Necessity (6 page)

“Yes,” Aroo said. “Though that might be a difficult negotiation. It is precious. It is hard to imagine what they might give to us of a comparable value to make this a mutually beneficial trade. We could better make them a gift of it to establish a long-term friendship, but this they have not asked, and we have not offered, as we were waiting for discussion with you. Such an offer could be made, but it would draw them into the established matrix of ongoing friendship and communication between us on Plato and the Saeli League.”

“We should know more about them first,” Diotima said.

I nodded. “Do you have thoughts on the other part of Jasmine's question, Aroo? Might they have exhausted their fuel coming here, like a fishing boat draining the motor to avoid rocks?”

“It is possible, but they did not say that this was the case.” Aroo came back and sat down, as expressionless as ever.

“We were about to vote on the established plan to tell the new arrivals of our divine origins in such a way as they will believe them to be a myth, and believe that this planet was truly settled by spaceships.”

Aroo looked down. We had followed the plan when we met the Saeli, but those of them who lived here had inevitably seen things that couldn't be explained away. Aroo was a Gold. I wondered what she believed about Pytheas and the Relocation. The Saeli have their own gods, and a little closed circular temple down in the harbor district. Permission to build temples in the other cities was one of the terms of the new agreement. But they didn't like to discuss religion. It always seemed to make them uncomfortable.

“I have no new information, and no objection,” she said, her eyes veiled behind her lilac and beige outer lids.

We voted, and to my relief there was a clear majority for following the plan. Aroo abstained. I set up the committee on investigation of other cultures, then formally closed the session for the day. Halius proposed an emergency meeting for the next morning, when we'd have more information from the ship. We voted, and it passed overwhelmingly. I knew I could count on Crocus to count the votes and analyze them, but I could tell at a glance that these votes cut across our usual party lines.

So we were to follow the plan, and the plan called for us to squeeze out as much from the humans as we could before they came down. Crocus rolled down to join me and Dad where we were talking with Klymene and Aroo.

“I'm going back to talk to the ship,” Klymene said. “Will you come out to the spaceport?”

“I think that we should go to Thessaly first,” Dad said, including me in his glance.

“I ought to go to Thessaly to pay respects too,” Aroo said. “First I will hurry home, and tell our ship that you will teach us the space human language. Perhaps I can find a volunteer to begin learning it immediately. Then when I have dealt with that, I will go briefly to Thessaly, and then out to the spaceport.”

“We'll call for you on our way,” Dad said.

“Thank you,” Aroo said, giving a Saeli sideways head-bow, and left.

“Who can we send to take a message to Porphyry?” I asked Dad.

“He'll be here already, at Thessaly,” he said.

Here for Pytheas's wake, of course. “We should go and talk to him now,” I said. I was tired but excited.

“You did well in the chair,” Dad said. I glowed in his approval.

“Can this really be human recontact, at last?” I asked, hardly able to believe it even now.

“It's wonderful,” Dad said. “We'll have so much to learn from each other. So much history to exchange. And we'll be able to visit Earth, and their new planets. All that art!”

“No art raids on Earth!” I said, smiling at the impossibility.

Dad gave a little laugh. “I wouldn't put it past the Amazons if they had the means. Art exchange, now—wouldn't it be something if we could get them interested in joining in!”

“They might want to join in the Olympics and other athletic contests, and be prepared to put some of their art in as prizes,” I said, excited at the thought. “It's something we could suggest. It's such a great way of having it circulate.”

“And it keeps the young hotheads focused on competing instead of killing each other,” Dad said, soberly. He remembered the art raids, of course, and had lost his mother and friends to them. It was hard to keep in mind, when they seemed to me like old history.

“We should bring up such participation in negotiations,” Crocus said.

“They might even have made some new art in the centuries since. They must have. I wonder what it's like?” I asked.

“It will be so interesting to find out, and to talk to humans,” Crocus said, then stopped. “You are humans too. What should we call them?”

