Help Us, Seven Helpers--Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Meanwhile Giddli…Plus Poker Faces on Caroline’s Launch

Summer, 950 Years after Mioco’s Birth on Magellan One

Year 2936 CE in the Galactic Common Market

Giddli had been a country girl, born and raised, but now that adulthood had been thrust upon her, she had become a woman of the city. And she didn’t care for it, not one bit: at that time the Old Capital was an occupied city, and being a colony did not become it. It was dirty, without civic pride, and services were indifferent to poor. The colonizers seemed to have sucked the lifeblood out of its municipal spirit.

Mother Elk-Hardis, an elderly priest, pastored the run-down city parish of St. Ahlanyne. Giddli lived with her in the bare-bones, no-frills, dust-encrusted rectory. Giddli had heard complaints back in the Up Country about the luxurious clerical life style, priests living “high on the hog,” subsisting on the backs of the laity. Not so in this rectory. Not only was there no housekeeper, Elk-Hardis had barely enough money to cover food. Giddli had to chip in liberally from her salary, in addition to paying rent. Cooking was supposed to be shared, but more often than not by the end of the work day Elk-Hardis was too exhausted and arthritic to do anything, so Giddli pretty much acted full time as cook. Not that she minded; she was used to cooking for the Captain and seasonally hired hands, and anyway, Elk-Hardis proved to be a sweet woman, unassuming, yet over-burdened by life, who would smile woefully and say that she “offered up” her various aches and pains. In a kinder world, Mother Elk-Hardis would have been allowed to retire and live her final years in peace.

The good news—if any could be found in those days—was that St. Ahlanyne stood one block away from a main subway stop. This at least made it relatively easy for Giddli to ride across town to her job in an orphanage run by an order of religious brothers. The end of any subway ride always proved unpleasant because of the bottleneck resulting from passengers being searched upon exiting. There was a fear among authorities that “fifth columnists” would come up the subway steps brandishing concealed weapons or seditious literature. This process was staffed by locals—toadies in crummy uniforms in the employ of the colonizers. Always present, though, was at least one imperial officer in a tailored uniform with blue piping along the edges of the brown tunic, sharply creased pants fitted into shiny leather boots, and the signature black kepi with polished peak, under which the officer gave each person the “hard stare” and evaluative gaze of the professional security thug. This was of course the Serene Service, imperial security police who reported all the way up to Count Chendra in Kir-Vu-Na. (More on him later.)

So this was the life Giddli was living as Morru awoke from his nap on Caroline’s launch, about 1,500 miles to the southwest—and hobbled grumpily, still half-asleep, to the crew lounge. In the center of the brightly lit room stood a round, polished table covered with green felt and stacked with playing cards, chips in all the colors of the prism, and small bowels of chakkl nuts, which had assumed pride of place. It would be a poker evening, at least until nightfall, and night would fall this evening since tomorrow was to be Darkday.

Once darkness fell over the beleaguered landscape, the launch would rise silently, out of sight of indigenoids, and move by star motor to the planetoid that served as the starship for this, the first mission out of the Milky Way Galaxy.

“I thought this was to be a working meeting?” Morru pulled into the table, relaxed finally, feeling comfortable in his shimmering green coveralls.

“We can talk and play, Morru,” Caroline said, behind him, then all at once somersaulted to the middle of the table, where she balanced for a second, upside down, on her top set of hands, then vaulted backwards into a chair.

“You know, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Jealous?”

“Yes! And how do you expect us to do strategic planning and play cards at the same time? Not all of us have bifurcated brains, you know.–Sorry, I guess I didn’t get enough sleep. Wendhi sends her apologies. You know how she likes to keep to herself.”

“So I’ve noticed. Anyway, my man is here,” Caroline crooned, and the mood changed, suddenly lighter, as the friendly figure of Sals-Par joined the table, followed quickly by Caroline’s medical associate Cliegl.

Sals-Par and Caroline had a “starship marriage.” They had met at a GCM planning conference on Merope Three (next to Earth a key player in the GCM). Sals-Par was from the Northern Continent, Caroline from the Southern; their marriage had raised eyebrows on their home planet.

“Well, Morru…” he intoned. “Heard you had a close call. Mission a success?”

“I did everything I was supposed to do—including planting your ‘records’ in the military personnel files.”

