12
Paternity Suit
Enki answered Ninmah: "I will counterbalance whatever fate—good or bad—you happen to decide."
Ninmah took clay from the top of the sacred water in her hand and she fashioned from it first a man who could not bend his outstretched weak hands. Enki looked at the man who cannot bend his outstretched weak hands, and decreed his fate: he appointed him as a servant of the king.
Second, she fashioned one who turned back the light, a man with constantly opened eyes. Enki looked at the man who turned back the light, the man with constantly opened eyes, and decreed his fate: he appointed him as a servant of the king.
Third, she fashioned one with both feet broken, one with paralysed feet. Enki looked at the one with both feet broken, the one with paralysed feet and decreed his fate: he appointed him as a servant of the king.
Fourth, she fashioned one who could not hold back his urine. Enki looked at the one who could not hold back his urine and bathed him in enchanted water and drove out the namtar demon from his body.
Fifth, she fashioned a woman who could not give birth. Enki looked at the woman who could not give birth, and decreed her fate: he made her a weaver, fashioned her to belong to the queen's household.
Sixth, she fashioned one with neither penis nor vagina on its body. Enki looked at the one with neither penis nor vagina on its body and gave it the name eunuch and decreed as its fate to stand before the king.
—Enki and Ninmah, The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature
House of Sargon, Mesolimeris
Moties weren’t given to emotional displays—at least, not to displays that humans could easily interpret—but Lagash’s reaction to being greeted in a stream of archaic languages was unmistakable. The old Keeper visibly wobbled on Enheduanna’s arm, and the bone-wrenching feeling that Asach was beginning to recognize as sub-audible communication between Masters ensued.
Before they could react, in the mish-mosh of languages they thus far shared, Asach said: “I talk Anglic. You hear many words. You stop you hear words you understand,” then punched on the auto-translator, now beefed up with fifteen languages judged by the Blaine experts as the widest-possible cross section in time and space known from the Motie Library of Alexandria.
“Good Morning.” Fifteen possible variations screeched and twittered from the cowl of Asach’s cloak.
“My name is Asach. You know this already.” Trilling and rumbling ensued as the cloak sent the translations.
“Do you understand any of this?” Zipping and—then Lagash shouted the word that even Laurel could understand.
“Hold! What is that?”
Asach glanced at a sleeve, noted the indicator, and set it as the default translator.
“I have made lists of words. Do you understand?”
The Masters heard in their own language something akin to: I awrát weaxbredu tala ealdspræca. ðu ackneaow? That is, it was about as close to Mesolimeran as Old English was to Modern Anglic. It meant nothing to Enheduanna. But to Lagash, it was very like the language of the oldest form of the oldest myth known.
“Listen,” said Asach, “then repeat in your own language.” Asach activated an auto-learn program. It was crude, but it rapidly built a syntax and lexicon by comparing the projected phrase to the one spoken back.
Lagash was fascinated. It appeared that overnight Asach had acquired the ability to speak by projecting words directly from the chest and throat, without involvement of the mouth or lips. The interactive program itself was also interesting. Motie-designed, it was succinct. It did not suffer from the agonizing slowness of working directly with the human. Within an hour, it was as smart in Mesolimeran as a bright child. And it already knew Anglic. Enheduanna joined in. Machine-assisted, their mutual patois came faster and faster now.
“We must have food now. We must have cleanliness. We must have these feces and urine removed. We will sicken and die. We already feel ill from hunger.”
“The Protector grants meals. It is not in our power.”
“Please inform the Protector that we request an audience.”
“The Protector is aware of your request.”
Asach was finally irate. “Inform the Protector now!” Interestingly, what boomed from the cloak was not merely a translation. There came a greasy undertow to the air: transmissions in the sub-audible. Enheduanna flinched. Lagash answered.
“Yes, milord. We inform the Protector now.”
Bowls of dark green jelly arrived within the hour. It looked like slime. It tasted like manna. Next came a cleanup crew, and chamber pots. Next returned Lagash and Enheduanna.
