Reclamation (53 page)

Avir decided she could ignore him for a moment. She needed direction. She needed reassurance. She needed to tell someone that the Aunorante Sangh were alive and well and that the war that had ended in the Ancestors’ Flight had been joined again.

Beside the primary comm terminal sat the backup unit. It was internally powered and small enough to be carried by one person. Avir picked it up in both hands and headed for the rear of the Temple, trying not to care if anyone’s gaze followed her.

Beyond the main chamber were the living quarters and the kitchen. They were little more than alcoves blocked from a central foyer by more of the rough-woven blankets. In the middle of the foyer, though, a stone staircase had been built down into the earth. Avir took the stairs carefully. They were unevenly worn from years of feet descending this way.

The cellars here were not the work of the Ancestors, but they were the result of some astoundingly careful work by the artifacts. The flagstone and plaster were all tightly sealed, creating a row of chambers that were dark and cold, but dry. Each one had a wooden door shut with a surprisingly complex iron lock.

The chambers were full of books. Some were obscure convoluted texts of what passed for religion or history among the artifacts, but most of them were lists upon lists of genealogies. For all the artifacts had forgotten, they had never lost the fact that they had been bred for their functions. Even the rebellion of the Aunorante Sangh had not been able to wipe out the artifacts’ need to keep their creator’s work as intact as possible.

Lights had been fastened to the ceiling and their glow thinned the shadows on the reddish stone walls to grey ghosts. The only sound was the soft murmuring of the team’s Historian in one of the rear cellars as he catalogued what he had found.

Avir picked an empty chamber and shut herself inside with the ancient books. She wedged the comm terminal on a shelf and stood in front of it. For a moment, she just enjoyed the silence and the familiar intimacy of solid walls.

She could have done this up above, but it was easier to think down here, and she had no idea what the Assembly was going to say to her.

Avir opened a line to the Assembly’s waiting terminals. Every comm line into the chambers was answered by a Witness now that the Reclamation had begun. No word between the teams on the Home Ground and the Assembly would be lost.

“Good Morning and also Good Day, Contractor Avir,” said the Witness when the screen cleared. The image was good, if distant. She could see the glint of her own reflection in his camera eye.

“I have a first level emergency situation,” said Avir. “I must speak to the Assembly immediately.”

The Witness stiffened and relaxed so fast, that for a moment Avir was certain it was her imagination.

No, I startled him.

She had just enough time to see his hand move across his own board before the image shifted.

The Reclamation Assembly looked small and unreal on the flat screen. She had stood before the Assembly hundreds of times, but she had always been surrounded by accurate projections in the Assembly Chamber of the Hundredth Core. Even the Witnesses with their cameras trained on the screen she spoke through looked ridiculously far away.

“You have declared an emergency, Contractor Avir,” said the Moderator. “The Assembly is awaiting the details.”

Avir didn’t even try to compose herself as she gave what could only loosely be called a report. She wanted the assembled representatives up there in the encampment to know about the screams, and the anger of their artifacts, and the Vitae blood that had been spilled. She wanted them to understand the scale of the miracles that they stood on top of.

When she ran out of words, she received nothing but silence from the Assembly. She was glad of it, because it was a signal that she had gotten through to them.

Finally, one representative, a Senior Engineer with smooth mahogany skin and long hair that was the same color as her sepia robes, signaled for time. A red light appeared above her as the Moderator granted her request.

“Does the Contractor have a recommendation for a course of action in the light of these events?” asked the representative.

“I do, Representative,” said Avir slowly, “but it is not a pleasant one.”

“What is it?” the Moderator prompted her.

“Moderator,” said Avir, “we deliberately chose to begin the Reclamation of the human-derived artifacts by mimicking the authority example that their social groupings had created to deal with the lack of the Ancestors’ direction. The authority example they have created, the “Nameless Powers,” is all-encompassing and all-powerful and is recorded in their mutated oral history as forcibly removing sources of rebellion.”

The attention of the Assembly was so focused that Avir could begin to feel it in her spine. It strengthened her, exhausted as she was, and it reminded her who she was. Her voice fell into properly smooth cadences.

