The Verse:
Enemies that were friends that were enemies become friends.
Galaxies rotate; spin is everything.
The Vision:
Johannon Deverre is wearing a flower in his buttonhole. It’s plastic. Patrick gives him a real one. The gesture indicates the end of the war with Earth.
Commentary by Archbishop Co’oal Venesti:
A miraculous tale of salvation through the grace of Our Lord.
Commentary by Elma, High Prophetess of Skarsia:
Men are so stupid.
Commentary by Archbishop Seth:
Since a conversion narrative is always best as a testimonial, I asked Abbot Deverre to write the commentary. It should be noted when Deverre mentions Evan’s beauty was a rival to his own, it was an entirely intentional ploy by the Mover. If Tara had taken for a lover a man who was genteel and somewhat effeminate, the Mover could create one even more refined and lovely.
Commentary by Johannon Deverre, Abbot and founder of the Johannonite Monastery:
The tale begins when I was old and foolish. Now I am young and wise. All praise to the Archon!
I remember it well – it was late Windwhippit of 3611 – well, it was actually late second Windwhippit of 3611 – as a diplomat, I was always having to readjust to the local calendar. Eirelantra runs on three calendars – GalStandard, Skarsian and Dolparessan, just to make life confusing. Sideria and Dolparessa run on the same calendar, of course, but the length of the day is different. The Dolparessan day is exactly the same length as the Skarsian day, which wasn’t a coincidence, as it turned out. Nobody cares what the hell time it is on Volparnu.
I remember it well because it was such an exciting time, a time of change. I had recently reassumed the mantle of ambassador to the Domha’vei through the intervention of Governor Tellick. CenGov politics were undergoing a sea change, and we were among the ones who saw the sad demise of late President Harmoulis as an opportunity to institute some long-needed reforms. At the time, Archonism was spreading into CenGov territory, and the publication of Eden Blues only hastened that spread. Of course, conservative elements in the government tried futilely to suppress the text, under threat of being remanded for coherency therapy were it found in one’s possession. This had the predictable result of validating the contents of the text as well as making it a desideratum.
In short order, there were prophets on every asteroid calling out for our repentance; for those worlds which were not subject to the Archon, they claimed, surely retribution would come from the implacable strength of the SongLuminants. The official CenGov position was, of course, that Eden Blues was nonsense, a work of fictional propaganda. Nevertheless, some in the government knew better. It can now be revealed that the Floatfish had been in contact with certain of Earth’s ruling bodies for centuries, with the purpose of slowly guiding humanity to the point of readiness for inclusion in the Combine of Sentients. The difference is that the Floatfish estimated another several million years of careful stewardship; the Archon promises it will be done in 1500. Such posturing would seem incredible were the Archon himself not an example of evolution on the fast-track, so to speak. Often times he has extolled to me the importance of determination, and of not eschewing one’s humble beginnings. “I’m not ashamed to say my grandfather was a nectarine,” he told me once.
I was being sent to Eirelantra as ambassador, but with also a very immediate mission – to complete the treaty which would finally signal an end to the foolhardy war between our peoples. Officially, it was known as the Eden-Dalgherdia Intervention, but in popular parlance almost everywhere, it had come to be called “General Panic’s War.” The sticking point was the Tasean system. CenGov wanted to give it back – the insurgency problem was out-of-hand, it was costing an enormous amount of capital to maintain a military presence in a system of little worth, and there were more pressing problems at home to deal with; Tasea wanted to be given back – their brief sojourn as part of the Matriarchy was recognized as the most economically stable period in over a century; the Matriarchy wanted them back – for absolutely no explicable reason, except perhaps as a matter of pride. It was clear from the course of the war that Skarsia had no interest in Tasea as a military outpost – it was abandoned immediately to CenGov incursion, and lord knows, it has no economic value.
However, public opinion back home was against it. Mighty Earth was losing face. Especially at a time when Archonism was – shall I say it – taking root. There would have to be a large concession on the part of the Matriarchy in order for President Gweseki to sanction the treaty. Fortunately, the Archon’s foresight is perfect. He had in his possession just the bargaining chip: over a thousand of CenGov’s elite troops being held in a prison camp on the 4th moon of Rimbaud. Return Tasea, and the heroes could go home. It was an excuse for the government to look concerned for its citizens rather than cowardly. No one really believed it; since when had CenGov shown concern for its citizens? But it sounded good.
I must admit that at the time, my motives were far more base than idealistic. I wanted to become a part of Earth’s elite. I knew that my hope was far-fetched. I was sorted “A” when CenGov took the Descartes system, my point of origin. My intelligence and good looks earned a place amongst the diplomatic corps, but it was rare for an indoctrinee to reach the highest echelons. If I did well, my children might hope to enter the elite. Unfortunately, I don’t often see my children as my relationship with my ex-wife is not amicable. She could never understand the rigors of the diplomatic life.
