Boston is Silent

This morning, at an extraordinary hour in the UK, ‘Boston Calling’ fell silent.

This excellent program, looking at the world and its attitudes to American culture, has been a feature of the BBC World Service for eight years and some 400 episodes.  In the UK at least, its wisdom will be heard no more.  I have no doubt its reputation in The United States was similarly high – not least because it would have found its audience at a more wakeful hour!

A sad event, then, and one which brought to my mind another great radio milestone when the late Alistair Cooke’s ‘Letters from America’ came to an end.  Cooke was among the last of the old school of journalists, greatly respected in Washington, and I value the CD collection of his broadcasts that sits on an undershelf no more than a couple of feet from this keyboard.

Yesterday I took delivery of a new laptop.  Now this will seem to you a complete disconnect, until I tell you it follows a trend of most new machines in omitting a DVD drive.  To play my Alistair Cooke CDs I must now resort to my older laptop (which has been commandeered by the Memsa’ab, incidentally), or this PC, which is in itself what is now referred to as a ‘traditional machine’.

Museum pieces!  Or so they will become when they have served their time, and our new machines have only a card slot for s substitute.  In less than a generation, a plethora of technical innovations has come and gone, at faster and faster pace.  Old information technology is succeeded by new, and the circle of obsolescence closes in.

Exaggeration?  Who among us still owns floppy disks, tapes or cassettes, and where can you read them if you do?

1600 years ago the last of the great ancient civilizations reached a stage in its dilapidation where it withdrew from, rather than threw innovation into, the greater part of its former empire.  The Roman presence in its satellites and client kingdoms did not end dramatically with the sacking of Rome, rather it diminished, whilst retaining its exclusive influence in one key aspect of power; the written word.   Once a pillar of all Roman culture, transcription became restricted to the gospels, which were painstakingly copied by monks in their role as specialist scribes.  Their language, Latin, devolved into a preserve of the learned and a complete mystery to the common man.  

Except in the hands of a narrow elite written records almost disappeared.   Looking back upon this time we call it the Dark Age – when few were sufficiently literate or wealthy enough to have access to writing.   Only with the invention of the printing press in 1440 did the dam to that reservoir finally burst. 

Now, as we approach the end of the present cycle of civilization, as the influence of the current major powers liberalizes and begins to turn upon itself, I see troubling similarities to the plight of those abandoned in the changing fortunes of Rome.  Step by step we are turning our backs upon our most reliable method of recording knowledge and our most effective way of teaching others.   Pamphlets or books have been available to all of us constantly – easily attainable, relatively inexpensive.  But this is not certain anymore.   The printed word is under threat; fewer and fewer books find their way to press.  And those same words committed to the hard drive, to the memory card or to our tablets cannot be trusted to be readable in forty years’ time, let alone four centuries.  Recording them, transcribing from one medium to another is possible, of course, and will in all probability remain so, but their availability will diminish.  Furthermore, it places responsibility onto the shoulders of our modern ‘monks’, the specialists in the world of algorithms and code:  a new elite.

In times of change, some things must remain inviolable.  Curation of the book and the languages that free us all from the tyranny of ignorance must be entrusted to those who would spread knowledge, rather than use it as power.  

Continuum – Episode Twenty-Five: Apparition

In the last episode:

Alanee, now officially the city’s Seer, is introduced to Cassix’s old apartment, and its peculiar array of wooden structures, artefacts, and mirrors.  She is sad to discover how her promotion has altered her relationship with Sala, who makes it plain she must act as Ellar’s eyes and ears.   In the midst of her depression, Celeris visits her, raising her mood, and they spend the night together.

Meanwhile, beside a river far away…

Dag Swenner’s body is healing well; a heat that spreads within him brings balm to each organ and limb, making each torn place whole, as though by needle and thread it is stitching him back together.  Although he was on the brink of death, by some mechanism he cannot understand he is no longer dying:  He has felt stronger, true, but minute by minute his vitality grows.

The stench has been intensifying, drifting upriver on the wind for more than a mile now, so the discovery of Ripero’s remains, though hardly recognisable from the scavengers’ touch, comes as no surprise to Dag.  His first instinct would be to seek a burial place, but here among rocks and tree-roots, lacking any appropriate tools, he would find none:  so he comforts himself with the evidence that Nature will take his rescuer to herself.  All he can offer is a prayer for a soul already departed and this he does. He clambers by, greeting the new air thankfully.

