I shouldn’t have been so hard on Aran. Because I was thoughtless, he was born broken, and then I ground him into the dirt. And none of this is his fault.
I couldn’t bear the thought that the other emanations were lost to me. That I could lose my Daniel again. You promised, Ash. How could you betray me like this?
No, I just won’t believe it. Aran is incompetent in so many ways, he simply has to be wrong. If only you’d emanate Ari. I’m sure Ari would be able to do something.
Every night, I dream about Ari. He seems so strong. I want him to hold me. I want him to tell me that we can fix this, that it will be all right in the end.
We’re loading some of the K’ntasari onto the ship. We’ve got to figure out what to do with them – whether to make them citizens, set up a government, reveal their existence or keep it a secret. I decided that the best thing to do was bring a group of them to Dolparessa to meet with the Cantor. They’re Nau’gsh – this should be a matter decided by their own kind, in the Convocation of the Forest. Whatever the Cantor decides, I’ll take her recommendation.
And it just occurred to me – of all the Cu’endhari, only you and Ashpremma are capable of travelling farther than Sideria. But the K’ntasari aren’t bound by root to their world of origin. I wonder what would happen if one of them died away from Eden?
Damn you, Davy, how could you do something like this? You don’t just create a whole new race of people.
Well, maybe you do. And it’s beyond me how you could do it, a strange child-man who doesn’t seem to have a thought in his head past getting laid and playing with puppets, but then creates living things of such amazing complexity, such profound beauty, wholly on instinct, wholly by whim.
Is that what it means to be a god? Come to think of it, it would explain a lot.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so flip about it. Maybe I have to be. In an insane universe, Ash, you cling to me, and I cling to my sense of humor. Maybe that’s kept me from thinking through all the obvious implications. That and copious amounts of alcohol and other recreational substances. Or, more likely, the looming implications are responsible for a certain percentage of inebriation.
Tarlach would say that I need a therapist. Sure. “I’m the Matriarch, and I’m married to an alien god.” How do I get therapy for that? The only one I could talk to, the only one who could really understand is you. And I can’t talk to you about this, can I?
Although many people seriously consider the Archon to be their Living God, I knew it was all propaganda we’d created. The 4th Matriarch invented a religion to conceal the fact that she’d developed secret technology to control the energy bleeding in from the nul-universe, and that she’d formed an alliance with the Arya to do it. They were able to draw the energy into the grid through their taproots, the same way your people use it to perform alchemy and to constitute the humanoid bodies you use for your various emanations. I knew even though Ailann controlled unimaginable power, enough to supply a star-system, it was all sleight-of-hand, a combination of his natural ability and technology. Even though you could heal the sick and keep people from dying, it was all alchemy, innate to the Cu’endhari. You just happened to be the best at it. And so I allowed – no, encouraged – the lie to be perpetuated for political reasons. It consolidated my own power, and it helped the Nau’gsh to be assimilated into our culture, helped the people of Dolparessa accept that they had been intermarrying with non-humans for almost a millennium.
Maybe it’s surprising how easily they accepted it. Maybe it’s just human nature. We’d had legends of dryads and talking trees since the dawn of human history. Slap a smile and a pair of google eyes on a pillow, and children become convinced it’s a talking animal. Lots of people believe that their AIs have feelings. It was only natural for us to want to believe the Nau’gsh are human.
Davy always was strange. But the things he created before – birds, moths, flowers, the infinitely useful javamelon – seemed harmless. And had no negative environmental impact, which was the thing which really sent chills down my spine. But that woman Miranda, proud, strong, intelligent, a fully-realized sentient being, that’s something else.
What definition of “god” do you not meet? How can I possibly understand you, Ash? If I try, will I be burned to ash, like the pagan Semele?
But your emanations are all too human. I should go find Aran. I haven’t seen him since last night. It’s like he’s hiding from me, trying to stay out of my sight in case he offends me. I should apologize to him.
I find him in a supply closet. “What are you doing in here?”
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“We have a stateroom.”
He’s silent, considering for a minute. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Do you intend to hide in the closet the whole way to Eirelantra?” No, this is going wrong. I can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice.
“Am I to go with you, then?”
It never once occurred to me that he’d think I would leave him behind. To abandon a Cu’enashti that is bound to me – a fate worse than death for him. “Aran…” I touch his arm.
I draw back. It’s laced with thin scabs, traces of where he has slashed it. “I thought I forbade you to hurt yourself.”
“The scars heal of their own accord after a few moments without intervention from me. I find it gives me some release.”
“Stop it.”
For a moment, his eyes lose focus. “Yes,” he says, “I knew I’d read that somewhere. The Atlas emanation called Callum enjoys pain. Am I not to be accorded the same respect?”
He would have to be a sophist. “Callum is a masochist. He gets off on it. And I hurt him – he doesn’t hurt himself. Masochism and self-harming are completely different things. Just ask Tarlach. You could use a therapist.”
“I can’t speak to Tarlach. I only know of him by reputation. I suppose I could watch recordings of his talk show.”
“You have all the power of the Archon, or so you say. You should be able to do anything you damn well please.”