If I were going to achieve elite status, it had better be sooner than later. I wasn’t getting any younger.
I approached my new assignment with some trepidation. Truth be told, part of the rigors of the diplomatic life had included a rather close liaison with the woman who would become the Matriarch. But she had suffered a rather traumatic incident, being hunted by assassins through her uncle’s palace. It had ended with her hiding in a closet with a dying man, her uncle’s Master of Horse, while the assassin also died a horrible death as a result of one of Her Eminence’s poisons. I’m afraid that I failed to believe her when she initially confessed her fears of assassination to me, and our relationship was never the same thereafter. She also formed an attachment to the dead man which, at the time, seemed to me obsessive, but that was a result of my ignorance. As it turned out, that man was an emanation of the Archon himself, and my relegation to the role of sympathetic friend was an act of destiny.
But I was a proud man, an ambitious man, and I was not initially inclined to leave the battlefield. I followed Tara (if I may be so familiar) to her estate on Dolparessa, Court Emmere. It was there that I encountered yet another emanation of the Archon, the court bard Evan Finlay-Cole, Esq. Evan and I…did not get along. It is embarrassing to admit, doubly-so considering that at the time I envied his noble status and his natural beauty, which rivaled mine. The less said about that time, the better. Tara eventually went to study on Earth, but I was able to bring her important work on the nau’gsh to the attention of Dr. D.F. Traeger, which resulted in Tara’s employment at the Dalgherdia Science Station when she returned to the Domha’vei.
To summarize: I had a long history with the Matriarch, and, as it turned out, with the Archon as well, having known him as Sloane, Evan and Mickey, and very briefly as Patrick. It was surprising, to say the least – but I might console myself in the belief that Tara was even more surprised at the way events turned.
So, after all these years, how would she accept me? Now that he was “out of the forest” so to speak, would the Archon despise me, make me an object of his jealous spleen? I had read – no, studied – the two autobiographical works concerning the ipsissimal couple. I knew how I had been portrayed therein.
And how would I feel to encounter the much-hated Evan, almost 29 years later, when his beauty had diminished not one jot? I had to admit that despite numerous cosmetic treatments and an eye to keeping myself fit, decay was setting in. I was in dire need of nanobots.
It was not Evan, however, that I was destined to encounter. Prince Patrick was in attendance, and for a very special reason. New Year’s Day was to be his 21st anniversary of marriage to the Matriarch. One might suppose there would be a tad of bitterness on my part, seeing that Tara had turned down my suit in favor of his. One would be wrong. I was ordered to propose to her by my superiors; in fact, I was already married at the time, and the government was quite prepared to mandate an annulment. Not that the marriage would’ve been any great loss (it wasn’t). I hadn’t seen my wife and daughter in over two years; my son was already at a boarding academy. However, I knew that the intentions of my superiors, most notably General Panic, towards the Domha’vei were not friendly, and being made Prince Consort would’ve put me in an awkward position concerning my loyalties.
The anniversary was also Rebirth Day, the day which occurred one in every seven years when New Year’s coincided between the Dolparessan and Galactic Standard Calendars. Tara and Patrick had specifically chosen to marry on Rebirth Day, as it was considered to be highly auspicious. According to custom extending to the time of the 4th Matriarch, Rebirth Day was the day upon which the God of the Domha’vei, the Archon, consulted with the God of Sol, Mithras, to determine the fate of the human race for the next seven years. It was the holiest of days.
What glorious irony, nay, what a brilliant stroke of destiny that Prince Patrick was a branch of that very nau’gsh fated to become the second Archon! I arrived to find a flurry of activity in all sectors. Everyone was determined that this Rebirth Day should be even more magnificent than the Rebirth Day of 3605.
Upon our first meeting, Prince Patrick was amicable, but wary. The years had changed him: his bearing was stronger, more confident. “It is my hope,” I said, smiling, “that any conflict between us, both personal and political, is long in the past.”
“Grudges are childish.” said Prince Patrick, returning my smile. “Like you, I’m a diplomat by nature. On the other hand, if Admiral Whelan suspects for a moment that you have designs upon our wife, he’ll have you jettisoned into the sun.”
So we knew where we stood. Later, I was to learn that Admiral Whelan, backed by Prince Ari, had advocated that my appointment as ambassador be interpreted as an act of open hostility by CenGov. It turned out to my advantage that they had seriously underestimated Governor Tellick – only Prince Chase had ever encountered him personally, and at the time, he was out-of-communication with the other branches. Therefore, Prince Patrick’s faction had argued that Tellick was a bumbling fool, and hadn’t intended to cause offense. In fact, Tellick had weighed the risk of offense against my usefulness. There was no other CenGov diplomat with as much knowledge of the region and its politics as myself.
