Cardomon-The Future

    She was old for her tribe, in her forties at least—she had long since abandoned the egoism of enumerating her years. The trials of mountain life and the rigors of her discipline had been harsh on her body. Her hair was white, her flesh was brown, she was lined with creases and she walked with a distinct limp in her right leg. Nonetheless her pace was strong and steady and her eyes were clear. Certainly she was ready to go to Cardomon but Cardomon, it seemed, was not ready for her yet.
    Not that she wanted to leave the flesh, still, the situation granted her the luxury of a little detachment. It was only her discipline that kept her focussed enough on the here and now to avoid a fatal misstep as she scrambled across the rugged foothill country.    
    It was a poor season to travel this country, hot, dusty and dry. Her path led across the lower courses of numerous small dry creekbeds that dissected a low plateau. Again and again she descended from the thinly wooded heights to the dense riparian forests in the canyon bottoms and then climbed back to the heights. The elevation change averaged about two hundred feet—it was just enough of a climb to make her feel it and topping the interfluves was a delirious rush as her breath caught up with her pace and she would run the downslopes with a great leaping stride until she came skittering to a halt on the gravel bottoms. Every third or fifth canyon still held a sheltered pool of water in its bottom and this would be a cue for an extended break—she was in no hurry. She would throw her pack to the ground, take out a ladle and draw herself a long drink. Then she would set her pack up against a shady bank, sit back against it and kick off her sandals; out would come her pipe and she would quietly smoke and relax. If the mood was right she would play a small wooden flute—she liked to imitate the birds. Sometimes her eyes would close and she would doze for a while.
    Still she kept a good pace; by sunset she had covered fifteen miles and, with three rising moons, she kept on into the early hours of the night—a full twenty miles had passed before she finally stopped. She made no fire but simply unrolled a thin blanket to sleep under the stars. She was not hungry for she had been gathering and eating roots, nuts and fruits for much of the day’s hike. It was still warm in the morning when she rose in the gray before dawn. She continued her trek until she came to another pool. Wading into the knee-deep water she crossed to an overhanging bank. Reaching into the cavity beneath the bank her skilled hands found the fish she knew must shelter there. With a firm grasp she grabbed the fish and pulled it from the water. She slapped its flopping body against the overhanging rock and the fish was still. Within minutes she had a fire going and the fish was cooking on the end of a stick. An hour later she was cleaned up and on the trail again.

    It was an old trail she followed, it was used rarely nowadays and its traces were hard to find. Long ago Mellisa had fled this way, pursued by Glatz’s men and it had become a pilgrimage path for a few generations of Sisters, but that practice had faded in recent centuries. Occasionally a novice Sister on wilderness sojourn still wandered this way and the odd pirate party traveled this route in the vain belief that they might evade the Sister’s notice. It was only an experienced eye that found this trail at all. It led her to the city and she was in no hurry to get there. By taking this route she might reasonably delay her arrival by as much as a week. This time she managed to extend it only four days and this was sure to be the last one.
    It had been years since she had been to the city. She had been a young woman then; now she was Senior. Life in the mountains had bred an aversion to the city. But this was an unique occasion—the recovery of the Prairie Schooner meant the possibility of an incredible reunion. She couldn’t pass this up.
    By midday she was down from the foothills and traversing the rolling country at the edge of the plains. On the eastern horizon now when she topped the rises she could make out distant towers—the city—she would be there by nightfall. Off to the south the spaceport could be made out—an odd grid pattern superimposed on the rolling plains. She considered detouring by the spaceport and spending one more night on the trail. She felt no particular desire to go there but a preference for arriving at the city in the morning led her to turn south.
    Crossing the plains was difficult and slow. The dry areas were thick with stiff spiny brush and the wet areas were impassible with sticky smelly mud. She recognized the degraded range left in the wake of Glatz’s farms. The afternoon was hot and buzzed with vicious insects.
    After three hours she began to smell the fuels, oils and solvents used at the spaceport, then she began to hear the noise and soon the first low buildings came into view. It all recalled her days as a novice—she had been to the spaceport on a few occasions, she had done service calls there, later her duties as practitioner had brought her this way as well. The memories were not good ones and the aesthetic of the place was an assault to her senses—how did the off-worlders stand it?
