Power Lines (32 page)

“Why?” Whittaker cracked that one word out. “What right had you to impose a restriction on any one of the citizens of this world? I’ve told you once and I’ll keep on telling you:
They
are not sabotaging Intergal. Intergal is sabotaging itself on Petaybee.”

“Oh, come now!” Matthew said, his voice dripping with scorn and the indignation that, rather to his surprise, he found he was actually shaking with. Or
was
that indignation causing him to shake? It seemed to be shaking everyone else, too, and the table, as well.

Fiske was continuing, heedlessly. “By denying the demonstrable proof that the pharmaceutical wealth will be a long-term and highly profitable use of Petaybee. So what did your needless medical tests prove?” Typical of the man, he had no sooner asked the question than he answered it himself. “Not a damn thing except they’re the healthiest bunch of people your tame medical staff has seen in a hunk of years. So they’ve a few spare parts that help them adapt to Petaybee’s climate. So what? Nothing mysterious.”

“Vice-Chairman Luzon has been so busy he hasn’t seen the obvious, Farrie,” Marmion said with a hint of sympathy for the misguided Luzon. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement to extract some ores when they don’t involve disturbing invasions of Petaybee’s integrity. Open-pit mining is as disfiguring as deep-pit mining is—is—”

“You’re saying the damned planet
feels
mining operations?” Farringer Ball demanded, staring with round eyes at Marmion.

“Just as much as you’d feel a bone drill for a marrow sample: an archaic example, but then most mining methods verge on the archaic, as well as the destructive,” Marmion remarked. “Certainly it’s like peeling skin from an appendage, or suffering first-degree burns, and even you can appreciate how painful that would be.”

“Marmion de Revers Algemeine,” Farringer Ball began at his most pompous, “do you actually subscribe to the theory that this planet is sentient?”

“I most certainly do. And so do Sally Point-Jefferson, Millard Ephiasos, and Faber Nike, and you know very well, Farrie, that none of them are the least susceptible to ‘illusions’ or ‘hallucinations,’ not with the reports they have submitted to you on various occasions which I need not specifically mention.”

Matthew interrupted with a contemptuous gesture and his silkiest tone. “Madame Algemeine is a beautiful, intelligent woman, quite talented at making money, well adapted to survive, under civilized circumstances, but she is used to dealing with people of the same sensibility. Here, I fear that she has fallen under the influence of the same primitive passions that claimed the major’s good sense and caused her to cast disrepute on her previously outstanding military record. A lady of such refinement as our chairperson . . .” Matthew shrugged, but was gratified by the rising color flooding across the delicate flesh on Marmion’s aristocratic cheekbones and slender neck. “In the best interest of Intergal, I’m requesting—no,
demanding
—a purge of all residents on this colony planet due to their almost unanimous obstructive behavior, the deliberate sabotage of Intergal expeditions, and subversions too numerous to list. And I charge Major Yanaba Maddock with
treasonable activities; captains O’Shay and Greene for deliberate acts of sabotage and treason to this investigation; Dr. Sean Shongili for willful acts, including homicide, against the best interests of Intergal, whom he has contracted to serve; Clodagh Senungatuk for—” He paused to look down at his list.

“Oh, great stars in the sky, Matthew,” Marmion said, with a laugh, “how many people
did
you steal away from their homes in the middle of the night to remand on such ridiculous, trumped-up charges?”

“Don’t laugh too soon, Marmion,” Matthew said severely. “Not when community leaders have been slain to prevent them from disclosing local lodes to Intergal officials.”

Unfortunately, his long list had given Marmion time to recover her composure and her rather deplorable sense of humor. “And please remember to indict whoever it was you allege seduced me to primitive passions, Matthew.” She twinkled at him in a childish way, then added disparagingly, “
Do
be sensible, Matthew, and face the facts you’ve helped gather. The autopsy reports clearly state death by misadventure—”

“A highly toxic plant was purposefully
allowed
to infest the ore locations—”

“To spring up overnight? That’s quite a green thumb, Matthew!” Marmion snapped back. “How can
anyone,
other than by actual planting and nourishing over a considerable period of time, tell a plant where to grow? Besides which, you’ve been so busy quizzing innocent folk about all kinds of misdemeanors that you never took a look at the records of four of those ‘murdered’ men. James Satok, James Unidak Reilly, Clancy Nyungaruk, and Soyuk Ishunt were dishonorably discharged from Intergal for fraud and black-market activities involving Intergal supplies.”