I settled into my new quarters. The accommodations on Eirelantra are among the most luxurious I have ever experienced, and I had to admit a certain bit of nostalgia for the brief time I had spent there previously. The suite was more magnificent than the one I had at Court Emmere although the Dolparessan weather had made up for it. I will not speak of the misery that was life on Volparnu. Suffice it to say that the inhabitants believed that bracing conditions contributed to strength of character.
There was to be a grand reception that evening, in celebration of the treaty. The actual signing would be at the stroke of midnight on Rebirth Eve, followed by the bloated fete of the anniversary party, culminating with the Archon’s speech at dusk (well, duskshift, anyway.) He was to report the results of his conclave with Mithras – something he would apparently be able to accomplish despite the fact that his incarnate avatar was spending the day in celebration with his wife. The ways of God are miraculous indeed.
Before the reception, I decided to indulge myself with a bath. I had spent the past three years on Earth; being a level A citizen, I’d had a right to my own apartment (less than a third the size of these quarters) and the ultimate in decadence – my own shower, with a ten-minute timer. Now, the sight of the filling tub made water arise in my eyes, perhaps in sympathy. No one on Earth would dream of wasting water like this. And this was nothing to the Domha’vei’s aristos. Since we were on a space station, the baths were small. Tara’s bath at Court Emmere practically qualified for a public pool on Terra. Her gardens had fountains.
Fountains.
There was simply not enough of anything on Earth, and far too many people. And yet…one wanted to live there. In the same way that paradise is always a vacation spot, but one wants to live in the heart of a gritty metropolis. I was torn. As much as my diplomatic assignments allowed me to experience luxuries unimaginable to most Terrans, they always felt a bit…provincial. The Matriarch, the Archon – they were like characters from a fairy-tale. Serious governments had not been conducted this way for around seventeen centuries.
And yet it felt good to be rid of my dingy gray uniform, good to don a formal brocade jacket with gold braid and epaulets. The rich blue of the wool was ample foil for my curls, still as golden although a bit thinner than the last time I was a resident here.
Perhaps it was my Descartian origin – I was still barbarian at the core. Or perhaps that explanation is as facile as saying the Archon is an overgrown nectarine.
I arrived at the reception late enough for fashion, but not enough to be considered rude. Of course, I had to pay my respects to the hosts. And I was shocked. One thing I had not prepared myself for was that Tara was just as young and lovely as the last time I saw her – nay, younger still. She had the body of a woman in her prime, a unique combination of soft curves and sinewy muscles. But her eyes – they were the eyes of an old woman. They saw straight through me. I could almost laugh at Prince Patrick’s jealous sally. Have designs on this creature? I wouldn’t know the words to use. She was becoming some kind of strange dryad, the figure in the Apotheosis of Daphne, the statue made by Prince Driscoll, another of her husbands.
If the tale was to be believed, each husband had arisen out of some fancy of hers. So which of the pair was really Pygmalion?
Perhaps my curious gaze remained on her overlong. Prince Patrick was smiling at me without smiling. It seemed foolish for an entity so confident as to allow the prating of the free media (and indeed it was confidence, for never did Earth’s governors more rigidly control the media when their paranoia reared its head) to be jealous of his wife’s ex-lover. It made no sense to me given years of CenGov’s realpolitik; to understand it, I had to return to the myths of my youth, long discarded as folly. Jealousy was a characteristic of gods.
An inspiration hit me. “Shall we make a wager, Sir?”
“For that, I would need Prince Wynne.”
“I would not be such a fool as to wager against him, Your Highness. But here is my bet: despite my best efforts to seduce her, your wife is faithful.”
The prince registered his puzzlement. “That’s a strange wager. Why would you bet against yourself?”
“Because diplomacy cannot exist without trust, or at least, the assumption of good faith. And you are wondering not whether I have designs upon your wife, but whether she has designs upon me.”
“And if I win the bet? If such a thing could be called a victory?”
“The penalty of your choice. I would, however, warn you that the threat of being jettisoned into the sun might subconsciously influence my ability to perform at my best.”
“And if you win?”
“A place in the inner circle of the Archonist Church.”
The prince began to laugh. “You are even more opportunistic than I remember you.”
The truth revealed itself to me as I spoke. “Eirelantra is even more opulent than I remember it. And Earth is a shambles. No matter what Tellick says, his party will not emerge victorious in this.”
