Sheri Tepper - Grass

“So this Hierarch won’t know,” the doctor announced, turning around as though to renew the argument. “I’ve moved out of the hospital once already. We just got set up again. I can stay there. The Hierarch won’t know what I’m doing.”

“He won’t care what you’re doing,” Marjorie pleaded. “Once he’s here on Grass, you’ll do what he says, or else. Dr. Bergrem, you haven’t dealt with Sanctity. Rigo and I have. Believe me! Even their own people have few rights against Sanctity; unbelievers have none at all except what they can enforce for themselves. If the Hierarch chooses to deploy a thousand troopers, we couldn’t enforce the coming of summer!”

“Oh, all right, all right. I’ll hide! Tissue samples, Alverd. I need snips from whatever bons have survived. I’ll send one of my people to get those. Samples from the children, too. I need soil samples. From in here and out there. Persun, come with me and I’ll describe what I need. I’ll pack up my stuff. It’s heavy. Send some men over to load it.”

And she was away.

“What about you two?” asked Alverd.

Rigo drew himself wearily to his feet. “There’s nothing we can do just now. Tony’s asleep down below, and there’s no point in waking him until he needs to board the Star-Lily. I think we’ll try to get some sleep. When the ship from Sanctity arrives, we need to be alert. At that time, some misdirection may be in order.”

The Israfel bloomed like a star, and like a star remained in the heavens. One small shuttle came down to unload a small detachment of men commanded by a Seraph with six-winged angels on his shoulders. He was met by Mayor Bee.

“The Hierarch wishes to speak to Administrator Jhamlees Zoe at the Friary of the Green Brothers. We have been unsuccessful in reaching the administrator through your communications system.”

Mayor Bee nodded sadly. “The Friary was wiped out by prairie fires,” he said. “We’re searching now for survivors.”

There was a thoughtful silence. “The Hierarch may want to come down and verify this for himself.”

“We evacuated the Port Hotel for the Hierarch’s use,” the Mayor agreed. “The fires have burned great stretches of grassland and seven villages. The town is full of refugees.”

“The Hierarch may choose the town, nonetheless,” said the Seraph.

“Well, certainly, if he wishes,” said Mayor Bee, nodding. “Though there is sickness in the town which we assumed the Hierarch would wish to avoid.”

The Seraph’s expression did not change, though something wary came into his voice. “The office of the Hierarch will advise you. Any particular kind of sickness?”

“We’re not sure what it is,” said Mayor Bee. “People breaking out in sores…” Rillibee had told him what it looked like. Rillibee had told them a good deal more than any of the commoners had wanted to know. The small detachment made room for themselves at the empty hotel, but the Hierarch did not come down to Grass. Instead, he sent for Rigo. Marjorie insisted upon going along.

“For verisimilitude,” she said. “We came here together. Let us support one another.”

“I need you. Marjorie.”

She gave him a thoughtful look “You have never said that to me before, Rigo. Did you often say it to Eugenie?”

He flushed. “I may have.”

She said wonderingly, “It’s a different thing, being needed, from being wanted, which you often said to me, though that was long ago. I think the Seraph is waiting for us.”

“Seraph,” he snorted. “Why can’t they call him a colonel or a general? Seraph!”

“We mustn’t betray our biases! This Hierarch is not your uncle. and he may already be suspicious of us simply because we’re outsiders.”

The Hierarch betrayed no suspicion, though it would have been difficult to detect, since he greeted them from behind a transparent partition, calling their attention to it as though they could not see it for themselves. “My advisors,” he said in an annoyingly satisfied though self-deprecating tone. “They won’t allow me to expose myself to possible risk.”

“Very wise,” said Rigo.

“Is there risk here, Ambassador?” The Hierarch was clad in white robes with golden angels embroidered at the hem and in a wide border up the front. Their metallic wings threw a coruscant flicker around him, like an aureole. His face was ordinary. It had no feature more distinguished than the others. It was a face one could instantly forget. One would not forget the robes, however. The Hierarch repeated his question. “Are there deaths? Unexplained ones? Or deaths from plague?

“We don’t know,” said Rigo, remembering it was probable that the Hierarch had an analyzer on them. The least risk lay in disclaiming absolute knowledge. One could almost always do that truthfully.

“People do disappear on Grass,” Marjorie offered honestly. “We’ve been trying to find out how, and why. It might help if we knew precisely what drew Sanctity’s attention to Grass initially. The information we were given was not very specific.”

The Hierarch gave her a long looking over, head to toe, as though assessing how well she would dress out for meat. It was not a look Marjorie had met before, and it chilled her. The Hierarch was not interested in her as woman or person, so much was clear.

“I will tell you precisely what we heard. A minor official at Sanctity was visiting his family. One of his visiting kinfolk worked as a port controller on Shame. Sometimes this kinsman stopped in at a port tavern after work. On some unspecified occasion, he talked over his ale with a crewman from an unnamed freighter, The crewman said his friend, unnamed, had come down with some sores on his legs and arms just before the ship landed on Grass. The sick man was in a quarantine pod. The ship was on Grass an unspecified length of time. When it arrived at some farther destination, the man was cured.”

“That’s all?”

“Our official repeated this story to us when he returned from his visit to his family. Our computers say the likelihood is great that the unnamed crewman had plague, but we’ve been unable to verify the story. The man who told it to our official died of plague shortly after leaving Terra. We don’t know where the alleged ship went from Grass. We have been unable to identify the ship or the crewman.”

Rigo threw up his hands, indicating frustration. “Assuming the story is true, the cure could have come about here or elsewhere. Or he might not have had plague at all. Plague isn’t the only thing that causes sores!” He let his voice and manner indicate frustration and fear. That was normal, and it would cover his agitation.

The Hierarch stared at them expressionlessly. “Have any survivors from the Friary been found?”

Rigo nodded. “A few, yes. Some are beginning to wander back to the site as they realize we’ll be searching for them there.”

“My old friend Nod — that is, Jhamlees Zoe?”

Rigo shook his head, unwilling to trust his voice. No. Jhamlees Zoe hadn’t turned up. If Rigo said that aloud it wouldn’t take a machine to detect that he rejoiced in the fact.

The Hierarch nodded, as though someone had asked him a question. “I think we’ll remain here for the time being. Zoe may yet turn up. Or you may find some more definite information.”

In the shuttle, Marjorie asked, “Rigo, the crewman in the quarantine pod, assuming there was one, would have been given Grassian food and water and air, would he not?”

“Certainly.” He nodded, indicating the men seated in front of them. “Quarantine pods allow nothing out, but materials do go in.”

She chased an idea, worrying at it, but she asked no other questions.

They were escorted back to the order station by a handful of troopers. “There are definitely enough armed men on that ship to control the planet.” Marjorie said to Roald Few.