Ascending - James Alan Gardner [108]
When the cloud man used the word “kick,” I could not help picturing the way I needed to kick elderly persons on Melaquin in order to elicit any response. Hesitantly I asked, “What do young people think of this, Nimbus? The young Fasskisters and Cashlings. Do they ever look around and say, Why are things not better? What is wrong with us that we cannot accomplish great deeds? Why do we waste hours and days and years on activities we know achieve nothing? How can we stop being broken?”
The cloud man’s mist floated close to me, becoming fog all around my eyes. I had the feeling he had actually surrounded me, wrapped himself about my body, enfolding me until I too looked like a creature of mist. “Of course they ask such questions,” he whispered. “Once in a while. When they can force themselves to concentrate. Out in the depths of space, light-years away from anything, I’ve watched Cashlings weep over who they are…who they aren’t…what their race has become. That’s how prophets are born: a moment of clarity, the desire to transform themselves and the universe.
“But,” he continued, “it never lasts. They can’t make it last. They’re damaged, Oar—even if they experience a flash of profundity, they can’t sustain it, they can’t use it, they can’t preserve the desire to change. I’ve watched them; they can’t become anything else, not even with other species to learn from. They simply lack the capacity. The Cashlings are lost, and other races are following them into the darkness. On their best days, they long to be truly alive… but they’re physically incapable of pushing themselves past the emptiness.” He paused. “You can’t imagine their heartbreak when they realize they can’t make it work.”
“I believe I can imagine it,” I said. My eyes had gone misty… and the mist was not cloud.
11 Or so I have been told by human Explorers. Explorers are extremely prone to lecturing on the Diverse Facets Of Alien Life…and then telling most entertaining stories (“This did not happen to me but to a friend”) of instances when an Explorerdiddare to eat a peach.
20
WHEREIN I FEEL SORRY FOR FISH
Exclusive Rights
I still had my eyes shut, squeezing them tight to choke off tears, when the twittering Lady Bell clapped her hands with jubilation. “Then it’s settled!” she said in a gleeful voice. “Your lives for your story!”
My eyes snapped open. While I was conversing with Nimbus, Festina had apparently negotiated our freedom…which irked me no end since I had wished to be the one who persuaded the Cashlings to set us free. How else could I show the world I was not a worthless idle-head? I swiped the tears from my cheeks and stormed across the transport bay. “So,” I demanded, “what is this sinister deal you have worked out behind my back?”
Festina blinked in surprise. “Nothing sinister, Oar. Lady Bell has agreed to transport everyone on Hemlock to Jalmut and let us go free once we get there…in exchange for which, she gets exclusive rights to our story.”
“Exclusive rights!” Bell crooned. “The most wonderful phrase in your language!”
“Of course,” Lord Rye said, “tomorrow, the rights will be mine. Because then it’s my turn to be prophet.”
“Uh, yes, certainly,” Bell replied. “It will be your turn.” She whirled back to Festina. “No time to waste. We have to record your statement and broadcast it immediately. We have to record everybody’s statement.” She moved to my side with a single step of her long-legged gait and took me by the arm in a manner oozing with unearned familiarity. “Your statement particularly, dear. You were the one who suffered most; and you’ll come across fabulously on camera. The moth-eaten jacket…the woebegone expression…the childish speech patterns…you’ll tug like mad on everyone’s heartstrings. Especially the prime demographic of men who like watching grown women behave like eight-year-olds.