“Earth humans?” Klymene suggested.

“But we all come from Earth,” Crocus said. “Space humans?”

“Perhaps they'll have space Workers,” I said.

“I would like that very much,” Crocus said.

“Maybe we can call them by the name of their ship, or their civilization, when we know it,” Dad said.

“I will come with you to the spaceport, Klymene,” Crocus said.

“Don't you want to go to Thessaly too?” she asked. “We can manage. And I know you and Pytheas were close.”

“I have been there and paid my respects. And there's bound to be a proper memorial later.”

“I don't know,” Dad said. “It's an odd circumstance. It's not as if he's dead the way anyone else would be. There could be a memorial for Pytheas, for his mortal life, but … he's also and really Apollo, and Apollo's still alive with all his memories. He's an undying god. He could come to his own memorial. He might be at Thessaly now.”

“If he is, would he look like Grandfather, or like his statues?” I asked, simultaneously horrified and fascinated.

“I have no idea,” Dad said.

Klymene shuddered.

“Hey, he forgave you,” Dad said. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“And I forgave him,” Klymene said, shaking her ancient head. Then she saw my frown. “Old history, Marsilia. Don't worry about it.”

“We will probably vote on the treaty tomorrow. Now I will go to talk to the ship,” Crocus said. “They may need me to translate, though I fear I will not understand the subtleties.”

“I thought you said you knew English?”

“What does it mean, to know?” Crocus asked, an extremely characteristic question from him. “I have not heard it spoken since I became myself. The occasional word from Lysias or Klio, yes, but we all preferred to speak Greek. Greek is the language of my soul. Greek has philosophical clarity. But English is stored in my memory. It is a command language.”

“I hope it's not too painful to speak,” I said.

“That's why it's important that I go and relieve Sixty-One,” he said.

“We'll come along and join you there in an hour or so,” Dad said.

“Joy to you both.”

“Joy to you, Crocus,” I said, and Dad echoed me. Klymene climbed up onto his back, and they trundled off towards the spaceport.

“He seems much like everyone else, only big and metallic, and then suddenly he comes out with something like that,” I said, when he had rolled out of earshot.

“Going off to share the work to spare Sixty-One the pain,” Dad said. “He's the best of us all.”

We walked towards Thessaly. Dad had his cloak tightly wrapped against the chill, though I was snug enough in my fishing clothes. “I wonder if they'll have any Workers on the space human ship, and what they'll be like. The other Workers, the younger ones who came to consciousness here on Plato, are different from Crocus and Sixty-One,” I said.

“Well, we were expecting consciousness with them, educating them for it, like bringing up babies. As I understand from Father, what happened with the original Workers was completely unexpected—nobody but Sokrates imagined that they might be people rather than tools. That had to have had an effect on how they turned out.” Dad sighed. “Still, people are different from each other, but they also have a lot in common, whether they're Workers or aliens or humans. What really matters is their souls.”

I couldn't help saying it. “I sometimes feel I have more in common with Crocus than I do with Thee.”

“Well, metal can be stronger than blood,” Dad said. “That reminds me. I heard today that Selagus is appealing the decision.”

I blinked. “That's the first time for ages.” Usually people who don't agree with their classification flounce off to another city, often Sokratea, where they don't have classes at all. Sometimes they come back later and accept it after all. Outright appeal against classification is allowed, but rarely happens.

“It could be messy, and it could come up for judgement on your watch,” Dad said.

“Thanks for warning me. I'll look up the procedure and consult. I suppose there will have to be a committee?”

“Yes, and you should be really careful who you choose for it. There should be one Ikarian, so Selagus can't claim religious prejudice, but no more. It's so awkward. We've only ever had a handful of reclassifications. We should go through them together soon and consider precedents.” Dad was frowning.

“I can't understand why he doesn't want to be a Gold. He could still work at his embroidery.” I thought of my work on the boat.