    Sprawling for miles out around the port facilities was an industrial zone of warehouses and factories. It was a lifeless area of pavement and dust. Heavy vehicles roared back and forth carrying the essential commerce of the planet. Eyeing the traffic warily she threaded her way through the maze-like complex to the port. There would be a hospice there and the Sisters would lodge her this night. The day was wearing out and the shadows lengthened to darkness. Bright lights lit up the buildings, yards and vehicles; they burned her eyes and disoriented her. She made several wrong turns and found herself in blind alleys and would stumble back out to the streets.
    Eventually an aroma of cooking food got her back on course. Following the scent led her to the hospitality zone for the off-worlders. Block after block flashing advertisements in a dozen languages offered travelers access to lodging, food, entertainment and sex. The streets here were busy with personal vehicles and pedestrians. The noise and bustle unnerved her; she felt a million eyes on her rustic clothes, she was conscious of being unbathed and felt dirty—a security vehicle began to follow her at a not so discrete distance behind.
    And then she found a large townhouse that showed the sign with three moons and three stars and she knew she was home for the night. The hospice was across the street and she made a dash across the path of the police car. There was a shout from behind as she ran up the ramp to the doors, they opened in front of her and closed behind her.
    Inside, the bustle and confusion of the spaceport streets vanished; the lights were low, the atmosphere was soft, the tension lifted. She took off her pack, leaning it against a wall.
The Sister in the lobby looked up from her studies, surprised. “Mother? What brings you here?” She rose from the couch she was resting on and pulled the elder woman into a deep hug.
    Eventually the Senior broke away and gave the Sister an appraising eye, “What are you studying?”
    “Anatomy. We are just starting—my first dissection lab is next week.”
    “You have a strong hand—you will do well. Do you enjoy it?”
    “It’s all right. I’m not fond of cutting up dead things. I really want to be a counselor.”
    “Body, mind, spirit—a healer must address them all.”
    “Yes, Mother. But I get bored memorizing all the parts.”
    “You must pay attention even when you’re bored. That’s how you learn. It is a most useful life skill. Remember, the little things we all overlook are the things that ruin us. But I don’t need to lecture you; you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t a good student.”
    “Thank you, Mother. You honor me with your faith.”
    “Nonsense. I am a Sister, just like you, and Sisters are on first name intimacy—call me Rosine.”
    “Call me Niara, Rosine.”
    “That I will. I have business in the city, Niara, I go there tomorrow. Tonight I require a dinner, a bath and a bed.”
    “I will tend to you.”
    “No, you have studies. Just point me in the right direction, I will come back to visit with you after I am refreshed. Are there any other Sisters about?”
    “No, it is slow tonight. There is a ship due in tomorrow so some Sisters are coming out from the city in the morning and my shift will end.”
    “You are going back to the city?”
    “In their tractor.”
    “Good, I will ride with you. Now I am off to bathe.”

    Rosine returned later and the two of them stayed up long into the night becoming dear old friends. They drank wine and smoked herbs, they told stories and traded secrets, there were many hugs and kisses—eventually Niara fell asleep with her head in the lap of a dozing Rosine.
    Morning sun in the window awakened them—they looked at each other and giggled. It was early enough to ignore the clock for a while; they went to the kitchen and prepared a meal of fruit, cheese and bread. This they took to a rooftop garden and ate while Niara lazily attended to the watering. They shared a pipeful before returning downstairs.

    Grovner Stemple could never understand why he was as scruffy as he was. He did see a barber at least trice a year and bathed as often as he could, given that he had no permanent address. His clothing was the best the charity bins had to offer, it was always colorful though not always the freshest. Life on the streets had grizzled his beard and taught him to walk with a defensive swagger. He was a large man, more inclined to indolence than violence, with staring dark eyes and a roaring voice that inclined most strangers to keep a respectful distance. While many of his friends would swear to his integrity, in truth he was of marginal honesty and did hold the occasional police record—thus his biannual visits to a prison barber. He made his income in a scruffy way with a hustle here, a heist there, the profitable lie, and odd exchanges of contraband—anything for a quick copper coin. Sometimes he was flush, most times he was broke, always he was generous, ready to share whatever he had with whatever company was at hand. Cadging drinks was his favorite evening’s entertainment and he was well known in all of the dingier bars in town—he considered his time spent therein as “office hours”.
