6
Hostile Takeover
I came to hate nations. We are deformed by nation-states. I wanted to erase my name and the place I had come from,…not to belong to anyone, to any nation.
—Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient
Mesolimeris, New Utah
The Masters’ dais, warmed by geothermal swells, glowed faintly in the crisp air of The Keep. Sargon lounged, the smooth curves of the seat cupping the lines of his hips to provide effortless repose. Stragglers were still arriving, some with finesse; some grandstanding, using the gripping hand to lever themselves, with one brute-force jerk, over the final ascension step into the cave. Only old Lagash had been too weak to complete the climb.
A pity, thought Sargon. Old Lagash had been a good ally. He had tended to his ar, Kept three counties, and in a pinch could lend a Master’s Hand for planting. A pity. Now redistribution of his ar and cattle would be decided, for Lagash had no offspring. It would make for a long, dull Meeting.
Sargon was tempted by this, but only briefly. A mess, indeed. No doubt, most of the ar would be wasted settling fictitious land debts. A better tactic: watch for the Landholder most eager to grasp the least of the ar. That Landholder would be the one to court. That’s how he’d come by Farmer John, and look how well that had turned out. Started with a Field, turned it to a Grasp, and that very nearly to a Hand. Not that John admitted to it all, but all you had to do was count his cattle. Cattle, anyone could come by—foolish ones by selling ar. Sell the bowls; sell the cattle; but never, ever part with ar. And of all your cattle, treat your Farmers best. Buy the best; raise the best—and they will deliver you a post for a span.
The dais was filling—nearly full. Head to head, feet to feet, only Lagash’s place empty. The sun had climbed enough to send liquid rays slanting up into the ceiling. They reflected off that glassy dome and suffused the chamber with warm light. As senior Keeper, Gilgamesh began the round, and each joined in response:
By the light cast from
beneath the waters
By the light cast from
the rim of the world
By the light cast from
within the mountain
By the light cast from
the vault above
By the light cast on the fields of
Uruk
By the light cast on the fields of
Ur
By the light cast on the fields of
Eridu
By the light cast on the fields of
Umma
By the light cast on the fields of
Shurrupak
By the light cast on the fields of
Mesolimeris
By the light cast on the fields of
—
But of course, Lagash did not answer.
“Does no light shine on the fields of Lagash?”
“The light of Lagash has not risen.”
By the water cast on the fields of
Uruk
By the water cast on the fields of
Ur
By the water cast on the fields of
Eridu
By the water cast on the fields of
Umma
By the water cast on the fields of
Shurrupak
By the water cast on the fields of
Mesolimeris
By the water cast on the fields of
—
“Does no water flow on the fields of Lagash?”
“The fields of Lagash lie barren.”
This went on for rather a lot of formulaic time, in Sargon’s estimation. Long enough, presumably, for the dead to rise, hand-over-hand up the mountain. But Lagash’s days of rock-climbing were over. Old Lagash had left it too long to induce a successor; had nearly died giving birth to a stillborn rat, and the mourning howls had been heard all the way to Mesolimeris. Rumor had it that all but the bedside Warriors had already been put down, and it was only a matter of time.
Finally, the ritual invocation was done. “Let us rise and deal justly with the ar of Lagash.”
At which point the accountants really got into it. Sargon ignored most of this juridical clamor: depositions from wailing dependants of every stripe; reputed creditors; their antagonists. Of more interest was the Farmer’s Council. Farmers didn’t talk much; when they did, it was generally worth listening to. Interesting was a green, weedy stalk of a lad, more like a planter than a Farmer, who was quietly but furiously clacking the fingers of all three hands. Finally, at a lull in accountancy, the stripling chirped. All heads turned.
“Lagash Post 3,” he said. “Eighty ar. Two planters.”
Most of the Farmer’s Council rumbled amusement. Umma and Shurrupak flipped back their hands: no sale. Interesting, thought Sargon. Lagash Post three was a useless bit of scrubland abutting the northeastern periphery of Mesolimeris. The stripling was offering to hold it, to the value of eighty ar, and to throw a payment of two planters into the bargain.
Sargon looked over at Farmer John. Farmer John was very, very carefully staring at the floor, and sitting on his hands.
“Assessment?” barked Sargon.
The estate Accountant looked shocked. It was a worthless scrap of land, but heavily indebted. Sargon would be mad to settle the ledger. “Two post, five span, five hand small cattle. Freehold”
Had his face been capable of such an expression, Sargon would have smiled. Instead, he flipped his gripping hand.
“Well, my young Farmer. Let’s see if you can earn some get.”
A low murmur circled the room. All attention was on Sargon. Which had rather been the point.
“On the subject of Lagash Post 3,” he flipped the gripping hand again, “that is, Mesolimeris Post 27” —accountants scribbled furiously— “may we move on to new business?”
There was no dissent.
Sargon stood. He used The Voice. The Voice rumbled and screeched in registers above and below the human range of hearing.
“Anathema has come. Their vermin have arrived at my western Posts! John, inform them!”
A moment of chaos, and then a hush, as John tipped back his head and trilled an amazing, sophisticated, detailed data stream, most of which was lost on the Masters present. But they gathered the critical points. For two side less two hand years, Post Watchers had observed these creatures. At first they would arrive by ones and twos, then, every two hand years, their numbers would swell. Hands, Sides, Grips—half of a Master’s Hand—would trek from the wastes by various paths, through the badlands, into the realms of the mountain light. They passed respectfully, carried their bowls, left their beasts to graze the wilds, and returned whence they came again. They never crossed into Council lands: by the wastes they came, by the wilds they went. The Council had discussed options; made contingency plans, but in the end agreed that they had done no harm, and posed no threat, and therefore were not worth wasting an ar of regard.
But Sargon, with Lagash as his ally, had never been quite content with that. He’d had them followed. Had them followed, at incredible expense, by relays of Runners, and Porters carrying a Farmer, the last of whom had reported on their deathbeds, collapsed from starvation. And what they had reported! These creatures—these anathema—had laid waste to their own lands! Clearly, they bred Engineers. Monstrous machines had crushed entire mountains. They planted without regard to ar. They kept cattle in such abundance that soil was laid bare. They flooded their fields, then despaired when the inevitable salty crusts caked in drifts across the furrows. Then they wept, and watered the ground with their salty tears.