The first thing you saw right off, just looking at the pages, was that Boss Conrad had a lot more ideas in his head, and words available to express them, than Boss Surebleak seemed to have.

  Miri frowned. A good many ’bleakers could read—that included a fair number who could puzzle their way down a nice, wordy page—but it might could take ’em a couple hours. And then there were those ’bleakers who couldn’t read at all.

  That page o’type was going to look a little forbidding to those last two groups.

  On the other hand, there was a tradition of street and tavern readers, where letters, rules, and lists were read out for somebody in exchange for a little cash. Addition to all that, the newspaper from its beginning had set a couple, three, of its own out around the turf to read the news to passersby.

  Might be a good idea to fund some more readers, she thought, before giving her attention to what Pat Rin had to say for himself.

  In a few minutes, she leaned back. Needn’t have worried. Pat Rin/Conrad knew what he was about. He’d written a lot, but he’d written it clear and with a degree of friendly candor that was notable—especially when you shifted to the opposite page to see what Boss Surebleak had to say for herself…

  …which was nothing.

  Or, rather, was the same thing she’d said in her original letter published to the newspaper.

  In fact, as the slightly smaller print at the bottom of the letter stated, the foregoing was exactly what Boss Surebleak had previously published. Several attempts had been made to have the Boss write something new and expanded for the voting issue, but she’d refused, forcefully, and the editor wanted to assure the paper’s readers that Jan Valski’s arm was only just barely broke, and it was her off-arm, too, so she’d still be writing up the street news so everybody could stay informed. As for Boss Surebleak’s letter, after her refusing to do anything new, it’d just seemed fair to run the original letter, to remind folks how she felt about things.

  Miri grinned and turned the page.

  Next, there was a piece written by that same Jan Valski, an interview with Mrs. kaz’Ineo, who explained why there was a vote being held between the two Bosses, and how the issue of the Road Boss’s employment was structured. That led to a little discussion about how the Council of Bosses worked when they met to do business, the process of making policy, putting it into effect, and how to take it out again, if it became noticeable that any particular policy wasn’t working well.

  “This would be the case of the Road Bosses,” Mrs. kaz’Ineo was quoted as saying. “They signed a contract with the Council of Bosses. In this contract, they agree to keep the Port Road open along its length, from the far end to the near. They may only be removed from their position if the Council of Bosses, the hiring entity that signed the contract, agrees to act on the termination clause included in the contract.

  “Boss Surebleak may begin that process if she wins the vote and takes Boss Conrad’s place on the Council of Bosses. Until she has a place on the Council, she is powerless to remove the Road Boss or any other contractor who has been hired by the Council of Bosses.”

  All perfectly clear and reasonable, Miri thought.

  Next up was the point-by-point on how the vote would work, with the timeline for the start of the process and the end. They were planning on doing the whole thing inside of two local weeks, starting in three days’ time. This would, said the article, ensure that any changes could be made speedily, to minimize disruption in the lives of the people of Surebleak, the performance of the duties of the Road Bosses, and the business of the Council of Bosses.

  And—important point—since Boss Surebleak was citing crimes committed by Boss Conrad—invasion and piracy—as the reason Conrad was unfit to be Boss Boss, the only people who would be allowed to vote would be native ’bleakers. Each Boss would certify the voters in their own turf.

  The last thing, as promised, was a little article about how voting had been practiced by the Board of Directors of the Gilmour Agency, and how it was practiced on Liad.

  Miri turned over the last page and considered the mostly blank page with a line drawn down the middle to make two columns. One said “Boss Conrad” and the other “Boss Surebleak.”

  A line of type at the top of the page invited people to write down what they liked about each candidate’s ideas and talk about them with their friends, so they could all make the best vote—the vote that was best for Surebleak!

  “Well,” said Miri, and put the paper to the side of the desk. She sat back in the chair and folded her hands, considering the paper out of the side of her eye.

  It all seemed so logical—so civilized—put down in print like that. And yet, it couldn’t be denied that this was Surebleak. Retirement parties had been the norm for…a long, long time. Despite everything good and reasonable that Pat Rin had done—those improvements had only been…standard for a little bit of time, culturally speaking. And, when it came down to icicles, what was most likely to happen?

  Boss Surebleak would start shooting up voting places, that was what. She’d take what she wanted, retire whoever was standing in her way, and get on with business, with herself at the top o’the heap.

  The bell over the portside door jangled…and jangled again…and a third time.

  Miri spun in her chair to stare at the screen. There were six streeters in the outer office—she knew all six of them by sight, as they worked on the port. They were standing respectfully back, all of ’em showing empty hands.

  All right, then, she told herself, swallowing adrenaline. Looks like you got some business.

  She rose, stepped to the inner door, and pulled it open.

  “What’s it, snowing?” she asked.

  They turned to face her; the woman closest the door grinned and nodded, nice and easy.

  “That’s right, Boss,” she said. “Never seen anything like it.”

  “’Spect not. You all together?”

  “No’m, Boss,” said the guy who’d come in first. He looked over his shoulder. “Just we all kinda landed at the same time. Could be we’re all after the same thing though. You seen the paper? The special paper?”