“Tellick has been a…friend…to Her Eminence, but he is hardly…”
“You don’t know the man as I do. He is not the fool that you believe. Oh, and one other thing. In order for me to put forth my best effort at this, there must be a certain attempt to even the playing field. Namely, if I could be a bit younger…”
“You are exactly as vain as Evan remembers you. But why not? I can afford to be magnanimous. It’s a minor alchemical transformation, nothing like stopping a fleet of battleships. It will be cosmetic, though. I could reset your telomeres, but you wouldn’t see the full effect for months. And I don’t want to go messing about with internal organs. You’d need Ailann for that.”
“Fair enough.” So he’d give me more beauty, but not more life. Not yet, at least.
I begged for the honor of dancing with the lady. “It’s been a long time,” she said. “I believe the last time we danced was at Ta’al Erich’s wedding. His anniversary is coming up soon. I suppose that will necessitate a trip to Volparnu.”
“Ah, he put off marrying that Meliss until he had assured himself that you were out of reach.”
“Probably true. But I wouldn’t have married that viper if my life depended upon it. He’s a clever man – too clever. Clever men don’t love.”
“You wound me, milady. Is intellect incompatible with romance?”
“Hell no. There’s a difference between an intelligent man and a clever man. Cüinn is dazzlingly brilliant, but he isn’t the least bit clever.”
I moved my hand down the small of her back. In her way, she was graceful, or perhaps agile is the better word. She danced like an acrobat, like a martial artist.
She lowered her eyes. The gesture was entirely artificial. She had never lowered her eyes for anyone. “And you are as attractive as I remember, Johannon. Perhaps a bit bolder.” Our eyes met. “When you refused to help me back in Vuernaco, I thought you were a coward. But you weren’t, were you? My uncle had bought you out.”
“Your Eminence!” I began to protest.
“Don’t play games with me. I hate games. And understand this: I’m a woman of Skarsia. My mother was a battlequeen. Betrayal is far more acceptable than cowardice.”
I sighed. “My loyalties have always been…complex.”
“As they are now.” The dance ended. She linked arms with me. “Let’s have a toast to old friendships,” she said. Instantaneously, a servant appeared with a tray full of champagne flutes.
I knew not how to respond. I knew it would be so – which is why I had been confident in my wager. And yet…
Our glasses clicked. “Do you want to bed me?” she asked.
I can only imagine the look upon my face, for she broke out in laughter. “Fool!” she cried. “If you go hunting, you’d better know how to cook the game.”
“Far be it from me to entertain such a bold idea,” I gasped. My air of shock was entirely plausible since it was absolutely honest – but not for the reasons she must have suspected. “However, far be it from me to refuse the whim of a beautiful lady.”
“Oh gods, you’re smooth,” she said. She downed the rest of her champagne, sitting the flute upon a nearby plant pot. In an instant, it was whisked away. She grabbed my hand. “Come out and look at the stars. It’s not nearly the same as looking through an atmosphere, but the visdome is still a lovely effect.”
The ipsissimal suites were at the top of the station, at the peak of enormous banks of condominiums. They looked down upon the center of the station, the vast atrium which housed the gardens. The complex seemed to be a ring of fanciful spires connected by bridges that ribboned across emptiness. So much wasted space, thought the Terran within. CenGov would never have authorized a station like this. My indoctrination told me that this sort of useless excess was exactly the reason art had to be so carefully controlled.
I looked up at the sky. When I looked down again, she was gazing at me, gazing with those eyes much older than her face. “You never loved me,” she said. “We never loved each other.”
“Although I have feigned it many times,” I said thoughtfully, “I don’t think I have ever been in love.”
“I fall in love at the drop of a hat. But with one exception, it’s always with the same man.”
“The one exception wasn’t me – it was Edom St. John. And the same man isn’t a man at all. Why are we here?”
“Because I hate games, and Ash is playing one with me. How tedious to get into a fight with our anniversary so near.”
It was my turn to laugh. “I was that obvious? I had not believed myself so out of practice.”
“Obvious? Ash did some work on your face. Wasn’t the point for me to notice?”
“He’s really not that clever,” said Prince Patrick from the doorway. “It’s good to know that.”
“Jerk,” said the Matriarch.
“If I were Seth, you’d forgive me.”
“Seth has permission to be jealous. It fits his idiom. You just look like an idiot, Patrick.” She gestured at me. “What did you promise him?”
“A position in the inner circle of the church.”
“That’s rich,” she said. “But we can play that. When he signs the treaty at midnight tomorrow, he has a religious revelation. One of CenGov’s trusted emissaries finds the light of Archonism.”
“Understand the point,” I said. “That pathetic psychopath General Panic was made immortal, but I was condemned to age and die.”
“Clive has the same beef,” said Tara.
“I’ll trade you,” said the Prince, “or rather, Ailann will. Immortality and eternal youth for a vow of celibacy.”
I’d had women, I’d had children; none of them were around to comfort me in old age. Not having an old age seemed a better plan. “Done,” I said.