The Braided World (9 page)

Vidori's procession now fanned out on either side of him, so that the group of three were in clear view of Bailey.

“Any clue?” Bailey asked Anton.

He shook his head.

The judipon official lifted the basket high and pulled it down over the girl's head. For a moment he obscured Bailey's view of the girl. When he stepped away, an assemblage in front of the basket had been inserted deep into the girl's mouth.

Bailey hoped that she wasn't going to witness what it seemed clear that she was.

Anton strode up to Shim, pulling her sleeve, and Bailey followed him. “Don't interfere,” Bailey hissed at him.

Shim moved back from the king's side and spoke to Anton, saying something.

Bailey heard him say, “… do something.”

In front, the king had moved forward to place something in the hands of the noblewoman, her face as placid as fired pottery. The woman then helped the girl to kneel. Something in the way she did so led Bailey to believe that she wished to be gentle with her.

Shim whispered to Anton, “The king pays the mother for her loss.” She made a small smile. “It is a generous sum.”

Anton made to push past Shim to reach Vidori, but Bailey surprised herself with how fast she latched onto his arm. “Don't be stupid, Anton. This is their custom. Don't be stupid.”

Pulling away from her, he walked over to Vidori. He bent in toward the king, talking rapidly, and the king nodded, smiling. He wasn't listening, his attention focused on the basket. The girl was to be
clipped
, as they called it. Having reached adolescence, she had been revealed by her
menses as born to bear. A hoda. A slave, from this time forward.

It was terrible, no doubt. But, after all, this was Dassa culture; you couldn't go barging in, imposing your own values. Anton was having words with the king, the young fool—and doing so
publicly
… It was so hot standing on the stone plaza. Sweat collected under her hatband, and her face seemed washed with a scrim of fire. The scene grew wobbly before her: young girl, wire basket, terror in the eyes. The judipon official raised his hand toward the device on the girl's head.

The girl's too young
, Bailey thought, irrelevantly.

In the next moment, the old man slammed his fist down on a protruding flange—a little blade embedded in the cage. Bailey felt her own tongue convulse, her eyes flinching from the basket. For a moment the girl stood immobile as blood sluiced out of the wire mesh. Then she crumpled, pitching forward into the mud. The noblewoman watched her fall. It was the
mother
, Shim had said. Then the woman turned and left, payment in hand.

Bailey took off her hat, waving it in front of her face, but she was just stirring the hot air and it didn't help. She looked at the old man who had done the clipping.
If you figure out a penance
, she thought,
let me know.

Meanwhile, the judipon was tending to the girl, removing the hood, inserting a pad to absorb the bleeding, wiping the mud from her face. It was almost tender, how he cleansed the face of this girl he had just mutilated. The girl moaned, and he made shushing sounds, as though consoling a child.

Anton was at Bailey's side again, still looking at the girl, who was stirring on the ground, a strange noise coming from her throat, like a moan she tried to conceal. “Such a peaceful people,” Anton muttered.

Nick had joined them. “God,” he said, “they cut off her tongue.”

“I couldn't stop him,” Anton said. “He wouldn't listen.”

Shim approached them. “The king will resume his walk,” she reported cheerfully.

“We are unable to accompany him,” Anton said.

At Shim's confused look, Bailey hastened to add, “The sun,” wiping her brow. ‘Anton will help me into the shade.”

Several hoda were now assisting the injured girl to stand. Her sandals made two tracks in the mud as they half dragged her from the plaza. Left behind was the judipon, who stood holding the wire basket as though he were on his way to market.

To Shim, Anton said, “By your pardon, we will return to our quarters.” He took Bailey's arm.

“Because of the heat,” Bailey said, trying, still, to teach Anton a bit of diplomacy.

“Because of the blood,” Anton said, and led her away, accompanied by Nick.

Oh, he was so young, not to understand that sometimes blood was the way of the world. Sometimes blood happened. And in those cases, you must make the best of it, because the world was not—would never be—a nice, safe place. It was because of these things that penance was so very necessary.

The king had turned to watch them leave.

Shim was left standing there to decide what to tell Vidori, whether it was the sun or the blood that drove them from the plaza.

