Hidden Empire (22 page)
He removed his rock hammer and chipped away the most remarkable fossils, storing them in a pouch at his waist. Then he imaged
others that were too large to excavate. These specimens had lived millions of years before the Klikiss ever set foot on Rheindic
Co. As Margaret Colicos had reminded him, this was a scientific expedition, and Arcas could make discoveries of his own.
He hiked back toward the encampment, stepping over tumbled boulders that lay strewn like giant marbles. Even if the canyon
had not provided such a precise route, Arcas could have opened his mind and let the treelings call him back to the camp. With
worldtrees around, a green priest could never get lost.
He looked down the gentle slope of the alluvial fan. Far to the south, he saw a smear of bruised darkness across the sky where
their survey satellites had shown distant volcanoes spewing ash and soot. Each day, he loved the blazing watercolor sunsets
most of all.
He adored this desert world, though such feeling gave him a twinge of guilt, because it seemed like a denial of the worldtrees.
But he made up for it by hurrying to the little grove, kneeling beside the treelings, and touching their trunks. Closing his
eyes, he recalled the palette of his memory and described all the beautiful things he had seen.
The trees responded with wordless delight.
A
s the humid forest settled for the night, Sarein made sure her little sister Celli went to bed. Idriss and Alexa were not
rigid parents, but Sarein insisted on following a schedule. Though the ten-year-old always tried to wheedle another hour or
so of playtime, Sarein insisted that Celli abide by the rules.
“Tie down your pet condorfly,” she said. “And wash up.”
“He needs me to watch over him,” said Celli with a pout. The colorful creature rattled its emerald-green wings inside the
chamber, then clacked its long thin beak as if in search of flower petals to devour.
“He can take care of himself. He is a wild creature, you know.” Sarein stood in the low doorway, brooking no argument. She
knew it would be only a matter of moments before her sister heaved a sigh and did as she was told.
“He’s my pet.” Celli had captured this one just as it emerged from its chrysalis, still moist and weak. She kept a thin chain
cuffed to one of its eight segmented legs so that it could flap and drift above her shoulder like a living kite. Sarein had
always thought condorflies had about as many brain cells as a kite.
“Yes, and he wants you to go to bed as much as I do. Now don’t make this as difficult as you did yesterday.” Grudgingly, the
little girl complied.
At night, still tethered to its stand, the condorfly would crawl through the window and fly as far as the leash would allow
it. In the morning, Celli would reel it in. Luckily, condorflies had relatively short life spans, so her sister’s depend-
ence upon this mindless pet would last no more than a month or two.
All day long, the little girl was a bundle of energy, running and leaping, chattering with friends, playing various games.
She had more foolish courage than common sense. By the age of ten, Celli had had her share of broken bones from various falls
and scrapes. Her tomboy body was an ever-changing pattern of scabs and skinned knees, scratches, bruises, and scrapes.
Sarein often grew impatient with her, but then told herself that Celli would grow up. Eventually. Estarra, two years older,
seemed well on her way to making proper decisions. Sarein’s greatest hope was that she and her siblings, in one generation,
could change Theroc and bring these backwater people out of their prehistoric naïveté and into the thriving community of the
Spiral Arm.
Finally, after a perfunctory hug and kiss, Sarein closed the door and walked through glow-lit corridors. Reynald was due to
return soon from his peregrination, and Sarein hoped he had made inroads with powerful figures. She couldn’t wait to hear
her brother’s description of the Ildiran court and wondered what he might have accomplished on Earth by meeting with Basil.
Mother Alexa and Father Idriss had gone to the higher levels of the city, where they would watch a festive performance of
talented gymnastic treedancers. Sarein had been invited to see the skilled leaping and tumbling among the springy interlocked
fronds, but she had no interest. Estarra had been forced to go to the festival, but she would probably slip off by herself
to climb the rugged layers of the fungus reef. Sarein sighed at her family’s aloofness. They had so many resources and opportunities—yet
they seemed not to care. They simply lived from day to day, oblivious to the rest of human civilization, satisfied with what
they had.
She entered her quarters, increased the illumination, and sat at her polymer-fabricated desk imported from Earth. She had
many official records and contracts to study. It discouraged her that Idriss and Alexa insisted on ignoring the Hansa’s greater
commercial possibilities. Perhaps she could find loopholes in old agreements, as Basil had taught her to do.
She ran a hand over her short dark hair, combed and cut in a popular Earth style. In her wardrobe, she kept many traditional
Theron gowns and scarves, adorned with broken bits of condorfly wings and polished insect shells, but Sarein preferred the
comfortable clothing she had brought from her year of study on Earth. Theron trappings were too provincial for her tastes.
The first documents before her were Rlinda Kett’s revised proposal for trading Theron products. Sarein scowled, reminded again
of her parents’ stubborn refusal to grasp an obvious opportunity. The merchant had made excellent arguments, and Sarein had
continued to press Idriss and Alexa in their private chambers. But she could not convince the two that Theroc should join
the Hansa, regardless of how many doors it would open for them.
Bearded Idriss had looked at his daughter as if she were a child. “Giving up independence is not a thing one should do lightly.
What have we to gain compared with all that we can lose?”