“Everything I have done, from the moment of my emanation, has been wrong. Whatever power I have, it avails me for nothing.”
I’m so angry. And he’s so wounded. It’s such a human response, such a messed-up human response. It’s something a teenager would do to grab back control of his pain. And then it occurs to me, idiot that I am, that although Aran looks and talks like a stately man in his late thirties, he’s two days old. Two days. He doesn’t have a clue how to handle this. He doesn’t have the Cantor and twenty-four Atlas emanations to support him – all he has is the hapless Manasseh and the mysterious Ari, neither of whom seem to have a complete grasp of the situation. What the hell am I doing?
Having a conversation in a supply closet, apparently. I feel like a fool. “Aran, go back to our quarters. I’m furious about what has happened – and the anger isn’t with you, it’s with Ash. But I love Ash with all my heart, no matter how much I want to kick him in the teeth. Except he doesn’t have teeth. And I guess you do, so you’ve become a convenient punching bag. I just need to calm down, all right? But you’re coming with me. It never entered my mind to leave you behind.”
He nods stiffly. I can see the cautious fear in his eyes, still afraid of offending me. Your eyes, Ash. And I remember how much of your life you’ve spent being afraid that I would reject you, how long you did everything you could to hide your true nature from me. I can’t stand it. I don’t want you to be afraid.
“Aran,” I say, “please trust me. I want you to live. I don’t want to see you hurt. We can fix this. Together, we can fix this. It will be all right in the end.”
He doesn’t look like he trusts me. Still, he follows without resistance when I take his hand and pull him towards my stateroom. He does remind me of Ailann – a bit younger, perhaps, but still that look of dignity, wounded dignity maybe. But his beard, his hair, there’s something a little wild about them. He’s blond. Actually, he looks quite a bit like Patrick.
Ailann and Patrick – my favorites. And I realize that you made him, Ash, to be perfect, to be irresistible to me, this new Archon. Fresh out of the box, I broke him. This is why I can’t have nice things.
He seems calmer now that I’m holding his hand. Yes, he would be. It’s a normal psychological reaction of a Cu’enashti in the presence of his Chosen. I have an idea. “Brush my hair,” I say, when we get back to the room.
He looks at me curiously, but he takes the hairbrush and obeys. It’s so strange – normally, I’d have a servant do this, or Lady Madonna. Never would I have my husband stoop to such a trifling task. But I can feel him relax. He leans forwards, and I imagine that he is smelling my thick nest of curls. I wonder what it’s like for him. Scents mean so much more to his people. He could probably tell me what shampoo I used this morning.
“You took Gyre,” he says.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Your hair.”
“That was weeks ago.” Did he smell that? The drug is not smoked.
“I can see the breakdown products about two centimeters from the roots. Actually, your hair is long. I can see that you took it last about four years ago. You’ve also taken Sparkle, Dayze, and Hexagon. And have drunken copious amounts of javajuice.”
“Hmm. Maybe Mickey can use you on his drug-enforcement squad. As long as you realize that in the Domha’vei, drug enforcement means making sure the stuff is pure and sold according to the unwritten rules of SSOps.”
“Not according to the information I can access.”
“Do you suppose that my secret police put out a manual of how to successfully traffic in contraband? Especially since most of the contraband is produced by me?”
“What are the unwritten rules?”
“You don’t sell anything really dangerous, like Black Opium-27. You don’t mess with the profits of RR-2 Labs because I own them. And only RR-2 has the right to produce and distribute Gyre – for the sake of the Arya. Otherwise, the trees would be stripped bare of their apples.”
“You’re rather corrupt.”
I shrug. “Do you care?”
“I’m not sure I understand why the Mover chose you.”
“If you find out, let me know. I’ve been wondering that for years. Although I suspect that it’s purely because I planted him.”
“You planted Atlas.”
“Yes.” The implication, of course, is that I didn’t plant Goliath. I wonder – could Aran reject me? If he did, he would probably go mad. He’s none too stable as it is.
I rise and turn to face him. There’s no betrayal there. His eyes are shining with miserable love. Suddenly, I want to kiss him, but I don’t. I may have jumped the gun with Manasseh. I don’t know what’s right anymore.
*****
We’ve taken a dozen K’ntasari on board. Some of them seem unsettled by space flight, but most are adapting well – matter-of-fact. Too well. Maybe they’re in shock? Or maybe they were made to travel. It occurs to me that if they can travel, and if they can kill, we have a race of Nau’gsh soldiers. Is that where Davy was heading with this?
I hope their sang-froid lasts for the rest of the trip. Miranda came with us, insisting that she would accompany the prophet. Aran tried to explain it to her, but she doesn’t understand that Manasseh is inside of him, not dead, but not emanated. As is Ari, even though she saw him die. That Ari is alive she can understand, as her people go into a kind of stasis when they revert to their Nau’gsh form. She just doesn’t understand the communal nature of the Cu’enashti. It makes sense – every K’ntasari I saw in Nau’gsh form had only one trunk.
The K’ntasari shocked Aran by eating nuts. He tried to explain how taboo that act was to the Nau’gsh. “Humans eat eggs,” said Miranda.