Beyond the river bend the valley widens, where hills to either side sweep back, and tree cover is forest no more, but tranquil woodland.  There is no tread of civilisation yet, but Dag expects it will not be long before he finds ground given to fields, a trodden path, the creatures of domesticity:  he wonders then what sort of welcome awaits him – whether those who slaughtered the Dometians on the plain are intent upon his death, too.  Whose company may he safely seek?

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Alanee’s disappointment at waking to find Celeris’s space in her bed unoccupied is brief:  after all, he was with her into sleep and she is sure he honoured his promise.  She has slept late upon her draught of paia and loving contentment – now there are the challenges of a day to be met.

Tsakal in hand, she taps out the bookseller’s number on her summoner.  He sounds chagrined.  “Lady, you are a hard task-master.  Yes, it is ready, but the glues must dry and the lock must be added.  I shall have it completed by three.”

“Very well – thank you.  Please place it in a plain box, then wrap it and have it sent up to the Seer’s chambers.  No-one must open the wrapping or discover what is inside.  I want it as a surprise for my coupling.”  She knows this last excuse sounds lame, but she despises the need for artifice and is beginning to be careless of it.  Besides, with Celeris so fresh in her thoughts, Hasuga’s schemes have suffered something of an eclipse.

Thus, with the matter of the faked book in hand, Alanee has time to reflect upon her night with Celeris.  The warmth of his memory remains with her:  his way of touching her, his consummate skill as a lover – how quickly he has learnt!    A door chime disturbs her reverie.  Sala stands outside.

“Are you going to admit me this time?” 

“Yes, I’m sorry.  Do come in, ba.”  Alanee adds, defensively,  “He isn’t here.”

Sala nods, dourly,  “I know he isn’t.”

“You know?  You saw him leave?  I thought we agreed there were no cameras in here!”

“There are none in the chambers.  But there are several in the corridor outside and one cannot move about the upper levels without surveillance. That’s nothing new – simply the way it’s always been.”

“I see.  What time did he go?  I wasn’t awake.”

Sala is looking at her curiously, as if she is trying to apply reason to something that doesn’t quite fit.  All the evidence before her is of a woman who has passed a night with a man; and yet….

“He hasn’t left.  He hasn’t left because he never came.”

Why does the cheap response in Alanee’s head make her want to smile?  She avoids it.  “Well, I’m sorry you missed him then…”

“I reviewed the surveillance after you turned me away and again this morning.”  Sala puts her hands on Alanee’s shoulders; “Shortly after I left yesterday, you came to the door again.  You opened it, but you did not step outside.  You shut it.  Later, drabs came – to clean for you, I assume.  They left two hours before midnight.  Meantime you had food delivered from the Caldeg Restaurant down the corridor.  Then I came to see where you were and you shut the door in my face.  No-one else has been here, and nobody has left.  I’m the first one through that door since the drabs left you last night.”  Sala exhales, as though she has expended all the breath in her body.  “Now I’ll have a cup of your tsakal.”

Alanee cannot resolve the confusion in her mind.  In the kitchen, she stumbles around clumsily as she puts the tsakal together, unable to think.

“That can’t be,”  She protests:  “Celeris was here.”

“Alanee!  The truth?”

“Why would I lie to you?  He must have some way – he must be able to deflect the cameras. The drabs: ask the drabs:  they saw him here.  The food delivery man; ask him.”

“Yes, we did ask him.  You accepted the food at your door:  he saw no-one else.”

“But Celeris was standing right behind me…”

“As for the drabs, there is something odd there, I admit.  They were all personal servants of Sire Hasuga, not normally the grade of worker assigned to cleaning duties.”

“Did you ask them?”

“We can’t.  They’re nowhere to be found.”

“What?”

“They’re Sire Hasuga’s own complement, so he may dispose of them as he wants.  He seems to have – well – disposed of them.  We can’t track them down anywhere in the city.”

In Alanee’s mind there is a truth too awful to contemplate.  She is so preoccupied she fails to notice how Sala’s pallor, as she stands in the doorway facing her, has changed.  She does not see the mediator’s colour drain from her cheeks, or her wide, disbelieving stare.

A soft voice speaks from behind her left shoulder.

“You see me now.” 

For a second time in a day, Sala’s self-assurance fails her, as a young nobleman, dressed in all the formal regalia of the city, materialises from empty air.  At just this moment Alanee realises how she has brought Celeris to her: she, and someone else.  And that someone….

“It is you, isn’t it?”  She says.

Celeris answers:  “You already knew that.”

“A hologram!”  Sala snaps triumphantly.  “A bloody hologram!”