Sals-Par was to be the mission infiltrator in the Imperial Air Force’s High Command. “Thank you. Though I’m still a little nervous at having to do my own memory work….”

“The Imperium has proven to be a tough one, my love.” Caroline took Sals-Par’s hand. “It’s been much easier to infiltrate Saleria’s High Command with memory helpers1.”

“You’ll be able to don the Salerian uniform with much greater comfort then, Morru. Thank you for doing double duty by infiltrating Kir-Vu-Na.”

“Sals-Par, I don’t know how effective they are, those memory helpers. People never listen anyway.”

“Oops. We’d better begin.” Caroline grabbed the multicolored cards and began to shuffle.

“Where’s the rest of us, dear wife? Ah! Gian-Lorenzo!”

“Ooh, I love playing cards with the Chaplain! Sit down, Gian-Lorenzo. I’m playing two hands of cards, as usual: four arms, two brains, two hands—“

“Two antes—“snapped Morru.

“I know that! Point is I won’t have any advantage over—Gian-Lorenzo, would you please preach to the choir here? Tell Morru to have more respect for me.”

Tut-tutting and tsk-tsking, Gian-Lorenzo pulled up a chair and winked at Morru. In spite of the Chaplain’s jocular manner, Morru felt suddenly like a high school sophomore—an effect the aristocratic Gian-Lorenzo usually had on him. And yet the two of them were slowly developing a friendship.

Gian-Lorenzo Agnelli was a senior ordained member of the Society of St. Jamal Kitchens, founded in the Libyan Desert by a former United States military officer during the Ancient Oil Wars of the early 21st century.

Caroline shuffled in a complicated, four-handed pattern. “Dealer’s choice: seven card stud—Hey, Carl, get in here.”

“I’m working,” Carl came over softly, from the cockpit.

“What’d he just mumble,” she asked, looking straight at Morru. “Carl, please? As a personal favor? We need another player.”

In an instant, a long, skinny, arm covered with brown fur appeared at table height on Caroline’s left and snatched a hefty chunk of her chips. A tiny head appeared next, like the head of a cat—or a squirrel with whiskers—and two dark slit-eyes which fixed on Morru. “I’m game.”

“Hey! Gimme my—Get your own grub stake.”

“What’s yours is mine, booby-kins,” the creature replied suavely, staring at Morru; in fact, Morru could have sworn that the little fellow had winked at him. What is it about tonight? Morru thought. Everybody’s looking to me for something, winking at me. And now this alien creature—He’s no bigger than a house cat—His head barely reaches the table—He must be standing on a chair—

“Yeah, I’m standing on a chair.”

“Excuse—“

“For those who don’t know,” Caroline announced grandly, “This is my familiar, Nimber-Katt. He reads minds, Morru.”

“Caroline, it’s snowing.”

“Thanks for the weather report, Carl. Would you come to the table, please?”

Carl reluctantly slouched into the room and then slowly, deliberately, begrudgingly approached the table.

“You know, Caroline,” Gian-Lorenzo intoned in his thoughtful bass, “It is good that it snows. If it snows heavily enough, we can leave without attracting attention.”

“True enough. Are you getting antsy—?“

“Hey, Mekken.” Suddenly Nimber-Katt was talking to Morru. “You’re Mekken, right?”

“Yeah….”

“You’re a human—Can you make me a sign?”

“Shut up, Nimber—“ Caroline’s shuffling of the cards had reached manic proportions.

“Make you a—What? A sign?”

“Yeh, a very simple sign? One that says in big letters: I’M WITH STUPID and has an arrow pointing—“

“All right! You—out!”

“With an arrow pointing at this one.”

“So help me, Nimber! I’m gonna—I’m gonna throw you out into the snow.” Caroline was screaming by now. “You wanna go play in the snow?”

“I want to go home! It’s so dark and cold here. I hate this freakin’ planet.” Then, his eyes boring into Morru: “Don’t you? Hate it here?”

“Oh—I—My work brings me here—“

“Morru,” Caroline snarled, “Stay out of this. Pul-ease?”

Morru shrank back but noticed that, however angry Caroline might seem to be, her eyes were smiling—were positively mirthful. Her body had begun to relax; her manic mood had passed—no more leaping about or perfervid shuffling of cards. Nimber-Katt too had quieted down. Could the rancorous badinage that passed between Caroline and her familiar have a symbiotic sedative effect?