    The Starry Plough was his third bar of an evening starting to grow late. It was a venerable establishment, smoky and candlelit, that served, in addition to alcohol, a wide variety of stimulants and disorienting drugs. The scene was noisy with raucous voices and hysterical laughter pitched against a glittery jukebox blaring out dense, bass heavy music. Prudent people avoided bars like this, its regulars knew to keep their money in an inside pocket and their weapons in an outside one.
    Grover squeezed his way through the crowd to the bar and got a glass of the cheapest wine, putting it on his tab. He moved through the room looking people over, searching for company. The face he found surprised him—he hadn’t seen her in over thirty years. She had been his grade school teacher back then but had since gone on to become Senior. She sat alone at a small table puffing slowly on a long pipe, not touching a drink in front of her, and seemingly lost in thought. Nobody else appeared to have noticed her—her usual abode was in the mountain villages far from the city.
    “Rosine!” he called to her, coming up to the table. I ain’t seen ya since I was a kid! What brings ya to the city?”
    “Grovner! Seat yourself. You’re just the man I came to see—my favorite old student. I’ve heard stories about you.”
    He sat, putting his drink on the table. “Oh? Am I famous then?”
    “I keep up on all of my former charges, didn’t you know? My ears are everywhere. That’s a fine niece you have—a very promising student.”
    “Bright as can be. Ya want me t’ help ya recruit her? Good luck—she’s a real square peg—thinks I’m a maniac. Probably right.” He took a long pull from his glass.
    Rosine chuckled. “She’ll join me eventually—one way or another. All of the medical students do, sometimes without knowing it.” She leaned forward, putting a hand on his forearm and stared deeply into his eyes. The diamond in her nose sparkled with candlefire and her eyes were black pools. “I need a man.”
    He burst out laughing, “I suspect not for the traditional purpose! Anyone in particular? Might I do, or are you looking for a specialist?”
    Her dreamy smile and direct eyes became very sexual, “Actually you would be a fine partner to warm my tent if you ever came up to the hills with me—I’m not dangerous, you know.”
    This remark brought another roar of laughter from Grovner, “By the tripled stars—you sound as crazy as the fourth moon! Whatever you are smoking it’s a lot stronger than this wine!”
“’Tis you city folk who are crazy, jammed together in all your stink and all dependent on alcohol—a barely passable, low grade drug that dulls the senses. These herbs I smoke: parlimon caps and cathica root and dried jarmine berries—they sharpen my senses and give me clarity. You should try it.”
“That shit would give me the spastic seizures!”
“Only because your mind and body have not built up a proper tolerance for true wildness. You are too cushioned by the conveniences of city living. When my business in town is finished you really should come up to the hills with me. Let me continue your education.”
There was wickedness in her smile and boldness in her eyes that conquered Grovner. Once again in her presence he was a little boy awestruck by the knowledge, beauty and sensitivity of his favorite grown-up. He broke eye contact and finished his drink—just to clear her from his head. He recovered quickly and answered, “I’m sure I’m not worthy of yer charms.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, if what I hear is true, you are a very capable man.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. So, what is this business of yours?”
“There’s a man named Jack—one of the sleepers from the Prairie Schooner—I want to see him.”
“Good luck! University security is tight as a vault.”
“I have my ways about that place—my foremothers have prowled it since it’s inception. It is a maze and not even its keepers know where everything is.”
“Where do I fit in?”
“You have a talent for opening locked doors I may need to employ. I may also wish to remove Jack from the hospital and he might not want to go. I can render him unconscious and your strong back can carry him in that event.”
“This sounds like a risky business you offer. What is my stake?”
    “Two hundred pecks.”
    “Make it three hunret.”
    “Done.”
    “Give me an advance?”
    “Of course.” She took out a purse and counted fifteen small coins into his hand.
    “When do we move?”
    “In the submorning. Go home and sleep off your drink. I want to see you at the University Gate at first seven sharp, and I want you clear headed.”
    “Sure thing, Ma’am. And what of yourself? Got a place to go?”
    “Don’t worry on my account. I will be fine. Now get out of here.”