“Lower your voices,” Anton said. They'd just got back from the plaza, and now contained their conversation until they pulled the screen door shut.

Nick paced in the confines of their largest room, while Zhen continued her work in the corner, painstaking analyses of everything she could get her hands on, using her limited liquid spectroscopy tools. Thus engaged, she was only marginally watching the uproar. Bailey sat on the floor cross-legged, tucking frayed reed ends into her hat.

“Did you see the mother?” Nick said.

Yes, Anton remembered her face, cool as porcelain. More, he remembered the girl's face, locked in the terrible bridle, her eyes darting like trapped birds. And he could do nothing for her; the king had hardly listened to his protest.

Nick went on, “The woman took Vidori's money, and never batted an eye.”

“What was she going to do in front of the king?” Anton asked. Sweat trickled down his face. He could open a wall to the river breeze, but there was no breeze, only the westering sun blasting directly against one wall of their hut.

“She might have asked for mercy,” Nick said.

Bailey looked up from the floor. ‘Adolescent hodas don't get mercy.”

“Did you see how she bled?” Nick shook his head as though he would fling the memory away. “And that— hood.” Nick stopped his pacing, looking at Anton. “Did Vidori invite us so we could watch the bloodletting?”

Anton shook his head. “I think he just happened to be there.” But now he was making excuses. He could see that Nick thought so, too. The king's standing there dispensing coins was almost more chilling than it would have been had Vidori done the deed himself. It was the custom to be cruel. Anton had seen such brutality before, in his own family. An image of his father came to mind. Now he struggled to reconcile two images of Vidori: the one who told folktales of plumed birds and wondered about Earth, and the one who could watch a young girl be mutilated.

Nick wiped his glossy forehead with his sleeve. “I thought maybe he wanted to intimidate us. Impress us with his power.”

Bailey didn't look up from her task. “He doesn't need to impress us. Who do you think is in charge of this world?”

Nick frowned. “There are more powers here than the king, as I've said from the beginning.”

Bailey sighed. “Yes, there's the judipon. Lovely folks, too.”

“So much for the theory that they're just social workers,” Anton said.

“They
are
social workers. It's just that they clip tongues, too.”

This was too much for Nick, who stopped pacing long enough to stare at her. “You act like it's part of a job description.”

Bailey narrowed her eyes at him. “It is. The judipon job description. I'm not condoning, just describing.” She yanked at a thread. “They used to euthanize hoda, long ago. Slavery's an improvement. They have this horror of a hoda passing for regular Dassa, so they want to make sure they're branded as such.”

Nick snapped: “We all know the history, Bailey But
seeing
it …”

Anton leaned against the support beam anchoring one of the hut corners. In the last violent hours of the sun, the room took the full brunt of heat. He thought night would help to soothe all their nerves, if it would ever come. Fetid odors rose from the hut stilts where jungle greens clung, rotting one moment, baking the next. It smelled like tropical Earth, felt like it. But this was the Olagong, as they had to keep reminding themselves.

Zhen looked up from her tronic screen. “Given how they do the clipping, I'm surprised more hoda don't die of infection.”

“Maybe they do die,” Nick muttered. “Don't assume they value the same things we do. For God's sake, sexual encounters are as common as hellos. Mothers sleep with their sons, and the sons with their sisters. You can throw kinship charts out the window. When you come right down to it, what do we really know about these people?” He turned to face the bright western wall, staring at it like a blind man. “Not bloody much.”

Zhen's voice came like the buzz of a gnat. “Who's supposed to be investigating that side of things?”

Nick turned slowly to face her, his jaw muscle quivering. “That judipon clipped the wrong tongue.”

Zhen made a face and continued fiddling with slides. It left Nick's comment hanging heavy in the air, all the more ugly for going unanswered.

“Ease up, Nick,” Anton said.

But Nick wasn't finished. “Permission to speak openly, Captain?”

Getting a nod, he said, “This place is twisting with factions. Let's try pulling on a different strand. We've seen what the male power structure is; let's delve into the other side of things, the uldia. Let me do it. Don't tie my hands.”

Anton saw the sense of it, and the sense against it.