Celeris smiles.  He takes the cup of tsakal Alanee has prepared and brings it to Sala.  He offers it to her shaking hand, and when she seems about to drop it he closes his own hands around hers, steadying her.

“Can a hologram do this?”

Agape, Sala cannot speak.  She cannot look at him.  She sinks back against the jamb of the door, trying to find her legs.

Alanee says, quietly and levelly:  “Sala ba; greet Hasuga in one of his more attractive disguises.  He also does a Music Man, if you’ve ever met one of those?”  And of the beautiful man, she asks, stone-faced:   “How did this happen?” 

“You thought of me.  You are troubled.”

“I make you appear?”

Celeris’s smile is suddenly quite child-like. “You and I, together.  Part of me may be Hasuga, but Celeris is how you prefer to see me, so I am partly you.”

 “You found your way – into my mind?”

“We both knew it would be so.  Lady, I am The City.   No-one is immune, not even you.”

 “And so,”  Alanee voice trembles:  “You can turn my own mind against me?  You can just use me?  You can do that and I will just lie there and…and….you can violate me and nothing can stop you?  You can make flesh that isn’t real?”

“I am real enough.  You could have rejected me.  You did not.”

“This morning, you deviant, I was debating in my head how I might be in love – in love – with you!”  She spits out her words:  “You made me love a fake, you bastard.  From the fake bloody music in my head to the tailored-to-fit body to the marvellous bloody mind – all fake, fake, fake!

She hurls the tsakal cup that she has made for herself.  Celeris catches it calmly.  “You would not accept me in Hasuga’s body.  You are uncomfortable with that.  This body is defined by the image in your mind.  You chose it.  Do you know that for each of my thousands of years I have never once thought how my body must look, until these last two cycles?  Do you know how it feels to experience so many new sensations?”

Sala – where is Sala?  She has retreated.  She sits upon the edge of Alanee’s bed amid the ruck of unmade linen with head in hands.

In her kitchen Alanee is in full spate, somewhere between fury and bitterness, mortification and pure depthless misery:  “Oh!  And I’m meant to sympathise, am I?  I’m meant to understand?  Suppose all I see is the spoilt brat who gets what he wants? Who always gets what he wants?  A spotty adolescent who plies my heart with tricks because he can and because it doesn’t matter to him – I’m just another ‘good game’.”

Out of breath, Alanee has to pause, clutching at herself to squash the emptiness inside.  After all, how can you teach propriety to a child who has been pampered and spoilt for millennia?  Where do you begin?

The dark-eyed figure is of Celeris, but the words are clearly Hasuga’s.  He asks, without artifice:  “I have done wrong?”

Alanee replies in crystals of ice.  “I think that’s been the essence of the conversation so far, don’t you?  Hasuga, you deceived me!  You made me believe I could become close to someone again.”

“As in ‘love’?  That is some special thing?  My Mother often spoke of it.”

“No.  Not that kind of love.  Adult love;  mature love.”  Oh why is she explaining this?  What on earth difference can it make?

“Procreation, then?  That I understand.”  Something in his reply does not balance with the unfeeling expression on his face.  Alanee sees it.  Has she struck a chord at last?

“You know it’s more than that.”

But he shakes his head and turns away.  Perhaps to hide some manifestation of guilt, though Alanee cannot know it, and the moment, as so many of the great moments in her life since she entered The City, passes

Her fury has calmed, leaving a cavernous rancour in its wake.  She is probing through darkness she experienced once, three years ago, and which she had wished never to revisit.  Now it is here, closing around her, such that she cannot avoid the bitter edge in her voice.  “Well, at least Sala’s convinced of your veracity now, and she’ll not keep the information to herself.  How are we going to explain that away to my enemies in The City, Hasuga?”

“I am not Hasuga.”  Celeris insists.  “Hasuga is separate from me.  I am a creation of you and Hasuga together.  Hasuga may speak through me, and you may speak to Hasuga the same way, but we are not the same physical entity.”

“Somehow that seems to make very little difference.”

“Very well.  Sala will not remember me when she leaves here.  The memory remains yours alone.”  Celeris takes Alanee’s hand.  She snatches it away.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Is touching so abhorrent?”  He frowns.  “As you will.  This message, Alanee, does come from Hasuga.  You must bring him the book.  The matter is urgent.  If you do not believe this, see as only you can see.  Look at the sky.”

“The book!  The book!  All that matters, then, is that I bring him this book that he is not supposed to read.  If you can materialise as real people and blank Sala’s memory for her, why for Habbach’s sake do you need me to fetch your bloody book for you?  You can dream up a High Councillor to just walk into the Inner Library and take the thing, can’t you?  Or an army?  Why not an army?  You like war games, it should be simple for you!”