Then the real work began. Five thousand word groups are enough to communicate like a five-year-old child. Ten thousand enough to make your way about as an adult in a foreign land. Twenty thousand enough to speak with the expertise gained by a university education. The simplest Mesolimeran myth contained thirty thousand word groups, with tenses and cases unknown in any human language. The Masters worked until they had exhausted the downloaded vocabulary. Then they all worked until they had exhausted their shared Tok Pisin and Anglic. At the end of the day, Asach’s headache was blinding. Enheduanna seemed unfazed. The working group had bonded. They could communicate with relative ease. Simple questions followed.
“Where are we?”
“At the House of [idiomatic translation of a proper name for a powerful and fertile leader with jurisdiction over former wastelands, descended from wanderers=Sargon], [idiomatic translation for a formal rendering of the proper name for the-land-between-the-mountains=Mesolimeris].”
“Why are you holding us?”
“At the order of Lord Sargon.”
“For how long?”
Lagash answered. “Tomorrow, Lord Protector Sargon will begin the interrogation. Then the Excellency will decide.”
Then, thankfully, they departed. Asach beamed everything to Renner and Barthes, with a simple request: “Send More. Find us.”
Asach awoke before dawn, surprised to discover the cape draped at the foot of the stone chaise, and Laurel bustling about the room. How it was possible to bustle in an unfurnished space containing nothing save two couches, two chamber pots, and a washbasin was unclear, but that’s what it felt like. Laurel’s outer garments were neatly folded; she was vigorously splashing and rubbing and running fingers through her hair. Asach observed this though half-closed eyes, then pointedly yawned and stood, facing the opposite direction, fumbling about in the cape.
“Here.” Asach proffered a comb, and a sliver of soap, one arm stretched rearward.
“You have soap?”
Asach shrugged. “I travel light, but carry the essentials.”
“Essentials?”
“You’d be surprised how many diseases are prevented by judicious hand-washing.”
“You can turn around, you know.”
“But I thought—”
“I just didn’t want to reveal myself to them. People are all right.”
“So you’re not shy? Embarrassed?”
Laurel snorted. “After twenty years of camp life? Please.”
Asach sat on the chaise while Laurel lathered. “You seem to be feeling better today.”
Laurel nodded.
“Welcome back.”
Laurel paused, mid-froth. “Back?”
“You’ve been sort of on auto-pilot.”
Another scrub; a rinse, her answer bubbling through the water. “Auto-pilot?”
“You know, like—oh, never mind.”
There was nothing to dry with. Casting about, Laurel settled for the back of her tunic. “I just had a lot on my mind.”
“I’d say.”
“But now, I’ve been fed manna by the hands of Angels. Just like the prophesy. So I feel fine.”
Asach groaned inwardly.
“Manna?”
“Yes.”
“That green slime?”
“Yes.” Interestingly, her manner was not in the least defensive.
“Is that what you call it?”
“That’s what it is.”
“I see. Where does it come from?”
Laurel looked at Asach with that aura of incredulity reserved on any world for a rural denizen comprehending the utter stupidity of an urban gobshite. In most cases, this had the odd effect of making the rube look stupid in the city slicker’s eyes. Asach was, however, better attuned to the reality.
“Humor me.”
“Well, what do you think we’ve been walking through for—however long it’s been.”
“Grass of some kind?”
Laurel snorted. “Grass? Grass won’t grow here. Uncle Collie went broke trying.”
“So manna is—?
“Manna. It is what it is. The angels grow it. We cut it for hay when we can, but they don’t like that.”
Asach’s head reeled. Then the Introduction to the Swenson’s Ape report came into focus. Then the lower-case tone of angels registered.
“And where do—angels—come from?”
Laurel gave the I-can’t-believe-a-grown-person-is-this-ignorant look again, then shrugged. “This is the first time they’ve come back to the Outback in my lifetime. I guess from the Way Outback, but I don’t know.”
“The Way Outback.”
Laurel smiled. “Well, this all used to be the Outback, but after the rigs moved in, we had to call everything the other side of those mountains something.”
“The rigs.”
Laurel nodded. “The sand miners. Upriver. They are totally poaching, but there’s not much we can do about it.”
Asach was getting more than a little confused about this chain of revelations, and decided to return to first principles. “OK, so, the angels come from—further east, beyond those mountains, and when they come, they grow manna. Is that about right?”
