Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (49 page)

… don't matter to anyone … Gates?
Martel cannot ignore the stray thought fragment.

He decides to change the subject.

“You've been here ten years. Isn't that a little unusual?”

“Not necessarily. Terms range up to forty-fifty years. Some people like it here.”
But not me … not here … flamed cernadine …

“I didn't realize there were that many long-termers, particularly with such generous contracts. How did you get here, if I could ask…”

He would ask! Busybody.

Hollie crosses her arms, sits up squarely.

“That's no secret. Gates supported the Popular Front on Nalia. Did so publicly, and the Regency felt embarrassed and suggested to MatNews that Gates shouldn't be welcome. The Matriarchy agreed. So … I came with him.” …
to this exotic stinkhole.

The picture is clearer. Gates had somehow gotten tangled with Regency/Matriarchy politics, and Hollie had followed him. Now Hollie is hooked on cernadine, expensive as it is. That means that despite the lucrative possibilities for a first-class faxer on Aurore they'd never be able to leave. Not unless Hollie could kick her habit. Few do, because the addiction feeds on a poor self-image, not only physically but psychologically as well. In a word, cernadine makes the world seem more interesting and imparts an artificial sense of self-esteem to the user.

A clink from down the hallway signals the opening of a studio portal.

“You both from Nalia?”

“No. Herdian.”

“But how did you get involved with Nalia?”

“MatNews covers the entire Matriarchy and reports on outsystem news.”

“‘Covers' is a good word,” interjects Gates from the entryway. “Like a nice warm blanket.”

“I'm confused. What did your coverage on Herdian have to do with Nalia?”

“Call it a matter of politics,” says Gates dryly.

“Politics?” Martel asks lamely, knowing he should see the pattern Hollie and Gates are weaving.

“You should know,” Gates returns with a smile. “From what I hear, you've had a bit of a brush with politics. One of the crew, I gather.”

“Well … the Grand Duke didn't care much for me, but it wasn't for any great public display of courage.” Martel shifts his weight in the chair.

Gates has moved across the lounge to the counter, onto which he levers his blocky body, equidistant from Hollie and Martel.

“Not sure my stand on the Nalian Popular Front reflected courage. Not sure I would have said what I said if I'd realized the consequences. Always easier to be brave when you're dumb.”

Hollie disagrees with the tiniest of headshakes.

“Or young,” adds Martel. “But why would a comment by a faxer on Herdian upset the Regency enough for the Regent to pressure the Matriarch of Halston to have you removed? Isn't that a bit farfetched?”

“I thought so at first. Of course, Herdian is the closest Matriarchy system to Nalia. Didn't think anyone would mind my comments all that much, though. Who listens to fax comments, anyway? But it turned out that the Matriarchy was behind the Popular Front, and all of a sudden that nearness became more important.”

Martel shakes his head. “Wait a stan! Your government had you canned because you publicly endorsed what they were privately supporting?”

“Right. Win some, lose some.”

“I still don't understand,” protests Martel, half afraid that he does.

“Let's put it another way. The Matriarchy wanted to destabilize the LandRight government, which was backed by the Regency. If they came out directly in support, then the Regency would have had a pretext to act directly against Halston. At that time, and even now, who wants to take on the Empire over a fifth-rate system?”

“I understand the military aspect, but how did that affect you?”

“If the Empire could prove the Matriarchy really was behind the Popular Front, then the Empire would have had the excuse to annex the entire Nalian system as a threat to its security. If they hadn't canned me once the Empire protested, then the Matriarch would be admitting she supported the Popular Front.”

Martel shakes his head. Gates is talking about webs within webs as if they were real.

“Still don't understand, do you?” rumbles Gates. “Look. Think of it this way. People never react to what's real. They react to what they want to believe. To what they believe they see or to what they want to see. What's real doesn't matter unless it coincides with their beliefs.”