“No, not simple.  You, Alanee; you alone must bring that book to Hasuga.  When you do it, you will understand.”

Alanee says dully:  “There is nothing I understand any more.  Tell him…you…whichever you are, I’ll get the book.  As for Celeris, I’d like him to leave now.  I don’t want to see him again.”

She turns her back on him, unable to look at his innocent expression for another second.  When she turns again, he is gone. Inside her head, though, his image remains:  is it also still inside her heart?

She discovers Sala in her bedroom, seated on her bed.  She feels compassion for the woman who was briefly her friend, although she believes she may never cross the wasteland that separates them again, because Sala is clearly ruined in spirit.  Her incomprehension of what has passed haunts every word she speaks.

“Who – what was that?  Man, machine, what?   Have I just seen Habbach come to earth, Alanee?  Is that what I just saw?  I mean…”  She spreads her hands, lost for speech.

“You met with Hasuga, or a least a part of him.”  Alanee sits beside her, taking her cold hands in her own.  “Sala-ba, when you walk away from here you’ll leave the pain behind, but maybe, I don’t know, you’ll see how things are.  How they must be.  Maybe that, if you can retain it somewhere, will be just enough to persuade you to think better of me.  That’s all I can hope.”

Sala inclines her head, takes her hands away.  The distance is restored.  “My life is simple, Lady Alanee.  There are things I do not want to see.”

Sadness upon sadness, then.  Alanee nods, helps her rise, sees her to the door of the chambers.  There she stands to watch Sala walk away, wondering if Celeris’s promise can possibly come true:  after all she has heard and seen, will Sala remember nothing?

Left alone, she goes to the kitchen, needing the distraction of some functional thing to dissociate from thoughts that are not welcome, places in her mind she feels she may not go.  So she makes tsakal for herself, cleaning up the mess she created when she threw her original drink at Celeris, preparing xuss bread even though she has no appetite, and nibbling at it as if it were a comforter.  She makes her bed with fresh linen, takes the sheets she shared with Celeris into the kitchen.  There, she drinks her drink and she contemplates the soiled linen for a while, as though it might give her answers to those elusive questions loitering outside the gates of her consciousness.  Then she takes a knife and shreds the sheets methodically.

Returning to the forbidding, unfriendly reception room she ponders that silver orb upon its stand before the window.

‘Think of it as a sort of exercise for the psyche.’ Celeris had told her:  when she had commented on its extreme weight, he had said, ‘Not for you’.   But whose words are whose, now?  Are they her own, from some inner ear?  She does not want to go there:  instead, she sits before the ball upon one of those unyielding chairs.  She thinks of the Book of Lore at its station in the Council Room: how, merely for interest while Portis and Ellar were talking, she raised it from the surface of the table with just the power of her thoughts, then lowered it again.

“So now you.”

Without any particular effort of concentration, she makes the orb rise from its stand.  It hangs, suspended, as if waiting for her command.

“Easy.  Too easy.”  

Now she focuses her thoughts upon it.  She makes it spin.  Gaining in confidence, she moves it laterally, away from its resting place, across the room.  This is more difficult, as though some relationship exists between ball and stand that may not be easily severed, but she finds a thought – resentment of the misfortunes of the past hours – that releases it.  Of a sudden it flies, leaping high into the ceiling of the room, darting towards the window.

“Whoa!”  Alarmed, she shoots out a defending hand, making the orb stop instantly.  Another discovery:  the hand is a sensitive, precise tool; by pointing at the orb, she can make it obey.  Alanee guides it back to its stand and as it settles, the wood flexes beneath its weight.  Still she cannot believe what she has done.  She wraps her arms about the orb, tries to lift it physically.  It will not move.

“Was that me or you?”  She pokes the question at empty air, but she knows Hasuga will answer.  He does.

“It was you.”

The voice is so close, so immediate she glances around, convinced that Celeris has returned.  The voice, though, is unmistakeably Hasuga’s.  “You are here?  Where are you?”

“Wherever you want me to be.  We need not share the same room in order to communicate.”

It dawns upon Alanee that Hasuga’s replies do not come to her through her sense of hearing.  She says aloud.  “So now I can move things with my mind?”

“Telekinesis; a cheap party trick.  Nevertheless it took Cassix twenty years to achieve a fraction of your success.  That is just a beginning.”