She nodded. “Or south. From downriver. They didn’t manage to drain it all. There might have been some left along the coast.”
“Some of what? Angels? Manna?”
Exasperated, Laurel sighed. “Both, of course. You don’t get one without the other.”
Asach pondered this for a moment. “And, how long, would you say, the angels have been here?”
“Here? Like I said. A year—two, tops.”
“No, I mean on New Utah.”
“On Heaven? Oh, forever, I guess. Before the Founders.”
Asach had a spinning sensation in the pit of the stomach. “Before the Founders? How would you know that? How would anyone know that?”
“Well, I just know they were here when he got here. That’s what kept him alive?”
Asach was confused by the religious possibilities of this statement. “He? Do you mean he, or do you mean Him?”
Laurel rolled her eyes. “Well, of course He has been here, for all of eternity. But I meant him.”
This did not help. Asach plunged forward. “Him who? Which him?”
“Swenson. John David Swenson. Swenson’s Valley, where we are now. Swenson’s Mountain. Where you saw His Eye.”
Swenson’s Apes, thought Asach. “But before the Founders? How?”
Laurel was dressing now. “Well, duh. He was the surveyor. Came out with Murchison in 2450. I mean, how do you think Founders got here—threw a rock and got lucky? Swenson was the First Colony’s guide.”
“But I thought he was some kind of local suttler. Provisioning settlers; surveying new claims, making records of local fauna along the frontier…” Asach trailed off, as Laurel rolled her eyes again.
“Uh huh. It’s not like he came once and just died.”
Asach was dumbfounded. Days of work, and most of the answers had been sitting right here all along. Stupid, to underestimate the literalness and pragmatism of these people. Find a planet where you can escape open persecution? It’s Heaven. A rock looks like an eye and shoots radiant beams of light into the sky? It’s God’s Eye. Animals arrive and grow food in deserts where nothing can survive? They’re angels growing manna. No further supernatural explanation required.
“Why didn’t you say? Why haven’t you told me any of this before?’
Laurel shrugged again. “You didn’t ask me. And you made fun of me when I tried.”
Asach sighed. It was easy to forget how intimidating even the smallest offhand remark made—or not made—by the middle aged could be to one so young.
“Well, thank-you. For telling me now. I apologize. Please believe me. I never intended to make fun of anyone. I’m sorry for it. I actually hold you in very high regard. You are extremely capable, and you have not had an easy life.”
Laurel nodded once, and handed back the soap and comb in silence.
“So, how do you know all this?”
“Swenson? Everybody knows that. Well, everybody in Bonneville. I couldn’t say for Saint George. And anyway, he was my Great-Something-Great Grandfather. On my mother’s side. Technically, I still own all of this. All of it. Land, water, timber, fish, game, mineral, and near-space rights. Not that any of that gets recognized. Or that I’d do anything much with it if they did.”
Asach nearly choked. On any Imperial world, that big a holding meant—well, a lot. Probably a title. The questions were piling on. “But you’re a Himmist?”
Laurel looked genuinely puzzled. “Yes?”
“And so was your mother.”
“Oh, yes, definitely.”
“But Swenson—”
Laurel laughed. “What, you think no Himmist every married a Sixer? In Bonneville? You think that, you don’t know much about people, what?”
Asach remembered the ecumenical microcosm that was Michael’s household and smiled.
“Religion’s in your heart and mind, not in your genes. Otherwise, why’d a Sixer like you be here as a pilgrim?’
Asach paused. “That’s a big assumption. Is it that obvious?”
Laurel smiled. “Just a guess. It’s nothing you’ve said. But you have a way about you. The way you react to what others say sometimes. The way you put questions. Anyway, I know now.”
Asach nodded. “Fair enough. Why isn’t your claim respected?”
Laurel slumped to the couch, downcast again. “When the True Church came from Maxroy’s Purchase, early on they claimed jurisdiction over land rights administration. The first thing they did was disallow all prior claims, pending ‘review of standing.’ That didn’t mean much for a very long time, because for all their bold claims, they were only a tiny outpost colony, and Sixers still held the majority. It got worse when the True Church took over on Maxroy’s Purchase, because then they claimed control of the New Utah tithe to MP. Even so, there was nobody much out here. But when the TCM started enforcing tithe collection,” Laurel shrugged, “that’s when it got really bad. If I claim my rights, they’ll claim back tithe. Then they’ll own it all. That’s how they bankrupted Uncle Collie. ”
“But if you could enforce your claim?”
