Eric Flint: Mother of Demons

But the details- details! she thought-were not important, now that the central concept for which she had battled had been accepted by all parties.

They would become a single people. United, as one flesh, within the shell of this strange new idea the Mother of Demons had brought to the world, from beyond the sky. The- nashiyonu, she called it.

Already, Indira knew, in all the valleys of the Chiton, the strange new word was being spoken, from the siphons of gukuy from many different tribes and peoples. Many of whom-most of whom-had barely begun to learn the Enagulishuc from which the word derived.

A strange demon word, belonging to a strange demon language. What other word could describe such a strange idea? A people which is not a people. A tribe which is not a tribe. A prevalate in which no clan prevails. (Even, it was whispered, in which the clan themselves barely exist.)

Who, then, is a part of this- nashiyonu? Anyone who chooses to belong. Yes, chooses. It has nothing to do with clan status or birth.

Anyone. Even owoc.

Indira repressed a grin. The gukuy who were squatting in the command circle were all very intelligent beings. Even the recently arrived tribespeople were rapidly learning to interpret human facial expressions and body language. Ushulubang and Rottu, she knew, were already mistresses of the art.

When it came to diplomacy, humans had the great advantage of being naturally adept at shoroku. Indira had no intention of losing that advantage, so she allowed no signs of her feelings to show. But it was difficult not to grin, thinking of the owoc.

In truth, the owoc had not really chosen to become citizens of the new Nation. The concepts would have meant absolutely nothing to them. Indira had simply decreed that all owoc were nashiyonuc by nature. All owoc, everywhere in the World-That-Is-A-Clam, not simply the owoc on the Chiton.

She had expected some resistance to the idea, especially from the Kiktu. The tribespeople venerated the owoc, true. But, as Indira had suspected, the veneration stemmed from ancient totemic concepts. It had nothing to do with any notion that owoc were equal to gukuy.

But Ushulubang, as she so often did, had immediately supported Indira's proposal. Very vigorously. The Kiktu had been uncertain, but they had acceded to the wishes of the old sage and the Mother of Demons.

For a moment, Indira's eyes met those of Ushulubang. The sage was, as always, squatting across from her in the command circle. The two of them were careful not to give the impression that they were acting in collusion. Which, in the narrow sense of the term, they were not. Indira met privately with Ushulubang, but no more often or for longer stretches of time than she did with Kopporu, or Guo, or the Opoktu clan leaders.

The fact remained that they were conspirators. The vision toward which they were each groping was different-or, perhaps more accurately, seen from different angles. But their goals, in some fundamental sense, were identical.

The question of the owoc illustrated that unity of purpose perfectly. Goloku, in her teachings, had often spoken of the need to cherish the owoc, and to oppose their oppression. In this, as in so many things, most Pilgrims interpreted her words simplistically. As a statement of ethical principle.

As such, of course, it was an excellent principle-one of which Indira heartily approved. But Goloku's teachings also carried a more subtle and sophisticated thought, under the simple morality of the precept.

If you allow the weakest to be oppressed, you open the valves to your own oppression. If you flail one who is weaker than you, you will be flailed yourself, by one who is stronger. Do not complain then, fool. Was it not you who blessed the flail in the first place?

Indira had, finally, accepted the awful responsibility which had fallen on her shoulders. But she took this much grim satisfaction in the taking-whatever else, she would ensure the survival of the owoc. It might well be true, as Julius often said, that all species were doomed to extinction. So be it. But the owoc would be granted their rightful time in the universe, to live out their gentle lives in peace, free of fear.

Indira knew what forces she was unleashing on this planet. Those forces would do much that was good. But they would also wreak havoc and destruction. Often, she would wake in the night, trembling. Julius would hold her in his arms, until she finally fell back asleep. Always, then, one thought would enable her to face the nightmares.

Soon enough, the word would spread to all the peoples of all the lands of the world. Abuse the owoc, and you will incur the terrible wrath of the Nation. For all owoc, it is said, belong to the Nation.

Watching Indira and Ushulubang, Julius made no attempt to restrain his own grin.

Look at the two schemers. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, no sirree. Ha! Machiavelli's Daughter Meets Cardinal Richelieu. Love at first sight.

Feeling eyes upon him, Julius turned his head and met the calm gaze of Rottu.

Oh, yes. Let's not forget "Tentacles" Borgia.

But, the moment the quip came to him, he dismissed it. Not without a certain feeling of shame. He had come to know Rottu rather well, over the past two months. To know her, and to grow to like her. And, as he learned her history, be somewhat awed by her.

Hard as steel, yes. But never evil. Would you have survived her life, Julius Cohen? With your soul intact-as she did?

He looked away. After the meeting, he would spend the rest of the day in the company of Rottu. He saw more of Rottu than he did of Indira, now. Somehow-Julius never did understand how Indira had maneuvered him into it-Julius had become Rottu's partner in crime.

"Research," Indira had called it. "You and Rottu will jointly organize a research team."

Yeah, right. "Research team." Such a nice phrase. It brings to mind starry-eyed visions of Julius Cohen, paleontologist, plumbing the secrets of the unknown.

Treacherous, sneaky, conniving she-devil. An historian, to boot, who knows perfectly well what the phrase really means-and could have said so in plain language.

Manhattan Project Marries Peenemunde. Absent-Minded Professor of Death and Destruction, Meet Your New Associate-Her Squidness, the Spy.

Julius grinned again, very widely. Unlike Indira, he had no fear of having his emotions easily understood by the gukuy. For two reasons. First, he didn't give a damn. Second, he had a secret weapon whenever needed. The gukuy possessed, as a rule, very good senses of humor. But Jewish jokes baffled them completely.

Except, possibly, Rottu. Julius glanced at his partner again.

When I told her I was making her an honorary Jew, she immediately replied that she was too old to convert and besides, she didn't want to be circumcised. Now, where the hell did she learn about that? I think she's getting coached by Indira on the side.

Treacherous, sneaky, conniving she-devils-the lot of them.

Rottu met his glance. A second later, the Pilgrim spymistress looked away, conveying in some subtle manner the message: Stop daydreaming, Julius. The meeting is about to come to the key point.

Julius snorted. He wasn't in the slightest concerned about that. He should worry? When Indira, Mistress of the Dark Secrets, was running the show?

Paying little attention to the meeting, Julius began pondering the real problem he had on his plate. Wasn't there anything on this miserable soft-wooded planet that would make a decent bow?

He mimicked Indira in his mind. "The Mongols made composite bows." That's great, sweetheart. How? I'm a 22nd century paleontologist, not a 13th century nomadic bowyer.

He dismissed the problem from his mind. Rottu had heard vague rumors of some kind of sea-monsters whose weird innards might make suitable material for a bow. She said she would look into it, but it would be a long time before she discovered anything. Very few gukuy peoples had anything to do with the ocean, because of its dangers. And those were far away, and little known.