The Scorpion Rules (2 page)

Sidney Carlow, son of the governor of the Mississippi Delta Confederacy. He had no title, but still he had an ancient profile, a face you could have imagined on the sphinx, though his ears stuck out. His hands were big. And our two nations . . .

Sidney's nation and mine were on the brink of war. It was complicated, but it was simple. His people were thirsty, and mine had water. They were desperate, and we were firm. And now, that dust. I was almost, almost sure—

“Children?” whirred Delta. “Must I remind you of our topic?”

“It's war,” said Sidney.

I locked my eyes onto the map at the front of the room. I could feel my classmates try not to look at Sidney and me. I could feel them try not to pity.

None of us has ever wanted pity.

The silence grew tighter and tighter. It was possible to imagine the sound of hoofbeats.

Sidney spoke again, and it was like something breaking. “World War One is exactly the kind of stupid-ass war that would never happen today.” His voice, which normally is like peaches in syrup, was high and tight. “I mean, what if Czar, um—”

“Nicholas,” I supplied. “Nicholas the Second, Nicholas Romanov.”

“What if his kids had been held hostage somewhere? Is he really gonna go off and defend Italy—”

“France,” I said.

“Is he really going to go off and fight for a meaningless alliance if someone is going to shoot his kids in the head?”

We did not actually know what the Swan Riders did to us. When wars were declared, the hostage children of the warring parties went with the Rider to the grey room. They did not come back. A bullet to the brain was a reasonable and popular guess.

Shoot his kids
 . . . The idea hung there, shuddering in the air, like the after-ring of a great bell.

“I—” said Sidney. “I. Sorry. That's what my dad would call a fucking unfortunate image.”

Brother Delta made a chiding
tock
. “I really don't think, Mr. Carlow, that there is any cause for such profanity.” The old machine paused. “Though I realize this is a stressful situation.”

A laugh tore out of Sidney—and from outside the window came a flash.

The Rider was upon us. The sun struck off the mirrored parts of her wings.

Sidney grabbed my hand. I felt a surge of hot and cold, as if Sidney were electric, as if he had wired himself straight into my nerves.

It surely could not be that he had never touched me before. We had been sitting side by side for years. I knew the hollow at the nape of his neck; I knew the habitual curl of his hands. But it felt like a first touch.

I could feel my heartbeat pounding in the tips of my fingers.

The Rider came out of the apple orchard and into the vegetable gardens. She swung down from her horse and led it toward us, picking her way, careful of the lettuce. I counted breaths to calm myself. My fingers wove through Sidney's, and his through mine, and we held on tight.

At the goat pen the Swan Rider looped the reins around the horse's neck and pumped some water into the trough. The horse dipped its head and slopped at it. The Rider gave the horse a little pat, and for a moment paused, her head bowed. The sunlight rippled from the aluminum and the glossy feathers of her wings, as if she were shaking.

Then she straightened, turned, and walked toward the main doors of the hall, out of our view.

Our room hung in silence. Filled with a certain unfortunate image.

I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. I could do this. The Swan Rider would call my name, and I would go with her. I would walk out well.

Maybe—I found a scrap of doubt, not quite a wish—it wouldn't be Sidney and me. There were other conflicts in the world. There was always Grego. The ethnic disputes in the Baltic were always close to boiling over, and Grego had spent a lifetime afraid. There was Grego, and there were littler children in the other classrooms, children from all over the world. It would be a terrible thing to hope for that, but—

We heard footsteps.

Sidney was crushing my knuckles. My hand throbbed, but I did not pull away.

The door slid open.

For a moment I could cling to my doubts, because it was only our Abbot, shuffling into the doorway. “Children,” he said, in his gentle, dusty voice. “I'm afraid there is bad news. It's an intra-American conflict. The Mississippi Delta Confederacy has declared war on Tennessee and Kentucky.”

“What?” said Sidney. His hand ripped out of mine.

My heart leapt. I felt dizzy, blind, sick with joy. I was not going to die; only Sidney was. I was not going to die. Only Sidney.

He was on his feet. “What? Are you sure?”