“It is, therefore, my thought that if we wish to continue to make use of this authority example, we need to remove the rebellion. All of it.

“We need to remove the city.”

Now there was noise. Representatives muttered into their own intercoms or shuffled keys on their own boards, trying to call up data to support or strike down what she had just suggested. Avir waited for the flurry to pass, just as she had waited all the other times.

A Historian signaled for time and was acknowledged by the Moderator.

“How many artifacts are in the city Narroways?” he asked.

“Approximately four thousand,” Avir said promptly. Despite her knowledge that this was right and the war had to be waged before the Aunorante Sangh gained real power, a cold wind blew through her mind.

“Out of a total population of?”

“Four million.”

Avir knew she had probably just announced the death of Narroways and of four thousand precious artifacts. Part of her wanted to erase her words. For a split second, she thought about telling the Moderator she had reconsidered. Four thousand pieces of the Ancestors’ work was too high a price to pay just to eliminate what might only be a hundred Aunorante Sangh.

It was out of proportion and she knew it. The Reclamation had to continue. They had to secure the majority of the human-derived artifacts quickly so that they could be interfaced once more with the living heart of the Home Ground. That was more important than the safety of a few human-derived constructs milling around with their fearful eyes following her every move, with their distorting anger recreating the Aunorante Sangh, who had risen against the Ancestors and stolen the world away, with the blood and the screams and the stones …

Avir swayed on her feet and felt the blood surging in her veins. In that same moment, years of careful training made her realize she was not done with her report yet.

“Moderator?” said Avir.

“Contractor?” The Moderator activated her acknowledgment signal.

“I would like to put in a request to the Assembly.”

“So Witnessed.” The signal turned green to mark the recording. “Proceed, Contractor.”

“I would like to formally request transfer of my duties to the unpopulated portion of the Home Ground. If I could be allowed to choose my assignment, I would like to help coordinate the mapping and analysis of the underground complex. I would further like to suggest …” She paused, searching for words. “I would like to suggest that contact between Vitae and the artifacts be limited as much as possible to the Ambassadors who are accustomed to dealing with Outsiders.”

Another silence emanated from the Committee.

“Are you advising us of psychological difficulties with your assignment, Contractor?” asked the Moderator.

“Yes, Moderator,” Avir said and the confession lifted a weight from her shoulders. “I am.”
Fear, hatred, blood, screams. Yes, those are indeed psychological difficulties.

“Thank you for so doing.” The Moderator made a small obeisance in tribute to a difficult job well done. “You will submit a full report to the Related Stresses subcommittee. You will return to the Hundredth Core while your reassignment request is reviewed. I will say now that your request is reasonable and shall be referred to your immediate representatives.”

“Thank you, Moderator.”

“Orders regarding the transport of the sample artifact you have obtained and the decisions based on your report will be transmitted at the end of this session,” said the Moderator.

Avir made obeisance to the screen and the line closed down.

She stared at the blank screen for a moment. She remembered standing in Chapel and picturing the Home Ground and the Reclamation. In her mind’s eye she had seen a green and beautiful world holding its breath for the return of the Lineage. She had seen herself working tirelessly, with the Graces singing in her mind and delight in every task flowing through her heart.

Maybe it will be more, like I imagined when I return,
she thought wistfully.
Maybe.

“Mother?”

Arla stirred on her sleeping mat. “Go back to sleep, Little Eye.”

“Please, Mother.” A tiny hand shook her shoulder.

Arla peeled her eyes open to see her daughter crouched over her, anxiety filling her round face. She reached out to rub Little Eye’s cheek, and all the events of her life came flooding back to her.

Arla sat bolt upright. Daylight streamed through the door blanket. Eric still lay asleep under his own blanket, but the other mats were empty. They’d been left to sleep the day away.

“Little Eye, what are you doing here!” Arla did not bother to keep her voice down. Eric groaned and rolled over, opening both eyes unhappily.