“Oh, yes.  A beginning?  Where is this going Hasuga?  Am I learning from you, or are you controlling me?  Like the book in the Council Chamber?”

“You are learning.  I told you I had given you power, didn’t I?  Now you are gaining the knowledge you need to use your power.  Meanwhile I am learning from you.  You can have no idea how much I have to learn; or how little time there is to learn it.”

“Why such an obsession with time?”  Alanee, from the Hakaan, has never been disposed to rush.

“Look at the sky, Alanee.”

“I’m looking at it!  I’m just seeing sky.”  The view from the window is of grey cloud.  There are rain-flecks on the glass.

“Look in the mirrors.  Gain their trust.  I must leave you now.”

The feeling is of a switch being thrown inside her head.  Suddenly she is alone and aware of it, left with the room’s cold echoes.  The walls rise about her like the damp rock flanks of a deep chasm, a fissure in the construction of the City.  She might even imagine the scent of moss, or the rhythm of dripping water.

Freedom of choice; if she really has power she has the strength to step aside from the path they, Hasuga, the High council, Sala, even Cassix would have her follow.  She stares at the triptych of mirrors.  With great deliberation, she turns her back.

© Frederick Anderson 2020.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.

Continuum – Episode Fourteen: Emanation Games

The Story so Far:

While Ripero is struggling in the wilderness to get help for his gravely wounded companion,  Alanee, far from her home beneath the eternal sun of the Hakaan, is coping with a northern winter in the City, as much as she is dealing with the man-child Hasuga’s strange whims; so when he invites her to his garden, she is shocked to find not an ice-bound outdoor winter scene but bright summer, apparently laid on for her benefit…

“No, No!  You are an infantryman and I am a dissident.  You march past me while I am hiding in the bushes, see?”

“Alright.”  The sun is a warm blessing so badly missed: bees and birdsong, the things of summer.  Alanee would stretch out on the warm grass, accept them.   “Can’t we just enjoy your garden for a minute?”  She has endured ten minutes of marching up and down to Hasuga’s increasingly complicated commands, making him laugh at her comic contortions.  Now she is hot: she would rest.

“You’re not being a proper soldier.  Proper soldiers don’t enjoy gardens!”

“I’m sure some of them must.”

“You’re like ‘Mother’.  She gets tired quickly.  I used to get tired, but I don’t now.”

“I’m not tired, I’m hot.  It was mid-winter last time I looked.”

Surely – surely not?  The cool breeze across her cheek just then would have to be coincidence, wouldn’t it?  She looks at Hasuga, catches his artful smile.

“I’ll do my best.”  She says.  “You’d better hide.”

The grass is so inviting; verdant and soft as swan’s-down.  These performances, Alanee tells herself, are just the things a mother might do for her child, were the child to have every bit of his own way.  This child?  Well, this child would be certain to have his own way!  Ludicrous as her position feels, she had better get used to it.  She waits at the far end of the garden while Hasuga pretends to hide behind a rhododendron, then begins to walk as a soldier, she imagines, might walk.

“No!”  Hasuga hisses from behind his bush. “You’re a soldier.  March!”

Obediently, stifling her laughter, Alanee goose-steps.  But why is it so hard to keep her feet?  Her balance feels confused …

Ripero has been working his way south, following the river valley, for some eight hours now and he is tired.  By turns he has stumbled among the great stones that line the water’s edge, or clambered higher to beat his way through the trees:  whichever route he chooses the going is difficult, near to impossible at times.  He is fairly certain there are wild creatures in the woods; many, by their sound, he would not like to meet – yet the trees offer cover, and cover offers safety.  So he uses them when he can, remembering his father’s dire advice when they hunted the pack-wolf together:  “You never hear the one that kills you.”

The sun is low in the western sky and the valley deep in evening shade.  Soon Ripero will need to find a place to sleep.   His first intention, to travel both by night and day, is unfeasible:  the way is too dangerous; he might injure himself in the darkness.  Besides, the promise he gave when he left Dag by the river side, was empty.  He knows, knew by the look of the man that he was dying.  By now, perhaps, it is mercifully over

At first she thinks she must be drunk – but how?  She has taken nothing this morning that would make her so.  Can this child-thing get inside her body, affect her equilibrium?  She falls; climbs to her feet – and as quickly falls again.  It is as if the ground beneath her is sometimes there, sometimes missing, like stepping into space…

Tomorrow, he tells himself, he might try the ridge – climb out of the valley on its western side:  he is pondering this when he hears the noise.  Somewhere, not too far ahead, something is scrambling towards him along the bank.  At the moment it is beyond the next bend, but approaching rapidly.