“So the Matriarchy kicked you out because of what they believed, rather than for what you'd done?”

“More complicated than that, but that's basically it.”

Martel frowns.

“But why—”

“Martel, do you work at being dense?” snaps Hollie.
Nobody can be that stupid … what's he playing at? Why?… Questions about the cernadine … after what … deep agent … godpawn?

Martel spreads his hands helplessly. He has trouble following the flitting shifts in her thoughts, perhaps a result of the cernadine.

“No, he's not,” says Gates. “We keep forgetting this is his first job, and right out of the Institute. And his exile was scarcely political.”
Good green faxer … but is that all?

“It's all new. Frankly, I've been trying to figure out the gods more than the politics.” Martel tries to reinforce Gates' point.

Why do they both suspect you, Martel?

Gates trying to warn me?

Hollie's thought adds to Martel's concerns.

“You want the off-line studio?” asks Gates.

“I did have some prep I was working on.”

“Fine. We're off.” Gates smiles, but the smile is perfunctory. He slides off the counter, and his boots hit the flooring with a muffled thud.

“But—”

“No problem. No problem,” interrupts the older man. “One thing, though. You might consider that everyone plays politics, even gods. You can't escape it.”
Wish we could.

Hollie jerks herself from the chair and follows Gates. Martel gets up from his own seat as the other two exit.

How much you need to learn, Martel. And those who know don't tell.

Martel belatedly realizes that his shields are down, that he still has not learned to keep his mental blocks in place automatically. How long have his thoughts been open to the world?

He shrugs.

Gates is right, you know … don't you?

Gates is right. He deserves better than Aurore … if he wants it.

Martel sits down again, lets himself go limp, and extends his perceptions.

Hollie and Gates are still in the front entryway. Hollie is shifting the console to full automatic, with the direct in-line straight to the live studio.

Martel power-slips under her conscious thoughts, probes for the subtle weaknesses that must exist. They do. He inserts an idea, a prohibition, a small compulsion, and what others might call an optimistic feed loop, for want of a better term. The adjustments complete, he withdraws.

Unless he has miscalculated, Hollie Devero will discover over the days and years ahead that she needs less and less cernadine, if any. Hopefully, the gradual nature of the change will let her believe that the change is hers, not his.

He takes a deep breath and climbs back to his feet.

Each time, such extensions of his abilities take less and less effort. Each time, he has a better idea of what to do and how.

Some things, Martel, some things you are learning.

He picks up the cubes he needs and heads for the vacant studio, absently noting that Gates and Hollie have left the CastCenter.

 

xvii

According to the datacenter, three main religious orders maintain communities and worship centers in the hills above Pamyra—the Apollonites, the Ethenes, and the Taurists. The fourth major order, the Thoradians, has a small mission at Pamyra, but lists no main community anywhere.

Martel frowns.

Even before getting into the fieldwork, he is digging up as many questions as answers. And more questions are bound to follow.

He tabs the numbers into his console, switches the fax from the datalink into the commlink, and begins his contacts.

Father Sanders G'Iobo of the Apollonites says yes, provided Martel faxes only the postulants themselves and the lay community, not the Brothers or sacred aspects.

Sister Artemis Dian agrees, if no facial close-ups or religious scenes are faxed.

Head Taurist Theseus politely explains that no internal faxshots of the community are permitted.

The Thoradian Chief Missionary grants Martel permission to fax anything he can except the interior of the Smithhall, the place of worship.

So when do you start?
He blocks his own questions but nods to himself.
Now … before it's too late.

Martel stands, leans over the console, and logs out. Theoretically, today is his “break” day, which gives him the time he will need before he is due back on the board.

Tonight Gates will take his shift, and Hollie will probably use the time in the spare studio to edit her slot on crafts.

Crafts? Who knows? Who knows if anyone will care about a bunch of worshipers and their offbeat gods?