Nick continued, “Don't ask Vidori. Just do it. Face the music later, if he's unhappy. Act ignorant.” He added, “Sir.”

“It's not just a matter of the uldia,” Anton said. “It's the whole issue of free access and exploration. We might win one interview, but lose the larger prize.”

“But the prize is sinking away,” Nick said. He gestured to the river outside the wall, his eyes lit by the setting sun. “Draining from us like the damn brown river out there. If we had the time to bring Vidori around, fine, but there isn't time. Let me act, Captain. Let me for God's sake
do
something.”

“I'm not sure it'll be you who interviews the uldia, Lieutenant.” He realized it was time to remind Nick that this wasn't a foregone conclusion. “There's plenty of investigation that can be done within the palace. The king hasn't set any limits on you here.”

Nick swallowed, and the effort made it look like he had a gecko stuck in his throat. ‘Are you saying I'm not doing my job, Captain?”

“Everyone's doing their job,” Anton said. “I'm just not assigning new ones.”

“Keeping them for yourself, right?” The room grew silent as the two men faced each other.

Anton said, “My prerogative.” He held Nick's gaze. “Captain's prerogative.”

It had to be said. Nick was either a subordinate, or he was not. And that thought chilled him, because they were a long way from a higher authority. Nick had been a friend, and a good officer. He hoped he still was, at least the latter.

Finally Nick whispered, “Yes, sir.”

Bailey stood, unbending herself in two stiff motions. “Well, if we're done with the pissing contest, I suggest dinner.” Anton marveled at her resilience, that she could be hungry. The westering sun brought a fetid odor to the hut, spiked now and then by strong floral nectars from plants along the river.

Bailey caught Nick's eye. “So do we have to speak with hand sign at dinner tonight?” Nick knew the patois better than any of them so far.

“How else are we going to practice?” he asked.

She put on a bright smile. “Flash cards?”

But Nick was not going to be jollied along. “We have to learn the hoda language. They're an information source. They're human beings, for God's sake.”

The radio hissed. An incoming call. Zhen moved to tune the frequency.

The radio hail came.
Sergeant Webb reporting. Come in, Camp Shaw.

Zhen
responded, “Got you, Sergeant. Stand by.” She looked at Anton.

Anton spoke into the headset. “Captain Prados here, Sergeant.”

The sergeant's voice sputtered into the hut:
We've got a bit of trouble, Captain. It's Commander Strahan. He's relieved himself from duty.
There was a pause. Anton guessed why, but waited, bracing for the news.
He's sick, Captain.

Sick.
The word struck like a gong. It always did. “Go on, Sergeant. What's it look like?”

It's a mutated strain, the medics are saying, sir. Two crew are down. It hits fast. Maybe there'll just be these two. But the thing
is… As he paused, everyone in the hut was immobile, listening.
The thing is, it's already immune to the antiviral the med team designed this morning. It's like it was waiting for the vaccine; like it already knew.

“Sergeant, what do the medics say?”

That's what they said. I'm telling you what they said. They ‘re calling it a directed recombination. That means that instead of a random mutation, the virus chose the genetic segments that would get it past the vaccine we introduced. Sorry, sir. It's got us spooked, is all.

“How is Lieutenant Strahan? How bad is it?”

He's weak, sir. Like I said, it's fast. We've got him isolated, but that doesn't mean much up here. We're considering that it's an airborne virus. If it is, we're all exposed already. I'm acting on his behalf. With your permission.

“Permission granted, Sergeant.” He looked around the room at Bailey, Zhen, and Nick, each absorbing the news.

As bad as the news was, it raised a further issue: that the four of them on ground mission might be reservoirs for the disease, exposing the Dassa. Anton closed his eyes, seeing visions of an epidemic among a population with no prior exposure.

“What are the first symptoms, Sergeant?”

Headache, fever. Strahan's temperature is one-oh-five. The thing is, our people are having trouble pinning down the virus. The rate of mutation is so high. They're talking about a nasty pool of genetic concoctions. Any one form might dominate at any particular time.

Zhen was nodding. Out of all of them listening to the transmission, she was the one to whom some of this made sense.