“No such report reached my desk,” Matthew said, turning to Braddock. The younger man shrugged, but his startled face expressed guilt and chagrin. “Moreover, I have proof positive that that highly toxic coo-berry bramble thorn was deliberately placed in the caves at four or more different settlements to prevent entry and discovery of rich ore-bearing seams!”

“Wait a minute!” Farringer Ball said, banging a fist on the table. “All this is beside the point, Matthew. Especially if Marmion says we can harvest pharmaceuticals and get at least some ores . . . which ones, Marmion?”

“That is to be decided,” Marmion replied, “but drills, excessive use of explosives—”

“Secretary-General Ball!” Matthew all but roared. “You cannot
believe
the aberrant notion put forth by Chairperson Algemeine that this planet is sentient?”

“No, I believe in cutting losses and getting what we can out of a place that’s causing far more fuss than it’s worth,” Farringer replied.

“It’s a ball of rock, an inanimate object . . .” Matthew was pounding the table with one fist and almost bouncing on his feet in his protest.

Suddenly he was catapulted onto the table, facedown, his nose spurting blood, as seismic activity produced a havoc that had everyone in the room either grabbing their chairs to stay in them or being bounced about the committee room. Grinding sounds were so loud that people clapped hands to their ears, as the building shook and more mist poured in from the cracked seams of floor, walls, and ceilings.

“Under the table!” Whittaker Fiske shouted, practically dragging Marmion after him as the two of them, closely followed by the other committee members, hogged the most sturdily built piece of furniture in the room. Before Matthew could join them, they were joined by Marmion’s overqualified secretary, and there was literally no room for another body to squeeze in. Or so he thought, until he spied one far corner unoccupied and dove for it, only to be knocked away by Braddock Makem, the sniveling coward.

“Get out of there at once, Braddock!” Matthew commanded, or he meant to sound commanding. He was appalled at how his normally controlled decibels elevated into panicky-sounding squeals. “Where’s your sense of priorities?
I’m
the commissioner here.”

The guards stationed in the room and others—he wasn’t sure who—seemed to be trying to beat in the door, or break out a window, permitting the mist to flow more freely through the shambles of a committee room. A loud crash suggested that the main screen had fallen victim to the earthquake.

Matthew heard someone screeching for help and to his chagrin realized the voice was his own. Never mind. This was an emergency and he had been deserted by his colleagues. No time for niceties.
“Help!”
he screamed again.

“Try apologizing to the planet, Matthew!” Marmion bellowed over the crashings, splinterings, bangings, and other sounds of rending wood, plastic, and plaster. Ha! Easy enough for her to taunt him when she was protected by the table.

“Tell it you believe, Matthew!”
Whittaker Fiske hollered as well. It was the last thing Matthew heard as the entire building convulsed; he felt wetness warm the crotch of his trousers and slide down his leg, and, as the sound of the tumult was drowned out by a roar that came from within his own head and the snow from the comm screen seemed to be affecting his eyesight, he followed his own urine onto the floor.

Whittaker Fiske nearly choked because he had been trying to yell to Luzon and laugh at the same time. The floor abruptly canted to the far end of the committee room. The table and those it sheltered were willy-nilly propelled downhill. Whittaker, one arm crooked around the table leg nearest him, managed to grab hold of Marmion, who caught Sally by the shoulder. Bal, Chas, and Nexim helplessly slid downward. Losing his footing, Luzon was rolled lengthwise against the table’s sturdy legs and caught there. A tangle of uniformed limbs pressed him even harder against the table legs, and he began shouting warnings and dire imprecations against those who had him unwillingly pinned against the furniture.

The grinding noises increased, drowning out all other sounds, and then, with a mighty swooshing sound, the walls and roof of the commissioners’ room collapsed over the table, which stolidly bore the extra weight, though some of the surface veneer audibly cracked.