“I wouldn’t. Well, I would—enforce the rights—but I wouldn’t farm.”
“Why?
“Because that’s what Great-Whatever-Grandpa wanted. It’s written in his old Book. He said they‘d made a big mistake trying to farm this. He said that if we just left it alone, the angels would return.” She looked up beseechingly at Asach. “And he was right. They did. Just like he said.”
Asach nodded firmly. “Absolutely. Angels and manna.”
Mind reeling, Asach headed to the washbasin, but was spared disrobing decisions by Sargon’s arrival.
Once again, the Master filled the doorway. “I am informed that you are most certainly a Master.”
Dumbfounded, Asach dropped the soap but did not reply.
“Explain to me,” boomed Sargon’s voice, “the meaning of ‘Second Jackson Commission Representative of the Empire of Man.’”
Calmly, carefully, Asach crossed to the couch and donned the cloak; switched on the translator. “Excuse me, your Excellency. Could you please say that again?”
“Perhaps I was unclear? I was correctly speaking Anglic, yes?”
Asach bowed. “Certainly, your Excellency.”
“In that case, explain. Also explain the meaning of ‘Seer and Defender of the Church of Him in New Utah.’’’
Against all reason, Asach felt compelled to comply. It was, after all, their planet. But Laurel leapt into the breech before Asach could work through what that meant in terms of non-interference.
“I am a Keeper of the Eye on Swenson’s Mountain that heralds your return.”
Sargon turned slowly from the waist. “Swenson?’
“Yes.”
“Eye?”
“His Eye, on the mountain.”
Sargon turned back to Asach, without comment.
Asach sought to clarify the untranslatable. “The light. The green light that shines every twenty-one years, from the top of the mountain. Where your Warriors, uh, found us.”
Behind Sargon, hissing erupted out of sight down the corridor.
Sargon’s voice was level, in a chanting pitch that combined a benediction with machine translation. “Ah. The light. On Beacon Hill. How amusing. It does not beckon our return. It beckons Swenson’s.”
“Swenson’s?”
“Swenson befriended our lines. Swenson was an ally against the vermin.” At this, Sargon descended the steps with two strides, jerked Laurel close with the gripping hand, pulled her head forward, and stared directly into her startlingly aquamarine eyes. “And you, vermin, claim to be of Swenson?”
Asach froze, startled by Sargon’s sudden fury; afraid to move; afraid not to, expecting Laurel to dissolve into depression. Surprisingly, she did not. “Yes,” she said firmly, “I am. The Defenders kept the mountain and this valley free of settlement. He said ‘keep this covenant, and you will be fed manna at the hands of angels.’ So we did. And you’ve come back, and today you fed me manna. As Seer, it is my duty to proclaim your return, and beg sustenance for the faithful.”
Sargon released her. She did not move. Now it was Laurel who stared into Sargon’s inscrutable eyes. Sargon’s third eyelid closed; opened. “You lie. Even now, your vermin destroy my ar.”
“Ar?” queried Asach, hoping to break the tension.
The cloak answered. Ar. Noun, all-gender. Productivity, fertility, capacity, capability, duty, responsibility, land, land-value, allotment, profit, rate of production, production value, production unit, amount of produce, unit of land measurement approximately equivalent to—
“Stop!”
Sargon swiveled to ponder this odd Master that stood conversing with itself. Asach spluttered for words, but once again Laurel was the faster.
“No!” she shouted, shaking her head emphatically. “Not us! You mean the sand miners, right? The poachers? The sand miners operating out of Watson Station?”
Sargon snapped back before she’d even finished, in the same disgusted tone used to say vermin. “Miners! No! No Miner would behave so! They waste labor! They use huge constructions to gouge out pits bigger than a hundred Houses! They fill the air with vile smoke and flood the valley with poisoned water! They are vermin! They destroy the ar. It costs me a bloody fortune to restore it! At least three additional Miners and a dedicated Farmer.”
