NationStates Jolt Archive

"The problem," Daniel Montgomery said, "Is all these nethi about. That's why the economy's gone all to hell, Geoffery. One can't trust a class made up of entirely unaltered genotypes, after all."

Geoffery Fitzsimmons nodded politely, sipping at his tea. Montgomery was a staunch follower of the Party line, as well as being the Reif of the most prosperous province in the Confederacy. He had the facts correct, even if Geoffery disagreed with his conclusions.

"What Sutherland needs to do is have the Board of Development replace them all," Daniel continued. "We've done it before, after all. The vokhi and the ridhae and the ktaszi. Surely they can make the middle classes more docile, don't you agree?"

Geoffery didn't, but he was only a Graf, after all, and from the arid West at that. It simply wasn't wise to disagree with a Reif, not in his position.

"Certainly," he lied, "But one does remember that trouble we had when the nethi spacers were replaced with the ktaszi. One shuttle burnt up in reentry, another on the launch pad - simply replacing them with a new caste doesn't work. There are things they don't teach in the universities - the sort of obvious little things that are so important. Replacing the middle classes would probably make the economy worse, surely? Huntington was impeached for that blunder with the ktaszi."

Actually, Khor Cornelius Huntington had been assassinated by Sutherland agents, as they all knew; but he had been impeached the day before that happened.

"Perhaps, perhaps," Montgomery said, "But if one did it carefully, it ought to work, yes? There wasn't such a problem with the vokhi and the ridhae, after all. More tea?"

Geoffery realised that his cup was empty, and assented. The Reif signalled the tea girl with a wave of his hand, and the young nethae girl approached timidly to refill his cup.

"You see, there's another reason why we should remove the nethi. Come here, girl. See?"

Montgomery indicated the tea girl's face - pleasant enough, but no great beauty, and certainly not when compared to the ksajae women playing tennis out in the sun.

"You have a point," Geoffery conceded. Nethae would always be more homely than ksajae - it couldn't be any other way, since the latter had a vastly improved genome and the former were the base stock.

"Still, such things should be done with caution," he continued, "So as not to stir up those foreigners, too. Those people in Sakira - they embargoed us, did you hear? Nethi foreigners embargoed us! And those Acallasi. The bleeding hearts in the UN ... next we'll likely be getting protests from those fanatics in the Reich, and you know how dirty they play."

Montgomery nodded. "Yes, we want to avoid conflict with the Reich - but the others, how can they harm us? They're only stinking nethi, after all. Hardly more than animals."

"Speaking of the foreigners, did you hear about that retroviral thing the Development Board men are supposed to be making? That could solve the nethi problem quite nicely, could it not?"

The Reif waved his hand in idle dismissal. "I think that was just the pressmen getting overenthusiastic, myself. It's not like they'd know what was actually going on, after all."

Geoffery remained politely unconvinced. "They were right about Huntington's daughter being alive, weren't they?"

Montgomery sipped at his tea, and Geoffery thought he saw the Reif glare at him over the teacup's rim.

"Genevive is in particularly good form today, isn't she?" he remarked, looking out at the women playing tennis on the lawn. Geoffery turned to follow his gaze, silently noticing the Reif's change of topic. But Montgomery's wife was doing well.

They watched the ball flash back and forth in the afternoon sun, and discussed the upcoming national finals. Politics might come and go, but the ksaji, and their national sport, would remain.

Here in the free city of Kel Kjazsant they still celebrated the Shañris Adzamr, the Festival of the Affirmation, openly, and the festival processions were noisy shouts of colour in the night.

Emily Huntington leaned against the side of the Bridge of Fish and watched the largest procession, from the Church of St. Thomas, make it's way across. St. Thomas's was expected to have the biggest procession tonight; it was tonight, the night after the Crucifixion, that Christ had appeared to St. Thomas. Or so the priests said; raised in the less spiritual atmosphere of the Ksaji, back in Araion, Emily was sceptical.

The Church here in Kjazsant had been good to her, though, had gotten her out of Araion, had hidden her from the ktanisi when they came hunting her. Thinking of that, her hand went automatically to the spot on her arm where the chip had been implanted, and she remembered that first day of her exile, two days after her father had been impeached, one day after he'd been killed.

The implant made her arm itch terribly, and Emily was sure that some ktanis, unnoticed in the street, would notice the bandage covering it, would recognise her under the wig she wore, would kill her.

"Come on," Williams said, "The less time we spend out in the street, the less chance they have of spotting us. It's this way."

It was almost as if he'd read her thoughts; she followed him off the street with alacrity. Williams was her father's ktanis, possibly the only one left to their branch of the Family. She didn't know his first name, or if the man even had one; he didn't volunteer personal information, and Emily got the impression that it would be impolite to ask.

He led her down a succession of narrow back alleys, moving so fast that she had trouble stepping around the garbage on the crumbling tarmac. Williams's booted feet splashed in grimy puddles; he didn't care what he stepped in. But then he was ktanisi, not ksaji.

Williams stopped before a small door, painted in peeling red, and knocked. On the other side there was the sound of keys rattling in the lock, and the door opened, revealing a middle-aged nethi dressed in clerical black.

"Ktanisar Williams!" he exclaimed. "It's good to see you again. What brings you to my little sanctum?"

"Another lost soul for the Underground, I'm afraid," Williams replied. "This is-"

"Emily Huntington," the priest said. "I see. I suppose I should have been expecting this. Well, come in! This will take some thinking about."

