Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (26 page)

“It's true. I can't explain it, but I find this all very stimulating.” He noticed the gravity in Tvrdy's tone and asked, “What is it, Hageman?”

“How close are we to feeding ourselves?”

The question took Piipo aback. “You're serious?”

“Always.”

“Tvrdy, we have not even planted. It will be months. The soil ... the water ... four or five months at least. I told you at the first briefing.”

“Yes, I know. How long can we sustain ourselves on the supplies we brought with us?”

“At the present consumption level—until the first crops come in. This I also explained during the briefing. Why are you asking me these things?”

“I want to begin feeding the Dhogs.”

“Feeding nonbeings?” Piipo's expression showed pure astonishment.

“They have no food. They are so hungry they cannot complete even simple maneuvers. We have to build them up if we are ever to make fighters of them. It's that simple.”

“Starvation is also simple. We feed the Dhogs and our supplies vanish overnight. We can starve right along with the rest—what will that accomplish?”

“I don't propose to starve, Piipo.”

“Then you must propose to bring in more supplies, because I can't make the seeds sprout any faster.”

“What word from your Hage?”

“Subdirector Gorov is to be installed as Director pending an investigation of my disappearance. He says the Hage is in full production. The Purge has not touched the Hyrgo yet.”

“This is good.” Tvrdy tugged on his lower lip thoughtfully.

“What are you thinking?”

“I think we must bring in more supplies.”

“Of course, but how can we do that? Jamrog's checkpoints—”

“Not through the supply route,” said Tvrdy. “We must visit your granaries, Piipo.”

“Raid the granaries!”

“It's the only way. We don't have the equipment yet to issue the travel writs and identification. But with Gorov's help, we should be able to get in and out unnoticed.”

“It's dangerous.”

“Of course.”

Piipo was silent for a long time. Finally he said, “I don't like it, but it could be done. Unfortunately, Hage Nilokerus abuts. If anything went wrong, it would not take them long to get to us.”

“Us? You'll stay here, Piipo. We need your expertise.”

“No, I must go with you. Who knows the Hage better than its Director?”

“We'll take one of your underdirectors.”

“No. I'm going.”

Tvrdy saw it was no use arguing with the Hyrgo, so he said, “Meet me at the briefing kraam in an hour. We will all sit down and plan the raid. Then Cejka will arrange to get instructions to Gorov at once.”

“When will the raid take place?”

“Tonight.”

The pale green hills
drifted slowly by the ships which stretched out in a long, snaking train along Taleraan's undulating curves. The boats kept to the center of the wide channel and the deepest part of the river, forging upstream against the slow current. The sails were furled, for now the ships were driven by the crystal-powered engines carried in the outrigged pods which had been attached to either side of the boat. These propelled the ships cleanly and quietly upriver.

Bemused hill creatures inhabiting the thickets and groves along the wide banks halted their foraging to watch the grand procession pass. The Fieri hailed the animals, watching the banks and pointing out each new species to one another. Yarden hung over the rail with the rest, enjoying the scenery and the fauna, quite forgetting her agitation of the night before in the beauty of the day.

At first glance desolate, the hills were actually swarming with wildlife once one learned how and where to look for them. There were creatures that looked like fluffy, long-legged antelopes, floating like tawny clouds as they grazed the rolling hillsides in scattered herds. Lower, among the frilly trees along the riverbanks, scuttled small orange bearlike animals with shaggy golden manes. Larger, darker shapes moved among the shadowed backgrounds, and stout gray-blue water beasts with long necks and rotund bodies plied the shallows, diving and surfacing with water pods in their toothless jaws.

Besides the ubiquitous rakkes, there were avian battalions of swooping, diving fishers with pointed beaks and brilliant green and red banded wings that sliced the air in sharp maneuvers to the delight of their captivated audiences, snatching tiny striped fish out of the water on the fly. Their less pretentious cousins strolled the river's edge on pink stilt legs, stepping carefully through the turquoise forests of long-bladed watergrass, their bright yellow heads cocked, great round eyes scanning the silted bottom for the jade-colored lizards on which they fed.

