister unlike any other I have known; one whose laughter sends stars tumbling across the sky, one whose presence shames me so that I desire only to give up every other presence in mind, every power in my body, only to lay it at her feet ...”

I barely whispered, “And she would give all, to receive it.”

“What do we call such a presence?” Merwen asked. “What do we call a being whose very nearness can cause us to forget mother and child, even the entire Web?”

I struggled with the words. “A ‘god,’” I said, using the Valan word I knew.

“A soul,” or something like that was what Merwen said, using a Sharer word that I poorly understood; it meant, perhaps, a womanly spirit larger than life and time. “A soul, or a god, if you like. One who lives beyond the Web.”

An immortal. “The Heliconians would create a race of immortals,” I said.

She spread a hand, and the webs hummed between her fingers. “As the saying goes, ‘the longer you live, the sooner you die.’ Immortality is not for races, but for souls.”

“Have you ever known such a soul?”

“I have. I have known one whose very presence left me senseless, one whose radiance eclipsed the sun. I have known one whose inner beauty was worth the death of a thousand Webs.”

And so, too, I thought, you are known. I shuddered, yet sat fixed to the spot as if enchanted. “You frighten me.”

“You are thinking, now, that I am more dangerous than your father.”

“Yes,” I admitted, and my face grew warm. “For you speak of a love which may caress—and may devour.”

“As the infant devours her mother,” she agreed. “Love without restraint is like a branch come loose from the raft, to be dashed to bits upon the waves. But the love of an immortal founds a new raft.”

“What if everyone tasted of this immortality? What if everyone understood her child and her beloved to be truly immortal? Who would be left to feed the starworm?”

“Even the ‘lesser human’, a monkey for instance, sees her face in the mirror. The monkey sees a red spot on her forehead and touches it. What if the spot is washed away, and she returns to the mirror?”

“She touches her face again, wondering at its loss,” I replied.

“Exactly so, for she remembers. We are built of memories, past and future, our selves merging one to the next across time. And where is our beginning and ending? What makes our brief material existence possible?”

“The Web,” I said.

“The Web,” Merwen agreed. “The greater raft gave life to our little offshoot here, and protects it to this day. Just so, the Web feeds us and gives us breath. And yet, the Web is worthless unless it reveals that each one of us might be an immortal.”

I shook my head. “It’s a paradox. What you told Adeisha, and what you’ve just told me, cannot both be true.”

“The two lines cannot meet,” she said, “and yet they can mesh together like the warp and weft on the loom.”

“Still,” I said, “it might take a lifetime to figure out.”

“A good reason to start young, for only the young dare to dive deep. And a good reason to keep young, by learnsharing every day of our lives.” Merwen touched my arm, and we embraced, and I wished I could hold her until the end of time.

We let go, and to my astonishment, I saw a tear escape her eye. She caught my look and said, “Let it be an offering to the ocean.”

I smiled, for the sea needed salt about as much as a divinity needed prayers. “Let it serve for me, too, as friends share all things.”

“So be it,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

Continued in Issue 33