The ensuing silence, as the swirling mist settled on everyone, was almost worse than the horrific bombardment of noise had been. Then a breeze, most peculiarly scented with floral aromas, wafted through the damaged room, settling the dust caused by the building’s collapse and dispersing the mist.

“Marmion?” Whittaker asked, shaking his head to clear it from both the tumbling he had endured and the residue of the mist.

“I’m fine, shaken, but not bruised, thanks to your quick grab,” she said, though her skirt was ripped and her blouse torn. “Sally?”

“Okay, I think!”

Whittaker completed the roll call; the names he called out were answered by either groans or curses.

“Matthew?” Whittaker asked with some anxiety. It would be awfully awkward if the planet had inadvertently caused the death of Vice-Chairman Matthew Luzon. That could be considered vengeful, not that he didn’t deserve it with his notion of removing all the Petaybeans and cutting the planet into bits.

“He’s alive, sir, but unconscious,” a deep male voice said. “I think it’s all over and—oh, my God!”

“What? What’s the matter?” Marmion asked, duly concerned by the awe and respect in that slowly enunciated epithet. She looked about her for a way out from under the table, but the walls and roof seemed to have collapsed to cover everything except for the spot kept open by Matthew’s unconscious body.

She moved that way, gesturing for Whittaker and Sally to follow her. There was just enough room for them to crawl under the table top and over the limp Matthew, whose aroma was decidedly
not
floral, where he had been caught, chest and thighs, by the two table legs. Hands helped them to stand in a relatively free space, crowded though it was by uniformed bodies and the splintered remnants of the original door into the room. Oddly enough, that wall was standing.

Then Marmion turned in the direction the officer was staring.

“My
word
!” Her jaw dropped as she gazed out at the massive rock structure that had been punched through the surface that had once been the landing field of SpaceBase. “No, it’s not quite a ziggurat,” she murmured to herself, trying to remember where she had seen a very similar formation, like building blocks, or stepping-stones in some unfathomable pattern, rising high above them. Yet even as her amazed eyes took in the scope of the elevated area, she could see how one could fairly easily climb to the top, if one were daring. Once the last of the mists had cleared, what a splendid view one would have, too, to see what Petaybee had done to prove Matthew’s assumption wrong.

People were emerging from upended and broken buildings all around this extrusion, dust-covered, quite likely amazed to have escaped with their lives.

“Is anyone hurt down here?” a familiar voice called from the corridor.

“Yana! Yanaba Maddock, is Clodagh with you? I think Matthew may be hurt,” Marmion called back.

“Luzon?” There was a definite edge to Yana’s tone, but then Marmion scarcely blamed her. “Is anyone else hurt?”

“I—I don’t think so,” Marmion said, twisting around to see Chas Tung, Bal Jostique, and Nexim Shi-Tu getting to their feet and dusting themselves off. Then they, too, caught sight of what had been elevated on the landing field and just stared at it.

Do them good, Marmion thought, for doubting!

“Are you all right? And everyone with you?” Marmion called.

Then Yana poked her head through the door while Sean carefully broke off the splintered wood of the doorframe before it could do any harm.

“Clodagh’s still counting noses, but we had the benefit of padded cells during the rough bit,” Yana said with an irrepressible grin, “and the door locks released when the power went off.” She gave a snort at the inadequacy of the security as she clambered over the door and knelt beside Matthew, feeling the pulse at his throat. “Well, he’s alive—but you’re bleeding, soldier. And Sergeant, that looks like a broken arm to me. Sit down here, against the wall. If it hasn’t fallen before, it won’t come down now. Ah, Bunny, find some water and see if you can find a medic running around loose.”

“The usual medical facility is just down that corridor and to your right,” Whittaker said. “I’ll show you.” He stepped over the remaining doorframe to lead Bunny—and also to add his authority to any request she’d make of dazed or possibly reluctant personnel to assist her.