“Storm Water’s gone,” sniffled Little Eye. “He didn’t come home last night. Roof Beam swears he doesn’t know where he is and your daughter got scared and … and …” Little Eye burst into tears. “The Skymen got him! Little Eye knows they did!”

Without stopping to think, Arla swept Little Eye into her arms, crooning in wordless reassurance. Little Eye buried her face against Arla’s neck and howled. Eric was staring at her. Arla got to her feet, holding her daughter against her chest, and shouldered her way past the blanket into the front room. The fire on the hearthstone had been carefully banked so that the coals were barely visible. Past the front doorway’s hanging, the shadows slanted toward the center of the marsh, pointing the route to the Dead Sea. It was past midmorning then. The clan was awake, well into the tasks of the day—scraping hides, cleaning eels, chopping reeds, and all the other endless mending, maintaining, digging, and scratching that kept the clan alive.

“Come on, Little Eye.” Arla set the girl on her own feet. “Take me to your father.”

Little Eye made a great show of stifling her tears and she trotted through the clusters of workers with a child’s dexterity and single-mindedness. Arla followed Little Eye, barely aware that Eric was following her, too.

They found Nail hip deep in pond water, tossing reeds up onto the shore with a wooden pitchfork. Roof Beam and Hill Shadow combed through the glistening piles, chapping off the edible roots and spreading the stalks to dry on the ground. Later they’d be worked into mats and baskets, and even roofing.

Arla’s sons looked up immediately as she and Little Eye made their way to the pond’s edge, but Nail did not. He tossed another forkful of reeds onto the shore with a grunt, and then impaled the fork securely on dry ground. Then he looked up, first at his sons, then at his daughter, then at Arla.

“Well?” he asked.

“Our …” Arla checked herself. “Your daughter came to me in tears saying her brother has disappeared. What is going on, Nail in the Beam?”

Nail sloshed through the reeds and green-scummed water until he reached the shore. “The whereabouts of my family is not your concern,” he muttered, wringing out the hem of his tunic.

“But it should be yours,” Arla folded her arms. “Or your wife’s. Where is the righteous Branch in the River, Nail?” She spoke with more bitterness than she intended, but the woman’s insults still rang in her ears.

“Arla,” Eric came close enough behind her that Arla could feel his breath against her neck. “You don’t need …”

“Come out! Come out!” Iron Shaper’s voice called out in time with the clanging of a stick on a gong. “Come out! Come out!”

“Nameless Powers preserve me,” Arla whispered. Nail in the Beam was already headed toward the noise at a run, trailing his sons in his shadow.

“What is it?” demanded Eric.

“The emergency call.” Arla snatched up Little Eye in her arms and ran after Nail.

“Come out! Come out!” Iron Shaper beat the gong furiously.

Most of the clan was already in the center of the huts by the time Arla got there. Eyes Above, leaning on Iron Keeper’s arm, pushed her way toward Shaper. Arla set Little Eye beside her brothers and forced her way through the crowd. The ones who knew her gave way, clearing enough of a path for her to see Iron Shaper clearly.

The smith wasn’t alone. Storm Water sat on the ground beside him, holding his arm tenderly. His head was bare and Arla saw a clumsy black bandage under his fingers. A fresh stream of scarlet trickled down his arm.

“What happened to you?” Arla crouched beside Storm Water. She removed his hand from the bandage. He let it drop into his lap and winced as she unwrapped the bandage and revealed a long, ugly gouge in his skin.

“Someone get me some hot water!” she shouted. The wound was caked with old blood, and it looked deep. Storm Water was pale under his eyes and around his mouth.

“Branch in the River left the clan yesterday.” Storm Water’s voice was low and hoarse, as though he hadn’t had enough to drink for a while. “Storm Water followed her. She went to a troop of soldiers from Narroways. She’s bringing them here. Storm Water thinks there’s a Skyman with them.” He paused and swallowed hard. “A soldier did this to Storm Water as he ran back here.”

“Nameless Powers preserve me,” said someone.

The crowd was stirring. Some of them were retreating, but Arla barely noticed. She was trying to think of where to get a clean bandage and a needle and thread and …