Doyle Phoebe Heejanus
Phoebe followed the path to her cottage. She walked beneath narangah blossoms, their sweet scent
wafting about her, their delicate beauty shadowed by the moonlit night. She took the steps slowly,
even though the soft chirps of guide-tek led her along the flagstone path in the dark, but mostly
because she was tired, tired and ready to forget about her job till the morning.
Her patrolcraft hibernated behind her, at the end of her short landing strip, its systems shut
down, its wheels chocked. Reaching in from the farm behind her place, the orchard filled the rest
of her quarter-hectare homestead. She loved coming home to cheerful blossoms in spring, succulent
orange fruit in Yellow Summer, blowing leaves in fall, and stark branches against gray winter
skies. She hoped to be living here for next Red Winter.
What strange behavior do my narangah trees have locked inside them for that wonderfully strange and
scary season? Phoebe had lived through only one Red Winter so far, just over thirty years before,
and its stormy ochre sky, similarly unsettled ground, and life's unruly reaction, evolved over the
eons, to it all, still showed vivid in her mind. Thankfully, the next such maverick season lay a
safe four years away. Right now, summer would play fair. So I can just concentrate on the strange
weather inside my people's minds.
Here, amid this fragrant celebration of the season, she reviewed her evening. They — her combine,
her Collective — hadn't done badly. Real well, in fact. The first Large Square Dance since Har
Norma's announcement, and no arrests had been necessary. Lots of tolerance and forgiveness by
zhee-tely, both hometown and visitor sorts, yes. And yes, there had been a few scuffles —
followed by stern lectures from her constables — but nothing worth official notice. Those kinds
of results nestled well in her mind, easing her neck muscles and stirring up a confidence in the
future she hadn't felt for a while.
A tiny light glimmered in the shadow warren among the narangah trunks: the lamp over her
door-latch, seeping light. For so long, people had fought the dark, as natural as daylight, with
artificial light, but Yeibichai's Founders had decided — or hoped — the human race had matured
enough to forego that atavistic fight and enjoy life under the full glory of the stars. Hence the
"Dark at Night" pattern that did present some challenges to getting from point to point, though
guide-tek helped a lot.
Phoebe glanced up through heavy foliage. The universe glittered back at her. She smiled back,
then focused on the task of getting into her house, lengthening her stride. A moment later, she
pushed open the door. It fell back, revealing an open, earth-toned haven, the one place where she
tried not to let the demands of the job take precedence over everything else.
She released her heavy belt, complete with dreamstick, llevar, first-aid-tek, and manacles, and
clipped it to the wall behind the door. But, just as she tipped her shoulders away from this
burden, a double alarm bleated at her, one from the llevar close behind her, the other from her
private Em-Deh entrance further inside the cottage.
"Oh, shut up!" she barked. Both devices went silent.
Lamps coming on ahead of her, Phoebe stormed into the large common room and closed in on her
private entrance. Its slick finish glared in contrast to the soft wall-hangings and overstuffed
furniture of the room. She planted herself, fists on hips, in front of the 'station, drew a long,
calming breath, then let it go with the words, "Speak to me." Accept the request for a
meeting/can-be-heard.
"Chief, this is Constable Chirushahtoosh. We've got a situation here. Any other night, no special
orders from you, and Constable Muybridge and I would haul all of these zhee-tely straight back to
the station. But," he stuttered, "but, you did tell us to avoid that at all costs. It's just that
we don't know what to do now."
Phoebe remembered the tall, beak-nosed constable, and his guileless partner Weard, assigned to one
last sweep through the outlying canyons of the dark and quiet park where the square dance had been
held. "What did you find, Duobazha?"
"An, uh, extended family from a neighborhood nearby, well, they've chosen an out-of-the-way ravine
in the park for their, well, I guess you'd call them 'religious services.'"
Phoebe glanced at the chair tucked under the entrance's desk-shelf. With a sigh, she tugged it out
and plopped into it. Immediately, her feet arched in relief, then started aching in earnest.