19

It took the rest of that day to assess damages, but these were actually rather limited, despite the wreckage of the conference wing and its temporary detention cells. The ones on the far end of the field had also been demolished, but there had been no loss of life and only a few minor broken limbs, lacerations, and bruises. There were plenty of outraged dignities and addled wits. Some of the Omnicron and the other imported soldiers spoke of hearing a voice in the mist, though they hadn’t a clue what it was saying, other than somehow reassuring them.

Halfway through Johnny Greene’s and Rick O’Shay’s attempts to reestablish communications with the MoonBase, a disheveled and enraged Torkel Fiske arrived on foot with the copter pilot, both of them lugging jury-rigged backpacks full of ore samples. He insisted on seeing Matthew Luzon, and “don’t give me any excuses,” so he was duly shown the bandaged but still unconscious commissioner.

“Massive bruising on the chest,” the almost apologetic medic told him, “and he’s got two broken legs.”

“Who did that? I don’t see any of you wearing bandages,” Torkel said, belligerently glaring around at those who were working in the temporary incident room set up in one of the half-empty warehouses on the perimeter of SpaceBase.

“I
told
Matthew to get under the table,” Whittaker cheerfully lied, “but he never did pay a blind bit of attention to sensible suggestions. Ask Captain Urambul over there! He was one of the bunch that rammed into Matthew.”

Torkel’s accusatory stare relaxed slightly when he took in the huge frame of the Omnicron captain and the others in his group. They did, at least, have some noticeable face and hand cuts, and probably some bruises they would ignore. The captain was speaking into a handheld, evidently repeating everything he said, for he wore a resigned look of strained patience.

“At what point in the meeting did the earthquake happen, Dad?” Torkel asked, his manner and tone far less belligerent.

“About the time Matthew was banging the table and insisting the planet couldn’t be sentient,” Marmion said. “Oh, by the way, Whit, Coaxtl was released from durance vile by Frank Metaxos, Diego, and Faber, dressed up in uniforms and looking very officious. The poor vet turned Coaxtl over without a word, and she was last seen by Liam Maloney swiping fish out of the river at dawn.”

“Thank God for that!”

“Coaxtl?” Torkel looked from one to another in puzzlement.

“Yes, of course, Coaxtl was one of the plotters Matthew wished to indict,” Marmion said in the tone one used when speaking to someone of deficient intelligence. “Along with a little bitty skinny pregnant orange kitty cat. Quite subversive for felines, or so Matthew was going to try to prove.”

“Dr. Fiske?” Braddock Makem said with considerably more vibrancy in his voice than he had ever used in addressing his employer. “That earthquake was local, the epicenter the exact center of the landing field. Only those three small aftershocks, and no more expected.”

“Thank you, Makem,” Whittaker said, smiling. “Now, Torkel, where did you find the samples you brought back with you?”

“In one of the passages of the cavern we were all rescued from after your shuttle came down,” he said, and a look of disgust passed over his face. He made a fist. “We were right there, not more than ten meters from one of the biggest veins of pure gold I have ever seen, and these Petaybeans—”

“I’ve had enough of that from you, Torkel, to last the rest of our mutual existence,” Whittaker said, abandoning his homespun manner and straightening up so abruptly that Torkel backed off a step in surprise at his father’s sudden authoritative manner. “Company policy has shifted from exploitation of the mineral wealth of this planet to its pharmaceutical—”

“And renewable,” Marmion interposed, touching Whittaker’s arm in reminder.

“And renewable pharmaceutical wealth.”

“Its
what
?”

Torkel glared at his father, who stared him down, and then glanced about the room to spot any Petaybean on whom he could vent his frustrated anger.

“
Colonel
Yanaba Maddock and Dr. Sean Shongili,” his father began, noticing his discomfort, “will share a joint governorship of the planet Petaybee, under the auspices of Intergal and Nova Bene Drugs to develop a local industry of fine Petaybean pharmaceuticals—”

“Ah, just a moment if you please,” said a light baritone voice.

Everyone turned to see the man who had discreetly appeared amidst them in the temporary incident room. He was wearing the distinctive gray and silver-trimmed uniform of a high-ranking official of the Collective Interplanetary Societies.

