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Authors: Michael Bishop
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could guess when that accord might come. Seth realized that it would be a rather humbling irony if Porchaddos Pors, Point Marcher of Feln, proved instrumental in bringing Trope into full alliance with Interstel. Gla Taus, after all, was a somewhat backward newcomer to the partnership.
For now, though, the principal thing Seth knew about the Tropiards was that their eyes were hard and gemlike. The text accompanying a solitary photograph in the library tapes described their eyes as “an organic variety of crystal”; the photograph itself, meticulously enlarged, revealed a more or less human face studded with a pair of water-green jewels where its organs of sight should have been. Seth had a good deal of trouble crediting the legitimacy of the photograph.
We are all imperfect isohets of the same perfect progenitor.
Maybe that was true, each humanoid species either a small or a grotesque distortion of some hidden Platonic Norm of Ideal Humanity. One theory held that aeons ago a common ancestor had seeded as many of the galaxy’s inhabitable planets as it possibly could, before succumbing to extinction on its own dying world. Another hypothesis assumed, against countless subtly or grossly dissimilar planetary backdrops, parallel evolution. A third pointed to the instrumentality of God. The first theory, Seth knew, ran headlong into the unsupportive archaeological records of Earth and other Interstel worlds; the second was statistically unlikely; and the third seemed to ascribe to God a shabby paucity of imagination. You didn’t win with any of them. Nor, apparently, were you supposed to.
“Where’s the dairauddes Chappouib gave you?” Pors suddenly asked.
“In my cabin,” Seth said, surprised.
“You should be wearing it.”
“Even when I sleep?”
“It’s your gift to the Magistrate, which once belonged to Lady Turshebsel. You should have it on you until you present it.”
“A demon killer?”
Pors studied the display screen, feigning or perhaps actually experiencing deep interest in the movement of the Dharmakaya through The Sublime.
“I didn’t believe you were a follower of the aisautseb,” Seth challenged Pors. “I thought you a courtier and a progressive.”
The Point Marcher turned on him angrily. “You should have it on your person,” he said. “When awake, have it on your person!”
*
In the corridor outside his cabin, Seth encountered the priest whom Chappouib, with Lady Turshebsel’s grudging executive consent, had assigned to them for the voyage. This man was young but dutiful. He seemed to sleep only for brief periods. Now he was wearing garrison pants rather than robes, and his head was uncovered. He was obviously on his way to the conning module, either to relieve Pors or to engage him in conversation. A true aisautseb, he spoke no Vox, and made no attempt to learn.
“Good morning,” he said in Kieri: his standard greeting, regardless of the hour.
“Our triune’s piloting is a prayer,” Seth told him in Vox.
“Sir?” the priest said.
Seth repeated his words, knowing them to be unintelligible to the aisautseb but taking a perverse delight in the fact.
The priest’s expression darkened, and he brushed past Seth with cold dignity, lengthening his stride at every step. Seth suffered a pang of remorse for his pettiness, but couldn’t bring himself to call politely after the jauddeb in Kieri.
Instead, he went in to Abel, who lay on his bunk again, somewhat recovered from his bout of nausea but still pasty-faced and glassy-eyed in the cabin’s artificial twilight.
“You’re a bastard to leave me in this shape, Seth. You’re a bastard to escape my nightmares.”
“Neither one of us quite qualifies as a bastard.” Seth smiled to show his isohet that he was joking, but it didn’t take.
Abel pulled himself to a sitting position to renew the attack: “They were going to hoist me up that tower! They were—!”
“If it’ll make you feel any better, Abel, I was on the
For now, though, the principal thing Seth knew about the Tropiards was that their eyes were hard and gemlike. The text accompanying a solitary photograph in the library tapes described their eyes as “an organic variety of crystal”; the photograph itself, meticulously enlarged, revealed a more or less human face studded with a pair of water-green jewels where its organs of sight should have been. Seth had a good deal of trouble crediting the legitimacy of the photograph.
We are all imperfect isohets of the same perfect progenitor.
Maybe that was true, each humanoid species either a small or a grotesque distortion of some hidden Platonic Norm of Ideal Humanity. One theory held that aeons ago a common ancestor had seeded as many of the galaxy’s inhabitable planets as it possibly could, before succumbing to extinction on its own dying world. Another hypothesis assumed, against countless subtly or grossly dissimilar planetary backdrops, parallel evolution. A third pointed to the instrumentality of God. The first theory, Seth knew, ran headlong into the unsupportive archaeological records of Earth and other Interstel worlds; the second was statistically unlikely; and the third seemed to ascribe to God a shabby paucity of imagination. You didn’t win with any of them. Nor, apparently, were you supposed to.
“Where’s the dairauddes Chappouib gave you?” Pors suddenly asked.
“In my cabin,” Seth said, surprised.
“You should be wearing it.”
“Even when I sleep?”
“It’s your gift to the Magistrate, which once belonged to Lady Turshebsel. You should have it on you until you present it.”
“A demon killer?”
Pors studied the display screen, feigning or perhaps actually experiencing deep interest in the movement of the Dharmakaya through The Sublime.
“I didn’t believe you were a follower of the aisautseb,” Seth challenged Pors. “I thought you a courtier and a progressive.”
The Point Marcher turned on him angrily. “You should have it on your person,” he said. “When awake, have it on your person!”
*
In the corridor outside his cabin, Seth encountered the priest whom Chappouib, with Lady Turshebsel’s grudging executive consent, had assigned to them for the voyage. This man was young but dutiful. He seemed to sleep only for brief periods. Now he was wearing garrison pants rather than robes, and his head was uncovered. He was obviously on his way to the conning module, either to relieve Pors or to engage him in conversation. A true aisautseb, he spoke no Vox, and made no attempt to learn.
“Good morning,” he said in Kieri: his standard greeting, regardless of the hour.
“Our triune’s piloting is a prayer,” Seth told him in Vox.
“Sir?” the priest said.
Seth repeated his words, knowing them to be unintelligible to the aisautseb but taking a perverse delight in the fact.
The priest’s expression darkened, and he brushed past Seth with cold dignity, lengthening his stride at every step. Seth suffered a pang of remorse for his pettiness, but couldn’t bring himself to call politely after the jauddeb in Kieri.
Instead, he went in to Abel, who lay on his bunk again, somewhat recovered from his bout of nausea but still pasty-faced and glassy-eyed in the cabin’s artificial twilight.
“You’re a bastard to leave me in this shape, Seth. You’re a bastard to escape my nightmares.”
“Neither one of us quite qualifies as a bastard.” Seth smiled to show his isohet that he was joking, but it didn’t take.
Abel pulled himself to a sitting position to renew the attack: “They were going to hoist me up that tower! They were—!”
“If it’ll make you feel any better, Abel, I was on the
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