Fearing a wild animal (but no animal, surely, could sound so clumsy?) Ripero hastens over the rocks that separate him from the trees.  Here wild rhododendrons offer a good hiding place:  he climbs the steep bank into their midst, and when he is sure he is no longer visible from the river, he crouches down to watch, and wait

From around the bend there emerges into view an improbably slight male figure dressed in the olive fatigues of a soldier.  More improbably still, this soldier is attempting to goose-step parade-ground style, with his gun at slope and arm swinging.  It is a preposterous task over such boulder-strewn terrain and he falls repeatedly, banging helmeted head, arms, legs, every part of him against the rocks.  At the bend he even falls in the water; yet rises again, blunders on once more in military stride, with a look upon his face so confused he might be a stringed puppet rather than a real person.

She is giggling helplessly now.  Her ineptitude is comical – arms and legs everywhere – trying to stand, let alone walk – but nothing works.

Ripero adjudges the interloper mad and therefore dangerous, because he has no doubt that the weapon he carries is real and what can be more dangerous than a madman with a gun?  He resolves to remain hidden until this demented creature has tumbled from view.  All the same he is curious to know why the soldier is here, why he behaves as he does.  Whether it is this curiosity that makes him lean forward or just the weakness of the branches that hold him is uncertain.  That his cover should give way from beneath him with a splitting sound, is unfortunate; that the soldier should look up at that particular moment – that will be fatal.

Alanee, her balance gone, lies helpless and not entirely uncomfortably upon the grass.  She turns as she hears the ‘dissident’ Hasuga rushing from the rhododendron bush to attack her:  she points two fingers in imitation of a gun.

“Erm…..bang?”  She says, a little timidly.

The blast takes Ripero full in the chest.  He is dead before he falls.

Hasuga finds his balance almost miraculously.  Alanee, after a moment of sheer terror when she sees him stumble – she wonders again what her fate would be if he came to harm in her charge – laughs in relief.

“I got you.  You’re a dead dissident!”  She sits up:  “One more blow for the free world!  What,” she ventures an impudent poke at one of those strong shoulders, “don’t you like to lose?”

“You weren’t trying!”  He accuses her.  “You were – what did you call it – sunbathing?”

“No, I fell over.  I couldn’t keep my feet for some reason – it was so weird!  Sunbathing is when you lie like this and let the sun warm your skin.”  She draws her robe up to her thighs and stretches back on the grass, grinning up at him wickedly.  “Anyway, I still won.”  She catches sight of the long finger of the watchtower high overhead, stabbing at the sky.  “And you’re overlooked.  Do they spy on you?”

He is looking down on her with an expression of intense interest.  She thinks she is being examined, but not in a way that makes her too uncomfortable, though she does tug self-consciously at the edge of her robe.

“Yes, perhaps you did win.”  Hasuga acknowledges.

“No ‘perhaps’ about it.  Bang!  Right in the chest!”  She raises the ‘gun’ hand and blows across its imagined muzzle.  “You’re dead.”

“So I am.”  He sits beside her, feels his chest with probing fingers, as if the hole were really there, smiles beatifically.  Yet in his eyes there is distance, as if he is considering some deep, essential equation.  Then he says:  “I have waited a long time for this game.”

“Are you sure?  It seemed pretty lame to me.  Better than your last attempt, but not very imaginative – not brilliant, do you think?”

“It was not Braillec, but it will suffice.  I suppose you could do much better?”

“Braillec?”  There is some serious undercurrent to this conversation which does not complement Alanee’s mood.  She decides to try her feet again.

I suppose,”  She discovers she can stand without trouble, so she begins to walk back towards the Palace interior:  “I suppose we are both getting too old for games.”

“Childhood games?”  He tags along beside her, his expression mischievous.  “Can you offer alternatives?”

The question stops her in her tracks.  “Is that what I am really here for?”  She asks quietly.

“What do you mean?”  Hasuga’s riposte has a startling innocence that puts her at ease.  He actually is a child, then: has no-one explained the changes that are happening to him?

He walk with his curious prancing stride saying nothing.  Alanee knows that inside that giant dome he is finding his own answers.

At Hasuga’s instigation, they return to his room.

“I sleep at this time.  Mother puts me to bed for an hour. Mother isn’t here.”  He says, this time with affected innocence:  “Would you like to put me to bed?”

His inference is unmistakeable.

“No.”  Alanee is abrupt.  “At two thousand, you’re old enough to put yourself to bed.”