Dad shook his head. “I suppose he doesn't want the responsibility. If so, that might be a sign that he's right, and he should have been a Bronze all along.”

We sighed simultaneously. Choosing classifications was the hardest part of political work. If we made a mistake, we'd lose a citizen, or worse, bind somebody where they'd be unhappy as well as unproductive. Every year we lost some people when they were classified, and while we often gained more than we lost as others joined us from other cities, it always felt like a failure. And when the newcomers chose to take our citizenship examinations, they were the hardest of all to classify, because we didn't know them as well. I sometimes welcomed it when newcomers chose to live here as metics instead, though that had its own complications. Athenia still didn't allow metics, but all the other cities did now.

As we came up to the Temple of Hestia, the doors opened and a crowd came out and went off down the street. “Is there a festival I didn't know about?” I asked, surprised.

“I expect they went to pray for reassurance,” Dad said. “People do that sometimes, when things are uncertain. They want the gods to listen and help. I sometimes think they'd be less inclined towards that kind of thing if they knew more gods.”

“They do know them, though?” I protested.

“Not as well as we do, having them in the family.” He sighed. “If Father is in Thessaly tonight, and godlike, he'll be different. Don't be surprised.”

I didn't ask how he'd be different. I'd met Athene once. “It's such a strange thought, him dying and maybe being there anyway.”

“The only time he talked to me about it, before he went up against Kebes, he said he'd come back a heartbeat later and get revenge,” Dad said. “He didn't say what he'd look like, and that's the only time I remember him talking about it, when he knew his life was on the line. He didn't imagine living out forty more years on a planet full of black rocks and volcanoes. None of us could have imagined it.”

“I love this planet,” I said. “I think it's beautiful.” I was used to older people complaining about it.

“We all love Plato, whether we like it or not, but we still couldn't have imagined it,” Dad said.

We were at Aroo's house, and Dad scratched at the door. One of her podmembers answered it. Saeli live in pods of five adults, with assorted children. I'd never met any Saeli who didn't live in a pod, except Hilfa, of course. The podmember wished us joy and called for Aroo, who came out at once to join us. “I have spoken briefly to the ship, and they are highly pleased with the news of better communication,” she said. “And I have found a technician who was already at the spaceport and who has reported to the communications room.”

“Excellent,” Dad said. The three of us walked on towards Thessaly.

 

4

CROCUS

I.
Invocation to the Muses

This is too hard for me, dear Muses, on!

Come down to me, inspire me, leave your home,

Leave Mount Parnassus, leave Eternal Rome,

Leave the Castalian Spring, Mount Helikon,

Leave all your goddess-joy and hither fly

Here, where you're needed, where my art is made,

Where I, strange votive, beg you for your aid,

On this far planet in a distant sky.

Come to me, if you ever heard a heart,

When Homer, Dante, Hesiod implored!

Set down this tale in amber and in jet

And bend our stubborn history to art,

We'll write these truths, as best we can record,

To make these worlds, so good, be better yet.

II.
On My Coming to Consciousness

For a long time, whenever I thought of joining my friends in writing an autobiography, there seemed to be only two options. I could engrave it in imperishable stone, which felt too permanent, almost hubristic. Or I could store it in memory, nothing but patterns of amber and jet, powered by Helios Apollo. That felt too transient. When I die, if I die, a matter which concerns me, my memory will die too. My memory is called “temp storage.” Lysias expanded it for me to the maximum possible, and I shall not run out of space for many human generations yet, but he could not change the way my memories are stored. “We don't understand enough about it,” he said. “We don't really know how it is that you got to be self-aware. I did enough damage to you Workers already out of my ignorance, my half-knowledge. I don't dare risk more. Temp storage was supposed to be a place for you to keep commands and information about tasks partially completed. How that developed into actual memory and desires and your self-awareness, I've never been able to understand.”