Yarden was enthralled with all she saw, and never tired of looking as each new bend in the river revealed a panorama of fresh beauty. The slow, steady progress of the boats, marked by a lulling chorus of bird and animal calls, worked on Yarden like a delicious elixir, and she drank in every brilliant moment.

Gerdes also inspired her, too, but in a different way. Each afternoon the Fieri teacher gathered her brood of eager young artists beneath the ocher canopy on the aft deck of the barge. There she led them through exercises. “A limber body is often the companion of a limber mind,” she told them. “The body is the bridge between the mind and the emotions, just as the emotions are the bridge between the mind and spirit.”

Of the eight students Gerdes had gathered for the journey, Yarden was the oldest by far, and found herself slightly envious of their youth, wishing she had embarked upon her career earlier. An absurd thought, she told herself on reflection, since there was no way she could have come to Empyrion any sooner, and in her other life—her life as an executive administrator to one of the most powerful men in the known universe—the idea of becoming an artist had never occurred to her. Seriously, that is. She had sometimes felt artistic yearnings within her, and thought she might like to do something creative, but always dismissed the urges as inappropriate or impractical.

But here on Empyrion all things were possible. She was not subject to the tyranny of the practical. In fact, her previous life seemed to her now to have been largely a waste of precious time. A waste she would have resented if it did not now seem so remote and inconsequential. In fact, she had to think very hard about it in order to remember her life with Cynetics at all.

Together the eight would-be artists and their instructor filled the afternoon hours with exercises in body awareness and movement, and sessions of mental conditioning. Through all of the exercises, Gerdes imparted nuggets of her artistic philosophy: “Art is thought as well as feeling. An artist's abilities, mind, and spirit are brought to the act of creation.”

“Why do we spend so much time in movement exercises?” asked one of the Fieri, a stocky young man with black curly hair and a ruddy complexion, full of exuberance and high spirits, but definitely not inclined to patience.

“Because, Luarco, my restless one,” Gerdes said, and the other Fieri laughed, “we already know how to think. We think all the time. The mind controls all we do, sometimes inhibiting motion. The body was made to move, not to think; therefore, we must learn to free the body to do what it knows how to do.”

“But doesn't that contradict what you just said about the role of the artist's mind in the act of creation?” asked a young woman sitting next to Yarden.

“Ahh, Taniani, you are always running far ahead. I was coming to that. Once we have learned to move freely, without unnecessary restriction, we can reintroduce the mental aspect in its proper place. Here is the key:
balance.
In art there must be a balance of the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.”

“The Preceptor calls that the key to life,” Luarco pointed out—with just a touch of belligerence, Yarden thought.

“Oh, it is, Luarco, it is. It is also the key to great art. Think now! What is the most important component of the work?”

“Skill,” replied a young man sprawled out full-length on the deck, his sandy hair ruffled in the breeze.

“I'm not surprised you would say that, Gheorgi. Your skill is admirable.” Gerdes asked the others, “Is he right?”

“No,” said the girl next to him. “Technical skill by itself means nothing. The thought the artist is trying to communicate is the most important. If the artist has nothing to say, it doesn't matter how great his skill.”

“It's the artist's
expression,”
said another. “Without the right expression nothing is communicated, no matter how well conceived or executed.”

Gerdes smiled with self-satisfaction. “Do you hear yourselves? You have proven my point. Who sees it?” Her gaze swept the group. “Yarden?”

Yarden had been engrossed in the discussion, and was startled to hear her name called. “Because,” she said slowly, “any element elevated to the exclusion of the others ... ah, works against the piece.”

“Precisely!” Gerdes crowed. “Do you see it? Balance! As in life, all elements are equally important. It is self-evident: exclude one and the work is flawed. Without the physical, there is no substance; without the emotional, it has no heart; without the mind, it has no direction; and without the spiritual, the work has no soul. All elements are necessary. All must be maintained in balance.”

The rippling of water and the clear keening of the rakkes punctuated the silence as the students turned these things over in their heads. At last Gerdes said, “Make this a part of your meditations for tonight. We will begin with brush and ink tomorrow.”

Noting Luarco's pained expression, Gerdes added, “Yes,
black
ink, Luarco. Color will come later. First, I want to see your brush strokes live.”