    Firstown University occupied the entire site of the original colony. The north end of the old main street was the transition to the new city and a great commemorative gate had been erected there at the University’s foundation. The gate stood at the edge of a broad plaza dotted in checkerboard pattern with great weeping limbed trees that arched over the plaza and broke it into separate spaces. In the predawn gray the shadows under the trees were deep and the open space before the gate was a place of lightness and clarity. Rosine sat on a wooden bench in the shadows and kept a close eye on the gate. She had been here for over an hour, sipping at a flask of hot tea and watching the slow emergence of the morning’s traffic. Street sweepers broomed through the plaza and couriers bearing the first of the day’s urgent packages moved briskly across the scene. Soon the athletically inclined came trotting through the morning and, moving more slowly, workers at early jobs shuffled towards their day crisscrossing with the workers from late jobs shuffling towards their evening.
    Grovner Stemple approached the gate cautiously, slipping from tree shadow to tree shadow and keeping away from the main avenue crossing the plaza; he passed Rosine without seeing her and stood at the edge of the shadows watching the gate. The old woman came up behind him and put one hand on his shoulder while her other hand lifted his knife from its sheath on his hip. “If I were your enemy you would be in serious trouble right now,” she hissed at him.
    “Jumping cats! Where th’ hell did you come from?”
    “Right behind your ass, obviously. And you are supposed to watch my backside.” Chuckling, she handed the knife back to him.
    “My apologies. But yer more crafty than most.”
    “I’ve good reason to be. Let’s get moving.”
    She led the way south down the old main street. Once, when flanked by the rude shacks of the earliest colony, this street had felt broad and airy, now, lined by the tall towers of the University, it was narrow and cramped. Twenty thousand people converged at the University each day and so even at this early hour the street was choked with pedestrians, mostly young students, rushing back and forth. Some stared briefly at Rosine and Grovner, conspicuous strangers that they were, but, caught up in their own affairs, said nothing and passed on by.
    Near the far end of the street it opened up around a small square on the right side. At the center of the square stood a low structure of sheet metal—one of the original buildings of the colony. In front of the building there stood a bronze statue of Charlene Hanson and Homer Blairsden.
“This is the only site where my first grandmother, Mellisa, is remembered,” Rosine said. “She started this university but its administrators would rather forget that fact.”
    They approached the building and came to a door. It was unlocked and entered into a long hallway at the end of which was two more doors. Passing through the door on the left they were in Charlene’s laboratory, preserved as a museum display. They went to the back of the room and down a flight of stairs to another door. This was locked but under Grovner’s ministrations it soon was open. They were in the refrigerated gene bank and crossed to a door at the rear.
    “This gene bank is still an important archival resource for the medical school, so they built a tunnel for their convenience,” Rosine said. “It leads to a library and we most certainly will not be welcome there. Fortunately my foremothers saw that a second, parallel tunnel was created as well.” She looked down at the floor and studied the pattern in the tilework. Reading some clue her eye traveled to a column of ducts climbing the wall. She reached behind the ducts and Grovner heard a metallic clicking sound.
    A small round panel low in the wall swung inwards revealing a dark cavity.
    “Down on your knees,” she said. “We crawl for a ways.”
    Grovner followed her into the cavity and the swinging panel closed behind him—they were in pitch darkness.
    The tunnel was two feet in diameter, barely wider than Grovner’s shoulders and one did not crawl as much as they slithered down its length. There was no turning around and a backwards crawl should the way be blocked was an extremely awkward prospect. The walls were smooth and featureless; there was no measurement of progress just continuous movement in the dark. The crawl seemed endless and Grovner, not normally claustrophobic, began to sweat and his breath felt constricted.
    Rosine came to the end of the tunnel and halted. Grovner blundered forward in the darkness and became entangled in the lower part of her robes. He let out a yelp and struggled backwards until he was clear of her feet. He could hear her laughing softly, then she said, “We really must keep quiet from here on!” He heard her hands feeling about for something, then there was another metallic click and a circle of bright light opened in front of her.
    The lighting in the room ahead was actually rather dim, Grovner realized after he had crawled out into the space and stood up. They were in a custodial wash room with a row of huge sinks against one wall, the tunnel exit was concealed beneath one of the sinks, and stacks of buckets lined two other walls. Rosine was at a door in the far wall listening cautiously to what might be on the other side. She opened the door a crack as Grovner approached and she peaked out. “The way is clear,” she whispered.