  “Just finished reading it.”

  A muttering of me, toos went ’round the waiting room. The outside door opened again, too hard, and hit the woman nearest in the butt.

  Miri sighed.

  “All right, Beautiful. We do it like we did last time,” she said. She looked at the last one in, who’d been let off with his life by the woman who’d been hit by the door. “You here to talk about the special edition of the paper?”

  “Yes’m, Boss.”

  “Good. Let’s all of us set up the chairs right here, so we can all talk at once, rather’n me saying the same thing seven—”

  The door opened, so softly the bell barely jingled.

  “—eight,” Miri amended, “times over.”

  She glanced at her waiting security, who was looking somewhat bemused.

  “You go on outside. Anybody else comes, you let ’em in ’til the room can’t hold any more, and they need to wait while the first group finishes up, accazi?”

  “Yes, Captain,” said Nelirikk, and went around his desk. The newest arrival skittered over into a corner to let him by and get the door opened—and closed.

  Miri nodded.

  “All right, everybody. Let’s get the chairs set up.”

  Jelaza Kazone

  The Tree Court

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

  The Tree’s summons had been casual, so Val Con did not make any particular haste after he had left Udari, strolling through the inner garden with pleasure. The Tree kept this small environment warmer than the weather outside the walls, though not nearly so warm as Liad. It would appear, however, that the Tree was a fond gardener and did not wish its favorites among the plantings to suffer discomfort.

  It would be interesting, perhaps, to see what modifications were made to those plants in future generations, for surely the Tree did not mean to moderate the garden’s climate forever.

  …or so one hoped.

  On the topic of hopes, he held out some small hope that there would be news from the Tree sitting as crew on Bechimo. The reports from Jeeves had not been…entirely satisfactory. Neither Bechimo nor Joyita dared guess what the final decision of the Assembly might be.

  Those of the Assembly were old, most—if not all—predating the Migration. They were, therefore, the survivors: the smartest, toughest, and most versatile of the war machines created by the Great Enemy—and some of those few built by the defenders.

  Aberthaz Ferry, for an instance, was known to the Pathfinders as a war hero. Pfrannik Doz was also legendary, but not, so Val Con gathered from Jeeves’s notes, in particularly benign legends.

  It had been inevitable, he supposed, that the elder machines brought to Surebleak’s defense by two of the Six, would also repudiate their mission, and join the Assembly’s discussions.

  Inevitable, but not at all comforting.

  On that thought, he sighed and passed between the two shrubs set like entrance pillars, into the Tree Court itself—and checked, entirely taken by surprise.

  Emissary Twelve sat, very much at her ease, at the base of the Tree, two of the elder cats—Tonam and Grayz—tucked against her ankles. Her all-weather coat was folded neatly on the ground next to her, and there were the remains of two, or possibly three, seed pods scattered among the roots.

  “Good-day to you,” Val Con said. “I had not known you might return to us today or I would have been home to make you welcome.”

  “The Elder Tree has made me welcome,” said Emissary Twelve, “and these two fine creatures. It is better that you come in your own time than seek to match mine.”

  Val Con considered her, somewhat nonplussed. Her escort, he recalled, had been Scout yo’Bingim, who still suffered occasional backslides into impudent puppyhood. One such backslide having been the reason that she had been available to accompany Emissary Twelve on her mission to the back country.

  “It is very true that we are temporally mismatched,” he said now, which came very near to Scout yo’Bingim’s style. “I am pleased…though somewhat surprised that you have come back to us so soon. Dare I hope that this rapid return means that you have located a suitable situation for the technical team?”

  He dropped to a cross-legged seat on the grass under the tree, opposite the Clutch Turtle.

  “I should say that we have located the perfect situation,” said Emissary Twelve, her voice positively bright with joy. “Scout yo’Bingim was able to bring me immediately to the original drilling site.”

  Val Con frowned slightly.

  “The first pit? I had thought that had been closed and sealed.”

  “The first pit—I will tell you that I had seen it on the maps and thought it would prove adequate to our needs. The sealing, of course, would have been no impediment, had it proved so. However, I speak of the test drilling, which had been done in support of the analytics, proving that the native timonium was clustered in quantities that made it worth the time of the Gilmour Agency to mine it.”

  There was a rustle overhead. Val Con glanced up and extended a hand. Two pods fell into his palm.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  “The Elder has been generous in gifts,” Emissary Twelve said. “I had only come to show my respect and to share the news of our success. There were pods waiting for me, apparently grown against the time of my return.”

  “The Tree,” Val Con said, considering the pods in his hand, “receives pleasure when others consume its gifts.”

  “It is well, since I gain pleasure from that consumption. Balance, would you not say?”

  “Perhaps I would,” said Val Con choosing one pod and tucking the other into his pocket. The first fell into quarters of its own. Inhaling the savory aroma, he put the first piece into his mouth.

  “Is there some other aspect which makes the mutual receipt of treasure…out of Balance?” asked Emissary Twelve.