“Deal the freakin’ cards, willya?” grumbled Cliegl.

“All right. Read ’em and weep, folks.”

And so the game began.

“I assume,” said Caroline, studying her two hands, “That all of us have read the situation reports?”

“Ye-es,’ her hubby piped up, “With war inevitable, I’m to infiltrate the Imperial Air Force High Command. Important because the next war will be won in the air.”

“Excuse me, but— “Gian-Lorenzo tried to interrupt.

“Yeah? What do they have? That ‘Imperial’ Air Force?”

“A dreaded fighter-bomber, a two-seater which everyone is afraid of but which is fast becoming obsolete. Number: indeterminate.”

“Morru?”

“In Saleria the air force is part of their army. So if I infiltrate the high command as head of research and development, I’ll be able to influence the total conduct of the ground—and air—and possibly sea—war, which, yes, will decided in the air.”

“What kinda war planes they have over there?”

“A twin engine bomber with a 7,000 pound payload. They have about 2,000 of them, but they getting old. However! Since Kir has no strategic bomber, it’s better than anything the Imperial Air Force has.”

“And the new fighter plane? Which you will help develop?”

“A twin engine beauty! It’ll fly circles around the fighter-bomber.”

“Yeah but—that Salerian bomber,” Carl snorted, “Didn’t those idiots bomb their own city?”

“What?” snapped Gian-Lorenzo.

“Ah, the New Capital,’ Morru admitted. “The story, as I have it is, well, at the end of the last war—“

“Morru, come to the point!”

“Sorry, Caroline—“

“Caroline?” intoned Gian-Lorenzo, “Give Morru a chance to finish. His story is horrifying enough.”

Morru couldn’t decide whom to be irritated at: Caroline, for snapping, or Gian-Lorenzo, for butting in, though at the same time, he felt a certain warmth for Gian-Lorenzo’s attempt at support. “The Imperial Army came pouring into Saleria across every Great River bridge that had railroad tracks. The Salerian Army was blind-sided, half of it taken prisoner, the other half falling back on the Sabretooth Mountains, that vast massif in the east.”

“We know where the Sabertooth Range is!”

“Okay, well,” Morru hunkered down for dear life, “They rolled across Saleria and quickly took the New Capital—their newly-built capital city just over the—“

“We know that! There’s an Old Capital and a New Capital.”

“Yes, Carl, and the two capitals lie across the High Plains River from each other. It rises 260 miles to the north and has an average depth of—“

“Oh, for the love of God!”

“Carl! I don’t have to take your crap! Your boss’s, yes. You—no!”

“People, please!” Caroline interjected, suddenly irenic.

“Yes, I hate to sound like the village priest, but—for the love of God, we might want to be more tolerant of each other.”

“It’s okay, I got this, Gian-Lorenzo. As Sals-Par will tell you, on Merope Three we revel in controversy and can talk-angry without trash-talking each other. I keep forgetting that Earth people can stand just so-much itty-bitty heat and then they go to war.”

“And heaven knows,” crooned Nimber-Katt, eyes wide and taking in Gian-Lorenzo, “That you, my dear Caroline, are queen of the trash-talkers.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, my little honey muffin.”

“It wasn’t,” the creature retorted, eyes aglitter.

“Nimber? How about I stuff you in the toaster tomorrow morning and have you for breakfast?–Morru, my apologies: do continue and be assured that no one—no one—will interrupt you.”

Gian-Lorenzo’s stomach began to churn. What were these folks talking about? His assignment as head chaplain had been a last minute one, so had hadn’t had a chance to get to know them—before they translated, which took only a few seconds.

“…So the then-Emperor, Emilia Augusta, issued an ultimatum: either the Salerians surrender Sabretooth and all points east, including their naval base at Winter Crow, or the Imperial Tenth Army would annihilate the entire population of the New Capital. Immediately the army began firing machine guns into the homes and buildings of the city, firing at random, day and night—thousands of massed machine guns.”

“Barbarous!”

“No, I agree, Gian-Lorenzo. It was barbarous.”

“It’s like 20th century Earth—21st century! Tyrants and madmen…I can’t…I’m sorry….”

“The President of Saleria refused to surrender, but she knew her people were being killed, so she decided on a doomsday tactic. She ordered a thousand of those strategic bombers I mentioned to bomb the New Capital.”