“I’ve just managed to land here, via the
Prometheus,
on a matter of gravest urgency,” he began. “Oh,” he added, smiling apologetically, “my name is Phon Tho Anaciliact. I seem to have come at a bad moment. I understand there has been a hearing under way today to determine the findings of an investigative committee. Who is the chairman of that committee?”

“I am.” Marmion creased her brows slightly in surprise.

“Madame, excuse me if I seem to overrule your authority, but I have taken it upon myself to investigate circumstances here. I have been hospitalized at the Intergal Infirmary Station for a virus I contracted on my last assignment in the Fuegan Galaxy. While at the hospital, I could not help but overhear a denizen of this planet, supposedly a witness for this committee, I learned upon inquiry, demand his conjugal rites with someone he referred to as an “ungrateful child.” He claimed that she had been seduced away from him and his family of other wives by some monstrous sentient life-form that apparently lives within this world. As you can imagine, much of what he had to say deeply disturbed me, and so I prevailed upon the captain of the
Prometheus,
who was bound for orbit here, to transport me, as well. I’m sure Intergal is aware that while they may govern humanoid life in accordance with CIS regulations—which this witness apparently was
not
following—on their incorporated worlds,
new life-forms are specifically the concern of the CIS. They are, in fact, specifically the concern of my department and myself.”

Torkel looked about to explode, Whittaker’s face was wreathed in smiles, and Braddock Makem almost fainted.

“Not a monstrous sentient life-
form,
Messer Anaciliact, but most certainly a sentient being.” Marmion corrected him with a smile, hardly daring to believe the good luck that had brought not only CIS, but Phon Tho in particular, to them at this time. And they had Matthew and his nephew to thank for the man’s prompt arrival! It was a mercy to Matthew that he wasn’t here. The knowledge would probably seriously impede his recovery. She continued, “The sentience is
not
a monstrous one. That was a perception entertained only by the witness and the people he forcibly influenced. He was the monster.”

“I shouldn’t doubt that a bit,” Anaciliact said, remembering vividly his distaste for the witness in question. “I stand corrected.”

“You also stand on this supposed sentient being,” Torkel snapped, jabbing his index finger at the floor.

The dark arching eyebrows in Anaciliact’s dusky-complected face rose high in his forehead. “Do I take it you mean the
planet
is sentient?”

“It most certainly is,” Whittaker and Marmion said in firm chorus. Then Marmion, seeing Yana and Sean close by, gestured urgently for them to come to her.

“And this is the finding of the committee?”

“Most decidedly,” Bal Jostique said, with a nervous glance at the piled stone skyscrapers looming where Intergal’s runway and the streets and buildings of SpaceBase had been.

“We were interrupted before formal adjournment, messer,” Chas amended, “but I think if you check with Farringer Ball you will find that Intergal has decided to . . .”

Anaciliact held up his hand, his expression counseling silence. “Intergal has overstepped its bounds in deciding anything without consultation with CIS. And your statement, Dr. Fiske, that two persons have been appointed governors of this . . . living body . . . is totally out of order. No sentient creature may be coerced, only negotiated with.”

“That’s been my argument all along,” Yana said, having been close enough to hear the last statement.

“The problem has been trying to get Intergal to accept that this planet is sentient,” Sean Shongili said, standing close enough to Yana to hold one of her hands discreetly behind him. “Now that we have reestablished contact with the secretary-general of Intergal, Farringer Ball, he seems to be willing to believe the proof.” He gestured in the direction of the singularly elevated field.

“That is as well, I suppose,” Anaciliact said suavely, “for the . . . ah . . . extrusion seems to have limited itself in a most unusual fashion and in the most clear terms that it wishes this facility evacuated. So that I may commune with the sentience, I will also require the removal of even the indigenous personnel—”

He was interrupted by a rumbling that seemed to make the solid floor underfoot ripple from one end to the other.

“Messer Anaciliact,” Marmion said, waggling a finger at him, “I believe the planet just said ‘No.’ It likes the people who live here; it protects them in ways that cause them to die very quickly when removed from its custody.”

The CIS representative’s expression had altered as he staggered to keep his balance “It cannot so quickly perceive—”

Another rumble, quicker, so that it appeared to be more emphatic.