The students broke up, most drifting off along the decks in pairs, continuing the discussion; others stretched out beneath the canopy, now golden with the afternoon sun full on it. Yarden got up to leave and Gerdes came to her, taking her arm and steering her toward the stern.

Fieri sat on benches along the rail, quietly talking, or napped in colored cloth deckchairs. Several youngsters had made paper boats which they floated from the ends of long strings. It was, Yarden thought, a typical tourboat scene from the last century. They found a place on a nearby bench and sat down together. “A very perceptive answer, Yarden,” began Gerdes.

Yarden smiled, but shrugged off the compliment. “You said yourself it was self-evident.”

“Certainly, but we do not always see the obvious—rarely, in fact. Anyway, it showed you were thinking.”

“I am doing a lot of that lately, it seems.”

Gerdes' kind face puckered in concern. “Not all of it about painting, I would guess.”

She gave her teacher a sideways glance. “I know, think no negative thought. But—well, I just ... I've had a lot to think about. I didn't know it showed.”

“When the heart is troubled, the body responds in its own way. I noticed your exercises were stiff, tentative. You were not centered in yourself.”

“It's true. I did feel awkward this afternoon. But I'll do better tomorrow.”

Gerdes smiled gently and took her hand. “Dear Yarden, do you really suppose that's why I wanted to talk to you? I care about you far more than I care about your lessons. I merely thought that if something was troubling you, and if talking would help, we could talk.”

“Thank you, Gerdes; you're kind and thoughtful. But this is something I need to work out alone.”

“You're sure?”

Yarden nodded, and squeezed her teacher's hand.

“As you say. Still, if you think it might help—”

“I'll remember.”

Gerdes rose and moved off. Yarden remained by herself on the bench. What am I going to do? she wondered. Just when I think I've made some progress, someone comes along and tells me I'm unhappy. I've got to pull myself together.

The
rain pattered down upon the forest floor, filtering through layer upon layer of leaves until it percolated down to the ground to soak the fertile soil and transform forest pathways into gurgling brooks. The man and his great dark feline companion waited out the rain, listening to the water sounds and napping beneath a low, umbrella-shaped bush whose broad, frilly leaves kept them perfectly dry.

The bond between the man and the wevicat had deepened since the combat with the behemoth, and Crocker had begun talking to the cat, haltingly at first, but with increasing fluency. The cat gazed at the man with golden calm in its great eyes, now and then licking its paws with its deeply grooved tongue, prepared to listen to the man-sounds indefinitely.

“Rain, rain, go away,” muttered the man.

The wevicat rolled over on its side and laid its head down on the dry leaves. In a moment a rumble like mountain thunder sounded as the animal began to purr. It was the sound of pure contentment and soon Crocker, too, had stretched out, his head resting against the cat's warm flank. “Rain, rain, go away,” he said again, like a child enthralled with the sound of its own voice. “Crocker come back another day.”

Jamrog was beside himself.
“He doesn't look like much. Are you certain this is the Fieri? Perhaps you have captured a Jamuna wastehandler by mistake.” The Supreme Director walked slowly around his prisoner, prodding him roughly with the butt of the bhuj. Diltz and Mrukk looked on. “Why, he looks just like an ordinary Hageman. I must say I'm very disappointed, Mrukk. I expected much more.”

“Look at his teeth, Hage Leader,” suggested Diltz.

“Open your mouth, Fieri,” commanded Jamrog, grabbing Treet by the chin. Treet did not cooperate, so the Supreme Director called the Mors Ultima standing at attention nearby. “Open his mouth,” he ordered.

Treet's jaws were forced open. Jamrog came close and poked a finger inside his mouth. “Ah, yes! I see what you mean, Diltz. Those teeth have never been touched by Nilokerus physicians. They are perfect. But can he speak with those perfect teeth in his mouth?”

Treet said nothing. His initial shock at being apprehended had worn off, and now he was simply sullen. Oddly, he was not at all afraid. Instead, much to his own surprise, he was merely disgruntled by the necessity of having to deal with the inconvenience of being a prisoner once more.