    They stepped into a service tunnel that connected all of the University buildings. Pipes, conduits and ducts ran the length of the tunnel ceiling and the two sides were broken up into a series of bays where the elevator shafts of the towers came to their bottoms. Rosine led them to one of the bays. Next to the elevators was a utility panel for the building above with circuit breakers and routing switches—a recess behind this panel led to an access ladder going up the elevator shaft.
    They climbed for seven floors in all. Between each floor was a crawl space with a grillwork landing that cantilevered out from the wall adjacent to the ladder—they had to rest twice on these landings during their ascent. The ladder was grimy and unpleasantly sticky underhand and the narrow rungs dug into the balls of the feet. The air was dusty and stale, hot and getting hotter as they rose. Grovner was soaked from sweat. The moving elevators generated erratic gusts and eerie echoing howls and thuds. Every time an elevator went past them the ladder rattled alarmingly and they had to hug it tightly to keep from shaking off. After the third floor Grovner forced himself to look only up. The view downwards was a terrifying drop into shadows, he imagined himself bouncing off the metal landings as he fell. The view upwards, on the other hand, caused him to notice, and admire, that Rosine wore no underwear—she didn’t appear so old or withered from this angle.
    At the landing above the seventh floor Rosine allowed them five minutes of rest to get the aches out of their feet and their fingers uncurled after tightly gripping the rungs. Then she led them into the three-foot high crawl space. This between-floors area was a honeycomb of spaces divided by plumbing and air conditioning ducts. Light filtered in through vents in the floor above. The crawl space was very dusty and Grovner felt a sneeze coming on. He suppressed it as long as he could but finally stopped and buried his face in the sleeve of his left elbow. He made four quick quiet eruptions, emitting a rather discreet sound. Rosine turned around to glare at him but said nothing.
    Underneath a darkened room Rosine pushed up a grillwork floor vent and they pulled themselves out of the crawl space. She stood up and found a light switch. They were in a large closet with shelves full of linen and clean towels.
    Grovner reset the grill before rising to his feet. Rosine approached him, whispering directly into his ear, “The man I seek is in a room just down the hall from here. I will go in alone—I want you to stay at the door and see that I have at least five minutes in there undisturbed.”

    Jack awoke to find an old woman seated in a chair and watching him closely. Her face was eerily familiar and Jack was certain he was still in one of his frequent nightmares. “Mellisa?” he asked.
    “You do me the greatest of honors—she is my most revered grandmother. I am here to tell you that she is in fact here, and so is the one you most desire.” She rose from the chair and approached him. She sat on the edge of the bed by Jack’s waist.
    “Who are you?”
    “A friend and counselor to many. I have come to take you home.” She reached under her robe and brought out a flask of purple liquid. “Drink this.”
    “Lady, whoever you are, you gotta be crazy.” He reached to the bedside table and hit the call button. “Someone should be here to take care of you real soon.”
    “You don’t understand yet, but I will show you.” She unstopped the flask and quickly drank down half of its contents. She closed the bottle and set it on the table. She sat staring down into Jack’s eyes with an intensity that made him sweat.
    There was a commotion outside the door. Loud voices in some kind of heated argument drew his attention and he turned to look at the door.
    The old woman collapsed and fell across Jack’s legs. Her face had turned purple as a spiderwork of fine veins grew out over her flesh. She began to swell up, puffing out her robe. Her skin broke open and he saw parallel rows of thin purple disks growing out of her body. As the disks grew the entire purple mass became desiccated and crumbly, breaking down into a fine powder.
    The door flew open and Dr. Kaukonnen rushed in, “Jack! Are you all right?”
    He sat up in the bed, wide-eyed and speechless. Across his knees an old woman’s gray walking robe lay half buried in a pile of fine purple dust, a long braid of silky white hair lay by his hip.
    Dr. Kaukonnen hurried to his side. “Let’s clean this bed up. Come with me.” She offered him her arm to get up.
    Jack felt a small hard lump under his thigh as he shifted his legs to rise from the bed. Without him thinking of it, the fingers of his left hand found the object and he palmed it.
    Dr. Kaukonnen helped him up and brushed the purple dust off of him. She took him to a chair and he sat.
“What happened to that woman?” Jack asked.
It took a moment for Dr. Kaukonnen to find an answer. “What you saw happen is pretty rare… It’s a sort of extreme reaction to what is actually a very common fungal infection—I have it, so do you.”
“Wow—will that happen to me?”
“Not likely. There’s only one or two cases like that in any year.”
