The Children Star (17 page)

The dream was so vivid Rod awoke, sweating all over and distressed. He had felt little need of women since he joined the order. He had no strong feeling for Khral when they met at Station, though he enjoyed her friendship. She was nothing like the women he had before, who were tall and blond and could shoot as sharp as he did. Khral stood barely a meter and a half, with a simian stoop; she would not have met Academy standards. And yet, somehow . . . It was nothing, he thought, but he could not sleep again.

The next day three visitors appeared at the holostage, from New Reyo. They wore talars of bright L'liite colors, and their curls were dyed orange, piled into towering knots.

“We are the L'liite People's Federation,” one announced. “We demand the repatriation of our citizens.”

Rod glanced at Geode. Geode whispered, “It's
them
—the nationalists. What spirit brings them out here?”

“I don't know.” Rod wished Mother Artemis were here to address them; she would find the right words. “Our colonists were adopted legally,” he told the group. “We rescued them from certain death, and now—”

“Rescued?”
the L'liite interrupted.

“You call that ‘rescue'?” said another. “Abducting our ethnic treasures and putting them to work? Mining gemstones with child labor?”

The L'liite in red shook a fist at him. “You're covering for those lanthanide miners. That's why they run all your farming for you. You're a sham.”

Rod nodded slightly. He could see their point. Entanglement with the world—and yet without it, their colony would have gone under, many times. “We do our best for the children. We teach them their L'liite heritage, and we raise them as free citizens.”

“Free citizens? With less than two hours a day at school?” The L'liite sounded scandalized. “We know—we've been monitoring.”

He took a deep breath. “What do you want of us?”

“You heard me,” said their leader. “Let our people go.”

“Our children?” For a moment Rod was hopeful. “Would you adopt them?” Much as Rod loved the children, he could not deny them the chance of traditional parents. That was what 'jum really needed—her own mother and father, with infinite time to share.

“You're evading the issue. Give back our children—and close down your perverted operation. Children abducted to be raised by dimwits—imagine.”

At that Rod froze. Better silence than what he would have said.

“It's true,” said Geode earnestly, “we've made some mistakes. Won't you come meet the children in person, and see for yourselves if they're happy? Perhaps we can do better.”

The L'liite gave the sentient a look of utter disgust. “Happy children—who can never expect to raise children of their own? We humans can't even give birth on this toxic world. Get out, and let the Fold clean it up for us.”

“We'll stay on your holostage,” warned the other one. “We're prepared for hunger strike.”

Rod bowed slightly and spread his hands. “Good day, Citizens.” He turned quickly and left.

“So that's what the snake eggs were after,” exclaimed Geode, outside. “I'm sure Nibur put them up to it.”

“Peace, Brother,” Rod warned, sketching a starsign. “The Spirit save them from their folly.”

“Yes, but what about our holostage? They got a free-speech permit to occupy it.”

So the holostage was out of order for a day, then the next. No more school time at all, now, thought Rod. More of the snake eggs came hovering again, this time to ask what he thought of the witnesses, and how could he let them starve themselves.

By the week's end 'jum was in trouble again. “She was fine, so long as we left her at the holostage,” Geode explained. “She behaved for a while and seemed interested in sorting the crystals.”

Haemum nodded. “I sewed up her pockets to keep her from hoarding them.”

“That was clever.” But Rod noticed the dark welts under Haemum's eyes. She worked herself too hard.

“ 'jum still keeps to herself too much,” Geode went on. “She won't look at another child without crossing her eyes.
Of course the others make fun of her. And then—” Geode shook his head.

“She hit Pomu's leg this time,” said Haemum. “He needed three stitches. I'm sorry—I'll watch her better.”

“You can't be with her every minute. You need to rest, Sister. You must; do you understand?”

“I'm all right, Brother Rod. I just get these headaches—ever since we hauled the last tumbleround. You know how they smell. The medical service couldn't find anything, so I'm sure it will get better.”

Rod was silent. Vague fears stirred in him, of what he could not say. “I'll talk to 'jum.” What were they to do with her, he wondered. An older child . . . She needed time to heal; but she was a danger to others, and no one could watch her every second. If only Reverend Mother were here.

'jum sat alone on her bed in her filtered room, more sullen than ever. “ 'jum, why?” Rod asked. “You know the rules. Your brothers and sisters don't want to hurt you. We need to keep each other safe.”

“They're stupid.” Her voice was low and grudging as if forced out of her.

“They're family. They love you.” There was something wrong with this child, Rod thought. She could not see other people as people.

“They're stupid,” she repeated. “Even the holostage is stupid.”

Did she miss the sentient holostage at Station? “Would you like to go back to the clinic?”

'jum looked up. “Yes, Brother Rod. Let's go back.”

So she missed all their hours together, the two of them at Station, touring the worlds of the Fold. Rod reached out to clasp her hand. Then he saw on her arms a rash was
spreading; it must feel unbearable. It was a relatively mild reaction to something on Prokaryon, but if Haemum's treatment failed, it might become serious. He should have kept her there at the clinic. But how could all their other children do without him?

Suddenly Rod wished he had left her to die on Scarecrow Hill. She was half-dead then; a day or two more would have ended her misery, and never brought the colony the burden of this traumatized child. The depth of his own feeling surprised and shocked him. Whatever good he might do was all useless in the end, if he could feel such hardness toward one suffering human being.

But the girl was alive, here; and somehow she had to be dealt with, along with the tumbleround and the defunct lightcraft. A voice from long ago welled up within Rod, the voice of his old Academy Master. He held 'jum by the wrists and made her face him. “Listen. You are one of us, and
you will live by our rules
. Do you understand?”