  “The Tree,” Val Con said, “also likes to meddle. Its favorite form of meddling arrives by the pods.”

  “And yet you eat them; your kin have been eating gifts from the Elder Tree for nearly as long as the youngest of the current table of Elders has been alive.”

  “We’re a rash race, even more so than the general run of humans. I think it very likely that the Line would have ended, save the Tree has a fondness for us and so provides us with the means to survive even our maddest starts.”

  He ate another bit of fruit. “Mostly.”

  “And what does the Tree find to meddle with in one such as myself?” asked Emissary Twelve.

  Val Con ate the last of his treat and looked up at her seriously.

  “Perhaps it sees that you are unsuited to this environment, and thus would make you more resistant to the chill. It may just as probably be speeding your metabolism so that you are more suited to deal at length with those of the Clans of Men.”

  He sighed and dusted bits of pod-shred from his hands.

  “I feel compelled to say that the Tree’s adaptions often do more good than harm. In evaluating that sentence, you must take note of the phrase ‘feel compelled’ and also recall that I have not only been receiving these benefits for all of my life, but that I am the product of a Line which has, as you have yourself just said, been eating of the Tree’s gifts since before the Migration.”

  There followed a time of thoughtful silence, rather less long than Val Con had anticipated.

  “In the context of the current mission, this meddling you suggest on the part of Elder Tree—are gifts. I judge it so. If I am speedier in thought and speech and walk, then I will not only be more acceptable to those of the Clans of Men with whom I must interface, but I will use less of their limited time within our interactions.”

  “You may, forgive me, age more quickly. This may matter to you, perhaps not now but in future.”

  “I hope, in future, to have about me members of the Clans of Men, who may counsel me, should the length of my life become a concern. I will have also the Elder Tree and those of my own kind as well.” She paused and blinked her eyes. “I rest secure in the wisdom and judgment of a being far older than any other being currently alive in this universe.”

  Val Con inclined his head. “If one may ask it—speedily, you see—how shall you proceed in pursuit of your mission?”

  “I will allow the technicians to know that they may arrive immediately. Scout yo’Bingim suggests that I may hire locally such persons who are skilled with the machinery that moves soil, and thus build goodwill between the Clutch and those whose world this is, while continuing momentum in the project setup stage.”

  Val Con sighed.

  “Scout yo’Bingim has been busy,” he murmured. “I wonder if you have already purchased the land in question.”

  There was silence, which stretched into a very Clutch-like artifact, before Emissary Twelve spoke again.

  “Purchased the land? The land is the planet. The planet belongs to all.”

  “Ah,” Val Con said, and sighed again. “Allow me to explain local custom.”

  • • • ✴ • • •

  Emissary Twelve was…incredulous, naturally enough, but that phase passed quickly—rather too quickly, supporting his theory that the Tree was speeding her up, poor child. Still, she was very sensible once she had accepted the impossible, and asked his advice on how best to proceed.

  “First, we must find the owners. That is merely a matter of undertaking some research. If, as is the case with most of land in the outback, it is held by ‘the Agency, its heirs and assigns,’ that will mean making a presentation to the Council of Bosses, which is the Gilmour Agency’s heir, explaining the extent of the construction, and generally how the technicians plan to proceed once they have arrived.”

  “I understand.”

  “Matters become more complicated if there is an owner of record who is other than the Council of Bosses. We will then need to call upon that person and offer to buy. If they do not wish to sell the parcel, then we must be persuasive. If, despite all our persuasions, they do not wish to sell, then I very much fear you will need to locate a second site—perhaps the first pit, after all, which I believe does belong to the Council—and repeat the process.”

  “I understand,” Emissary Twelve said once more.

  Val Con looked up, having heard a light step along the garden path. He drew his attention inward and heard Miri’s song, felt her weariness and the shivering determination for the coming evening, which might be enough to bring a man to the blush had that man possessed any degree of modesty whatsoever…

  “I thought I’d find you here,” she said, as she stepped into the Tree Court. “Emissary Twelve, the Tree said you were back, but I could scarcely credit it. Have you found an appropriate site so quickly?”

  “I have, and I have also been schooled on a vast number of matters of which I was entirely ignorant. Surely, the Clans of Men are worthy of study, as he whom you call Edger represents, often, to the Council.”

  “I hope we will not be studied too closely,” Miri said, coming forward. “Most of us prefer the illusion of privacy. We may fail to thrive under obvious observation. Worse, we may do mischief.”

  She sat on the ground next to Val Con, her arm pressed against his. He felt her shivering lightly and glanced at her with concern.

  “Cha’trez?”

  “It is well,” she murmured. “A foolish disturbance of the nerves.”

  From above, a quick rustling, and Miri smiled, extending one slender hand.

  “Here,” she said, giving him a smile. “My tonic.”

  The pod had barely nestled into her palm before it fell open and Miri snatched the first taste greedily.

  “You are of a different Line,” Emissary Twelve said abruptly. “Do you know that the Elder Tree meddles?”

  Miri glanced up.

  “Yes, I have been told. Also, I have seen for myself.”

 

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