“That’s assuring. But can’t you get rid of the infection?”
“No, the fungus is too common, you would only be reinfected. It resists all of the drugs. Everybody on Cardomon lives with it.”
“Then I guess I will too.”
“Of course you will.”
“Who was that woman? She seemed crazy!”
Dr. Kaukonnen frowned. “I think she was a member of a dissident sect. A lot of people think they are all crazy. Some of their rites involve powerful drugs.”
“Oh?”
“Many of my teachers in medical school belonged to the sect. I don’t follow them, but I do respect them. We can talk more about that later; let me get some fresh linen for your bed.” She left the room.
When he was alone Jack looked at the tiny object in his left hand. It was a diamond tipped stud, the same as Mellisa had worn in her nose so many years ago. He had always appreciated that diamond when they had played music together. It was something in her face he could focus on without looking into her eyes, without having to see her watching him with a look that made a shy man feel naked.
Jack pocketed the diamond when Dr. Kaukonnen returned with a pair of cleaning attendants.

    Megan Carlyle felt like a grumpy old cat exhausted from chasing the same damned mouse for half of her life. As police chief of Firstown University, and having risen through the ranks, she had been engaged for twenty-five years in trying to protect the security of an institution riddled with infiltrators. Most of the faculty, staff and students were sympathetic to the Sisterhood; many were members even though all association with the Sisters was expressly forbidden by University regulations. But the Administration chose to mostly turn a blind eye—Megan sometimes wondered about their loyalties as well. She blamed the situation on the planet’s dual system of pedagogy—the Sisters held a near monopoly on educating youth but the University was directed by a self perpetuating private board whose members were disdainful of the Sisters and their “amateur” teaching methods. Personally, Megan didn’t care one way or the other, but her job required her to treat the Sisters as opponents, she didn’t like to think of them as enemies. That would be a battle she stood no chance in winning.
    This time, the University’s most sensitive security area had been entered by one of the Sisters and she had died there. Megan understood the Sister’s rituals enough to grasp the significance of the purple liquid the woman had left behind—but why did the rite have to be performed with one of the sleepers?
    And then there was Grovner Stemple. She had never known the Sisters to associate with common criminals, but none of them had ever committed suicide in her hospital either.
She looked through the window in the door before entering the interrogation room. Grovner’s back was toward her—one of her deputies had secured him to the chair. He turned to face the door when she entered, smiled when he caught her eye. She undid his restraints and sat across a broad table from him. He was sweaty and dirty and she was glad for the separation. “You’ll be happy to know that there won’t be any charges—provided you answer a few questions.”
Grovner looked across the table at her—a burly woman with sharp gray eyes. “Go ahead and ask,” he said.
“Who was the woman with you?”
“I was alone—did somebody see a woman with me?”
She sighed, “And I don’t suppose you will tell me how you entered the building?”
He smiled, “Through the front door, of course.”
She had reviewed his police file and recognized that he wouldn’t crack under interrogation, not with only a minor trespassing charge against him. But the University was always extremely sensitive on matters of security—and especially so with regards to the newly awakened sleepers. She decided to let him go but to draw out the questioning—sweat him for a couple of hours—and on his release she had two of her best undercover operatives ready to follow him.

Jail always made Grovner thirsty; the nearest tavern was his traditional destination upon release. This time, coming from the University police station, he found his way to a downtown establishment that catered mostly to business people who used alcohol as an aid in cutting deals. The place was clean, quiet, well lit and overpriced—not at all Grovner’s preferred drinking environment. But he was thirsty and still had the coins Rosine had given him the night before. He wasn’t superstitious but having money from dead people made him uncomfortable and he wanted to spend it quickly—never mind any extravagance.
He ordered a tall glass of wine and took it to a small table far from the street doors. The fashionably groomed patrons of the bar stared rudely at his matted hair and disordered clothes. He snarled back at them and hoped that he reeked of sweat and dirt. He wanted to be alone and was glad that none of his friends would ever wander into this place.
A moment after he sat down the front door opened and two young women entered, they were dressed in the trim blue outfits that Sisters preferred in the city. Grovner watched them curiously—they were as out of place in this bar as he or any of his friends would be. Then, as he watched, they came directly to his table without even glancing at the barkeeper.
When they got to his side the taller one of them said, “We need to talk to you about Rosine.”