Rather than showing any upset at this reply, Laurel was nodding agreement. “That’s them. They came in after the First Jackson delegation—” she looked daggers at Asach— “and drove us out. I had to reroute the Gathering to work around them. That’s when I ran into your—Farmer?”
Well, thought Asach. There’s my job simplified. Let’s just let all the locals go sort this out among themselves, shall we? Asach interrupted before Sargon could reply. “Perhaps, Your Excellency, I should explain about the Jackson commission?”
“By all means,” responded Sargon dryly.
“Before I began, milord, might I ask you a question?. You mentioned a beacon? To recall Swenson?”
“Yes,” said Sargon. “Swenson’s line.”
“And where is it that—Swenson’s line—are to return from?”
Sargon spread all three arms wide, in a stance that even the humans could read as incredulous. “Well, like you, of course. From the stars.”
“Ah,” said Asach, head pounding. Clearly, the first commission should have gotten out more. “Then perhaps I should explain about the Empire of Man.”
“Yes,” said Sargon, with growing impatience. “John David Swenson, of the Empire of Man. He pledged that, one day, his allies would follow.”
Ah, thought Asach, and, against all probability, here we are. Well, now I’m violating nothing by telling them we exist. Always a treat when colonials make promises on behalf of Empire. “Jackson is the name of the Governor of Swenson’s home world now. The Jackson Commission will arrive soon to offer New Utah membership in the Empire. If New Utah decides to join, the Commission will decide its status. My duty is to make preparations for the Commission’s arrival.”
Sargon grasped immediately many possible implications of that statement. “Offer? Offer to whom?”
“The planetary government.”
“Explain government.”
“Legitimate authority.”
“Legitimate how? Authority for what?”
And there’s the rub, thought Asach, because legally I can’t tell them what the classification standards are, lest they change to meet them. Asach found a neutral reply. “To make agreements. To decide. To keep the peace.”
“The Meeting decides. The Masters police their Houses.”
Asach did not respond.
“The Protector, the Masters of the six cities, with their Accountants and advisors. Keepers and Defenders of ar.”
Still, Asach made no reply. Sargon resumed the offensive.
“What status. What preparations?”
“Regarding status, that is not for me to say. I serve only as advisor. Regarding preparations, I arrange—things—for the Commissioners.”
They were interrupted, as Laurel balled a fist, pounding her own thigh in fury as angry tears welled I her eyes. “It won’t matter. It doesn’t matter. They won’t come out here. They won’t listen to us. Not any of us. The True Church controls the TCM, and the TCM controls the tithe. It will be like last time. The Commission’ll go to Saint George and do whatever the True Church says.”
Sargon was exasperated. Why did this anathema even dare to speak? It—she—claimed to be of Swenson’s line. If so, that line was clearly at an end. Sargon pointed to Asach. “You evade.” Then to Laurel. “You lie. You are anathema. You are incomplete. You carry no lines.” Then back to Asach. “Things. Preparations. Your words mean nothing. Why are you here? Tell me now: why! You are a Master. You are entire. Do you bring Swenson’s lines?” Sargon’s voice was not actually louder, but Asach’s intestines began to writhe. It felt like being microwaved: from the inside out.
Groggily, Asach remembered details from Swenson’s report on reproductive physiology. It dawned that, quite probably, Sargon meant something very specific, and important, by lines, and entire. That perhaps the Accountant had reported rather a lot of detail from their initial disrobing at the customs house. This might prove tricky. But just possible…
“Laurel?”
She looked up with haunted, angry, eyes.
“What do Himmists know about Angels?
For an instant, she was shaken from anger to exasperation by this non sequitor. “What I’ve told you. They raise manna. They—”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean, what are they like? How are they made?”
“Made?”
“Are they made in His image?”
She snorted. “Well, obviously, no.”
“How not?”
She rolled her eyes. But she did not speak of superficial things like one ear and three arms. “Surely, even you know that. Humans are made in His image.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning ‘male and female He made them.’ Angels aren’t. They’re—different. They’re neither man nor woman.”
“You mean neuter. Sexless.”