Sarein felt as if she were speaking to an incomprehensible alien.
No
, she thought,
even Ildirans would be more sensible in this matter
.
She tapped her stylus on the electronic document, pondering the future of her world and dismayed at how difficult this supposedly
simple task was going to be. She might need help.
Sarein thought wistfully of dashing Basil Wenceslas and all she had learned under the suave Chairman’s gentle guidance. Basil
was much older than she, but incredibly cultured and handsome, healthy, and with an animal magnetism that made him captivating
to her, even more so because of the power he wielded in the Terran Hanseatic League.
On wondrous Earth, Sarein had been fed the best meals and given the finest wines. Basil had courted her, knowing that this
young daughter might be a key to opening Theroc, and Sarein, realizing what he was doing, had willingly let herself be lured.
She had as much to gain as did the Chairman.
She had allowed Basil to seduce her, and they became lovers for several months before her schedule forced her to return home.
He had been a considerate partner, patient yet energetic, and Sarein had come to care for him beyond her initial attraction
to his knowledge and power. She loved his élan, and she recognized how much he desired everything that Sarein represented.
To him, she was possible leverage to receiving more green priests.
Weary of her work now, Sarein dimmed the glow lights, stripped off her clothes, and slid naked between the slick woven sheets
of her bed. She felt dizzy and restless, her mind yammering with possibilities, contract language, numbers. As she drifted
off to sleep, she smiled, letting herself dwell on actual memories mixed with fantasies of Basil.
Sarein began to wonder
who
had actually seduced whom.
A
s soon as the old woman returned to Theroc, the weariness of so many years of service lifted from her shoulders like condorflies
taking wing. A devoted green priest, Otema relished being back home among the worldtrees.
On Earth she’d had lush quarters in the diplomatic section of the Whisper Palace, and the King’s gardens held many worldtrees.
Still, Otema longed to touch the soil of Theroc with her bare feet, to scale the broad trunks and feel the feather touch of
interlocking fronds.
At the age of 137, she was the oldest of the green priests. After so many years of symbiosis, her skin had darkened to deepest
green. Otema had maintained her health through her link with the forest and her dedication to her duties, but now she was
glad to come back to rest, to study, and to pray.
The worldforest seemed uneasy, as if pondering a deep secret or gradually becoming aware of a hidden concern. None of the
green priests understood it completely, but they trusted the judgment of the trees and remained on guard.
As the Theron ambassador to Earth, Otema had done her work for the trees, butting heads with the ambitious Hansa. Stern and
inflexible, the old woman had earned herself the nickname “Iron Lady” by resisting Chairman Wenceslas’s methods of persuasion,
and stonewalling the Hanseatic League’s strident demands for more green priests. Otema did not yet know who would be chosen
as her successor, but she did not envy that person the job that lay ahead.
As Otema disembarked from the shuttle in the landing clearing, she moved slowly but precisely, not because she was frail but
because her every movement was careful. She stood under the sunlight of Theroc, looking up to the turgid sea of treetops.
She spread her green-skinned arms wide, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath to inhale the song of the worldtrees.
Even through the undertone of hidden fear, from the forest’s drowsy mind she felt a flurry of welcome, a vibration of acceptance
and happiness. She heard the greetings of fellow green priests who remained here, as well as a fainter echo of the others
with their own treelings scattered across the Spiral Arm.
“Ah, thank you,” Otema said aloud, knowing the trees would hear, as would all the other priests. She felt revitalized, a dozen
years younger.
Long before many green priests reached her age, they grew so weary of life that they allowed themselves to rejoin the forest—not
dying in the usual sense, but letting themselves be absorbed into the database of trees so that their cells were incorporated
in the ever-growing biological network. But Otema did not feel her work was finished yet.
Yarrod, a prominent green priest, met her at the shuttle. “We are glad to have you back with us, Otema. Father Idriss and
Mother Alexa have also requested to see you, as soon as you feel refreshed.”
“I feel refreshed just by being back among the worldtrees, Yarrod. There is no sense waiting.” She turned and led the way,
and the male priest hurried after her.
In the throne chamber, Idriss and Alexa wore formal garments of office and tall headdresses as they sat in their ornate chairs.
Idriss beamed when he saw Otema, and Alexa stood up. “We are so glad you have returned, Ambassador, from your long and arduous
service.” Alexa gave a soft smile. “The many years on Earth have drained you. You must be pleased to commune with the trees
again, here on your home soil.”
Otema straightened her ambassadorial robes, which were dyed with various jungle symbols and thought patterns of the worldtrees.
She bowed, her limbs flexible despite her extreme age. “Nevertheless, if the forest should ask me to continue in my capacity
as ambassador, I would be glad to serve.”
Father Idriss raised a large dark-skinned hand. “Have no worry about that, Otema. Your duties are in the best of hands, and
our relations with Earth will build upon what you have already accomplished.”
From a side alcove, their daughter Sarein emerged, wearing a traditional shawl of cocoon fiber over a stylish indigo outfit
of the type that was fashionable on Earth. Looking at the young woman, Otema saw pride and ambition in Sarein’s eyes. She
felt a barb of uneasiness in her skin.