“We weren’t supposed to get any aftershocks,” Braddock Makem murmured, thoroughly dismayed.

“Messer Anaciliact,” Sean began, smiling and with a little conciliatory bow, “I think it would be best if we took you to one of those special places where the planet communicates with us in its unique fashion. I believe it is quite ready to discuss the terms of its . . . use as a habitation and the uses to which its gifts may be put.”

“Don’t, I beseech you, Messer Anaciliact,” Torkel said, on the point of grabbing the hands of the CIS representative, who deftly avoided him, “go into one of those misty caves! It’s all hallucinogenic. You’ll believe anything.”

“Captain . . .”

“Fiske, Torkel Fiske.” The man’s handsome features were contorted with the urgency of his entreaty. “You’ll end up like
them
!” He gestured toward his father, Yana, Marmion, and Sean.

“My dear Captain Fiske, I am conditioned to reject any hallucinogenics and drugs, and trained to perceive illusions or spells of any nature,” Anaciliact replied with imperturbable and gentle reassurance. “I assure you I am well able to probe the substance of sentience in all forms of creatures, to the exact degree of self-awareness and percipience. Now, if we may just proceed to wherever it is I may start my investigations?”

“This way,” Sean said, gesturing toward the door through which the CIS investigator had recently entered. “It’s a short distance from here but I believe—ah, Johnny, did your copter survive?”

“It did, Sean.” Johnny eyed Sean’s companion. “And it’s even fueled and ready to go.”

“Yana, where’s Clodagh?” Sean asked, looking around the busy incident room. Then he noticed orange cats prowling discreetly or observing from the tops of piled cartons.

“Never mind. She’ll be there.”

When they reached the outskirts of Kilcoole and Johnny circled the copter to land it close to the warm springs, Coaxtl and Nanook bounded out of the forest to await their descent.

They sat back on their haunches when they saw Phon Tho Anaciliact step down. He turned, slightly startled, then bowed with a touch of reverence in the motion.

“You are messengers?” he asked.

Occasionally that is our function,
Nanook said.
But we do as we please.

“As your breed always has,” Phon Tho said with another respectful bow.

You may follow us. The way has been cleared.

“Sean, the coo-berry . . .” Yana said as she saw Phon Tho following the track-cats toward the warm springs.

“Why did you think Clodagh, Sinead, Bunny, and Diego skived out of SpaceBase as fast as they could?” he asked her, taking her hand as he landed lightly on his feet beside her. “Coming, Johnny?”

“Sure am!” Johnny had helped Marmion, Whittaker, and Sally descend from the other side of the packed copter and now they all followed the leaders.

Dried stalks lined the path, but not a single live coo-berry tendril remained. Some might have been killed by Clodagh’s antidote, Yana thought, but the rest seemed to have simply . . . been swallowed up by the planet’s crust. Oh well. Anywhere else that would have been incredible, but as always, Petaybee played by its own rules.

The track-cats deftly trotted across the stepping-stones to enter the gap between cliff side and cascade, the CIS arbitrator not a step behind them as they disappeared into the Kilcoole access area.

Mist was already forming by the time all had gathered, for Clodagh, Sinead, Aisling, Bunny, and Diego were waiting in the cave, having cleared the way. Clodagh smiled and gestured for Phon Tho to seat himself nearby, and he immediately assumed the very difficult lotus meditation position, back erect, hands with thumbs and index fingers meeting. Marmion settled herself with Sally and Whittaker. Sean and Yana seated themselves so that they faced Phon Tho.

That gentleman had a good long look at the wondrous colors and forms that were shortly obscured by the thickening mist. A slight smile curved his finely molded lips, and then he closed his eyes.

Sean and Yana, shoulders and thighs touching, experienced an overwhelming sensation of relief and total relaxation, of reassurance and goodwill: a sense of great achievement, although relief was the dominant feeling.

When the mist dissolved at last, leaving the lambent glow of the rocks in their splendidly delicate colorations visible, the relief still remained. Then all the participants turned their attention to Phon Tho Anaciliact.

He rose from his lotus position with the special gracefulness of someone well accustomed to such a maneuver and smiled at them.