He smiled with all of his charm, “By all means. Please, sit down. Let me buy you drinks.” He started to signal for a waiter.
The second woman spoke, “It would be better if you could finish your drink and come to our house. We think the talk will be long and our house is much more relaxing—and we have better wine!”
“You can stay the night, if you wish.”
“All right,” he said. He drained the glass in three big swallows and rose to his feet. With the alcohol hitting his empty stomach the sudden rise made his head swim and he steadied himself against the tabletop.

Once outside the two women led him across the city to their House of Hospitality for Travelers and the Homeless. It was a couple of miles away, on the far side of Newton, and the limber young women set a fast pace—virtually a jog. For the second time in only a few hours Grovner’s sweat soaked through his clothes. He had not exerted himself so much in years and he was thoroughly winded by the time they arrived at the hospice.
It was a sprawling house set apart at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac on the northern edge of town. It was multi-level, spreading up and around the contours of a hill. There were many balconies and garden terraces all screened by hedges. On top of a high cupola there waved a huge green banner bearing the symbol of three crescent moons and three bright stars.
Like most young people on Cardomon Grovner had been a frequent patron of the House when he began exploring his sexuality—he was twelve on the occasion of his first visit—but he had not called here for some years now. It was a surprisingly affordable, safe and comfortable place. The staff was supportive, nonjudgmental and versed in a wide variety of techniques—talents that they shared with enthusiasm. The House was a traditional setting for youth of all persuasions to come of age; there were few tastes, mostly the violent or the gross, that could not be satisfied there.
The two women led Grovner around to a side door away from the public area and they went in. The room they entered was a quiet library space lined with bookshelves and equipped with a mismatched collection of cozy furniture to relax on.
“Have a seat,” one of the women said. “We need to get someone who wants to see you. Can we bring you any food or drink?”
“I ain’t had breakfast yet, and it’s long past lunch—I’d love a spot of dinner if ya please. And didn’t ya boast of yer wine?”
The two women smiled and the second one said, “We’ll take good care of you. Please, wait here.” The pair exited by a door to the interior of the house.
Grovner sat in a large plush chair and looked over the books on an adjacent shelf. It was reading room, not a library, so there was no particular order to their arrangement. But there was a theme—most of the books were textbooks and references full of technical drawings and diagrams. The titles covered the medical and physical sciences: anatomy, genetics, chemistry and botany mostly. Also present were works on psychology and philosophy—a handful of books of poetry and general literature filled out the collection.
Grovner took one of the poetry books and started reading on a random page. It was actually a botany text disguised as idyllic verse about forest herbs and their uses. Each stanza described a different plant, it’s ecological significance, it’s genetics, and properties of interest to humans, all in the form of easy to memorize rhymes. Some of the verses were even familiar to him as variations of old children’s songs. He hummed.
One of the young women returned bearing a tray with a large salad, a bowl of steaming hot grains, a carafe of pink wine and a stack of dishes for eating and drinking. “Dara is in the middle of a counseling session—she will be with us shortly. And my sister Niara had to go to her studies—that leaves just the two of us for a while. My name is Janta, by the way. So, let’s eat!”
She put the tray on a table and Grovner came over to join her. She served up two portions, poured a couple of glasses and they sat down.
Grovner tore into his food and his plate rapidly cleared. A few minutes later he put it aside and concentrated on his glass of wine—a very tasty vintage. He poured a second glassful.
Janta ate more slowly and was only half finished when the door opened and an older woman came into the room.
Grovner stared at her in amazement—she so closely resembled Rosine, even walking with a limp, that he was fooled. “I thought you were dead! How did you get here?”
The old woman sat down and served herself some salad. “I am not Rosine, merely a partner of hers. My name is Dara—the residents of this House look to me for guidance.”
“My pardon, Ma’am”
“It’s perfectly all right. I’ve been called by worse names. But I want to talk with you about your business with Rosine—particularly I want to know about her death. Did you witness it?” She took a fork full of salad.
“No, Ma’am. I wasn’t in the room, but I gather she was taken by the purple dust… She did seem in a highly excited state and I’ve seen it happen to other people.”
“Yes, so have I.” She stared at her plate for a quiet moment. “What was she trying to do there? What did she tell you?”
“Only that she wanted to see one of the Prairie Schooner people, named Jack.”