Martel represses a shiver.
Maybe they'll care too much.
He recalls the warning about the logo slot by the goddess.

He pushes the uneasiness to the back of his mind and lifts the portafax unit. It will take several trips to load the flitter.

Pamyra is two stans' flight time by the CastCenter flitter, and another half-stan beyond is his first stop, the Apollonite community.

From the air the sunburst pattern is clear—radial lanes, yellow-paved, linked at the center where the temple stands, fan outward and cross regularly spaced and circular ways. The temple rises from the absolute center of the community to a pointed beacon fifty meters above-ground which pulses with a golden glow.

The last circular lane marks the perimeter between the community buildings and the supporting lands, and on it is a row of low structures, some with pens attached.

Martel circles the entire community twice, taking his wide-angle and pan shots, and ends them with a close-focused zoom in on the temple.

He drops the flitter on the pad midway between the agricultural buildings and the temple.

Father G'Iobo, clean-shaven, tanned, silver hairs streaking his golden curls, and flowing pale yellow robes not quite covering his sandals, meets Martel as he begins to unload the portafax from the flitter.

A sunburst, radiating a gentle light, hangs from a golden chain around the good Father's neck.

“Greetings, in the name of Apollo,” offers G'Iobo.

Martel holds back a smile. Without probing, he can sense the priest's disapproval of his black tunic, trousers, and boots.

“Greetings to you, Father, and my thanks, both for me and for those who will have a chance to glimpse the kind of life you offer the faithful and those who would join your Order.” Martel inclines his head in a gesture of respect.

“What exactly do you have in mind, my son?”

Martel finishes loading the next cube into the unit and adjusts the harness, ready to shoulder it.

“Fairly standard approach, Father. Pan shots of the community; then a mixture of shots of the secular activities … what people do in the way of support activities—I understand that the postulants do some crafts for the tourie trade—and perhaps a back shot or two over the shoulders of the novices of the other … Apollonites? Is that what those who are accepted are called?”

G'Iobo nods.

“Like a shot of them, not their faces, but from behind, as they enter the temple, with perhaps an uptake into the beacon.”

“Flame,” corrects the priest.

“Would any of that be a problem?” asks Martel, still balancing the fax unit on his knee, his right foot resting on the landing strut of the flitter.

“If that's all, it shouldn't be.” The older man pauses, then asks, “What do you expect to get from this? What's the real purpose of your visit?”

Martel reflects. The question seems hostile, but Father G'Iobo radiates no hostility, though he wears a mindshield. Shields do not block emotions, just thoughts. Martel calculates whether he should attempt to break through the shield, decides against it.

“Twofold, I guess. First, no one has ever done a story on the religious communities. Not in any of the records. That makes it a possibility for a good story, and I need one. Second, I'm new. And I hope to learn something in the process.”

G'Iobo relaxes fractionally, though his professional smile has not varied an iota.

“That seems reasonable. Please do not point your unit at any of the Brothers, the Apollonites wearing sunbursts like mine. If you feel it necessary to have some faces, a picture of a postulant or two, the ones in the plain yellow robes, would not be out of place.”

Martel catches sight of a taller, more massively built Apollonite approaching.

G'Iobo turns toward the newcomer, his smile a shade broader. “Administrative duties call me, but Brother Hercles will be your guide and adviser.”

Martel again inclines his head and looks up at the giant, who towers a full two meters plus.

“Brother Hercles,” says G'Iobo, “this is Faxer Martel from the CastCenter at Sybernal. He knows the guidelines, and I am sure he will do his best to follow them.”

“Greetings,” Martel says quietly.

“A pleasure to meet you. I've seen you on the fax.” Hercles' voice rumbles like a bass organ.

“I will return to see you off,” adds Father G'Iobo as he steps away toward the temple.

“Where do you wish to start?” asks the giant.

Martel hefts the fax unit into the shoulder harness.

Be nice to have his muscles to carry this,
he thinks.