Without waiting for a riposte, she leaves him there.  Whatever her fate as a result, she is sure there is one path she does not want to take, and she will not give him the satisfaction of seeing her blush.  In the elevator as she returns to the Palace lobby, his voice follows her:  “I could make you come back!”

“You could;” She replies:  “but you won’t.”

#

Calling the Inner High council to emergency session has driven Valtor the Convenor to the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Sire Trebec sends his apologies.”  He announces to those he has managed to assemble in the Inner Chamber.  “Affairs in Braillec demand his presence.”

“Sires greet you.”  The Lord High Domo says, immediately Valtor has withdrawn.  “Let us dispense with formalities.  Lady Ellar?”

Ellar takes a deep breath.  “In what order may I take this?”

“Chronologically is usually best.”  Portis advises. 

“Very well Sire.  Two days since, we introduced Lady Alanee to Sire Hasuga.  Hasuga chose to make it a game (without either my own or the Mother’s prior knowledge)  in which he tortured her to a dangerous degree.  Proctor Remis knows the ramifications…”

“Reports of serious abuse are still coming in,” the Proctor interjects. “especially from the Hakaan, There may have been several deaths.”

The Domo grimaces:  “The usual filters?”

Portis says:  “Did not work, My Lord.  Either because the emanations were very strong and compulsive – much larger than anything we have experienced hitherto – or because we were taken by surprise: a little of each, I suspect.”

The Domo:  “Very well.  Go on, Lady Ellar.”

“Yesterday I received a constant stream of distress signals from the Mother. I obtained an intervention order to bring her out last night.  She is in my chambers now.”

The Domo raises a slow eyebrow:  “In your Chambers?”

“I did not know where else to take her, My Lord.  She is quite possibly beyond recovery.  Sire Hasuga has…”  Ellar bites her lip.  “forgive me, Sires, if I utter any perceived blasphemy.  Hasuga has been questioning her in a quite specific manner; questions she has never been programmed to answer.”

Cassix intervenes:  “Then forgive me too, for I heard this story first.  Put simply, Hasuga was asking about copulation.  As you know, those groomed to be the Mother have traditionally been taken as innocents from their community.  He probed her brain for knowledge she does not have.”  .

“He has scourged her mind,”  Ellar explains.  “Raked every thought from her – left her with no more than a shell of her former intelligence.”

“Who is looking after Hasuga now?”  The Proctor asks.

“No-one.”  Ellar replies.  “Hasuga is effectively looking after himself.”

“And what emanations have we had from Hasuga today?”  The Domo’s voice has lowered.

“Mercifully few.”  Portis replies.  “An extremely strong one this morning, product we believe of a game involving himself and Lady Alanee, but it was directed, and we cannot trace its outcome.  Otherwise…”

The Domo wears his most brooding of frowns. “‘Otherwise’?  Go on, Portis, please?  Let us know our fate.”

“Otherwise a constant stream of inquisitive thinking about sexual issues, very little of which can get past the filters, fortunately.  His mind seems focussed.  I understand this evening he has summoned his physician, for whatever reason.  One hopes that will lead to a diversion.”

The Domo nods.  “Very well, we must deliberate.  Lady Ellar, please withdraw.”

Cassix, who sits by Ellar, places a restraining hand on her arm.  “Sires, I would like to move Lady Ellar’s election to High Council.”

This gains a startled look from Ellar and an arrowed glance from Portis:  “Out of the question!  Election to High Council requires study of certain books and articles – years of learning.  We can’t just promote someone upon an impulse!”

“Desperate times require desperate measures, Sire.  Lady Ellar has proved her gifts for intercession in our relationship with Hasuga on several occasions.  In order to speak freely on these matters she has to share our immunity to the limiter; and with respect I suggest we need her contribution.”

Ellar feels the Domo’s stare:  “It is a substantial break with tradition.  Lady Ellar, is that your wish?”

“I had not thought of it, My Lord, but my limiter is a constant burden, it is true.  Any assistance I can render, of course… I would be honoured…”  Ellar stumbles to a halt.

The Domo glances around the table.  Seeing no dissent, he nods.  “We will put it to full Council.  In the meanwhile, please stay as a witness.  Portis will arrange restriction of your limiter.”  He turns to Cassix:  “Reassure me, Seer, that my worst fears are not realised?”

Cassix spreads his hands:  “We all knew that when we advanced his age we would enter this pass, yet without the advancement we would have lost him altogether.  None of us could foretell…”

“You are the Seer, Cassix.”  Portis interrupts curtly.  “Is that not your task?”