"Nothing offensive," Duobazha was saying. "But they do take themselves real seriously. The ravine
lies quite a distance from the central dance floor, but there were also some ...
what-do-you-call-them, uh, Newcomers, I guess—"
Phoebe scowled at the entrance's nearest speaker, the device standing in for the unseen man.
"They're people, Duobazha, just plain ol' people, wherever they come from."
"Two of these people, Chief, were engaged in sexual frolic behind some bushes in the
canyon. Not youngsters either."
Phoebe chuckled, then bent over to pull off her sneak-boots.
"They come bursting out of a love-nest they'd found, in full arousal, you might say." Duobazha
chortled. "Had no idea anybody else was around, too involved in their, uh, frolic, I guess.
Anyway, he chases her giggling out of the bushes right into the middle of the family's ritual.
We've got children saying their prayers, plus youth in Passage, plus a full range of Niners."
Without straightening, Phoebe said, "Was anybody hurt, Duobazha?"
"Not really. A few scrapes, maybe some bruises. In truth, the family had the New — uh, the
intruders trussed up and were talking about what to do with them — some pretty nasty mutterings
about caning them, running them through a gauntlet with the kids taking whacks too — when Weard
and I heard them in the canyon."
Phoebe set her boots aside, then slumped back in the chair. Her feet twitched as they shed heat
built up over the day; their pain seeped away as well. At this point, she wasn't going back into
work to deal with the arrest of twenty-plus people. Nor am I giving up this spotless evening,
especially not for a simple misunderstanding between individuals.
"Han Chausingh Ranustache runs the farms-and-parks combine over there in Rovaniemi Community,
doesn't he?"
"Yessir."
"Give him a call. He's probably still wrapping up things at his combine's office. Ask him if he'd
like some help cleaning up the park — the whole park — tomorrow. Ask him if he's willing to
supervise some people who need to get to know each other better. Tell him you're forwarding a
request from me. I think you'll find him receptive."
"These people are real mad, Chief, especially the elders, three women who don't like taking orders
from anybody. If I weren't half-meter taller and fifteen kilos heavier than any of them, and Weard
nearly so, I don't think they'd be listening to us, either."
The real problem finally comes out. "Put them on, Duobazha. I'll talk to them."
"All of them?"
"Do you want to pick one?"
"No-sir."
"Then forward everybody's Em-Deh identifier to me and take this meeting to them."
Phoebe swivelled to face her private entrance as it carried some mumblings picked up by the
constable's llevar. With a few taps, she upgraded the can-hear to a will-see. Her screen glowed
with light amplification. She knew her holographic face hung to the side of Duobazha's chest
somewhere in a box canyon a third of the way around Ganj Dareh.
She engaged an agent-for-identification and connected it to the meeting. Reaching up to her
messages panel, she stabbed the forwarded identifiers with her middle finger and dragged them
across the screen until they intersected with the agent. It morphed immediately, stacking names
under the meeting-panel's bottom edge, adding a third dimension: glyphs representing each person's
history with the Collective, addresses, combine affiliations, Incidents, and so on.
Phoebe looked up at the meeting's panel. Rough walls of limestone choked with brush swung past
rapidly. Soon, the image halted on a trio of old women, hoods thrown back on ankle-length capes.
Phoebe glanced at the agent's list of names; it had highlighted three: Nad Ezhda Krupskaya, Ess
Arma Ndina, Olg Aulya Novaleni.
"Mother Krupskaya. Mother Ndina. Mother Novaleni," Phoebe said, "I'm Chief—"
"We recognize you!" Mother Krupskaya snorted. "You have no authority in this situation. Take
your constables—"
"I have more authority than you suspect, Mother. In one way or another. But I'm more concerned
about the children here."
"We will care for our children," Mother Novaleni said stiffly.
"By maiming an innocent couple for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? A fine example to
set for child and youth, not to mention the adults in your coven."
"They assaulted us! They profaned our ceremony! They horrified our children!"