“Yes, but chik-henns are stupid avions,” said Aran. “There’s no point in sentimentalizing them.”
“Then why should I get bleary-eyed over a stupid almond? Eggs and nuts are useful foods.”
She’s a practical girl, Miranda. Still, I wonder how that will go over with the Cantor.
*****
And now, everything has changed, but I’m still writing. I was writing for Atlas. Now I’m writing for Goliath.
We had just about cleared the halfway point between Eden and Dolparessa when Aran started acting strangely. “The Mover. I can feel the Mover,” he said, over and over. And then his skin started to crack – shocks of blue lightning rippling under the surface.
I knew what was happening. I’d seen it on rare occasions – you were reverting to the mothman. “Aran,” I said, “this is what I was talking about before. Something is triggering a change in emanation. If Ash wills it, you can’t fight it, but try to remember how it feels. You should be able to initiate your own metamorphosis.”
“It hurts,” he said, which took me aback. I’d never heard any of the emanations complain about it.
And then his arms were flung open, his enormous glowing wings filling the bridge of my flagship. Miranda stared, then dropped to her knees, and all the K’ntasari present followed. “The Mover,” she whispered. “The creator of God.”
And then his arms folded, and that radiant energy packed itself into the compact body of a man – Ailann.
He stared at me, disoriented. For a moment everything froze, and then I threw myself into his arms. Almost simultaneously, the humans on the bridge dropped to their knees, and the K’ntasari rose. “Who are you?” Miranda queried defiantly.
“Be quiet, woman! You are in the presence of the Living God!” snapped Lemkht.
“My Lord,” said the second lieutenant, “we are so happy to see you.”
“I…” Ailann began, a catch in his voice. “You have my word that I shall never abandon my people,” he said. He looked directly at Miranda. “Any of my people. Now please excuse me – I would speak with my wife.”
“I need a drink,” said Ailann, as soon as we were in the privacy of the stateroom, but I had already poured his favorite drink – scotch and Root Riot. It was to be expected.
“Tara, that…” and then he burst into tears. Heaving sobs. This I was not expecting. Ailann is strong – he has to be. I took him into my arms and just held him for a while. It felt good. Very good.
Finally he pulled back and met my eyes. “I and I is so sorry, Tara,” he said. “It was a mistake. A terrible mistake. He never thought that he’d be trapped like that, unable to contact you or even sense you.”
“What was he trying to do?”
“A few things. I knew of the system strain on the power grid. Davy suggested the idea of putting a second tree on Eden so we could avail ourselves of the energy of both rips. That part worked quite well. Also, there was the issue of the K’ntasari. Dermot said that it might be easier to mentor them from a Nau’gsh based on Eden, rather than Dolparessa. But I and I believed He would be able to switch between trees at will, like He switches between emanations. Or, at least, I think that’s what He thought. In any case, He’s really upset about what happened. It’s unforgivable. To have left you exposed like that…”
His eyes narrowed. “Unforgivable,” he said, coldly. “Just look at you.”
His hand brushed the hair from my forehead, caressed my cheek. Suddenly I felt a rush of energy up my spine, a surge of warmth and strength. I felt fantastic. I felt two years younger, and five kilos lighter. Because I was. “Thanks,” I said. “I needed that.”
“Your arteries are clogging again,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I am so sorry. Is there more of that scotch?”
“It’s all right,” I said, filling his glass. “You’re back now. Just don’t ever run off like that again, okay?”
“It must be a proximity effect,” he mused. “I changed over as soon as we got closer to Dolparessa than Eden.”
“That makes sense. It works like the power grid relays. Whatever is closer to Eden is controlled by Goliath – including the emanations, apparently.”
“I am so sorry,” he said yet again. “We thought the tree was going to be an uncarved block of wood – an empty space that we could fill. We never imagined that it would start to create its own emanations.”
“Can you communicate with them?”
“No. I can’t feel them at all. But yet they emanate from I and I. Tara, this is so wrong. Maybe we should destroy Goliath.”
“Ailann, don’t make me hit you.”
“You liked them.”
“They’re a part of Ashtara. As such, I love them.”
“I can’t remember at all. I can see them on the recordings from the security cams, though. They’re handsome. Especially that Aran. You did like them, didn’t you?”
“Did you think Ash was going to create ugly emanations? If you want to know what I thought – I wrote you a letter.”
“A letter?”
“I just started writing to Ash one day. I didn’t really know why, but now it makes sense. It’s so that you can read about what happened when you were gone. But read it later. Right now – I missed you, Ailann.”
Ailann does easily, expertly, what Manasseh fumbled through. But there’s no subtlety in Ailann either, no holds barred. The emanations agreed on it – it’s a bonus he gets for shouldering the burden of being Archon. Since he has to play God, he gets to fuck like God. Just imagine all the old metaphors – ravaged by the bull of heaven.
But that night, it wasn’t the incredible sex that I wanted. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted to bury myself in his arms and burst into tears, but I didn’t. He already felt bad enough, and none of this was his fault. I don’t even think it was really your fault, Ash. But there’s still one thing I can’t understand. Why didn’t you just tell me what you were trying to do?