A strange, strangled silence fell over the table; for a few moments, it seemed that Morru would not continue.

“It took four days and the loss of about 300 bombers, but the Salerians succeeded in obliterating their own capital city. No one survived. The Imperial Tenth Army was itself annihilated.”

“Did I say barbarous? No. Savage—I should have said savage! These people are savages! And they have a technology akin to 20th century Earth. We can’t work with them!”

“We have to work with them, Gian-Lorenzo.” Caroline spoke almost gently. “It’s our job to help them. You just spoke of 2lst century Earth. You admitted that your own ancestors were as savage. It will take time for then to achieve a level of consciousness that will enable them to accept us.”

“But the killing! Can’t we just…put a stop to it?”

“How, Gian-Lorenzo? If we try a show of force, we’ll appear to the indigenoids as colonizers. That’ll only make both sides mad at us, and, advanced technology or not, we are way outnumbered!”

Morru felt sorry for the priest; he seemed to be way out of his depth. “You know, Gian-Lorenzo, GCM law prohibits colonization of any planet that has its own sentient population. If their civilization is at too primitive a level for them to understand who we are, we are mandated to wait until they are ready.”

“But!” added Caroline, “No law prohibits us from helping them along—especially when they have already achieved a fairly high level of advancement.”

“Advanced?’ Gian-Lorenzo sputtered. “Technologically, maybe. Enough to kill each other—“

“Gian-Lorenzo, they have a pretty well developed religious consciousness,” said Morru.

“I know. I read the document. You realize, I trust, that Earth also had ‘a pretty well developed religious conscious-ness’back when its people were slaughtering each other….” Gian-Lorenzo hesitated, trying to shape his next thought—and so lost the initiative to Caroline.

Morru, what’s the upshot here? What can we take from this business of bombing their own capital?”

Business? Thought Gian-Lorenzo.

“The Imperials were angry, of course, but also, there was something else. They had lost a whole numbered army; it was gone. They thought they had taken the enemy’s capital: now it too was gone. Everything stopped; their troops stayed holed up in the conquered cities. They wouldn’t have admitted it, but they were afraid to venture out onto the open plains and make themselves targets for the bombers. Even in the cities they were afraid. And then two things happened: the Emperor died, and the Salerian President took her own life.”

This gets better and better. Gian-Lorenzo’s heart began to sink.

“And that new Emperor is still…?”

“Yes—Josef Stephane Sag-Wyr Gloriosum I. ‘Old Josey,’ to his intimates. He had lived in the shadow of his ‘great’ mother for decades. And he was male: everyone expected him to fail. So matter what he did, he would be criticized. What he did do was negotiate a truce with the new Salerian leader, President Gour, an Esclarandine. From the mountains to the Easter Sea would be a free Saleria. Between the mountains and central Saleria there was to be a 200 mile demilitarized zone—where troops of neither nation are to venture and whose neutrality is constantly violated by the Kirvan Empire.”

“And this was how long—Ten years ago?”

“That’s right, Caroline. And things are coming to a boil again.”

“I’ll never understand the human urge to start wars. But if this is the way it is here, we’ll have to use it—to everyone’s benefit.”

“The Imperium thinks itself invincible, but it is decadent, and what the Imperium can’t or won’t see is the reason it is going down this time: the Salerians have superior military technology. And as a member of the Salerian general staff—“

“You’ll see to it! Right, Morru?”

“Could be a nasty war though, Caroline. A total war, with everybody involved, women and men.”

“The two genders share the work—“

“Yes, it’s a classic matriarchal society such as we had on old Earth—“

“I wouldn’t know about ‘old earth,’ Morru—“

“Men and women would fight alongside each other—“

“Yes, but still,’ this time it was Gian-Lorenzo who interrupted Morru, “As I understand it…they have rigidly-defined gender roles. They may be matriarchal, but they certainly aren’t feminist.”

“So, padre,” Caroline crooned, “You’re a feminist.”

“A Jungian feminist. On Earth that means the liberation of the unconscious mind of the male and the conscious mind of the female. On this planet, I’m not too sure what it means. But certainly war is not the answer.”

“Well, I don’t know…” Caroline hemmed, then changed the conversation. “Hey, Clegie, how’s our new acquisition doing?”

“Still sleeping. We’re pumping vitamins into him. What the hell do these people eat? Cardboard? What a bunch of idiots!”