The girl did not reply. “The sun's rays are not infinite,” she said at last in a defiant tone. “I will count their photons.”

Outwardly Rod carried on as always, but inside he felt forsaken. He needed the Spirit more than ever, but when he called, his soul heard only emptiness. He was losing weight on Prokaryon food, and by day he could think of little else. At night he dreamed of Khral, again and again. It always felt the same; a sense of longing and satisfaction, a feeling of the deepest joy to become one with her. In the morning he would awaken, bewildered and remorseful. He prayed for release, but instead found himself looking forward to the nighttime, while dreading the shame of awakening.

Rod knew he had to talk with someone. He approached Geode, after evening prayers. Overhead the molten moon awaited the nightly clouds.
They'll boil off the continent
, Diorite had warned, just like Prokaryon's moon. It could not happen—
must
not happen, Rod told himself yet again. But he could do nothing, without healing himself first. “Brother, I have a problem.”

Geode sighed. “Not the roof again? We really can't afford another roof job.”

Rod smiled despite himself. “I'll keep the roof tight, never fear. The problem is, I am distracted in my prayers. My soul strays, and I can't call as I should.”

The sentient's eyestalks twisted and untwisted. “Distracted? Straying? Not you, Brother Rod. You're always the one to keep me straight.”

Taken aback, Rod murmured, “Well, thanks, Brother.”

“It's true. You always remind me to respect the poorest and least fortunate of our fellow creatures; even poor servos too dim to grow sentient.”

“I try my best. But now I feel . . . empty, somehow, and I long for things that are wrong.”

“That's how I feel,” said Geode suddenly. “Especially about Station; I can't help imagining all sorts of ugly fates she deserves, for buying Proteus's servos. Like the old Urulite overlords, most of whom had simian blood, but it never kept them from owning simian slaves.” He raised two limbs fluttering. “So much evil fills the world, it's hard work to untangle one's self. That's why I pray all the time, without ceasing. But you are human—you can scarcely manage one task at a time, let alone several. You need time to retreat from the world.”

Rod considered this. “A retreat might help. But how could I make the time?”

“You could spend one afternoon, at least, in the wilderness, meeting the Spirit. No, really; I can manage for an afternoon.”

The next day, leaving the children settled for the moment, Rod strode out alone across the brokenhearts. Despite the heat, he wore his formal robe, to help focus his search. He silently repeated all the litanies, and tried to open his mind—for what, he was not sure. That was the way to start, he knew: with unsureness. Only when the mind cracked open its own worldly certainties could a glimpse of light appear.

He walked steadily beyond the tilled fields, over the windswept reaches tended only by whatever Spirit filled Prokaryon. The wind brought many scents, of four-eyes and crushed loopleaves, of the river that flowed in among the singing-trees. He let his mind run free, free as the child he was before he entered the Academy, the child who used to play with old fossil bones out on Trollbone Point—the bones of the creatures boiled off before humans came.

He found his mind calling out around him: What are you, you rolling creatures and tangled leaves? What is your place in the cosmos? Every form of life that ever was had its day and died, even old
Architeuthis
. If someday his children played with singing-tree skeletons, what did it matter? Was Prokaryon any different? Why was it so crucial that Mother Artemis convinced the Secretary?

He listened for reply. But no reply came to his mind; only to his heart, to the part of him that was beyond reason. For a moment he caught a glimpse of understanding, of why some humans could decide by logic to boil off a world. Of course, no logic protected a living thing, only
sheer desire, a desire fed by the Spirit. He needed the living beings of Prokaryon, absolutely, for all that he could barely eat their food.

The wind rose again, sighing its assurance. It brought a scent, the very faintest trace, slight but unmistakable, of glue. Rod stopped. He meant to veer off, to avoid any distracting encounter. Instead, his feet took him forward again.

The odor increased. Sure enough, the shapeless mass of a tumbleround appeared. A whirr or two alighted on Rod's arm, never staying for long. His curiosity rose insistently. What could this thing be, that sent out its little carriers of micros to the winds? To reach other tumblerounds, of course. But what would they say, if ever those messengers could talk to him? All those times this enigmatic creature had crept over to peer in at his window; now, for the first time, here he had come to visit it.

Rod's head ached and his eyes swam. The sun was hot, and the gluish odor overpowering. He tried to turn and leave; but he was transfixed to the spot. His eyesight went blank, turning different colors: first blank red, then green, then blue. Then mixed hues appeared in rapid succession, until he lost track of them and let out a wordless scream.

The hues subsided and lost definition. Now shapes of darkness appeared, as if some unseen hand were trying to paint on his retina. The shapes were tantalizing, yet their sense eluded him. After what seemed forever, a dark blur seemed to coalesce and take rudimentary form. The form parted into several projecting lines; he counted five. A prime number? Then, in an instant, he knew the shape for what it must be: an outstretched hand.

For just a moment, the wind and field reappeared before his eyes. It was just long enough for Rod to reclaim his senses and turn to flee across the fields. He did not stop
until he reached the compound, where he leaned on the gate, gasping for breath, his clothes drenched with sweat.
An outstretched hand
. . . There could be only one meaning for such a sign.

T
he Secretariat, the highest authority of the Free Fold, occupied a giant orb of nanoplast that rolled lazily through space above Elysium, pulsing with a million urgent signals to and from the seven worlds of the Fold. The daily cycle for its myriad officers, ambassadors, and petitioners had just reached morning.