“Oh, for His sake! Can you really be this thick? That’s the point. Angels are perfect in His gaze. They’re complete. They’re—” and suddenly Laurel’s eyes went wide. She looked at Asach with growing horror—“entire.” She backed away, then sat abruptly as her exit was cut off by the sleeping couch. “What are you?”
But Asach deflected the question, instead answering directly to Sargon.
“I think, Laurel, that it might be useful if you explained to Archangel Sargon something about your lines. Beginning with your parents. Your mother and your father. I think that might help The Excellency to understand why you claim to be allies. And I advise, Your Excellency, that among humans, she is very far indeed from being counted as anathema.”
But Sargon was finished, and with an exasperated wave, departed. “Enough. Explain this rubbish to Enheduanna.” Then, in a rumble that rolled down the corridor, “Summon the Doctors. I would know my enemy.”
I am not, thought Asach, going to enjoy this physical exam.
Enheduanna waited, interested but passive.
“Laurel, unless you want to disrobe for what passes as the medical establishment here, I’d start talking. Now.”
They talked for hours. Enheduanna, by now aware of the humans oddly insatiable need for daily sustenance, ordered more green goo and water. As Laurel worked her way through generations of begats, Enheduanna asked the same questions over and over. “And…he was? And…she was?” At first the pronouns were hopelessly confused, but as forenames repeated and the pattern became clear, Enheduanna’s pronouns became unerringly accurate.
“So, your—people—always have two parents?”
Laurel gave the are-you-too-stupid-to-breathe- look, but simply nodded. “Yes.”
“And without two parents, all get are—impossible?”
She nodded again.
“And one parent is always—male, while the other is always—female?”
“Yes, of course,” she nodded. “That’s true for everybody. Humans are all made male and female.”
Enheduanna swiveled to face Asach, who remained impassive. “I would like this to be recorded by the Doctors.”
Laurel writhed with discomfort. “I don’t want—”
“Of course,” said Asach. “Me first.” Staring intently into Enheduanna’s eyes. “Then Laurel. You’ll find her to be a perfectly normal female.”
Enheduanna gestured and made purring sounds. Laurel shrank back, but the Doctors—long fingered, hare-lipped, lips pulled back slightly to expose olfactory pores on the roofs of their mouths—first walked directly to the corner, to examine the contents of the chamber pots. They sniffed deeply; rotated them; peered into their depths; exchanged them. Involuntarily, Laurel made an I-can’t-believe-how-disgusting-they-are curl of her nose and one eye.
Satisfied with the pots, the Doctors next approached Asach, and sniffed carefully, head to toe. They paused and sniffed as Asach inhaled and exhaled. One steadied Asach’s back lightly with the gripping hand, placed its twelve spidery fingers carefully over Asach’s abdomen and torso, and made a continuous, barely audible humming noise. The other bent at the waist and circled Asach, its ear held close. The humming stopped abruptly; the Doctors chattered a moment in a high-pitched burring; the first one rearranged its fingers, and then began again. They repeated this exercise a dozen times, until the finger placement had covered one hundred forty-four points. None of it was particularly uncomfortable. Asach was too tense to be ticklish, but twitched involuntarily as the probing fingers crept down the abdomen, eventually landing to ring the lower edge of the pelvic girdle.
Then they traded places. This time, the examination appeared to be muscular, skeletal, and circulatory. While one hummed, the other felt for, and found, multiple pulse-points: throat, armpits, elbows, wrists, ankles, knees, inner thighs, groin. On the way, it probed major muscle attachments, manipulated all of Asach’s joints, carefully examined the structures of the hand, and curled and uncurled Asach’s spine with as much evident interest as the Miners had shown.
Other than removal of boots for a foot examination, to everyone’s relief at no point did they require Asach to disrobe. Then they turned to Laurel. She blushed. The Doctors noted this immediately, with some excitement. Enheduanna translated, indicating Laurel’s face. “Is this normal? This change in skin color?”
Asach smiled. “Yes. It is an involuntary response. It is triggered by many things: fear, anxiety, anger, excitement.”
The Doctors sniffed especially carefully at Laurel’s breath; immediately felt for pulse points; chattered between themselves, then continued the systematic examination as they had done for Asach. When they got to the lower abdomen, they stopped, puzzled. They traded places, and repeated the exercise. They purred at Enheduanna, who translated.