“Hmm…” Caroline fell thoughtful. “Well, keep him sedated till we get back to the planetship. Have to bring him along slowly, so he doesn’t freak out….”

“Why did you abduct him like that?”

“Clegie—look—he seemed like a sharp guy, and I just wanted to rescue him from a miserable life.”

“This is a miserable place! What awful people!”

“Don’t mince words, Carl, say what you really think.”

Is there no saving grace here, thought Gian-Lorenzo. He tried to find an opening to inject a positive thought or a more hopeful attitude. What were they doing, falling on each other and strategizing about fighting a war?

“Hey! Padre wants to say something.” Oh, that damned mind-reading monkey!

“Name’s Nimber-Katt.”

“Gian-Lorenzo,” soothed Caroline, “We haven’t heard from you in…at least one minute.”

“Well, I—I’m not operations, but I do wonder. Why are we getting involved in a war?” The ensuing silence was deadening—as if the others meant to say: Oh, look, chaplain wants to do his thing, make nice. “Why must there be a war?”

“Ahh, Gian-Lorenzo,” Morru spoke up, “With respect, I thought I had made that plain: that seems to be all they do on this planet—fight one war after another. Kind of like Old Earth—as you yourself mentioned.”

“But…didn’t this mission come about because of a spiritual movement on this planet?”

“Yah, they have religions and a whole hagiography. The Blessed Mioco—crucified, in a manner of speaking—our own Dr. Salazar—“Saint Meg”—is made the head of the movement and tries to keep the Imperium from co-opting it. Similarly, Saint Mildhannis after Meg—then it gets a little hazy. Saint T’Larn is the next leader; she tries to ‘reform’ the movement, with help from the throne; then she’s murdered. The next leader is Saint Na’an, who tries to ‘reform the reform,’ and he’s quickly murdered.”

“And what about that other one?” Caroline offered puckishly, “Saint…? Saint En-Fleura?”

“Well, yah, she was the first emperor in this current line, the Haggett-Thornes. You know, she was devoted to the teachings of Mioco, especially in the way she cared for the poor. But her first duty was to extend her hegemony, and in that she was bloodthirsty.”

“I guess, Rev, people are complicated, no?”

“Yes, Carl, you might say that—“

“Their religion any worse than your church?”

“Carl—,” Gian-Lorenzo let Carl’s name hang there. Why was he being asked this? It was off the point, to be sure, but he had to answer. “Those of you who are from Earth know that the history of its religions is at best ambiguous. Yes, people have done terrible things in the name of religion, but I do hope all that is behind us now—at least on Earth.”

“But not here,” added Morru, “Not yet.”

“But what you just related, disturbs me, Morru. Does their religious tradition offer them no wisdom? No wisdom at all?”

“My researchers went over this, Gian-Lorenzo. Their religions are fragmented into sects, none of whom talk to any of the others. And they’re busy killing each other now, even before any war has started. Look, I saw how it was in Kir: the slave labor camps, extermination camps; people are disappearing—“

“Yes! And what Morru has seen is only a part of the picture.” Caroline sighed. “As long as this planet is under the influence of that feudal Imperium, it will never develop any further.”

“But must it only develop by war?”

“Gian-Lorenzo…,” Morru hesitated, then asked, “Doesn’t your religion have a philosophy or teaching about when a ‘just war’ is possible?”

“Just war theology? That fell by the wayside back in the 21st century when it became obvious how destructive all wars were to civilian populations. Look…I realize I’m not part of operations…,” Gian-Lorenzo said again, hesitating, not sure of where to take the conversation.

“But they still want your blessing,” snarled Nimber-Katt, throwing down his cards.

“Folding already?” Caroline asked, scooping up the creature by the nape of his neckand carting him off to their cabin.

Everyone left at the table fell into an embarrassed silence—everyone except Gian-Lorenzo, who felt an even more profound sense of alienation. Principalities and powers, he thought, thrones and dominions.

“We gonna play poker or not?” barked Cliegl.

1 Infiltrators were sent to the planet’s surface to live and observe in small groups; these groups were regularly rotated back to the mother ship, lest they become too oppressed by the primitive culture. Only Morru and Sals-Par would be interfacing with the culture as public figures, hence the need for back stories. Their back stories would be enhanced by memory helpers, or telepaths, whose purpose was to suggest false memories in the minds of associates of the two main players.