"Come now." Phoebe tapped all three of their Incident glyphs. Surely something there I can use.
"A harmless romp in the woods?" She scanned the reports. "Who hasn't fallen under the spell of
Groves' Moon, especially with tiny Neddermeyer winking down on you?" Ah, just what I need. "I see
that you have, Mother Ndina, and not that long ago."
Mother Ndina bunched her shoulders and huffed, "We certainly realize the difference between frolic
and obscenity."
How quickly did you guess they were outsiders? The question popped into Phoebe's mind, well on its
way to voice, but she snapped her mouth shut instead.
That can't be right. On Yeibichai, people don't take offense to outsiders just because they're
outsiders. She couldn't imply that, not without offending, not without fanning the Mothers' anger
hotter.
Still, the question felt right. Even more, it opened vents of indignation. If those hags are
leading in that direction, I'd better find out now — and quash it.
Phoebe put the question to them — sharply.
"When we saw the lip tattoos," said Mother Krupskaya haughtily.
"I sent Vlad for their clothes." Mother Ndina.
"And those told us immediately." Mother Novaleni.
Fates of Yeibichai! They are bigots. Do I blast or shame them? Shame works better on the
self-righteous; use their own tools against them.
"Hmm," Phoebe pretended to muse over their answers, even as she searched the agent's list for the
intruders' names. "I happen to know that lip tattoos are all the rage in three neighborhoods in
two separate communities right here in Ganj Dareh." She continued mildly, "Why did you think that
strange?"
"Not around here, they aren't," said Mother Krupskaya.
Mother Ndina said, "We saw all the gong-she clothing at the square dance tonight. So many
outsiders there."
"Hmm." Phoebe stretched out the sound so she could scan the intruders' combine affiliations. "I
happen to know that your so-called outsiders actually live in Waikato Neighborhood, over in
Brome-Missisquoi. They went on the dole twenty-three days ago when their info-gleaning combine
folded. Both were born in Ganj Dareh. They have recently taken vows as Partners-for-Family.
Seems to me they were just getting a romantic start on that long-term process.
"Now that you understand this, do you think you can cut them loose?"
"They're already loose," griped Mother Novaleni. "Your constables did that."
"You know what I mean."
"If we admit it," Mother Krupskaya said, "will you let us go, too?"
"Your punishment does not depend on a confession, Mother." Phoebe snapped out the words. "The
constables have already warned you about the patterns you violated. We could just arrest all of
you, including the children, and bring you to the station. I don't envy your youth explaining that
to their proctors at the Society for Passage."
"Perhaps we did overreact a bit," hedged Mother Krupskaya. "People of our faith have learned not
to trust outsiders."
"Even when they're neighbors?" Phoebe asked.
"Chief, we acted foolishly," declared Mother Ndina.
"Did not," muttered Mother Novaleni.
"Ezhda!"
"All right, all right."
"You mentioned punishment?" said Mother Ndina.
"The constables will explain where, when, and what, Mother. See that your people, especially the
children, participate. I want them to learn that outsiders are just friends you don't know yet."
"Amen, Chief." Mother Ndina.
"We understand, Chief." Mother Krupskaya.
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Mother Novaleni.
Phoebe ended the meeting and turned to rise from her chair. A chill stopped her. What if it
wasn't just a matter of these matriarchs being overly sensitive, too self-righteous? What if
nerves are growing raw all across the direvnya? Will there be daily troubles till this rendezvous
of futures passes?
Phoebe shrugged. What if there were? We're on top of it.
She went back to her question to the Mothers: how quickly did you guess they were outsiders? What
other tactician would think to ask that kind of question? Too many Patterns led people away from
bigotry. People on Yeibichai shouldn't react that way. Yet here it was. Replete with guilt about
it, too, guilt she played on to bring the Mothers into line and even, cooperation. With that kind
of insight, I'm on top of it.
She stood up. With Kanpachiro working full-time on the renewal proposal, we just might have a
chance there, too. Smiling, she padded off to the kitchen to fix supper.