“The Doctors have questions.”
“Yes?”
“You both have—”
Asach interrupted before Enheduanna could finish the sentence. “I am assuming that your Doctors can see—can form mental pictures, based on the sounds they make—inside our bodies?”
Enheduanna chattered something to a Doctor, who replied. “Yes, after a fashion.”
“And smell very precisely? Smell the—chemical compounds—that make up our bodies, and that we excrete?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell them that Laurel is a complete and typical human female, with usual levels of female sex-determining and reproductive hormones.” I hope that’s true Asach thought, gesturing in the direction of Laurel’s chamber-pot. “Including a normal womb,” Asach placed both hands over the lower abdomen, roughly wherein the uterus would lie, “where female eggs are fertilized by male sperm, and the zygote grows until it passes out of the female body via the birth canal.”
Enheduanna conveyed this information, and received more emphatic purring in reply.
“Yes, that is their question. It seems that—”
Asach interrupted again. “A typical, complete male does not have these organs. The male usually has only two testes that produce sperm, which are ejected from the organ that houses the urine tract. A typical male has very low levels of the same hormones, but very high levels of male hormones.”
Enheduanna conveyed this to the Doctors, who answered only briefly this time.
“And other configurations are—”
“Are normal, but not usual. They are more common in some populations than others. Some are reproductively viable, some are not. Whether they are considered to be acceptable varies by culture. In many, they are seen as what you would call anathema.”
Enheduanna considered this. “How very odd.”
But Asach’s dodges were insufficient. Laurel had grasped the undertones of this medicalized conversation. This time, her response was more angry than frightened. “What are you?” she snapped, marching toward Asach. “Are you a man, or a woman? I thought you were—”
Now, Enheduanna interrupted, with a tone that had finally mastered the quizzical. “This one is like us. This one is complete. You do not find this acceptable?’
Laurel fumed, with an anger Asach knew all too well. The deceived one. The betrayed one. Although there had been betrayal of nothing, save the undiscussed presumptions of another. Asach answered with practiced, weary patience. “It’s probably best if you just stick with whatever you’ve presumed all along. That usually works out best. Stay in your own comfort zone. And when my actions—when I—don’t quite match up to your presumptions—which I won’t, always, because I can’t—just remember, it’s not intentional. It’s not a judgment. It’s just different.”
Enheduanna comprehended this with amazement. Moties could not shake their heads, but somehow the gesture was conveyed by voice. “We could not have survived in this way. We are too few. Too widely disbursed. Too hunted. Especially the Masters.”
Laurel plunked back down onto the couch. “Tell me.” she said woodenly. “Tell me how you do it.”
Across the gulf of species, language, age, and experience, Enheduanna could not and did not understand what ran through Laurel’s head. Surely the actual mechanics of reproduction could not possibly be so upsetting. In Enheduanna’s experience, only a threat to the ar could be this upsetting. Enheduanna understood what every Master did: Enheduanna understood the ar. Ar was at the center and heart and soul of anything. The ar of the land; the ar of the people; the ar of the lines. So Enheduanna sought to explain, at the highest possible level, the role of ar and reproductive mechanics in Sargon’s House.
“We Masters are fashioned from All. All are in us. That is how we can Speak with the Voice to All. We can mate, Master to Master, but when We do, we cannot know, for certain, what will result. We risk the false Master: a Keeper, who remains ever-sterile. He may nurture our storehouses, administer our cattle, but cannot Speak and so cannot defend the ar. A Keeper will live long, but over time his ar will dwindle, and his name will be blown back to the dust whence it came. Masters always risk losing the Voice. We may bear one who speaks, but with a Voice for only the few. And we risk anathema: the four-armed ones. The incomplete ones. The ones like you humans: half-ones, one thing, or another, male, or female, but never whole. The ones with no ar.
“To guarantee continuity, a Master must make the Royal Marriage. Carry all in them. Bring forth children. But when they do this, it is their last. The Royal Marriage is a marriage with eternity. It can only be made once. A Master must always know when to make get, or try to make children. Too early, or too often, and they must divide their ar; splinter their ar, or sell their own as cattle—as Vermin must do. Too late, and the Marriage will fail.