“If I were not sure, Mr. Carlow, I would not bring you such news,” said the Abbot. He eased himself aside. Behind him stood the Swan Rider.

“But my father,” said Sidney.

It would have been his father who'd made the decision to declare war—and made it knowing that it would send a Swan Rider here.

“But,” said Sidney. “But he's my dad—”

The Rider took a step forward, and one of her wings bumped against the doorframe. They tipped sideways. She grabbed at the harness strap. Dust puffed out from wings and coat. “Children of Peace,” she said, and her voice cracked. Anger flashed through me. How dare she be clumsy, how dare she be tongue-tied? How dare she be anything less than perfect? She was supposed to be an angel, the immaculate hand of Talis, but she was just a girl, a white girl with a chickadee cap of black hair and sorrow-soft blue eyes. She swallowed before trying again. “Children of Peace, a war has been declared. By order of the United Nations, by the will of Talis, the lives of the children of the warring parties are declared forfeit.” And then: “Sidney James Carlow, come with me.”

Sidney stood unmoving.

Would he have to be dragged? We all lived in horror of it, that we would start screaming, that we would have to be dragged.

The Swan Rider lifted her eyebrows, startling eyebrows like heavy black slashes. Sidney was frozen. It was almost too late. The Swan Rider began to move—and then, hardly knowing what I did, I stepped forward. I touched Sidney's wrist, where the skin was soft and folded. He jerked and his head snapped round. I could see the whites all around his eyes. “I'll go with you,” I said.

Not to die, because it was not my turn.

Not to save him, because I couldn't.

Just to—to—

“No,” croaked Sidney. “No, I can do it. I can do it.”

He took one step forward. His hand slipped free of mine and struck his leg with a sound like a slab of meat hitting a counter. But he managed another step, and then another. The Swan Rider took his elbow, as if they were in a formal procession. They went out the door. It closed behind them.

And then—nothing.

Nothing and nothing and nothing. The silence was not an absence of sound, but an active thing. I could feel it turning and burrowing inside my ears.

The seven of us—or rather, the six of us—stood close together and stared at the door. There was something wrong with the way we did it, but I did not know if we should stand closer together or farther apart. We were trained to walk out, but we got no training for this.

At the front of the room, Brother Delta clicked. “Our topic was World War One, I believe,” he began.

“Never mind, Delta.” The Abbot tipped his facescreen downward and tinted it a soft grey. “There will be bells in a moment.”

The Abbot has been doing this longer than any of us, and he is kind. We stood and stood. Three minutes. Five. Ten. Cramps came into my insteps. Sidney—was he already dead? Probably. Whatever happened in the grey room happened fast. (
I'm not a cruel man,
Talis is recorded as saying. Only rarely is the next bit quoted:
I mean, technically I'm not a man at all
.)

High overhead, a bell tolled three times.

“It's your rota for gardening, I think, my children,” said the Abbot. “Come, I can walk you as far as the transept.”

“No need,” said Da-Xia. She'd told me once about the Blue Tara, fiercest and most beloved goddess of her mountain country, known for destroying her enemies and spreading joy. I had never quite shaken the image. There were ten generations of royalty in Xie's voice—but more than that, there were icy mountains, and a million people who thought she was a god.

The Abbot merely nodded. “As you like, Da-Xia.”

The others went out, huddling close together. I wanted to go with them—I felt the same desire for closeness, for a herd—but found myself staggering as I tried to walk. My knees were both stiff and shot with tremors, as if I had been carrying something heavy, and had only now set it down.

Sidney.

And so very nearly, me.

Xie's hand slipped into mine. “Greta,” she said.

Just that.

Xie and I have been roommates since I was five. How many times have I heard her say my name? In that moment she lifted it up for me and held it like a mirror. I saw myself, and I remembered myself. A hostage, yes. But a princess, a duchess. The daughter of a queen.

“Come on, Greta,” said Xie. “We'll go together.”

So I made myself move. Da-Xia and I went slowly: two princesses, arm in arm. We walked out together, from the darkness into the summer sun.