“You levelled that barb at me before, Sire.  I gave you my answer. No-one, not even a Seer, may predict Hasuga’s path.  To do so would be blasphemy:  I am not a blasphemer.”

The Domo raises his hand.  “Matters are as they are.  We have lost our influence upon Hasuga’s emanations, and there it is.  He may play with the people in a completely ungovernable way now, and all we may do is watch – is that our position, because that is very much my dread?  Lady Ellar, you seem disposed to speak?”

“My Lord, we never had that influence.  All a Mother could ever do was contain the wilder aspects of it.  All we could ever do was hone the result.  Our problem is more in the nature of the emanations, and there we may have far greater leverage, if that is a permitted word, than ever before.”

The Domo glares at her.  Portis’s look is nothing short of baleful.  “The woman Alanee you mean; the great experiment?  Now we have her in place I see her as the author of most of our troubles, and very far from being their solution.”

Ellar persists.  “The Mother system that served us through the age of innocence cannot function now without some other support.  All adolescent children are sexually inquisitive, all adolescent children rebel.  A ‘Mother is not equipped to deal with either, I have testimony to that sleeping in my chambers now.  But the evidence would suggest this Alanee woman can have enormous influence.  In that respect I think our experiment is a success.  Hasuga spends a great deal of his time watching her.  He unquestionably favours her.”

“And the type of influence you advocate is blasphemy!”  Portis’s anger explodes.

“Could it be;” Ellar murmurs quietly; “the time has come to re-define our interpretation of that word?”

Portis’s response is very like a harrumph.  “Bold sentiments for so new a High Councillor!”

“We all have to adapt somewhat.”  Cassix reasons:  “Hasuga to puberty, ourselves to the management of his powers in a new way.  The ‘Mother’ system may need to be re-programmed, but let us not forget how we all rely upon Hasuga’s will reaching the people.  If we introduce the right influences that may happily continue:  if we do not; if we hesitate or choose another way…”

“Yes, what then, Cassix?” The Domo’s tone is dangerously low.

“Then we shall have failed the people.  I ask you to consider: allow the Lady Alanee full knowledge, so she completely understands what she does.  Then let her fulfil the natural role Hasuga will plan for her.  That was, after all, our intention.”

Remis raises a sceptical eyebrow.  “Was it?  Give him a concubine, you mean? And invest her with enormous power.  Power over us all, I dare say.”

“No, no; that’s extreme.”  Portis demurs.  “She is mortal.  She can always be stopped.”

“Who knows where it will lead?  I doubt even Hasuga does at this stage.”  Cassix draws a sharp breath from one or two around the table.  “This is destiny, Sires.  As far as we can tell, the woman is unique:  her force of personality is much too strong to allow Hasuga to use her as you infer.  Let her have that power.  See how she employs it.”

The Domo shakes a weighty head.  “Destiny!  Habbach preserve us from destiny.  And if this woman should lie with him?  What then?  What would a child of our Lord Hasuga be?  What might that bring?”

Cassix demurs:  “I’m informed she shows no physical interest in him.”

“Things have a habit of changing.”  comments the Domo.  “Very well, Cassix, let us ride your wagon.  But I greet this new age with a leaden heart.  Does everyone agree?”

Nods of assent come, reluctantly, from every side of the small gathering.

“Then we adjourn.”

The meeting, however, continues in the corridor outside:  Portis with Proctor Remis, in subdued tones, agreeing to contact Trebec urgently:  Cassix and Ellar also conferring quietly, not wishing to be overheard.

“Thank you for your recommendation.  Will the High Council truly count me among their number?”

“I shall see that they do.  Now, how do you intend to proceed?”

“I’ll brief the Lady Alanee.”

“It was a very loose agreement.  Were I you I would take Portis with you when you confront the woman.  Be sure you have agreed the format for the meeting, and everything that should be said.”

“I would rather you were present, Cassix.”

Cassix shakes his head.  “We are sufficiently factionalised as it is.  This one is a bridge we must build.  Take Portis; he is wise enough to see where his path lies.”

Cassix bids Ellar good night, walking away with the words of the High Councillors still rotating in his head.  And he wonders, in passing, how long it has been since anyone mentioned The Dream.

He would go to his bed, the Seer, with all the burdens he must carry:  but the Continuum calls him – that furious tumult in his sky grows with every hour now – so that he is drawn through the Inner Courtyard by some invisible thread.   The stairway to the Watchtower will be a long one tonight.

© Frederick Anderson 2020.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.