“But only very, very rarely does even the Royal Marriage make a Great Master. They know that they have succeeded if there is only one. Only one child. If it is to be a Great Master, all the children they carry will be merged into one, and they will bear that one. But the bearing will exhaust them. The bearing of all, requires all. They will be as a Runner, at the end of a run. No Doctor can save them then, nor would try. But that child will be reared by all, and thus will Speak to All.
Asach pondered this. “So, this Royal Marriage, is made—where?”
“With All, before all.”
“In public.”
“Yes, it must be.”
“And with—all what? All who?”
“All castes. The best from all castes. Farmers. Warriors. Miners. And every Master line.”
“But how do they control this?”
“They control who receives the darts. Both partners inject darts before they exchange sperm. Both partners carry eggs. The darts determine which will carry the get to term. If one only receives them, that one will bear the get or children.”
“How does a Master control who receives the darts?”
“They prepare the day before. They prepare by ejecting all of their own. Any get will be raised to staff the new household. Those sent to make the Marriage must prepare as well. Eat properly. Build and retain their darts.”
“But this means the Great Master would receive darts in the—hundreds?”
“At least. Perhaps thousands.”
“But that is impossible. Physically.”
“Some do not survive.”
“But those that do?”
“Carry every line. Perhaps. Some lines may fail. But even if the Great Master is alone, many lines will not. If the ar is poor.”
“If the ar is poor, the Great Master will bear many children.”
“No. The Master will bear many get. Many castes.”
Asach thought back to Swenson’s report. “So, when Great Masters are driven from their ar?”
“They make the Royal Marriage before they go, and leave the rest behind to defend their retreat. They flee, and bear their get where it is safe to begin a new colony. This is how my ancestors came to Mesolimeris. Sargon’s ancestors.”
“But if the ar is rich?”
“Then they may have a true child. A Great Master, born to a Great Master. A Great Master, who also carries All, was raised by All, and Speaks with the Voice of All.”
“Like you.”
“No, not like me. I am only Sargon’s child. A Master, yes, who Speaks to the Household. But not a Great Master. Sargon is the first in a very long time. This is why Sargon has no family. This is why Sargon was named Protector. Sargon Speaks to All. All Cities, all Houses, all Lines. Sargon commands the Master’s Grip. Sargon is Protector of the ar of Mesolimeris. The ar of All.”
“And beyond Mesolimeris?’
“Beyond Mesolimeris lies fallow. Beyond that is the sea.”
They broke off at a quiet sob from Laurel. She sat on the floor, hugging her knees, rocking slightly. She coughed once. “Sorry.” She choked on her own quavering voice. Cleared her throat. “Sorry.”
They waited.
“It’s just that—it must have been horrible. Horrible. They came, they plowed your fields, and all your—people—were left to be shot, gassed, poisoned. And then your—Great Masters—had to cross The Barrens, somehow, all alone, to come here, and start all over.”
Enheduanna made the sign for great shame and sorrow. “Yes. It is The Great Lament. Beyond The Barrens were our best and richest colonies. Many lines, all gone. ”
“But don’t you see,” she cried, “that’s our story too. The Great Weep. Driven from New Scotland. Driven from New Ireland. Driven from Maxroy’s Purchase. Driven from Saint George. Driven out from Bonneville, into The Barrens. Driven from our homes, then our lands, and all by them.” Her eyes flashed. “By the vermin. And now they’ve come again.” She climbed to her knees, hands clasped, and addressed a plea, not to Asach, but to Enheduanna. “I beg you. We have helped you! We defended this land so that you could return. Me. My family. Our lines. Now please, help us! Tell Archangel Sargon to help us drive them out forever!”
Pulling herself to her feet, pulling herself together, wiping away her tears, Laurel aged about ten years before Asach’s eyes, and took Asach’s hands with genuine anguish. “I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. I thought you were my—problem. My burden. When really, you were my guardian angel.”
That remains to be seen, thought Asach. The chips may fall without regard to you. “I think you’ll find,” Asach said, patting and releasing Laurel’s hands, “that you did most of the work yourself.”