A wiry man, at least the Elder’s age, moved across the stage in a careful series of folding and unfolding joints. It was the stride of a man who, for a very long life, had never walked anywhere if he could ride. Beside him strode a lanky girl, who looked up at them all with piercing aquamarine eyes. Beside her was an odd-looking chap in a ridiculous getup: The City Gates Uniform, representing the privy council of Bonneville. He looked like something from the top of a Christmas tree.
The vibration increased slightly, and resolved into separate pulses. It was like sitting inside a giant cup, with a giant finger tapping on its side. The Elder’s eyes narrowed. It had been a score years, or more, since he’d last set eyes on Collie.
The acoustics were incredible. The old man spoke out clearly, and no amplification was required. “Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Collier Staten Orcutt, and this is my niece, Laurel Courter. On behalf of all pilgrims and The Barrens gatherings, I’d like to introduce you to some friends of ours.” The Gatekeeper merely nodded.
Orcutt stood impassive as the source of the vibration became loud and clear. Ranks marched in from behind the Bowl. TCM Security tramped in to line the aisles. Wave on wave of Seers filled the orchestra pits and choirs, ranging in age from infants-in-arms to older-than-God. And then, with a steady tramp-slap, tramp-slap, in concentric arcs to complete the circle on the far side of the stage, marched half a Side from Sargon’s Army. It seemed to go on for weeks. The Bowl sat, awed into eerie silence.
The hoppers settled to ground, sun glinting from their wings as they coasted to a halt beyond the troops, lined up side by side. A path opened through the ranks like a parting sea. The Elder felt his bones tingle; his intestines begin to writhe. Then, as the sound rose to human-audible registers, and washed over them in a terrifying tide, the Seers joined in, overlaying the alien strains with the eerie polyphony of The Gathering Hymn.
Even the Elder was wide-eyed. There was no where else to look. There was nothing else to see. Down through the ranks of demons strode seven stately figures, twin arms folded, gripping arms extended, fur a blinding white. One topped the others by a head and shoulders. Except that none of them had shoulders. Only when they had reached the stage did the alien cheer and Himmist Hymn subside.
Laurel stepped forward, eyes bright. “It is my privilege to introduce The Excellency Sargon the Hand, Procurator of Swenson’s Valley, Protector of Mesolimeris, Defender of Ar, and the Masters of the Six Cities, with whom all of The Barrens are allied.”
There was silence, save for the wind, whipping through the various flags of ecumenical fabric. The Elder was started from shocked reverie by sharp, echoing clapping that arose from a pair of hands directly by his side. He turned and stared, heart sinking, as he watched Ollie Azhad rise and step away. Fuse lit, the applause whipped down the rows; across the aisles, following the TCM lines, and the thought finally came: Good Lord. I’ve lost them. TCM Security has defected to their side. He looked out across the amphitheatre. He had no MPs. He had no TCM Zonies. He had no Temple. He was just one among patriarchs. He looked again. And matriarchs. He looked again. And—them.
The Bonneville Counselor spoke for the final time. “The First Constitutional Convention of New Utah is convened. Will official delegates please join us inside.”
Sargon hadn’t the patience for this. It fell to Enheduanna. Who hadn’t the patience, either, but an order was an order. Humans were infuriating. They argued about what ought to be, instead of negotiating what was. Now the Elder was shouting something.
“Facts on the ground? I’ll give you facts on the ground. TCM tithe collection is this planet’s government. There’s no other institution that governs both Saint George and Bonneville.”
“Governs? More like poaches. Strips us all of tithe to pour into Maxroy’s Purchase and that misbegotten Temple!”
“And well-placed, too! Without the Maxroy’s Purchase True Church—”
“Without the MPs we’d be dealing with two thousand fewer common thugs!”
This last outburst came from the Mayor herself, much to the shock of the Elder. He was genuinely hurt. “Madam, do not forget the sacrifices the True Church has made to make this planet habitable. Selenium supplements. Medical supplies—“
“Which we wouldn’t need if you hadn’t leached the topsoil.” Now the Himmists were back in the fray.
The babble was cut short by Enheduanna. “We will repair this. We will restore ar.”
The Elder bridled; refused to face the ape. “I fail to see why this—creature—has a place at this table. We are making decisions regarding accession to the Empire of Man.”
The Bonneville Counselor spoke up. “Well, I can’t say we’re thrilled about it either, but, you know—” she looked at Enheduanna— “there’s rather an army of ‘facts on the ground.’ And that army’s not yours.”
For hours, the arguments rolled ‘round in circles. Asach, observer, sat in the corner, doodling the same words, over and over. Then added curlicues, baubles, leaves; the words peered out of gewgaw forests. Coffee. Pie. People. Different. Fixing. They broke; returned; broke; returned; made no progress backward; made no progress forward.
The Elder wanted his True Church. Bonneville wanted—Bonneville. Eclectic, anarchistic, metropolitans-in-the-desert that they were. The Barrens wanted manna. The Mesolimerans wanted to be left the hell alone. Who was left to tip the scale? Asach was out of options.
At the next break, Colchis Barthes, with quiet aplomb, approached Jeri LaGrange, still assigned to protect the chief Saint George dignitary of the no-longer-one True Church. They chatted softly and briefly. At the break after that, he stepped over to Ollie Azhad; asked quietly: “might I have a word?” Next came the Saint George mayor. The University president. Like Lillith at a grand soiree, Colchis Barthes greased the herd.
The next morning, as conference broke for Sabbath prayers, the Mayors climbed aboard one of the gossamer birds.
It was, all-in-all, an earthy delegation. Farmer John peered out from beneath his grandiose ear. The Lads, shorn of weaponry and excess hair, certainly cleaned up good. The President of the Saint George Grange was new upon the scene. Collie Orcutt was bracketed by Laurel and his younger self, a sinewy Professor of Agronomics from Zion University. They’d worked all night. Their staffs had worked all night. In the case of the university, a bunch of students had worked all night. The delegates filed in, bleary-eyed themselves, and were met with nothing less than a model world.
It was three dimensional. It spun and swirled. By inserting hands inside, it could virtually stretch; by squashing it outside, it could be shrunk; by bracketing points, a section could expand to fill the whole wall. In depth; in detail; in beautiful illustration, they explained and showed what it took to actually feed all eight cities on their world.
The Mesolimeran cities were dazzling. They sparkled topaz, ringed with aquamarine fields. Beauty aside, the statistics were sobering. Mesolimeran farming was at least six times as productive as even the best of Saint George farmland. Its primary philosophy was intensive, where Saint George’s had always been extensive. Direct to the heart, if allowed to extend their methods to The Barrens—which the gatherings would wholeheartedly encourage—they could produce sufficient selenium supplementation to serve the entire human population of New Utah within a year.