“That would be Jackson Conroy.”
“No kidding? I shoulda got his autograph.”
She chuckled, “I doubt he even knows that he is famous. He was a very significant figure to the founders of the Sisterhood.”
“I didn’t know that. I just thought he was a famous songwriter.”
“Actually he never wrote the songs, only the tunes. He didn’t have much of a way with words.”
“Oh. Well, anyway, I’ve sung ‘em all.”
“Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“So, you need to see him?”
“In time. I expect he will find his way to me. Poor Rosine should have waited—she was always impetuous. This discovery of the Prairie Schooner has caused a lot of excitement. Some think it is an event of prophetic significance.”
“Do you?”
“Not like Rosine did, but yes, it is something that will change how we live. There’s a huge mythology about the early colonists—these newly wakened folk lived that mythology. A lot of illusions are at stake and in the current ideological climate some people may feel threatened and turn desperate.”
“The current ideological climate?”
“Did you know that Delevan Glatz has been on Cardomon for the past month?”
“I didn’t. He must be keeping out of sight—I would if I were him.”
“He has stayed on his ship, but his agents have been very active. There have been a lot of munitions smuggled in over the past year and Glatz is behind it. Also, one of his chief factotums has been about the town lately circulating his resume. It seems he’s had a falling out with Glatz—I’d like to talk to him, he might be interesting, or he might be lying.”
“No offense, Ma’am. But what has this to do with me? Do ya have some kind of a job for me?”
“Perhaps. Are you a man of violence?”
“I avoid it every chance I get.”
“Good attitude. What Glatz is provoking will certainly lead to a lot of violence. I’d like to see if we can avert that.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I believe Rosine paid you for your services? Isn’t there a balance due to you?”
“Under the circumstances, I don’t know if I earned it.”
“It looks to me as if you’ve worked very hard today. Rosine’s death was not your fault. What did she owe you?”
“Hunret ‘n’ fifty pecks.”
Dara nodded. “You’ll have that before you leave here. Would you like to earn more?”
“Doing what?”
“Talk to that man, Glatz’s former employee—his name is Fredegar. Let’s find out how angry he is; he might be useful. Bring him to me, if you can.”
“Where do I find him?”
“He’s at the PanGal Hotel. Do you know it?”
Grovner smiled, “I have a master key.”
“You shouldn’t need that. Just go to the front desk and ask for him.”
“I’d never get past the front desk at the PanGal—they know me too well. I usually go in through the kitchen.”
Dara chuckled, “I should have known. Perhaps you can call him and arrange a meeting outside the hotel. Say that you have a position to offer. Unless you prefer clandestine work?”
“I prefer the methods that bring the least police involvement. I’ll fix that meeting. Do ya want to be there?”
“No, I don’t know if I can trust him. I’ll rely on you to determine that.”
“Ya honor me with yer faith.”
She smiled, “Rosine trusted you. You knew her when she was younger?”
“Yes Ma’am. She taught my school ‘til I was ten.”
“Our business is done for tonight. I would like it if we sat for a while and you told me about her—you do have memories from back then?”
“Vivid ones, I loved her. All us kids did.”
“Good. Then please, let’s get comfortable and you can share them with me.”
Grovner and Dara settled into a sofa. Janta cleared the table and left with the tray full of dirty dishes, when she returned she carried a refilled carafe and fresh glasses. She poured out drinks, passed them around, and curled up on a large pillow on the floor.
Grovner relished the rare opportunity to indulge nostalgia and Rosine was a part of many of his fondest recollections. She had been more than a teacher, a nurse, a friend or a confidant. She mediated schoolyard disputes with the ease of a diplomat; she negotiated between children and their parents when required. Grovner had always been in trouble with his elders—never with Rosine. She defended him, hid him, even lied for him on occasion. She led the pack in song, in cross-country hikes and in sundry adventures that anxious parents never heard of.
Grovner waxed on for over two hours, whenever he slowed down Dara hit him with an incisive question that drew out deeper memories. At last the older woman excused herself.
Janta had listened quietly the whole time, rising only to see Dara to the door. She smiled at Grovner, “That was fascinating. We seldom get to hear so much about one of our Seniors. Thank you.”
“It was a pleasure.”
“I’d like to take care of you for tonight. I can give you a bath, warm your bed.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“So would I.” She took his hand and led him from the room.