D
a-Xia laced her hands behind her head and tipped her face upward, contemplating. “Do you know, I will one day rule the fate of a million people. I will be as a god to the robed monks of three orders. I will command an army of ten thousand foot soldiers and five thousand light cavalry. But in this moment I do not know how to get that goat down from that tree.”

“Bat Brain! Get down!” Thandi shouted, because shouting at goats is always the answer.

The goat, whose name genuinely was Bat Brain, lifted her tail. Droppings fell like rain. Thandi leapt backward.

“I think she's stuck,” said Han. We all paused and craned our necks. The ancient apple tree was pruned into a stoop, its gnarled branches tipping down. In the open crown the goat was perched like a squirrel.

“They're rarely as stuck as they seem,” I said.

“My question is not whether or not she's stuck,” said Xie. “My question is, would the world be better off if ruled by goats? They seem to have a knack.”

“Goats are a scourge,” said Thandi.

Sidney would have cut in there. He would have teased Thandi about her tendency toward sweeping condemnations. Then he would probably have swung into the tree and tossed down the goat like a bag of laundry.

But Sidney, of course, was not there. It had been five weeks since the Swan Rider had taken him to the grey room. Far away, on the governor's ship off the coast of Baton Rouge, there had been flags lowered. There had been speeches about sacrifice. But here, at Precepture Four, among the people who knew Sidney, who in our own way perhaps loved him—here, we found it hard even to say his name.

“ ‘Scourge' seems a bit harsh,” I said, in his memory.

“They're an ecological menace,” said Thandi. “Do you have any idea how many millions of acres have been turned to desert by goats?”

“I like cheese, though,” said Han.

“Perhaps she really is stuck,” I said. “Look. Her hoof—her back right hoof, in the crotch of that branch there.” I pointed. “If she is stuck, we'll need a lop-saw.”

“Also a ladder,” said Grego, who was grinning—probably because I'd said “crotch.” But mercifully he did not remark on it, and he and Atta went to get the tools.

It was almost noon; hot, dry, and windy. The apple leaves were gold from the dust on their tops and silvery underneath. The sun came through them in swirling coins, and beyond, the prairie chirred and whirred with grasshoppers.

The goat kept us company with a running commentary. One hears rumors that Talis and his people are experimenting with uploading animals—scanning their brains and copying the data into machines—in order to improve the process for humans, who still rarely survive it. One hears that such animal AIs sometimes speak. I cannot imagine they have anything interesting to say. I could pretty much translate Bat Brain's placid baas.
I'm a goat. I can reach the apples. I'm a goat. I'm in a tree.

Despite the heat, and the sprinkle of droppings, it was a peaceful moment, a lull. The apple trees screened us from the relentless gaze of the Panopticon. Through the leaves I could see it rising above the main hall like something built by an insect, all chitin and gleam. The quicksilver sphere at the top of the mast was home to some kind of intelligence—not a humanish one like our Abbot, but something purely machine, something that had no personality and never slept.

Sorry about the constant crushing surveillance and all that,
says Talis.

We know this because of the Utterances, the book of quotations from the great AI assembled as a holy text by one of the sects of northern Asia. If you are a Child of Peace, it behooves you to memorize the Utterances. In this case, chapter five verse three:
Sorry about the constant crushing surveillance and all that. But you're supposed to be learning to rule the world, not plotting to take it over. That job is decidedly taken.

The Children of Peace, over four centuries, have learned to plot exactly nothing. But we have learned, too, how to find the hidden places, and cherish the small moments. Sheltered from the Panopticon by the apple trees, and excused by the stuck goat from the near-constant labor of the Precepture gardens, we misbehaved, albeit mildly: we sat down in the shade and ate apples.

“Goats also give us butter,” said Han. “I like butter too.”

Thandi took a breath as if to launch into the next chapter of
Goats: The Scourge of History
. But she let it out again as a sigh.

We could have talked about any number of things—the work of the garden, the work of the classroom, the recent revolutions in Sidney's part of the world that had installed new leaders and would soon produce new hostages. We didn't, though. There are so few moments to be quiet. And what is prettier than an apple orchard in summer? The grey and ordered trunks, the sharp-sweet taste of under-ripe apples. . . . We let them conjure a mood of peace and tenderheartedness.