He turned and vanished into the interior of the building. Emily grabbed Williams's sleeve, and hissed, "Williams, what is this? He's nethi!"

"So was Christ," Williams replied, glaring. "Father Simon may not be godborn as was the Messiah, but he's a better man than most ksaji, and he's the only one who can help you now. For the love of God and all the Aions, be respectful!"

His hand encircled her wrist and pulled her into the building. The interior was a crumbling concrete box, illuminated by brightly painted murals; Christ descending to Earth from Heaven, Christ on the cross, Christ appearing before St. Thomas, and other scenes Emily was less familiar with.

"This is a church!" she exclaimed, suprised.

"Congratulations Holmes, you've solved the case," Williams replied sarcastically.

Father Simon smiled, nodded, and said "Indeed it is. Welcome to the Church of the True Gnosis of our Lord Yeshua Christos - one of them, at least. I'm afraid your father's government made the truth a somewhat dangerous thing to know, and the numbers of the faithful have fallen."

He turned to Williams, and said, "Williams, this is going to be difficult. My contacts in the Underground aren't exactly enamoured of the ksaji, and she's about as ksaji as they come. Her father passed the Second Amendment to the Seperation of Church and State!"

"Her father told me to get her out of the country. Simon, he knew - about the Underground, the Hidden Churches, everything! He could have broken the Underground at any time, but he didn't."

"And for that I'm supposed to be grateful? Kyrie eleison! He passed the Amendment, by the Sophia and the Christos! Sutherland will have that data now, yes? This gets worse and worse."

"He might," Williams said, "But he might not. What she's carrying could bring down the ksaji entirely, if used properly. I can't let her stay in Araion - not and risk everything."

The priest sighed. "All right! I'll see what I can do."

The next day she was taken aboard a big, rusting river freighter, and installed in a hidden hold with several dozen nethi; parents, children, infants hushed by nervous mothers. She hoped they didn't see her ksajae features, and the hold was so utterly dark that they might not have.

There was no decking in this hidden hold, just the curve of the ship's hull, and fetid-smelling water had accumulated. Emily sat with the cold and damp eating into her clothes, and listened miserably to the quiet voices of the nethi and the sloshing of the water.

Finally the ship's engines growled into life, and the rattle of machinery just above their heads was loud as thunder in the cramped little room.

"It'll take a day to get to Ekharon from here," someone remarked, "And another day to get from there to Kjazsant. Kyrie eleison!"

Everyone else repeated the words, but Emily remained silent, thinking about the geography. Ekharon was the last Aaraioni city on the Tlej Eusedt, on the far side of the lakes; Kel Kjazsant was at the mouth of the Tlej, sprawling across the delta like Venice in Italia or Devras in the Dominion.

There was a flare of light in the darkness as someone lit a cigarette, and the thick smell of smoke filled the little room. Someone else murmured "thanks" as the thing was passed to them, and soon they were all passing the cigarette around like Indians (Native Americans, she corrected herself) with a peace pipe. It reached Emily between a pair of callused fingers; in the darkness it was impossible to ascertain even the gender of their owner.

She murmured "thankyou", and took an inexpert drag on the cigarette, coughing and spluttering as the acrid smoke filled her lungs, and passed it on to her left. The nethi laughed, but not unkindly.

And in the here-and-now, her cigarette fell from her hand in suprise as a familiar voice said "I have not forsaken you"; the same words Christ had told St. Thomas, on this night over twenty-one centuries ago.

"Williams!" she exclaimed. "I thought you were still in Araion."

The ktanisar shook his head. "Father Simon thinks that Sutherland's ktanisi may be on your trail again. You may have to move again - preferably somewhere where we can use that chip."

"Kyrie eleison!" Emily said; it was impossible to avoid picking up that phrase, in the Church hostel where she slept. "That's not good. The Underground doesn't go out of Kjazsant, does it?"

"No, it doesn't." Williams looked grim. "I'll keep in touch - and for God's sake, be careful!"

James Finch made a quick sweep of the courtyard with his eyes, watching cautiously for signs of an Araioni trap. He'd been helping their Underground for five years, and had narrowly avoided capture at least once because of excessive paranoia. That same talent was now screaming at him to get out and let this Emily Huntington rot, whoever she was, but Sandy thought Huntington was too valuable to pass up. She was supposed to have information that could be vital to The Cause.

Sandy's always been a nut about causes. I swear, this one is gonna get us killed.

He glanced at his watch again. She's late. He vowed to give her five more minutes, and then he's gone. Of course, he said that five minutes ago. He doesn't look forward to the look on Sandy's face if he comes home empty handed. Of course, she's doesn't have to sit out in the cold waiting for genetically enhanced monsters to come swooping down on her. No, that's his job. So he waited.

He ordered another cup of coffee, his third in the past twenty minutes. He looked up to see a vision of beauty enter the courtyard. The wig and makeup didn't quite conceal her unnatural perfection. Of course she was perfect, she was ksajae, a member of the genetically modified ruling elite of Araion. Still, it was his first contact with one of them, and he found it more than a little unnerving.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as she ordered a drink and seated herself, looking around nervously like she was a rabbit waiting for the hawk to pounce. She's either a hell of an actor, or she really is a rank amateur, he sneered internally. Then, a brief moment of charity. Of course, she just looks how I feel. What the hell is an aksajae doing on the run?

He waited until his coffee arrived, then stood up and made his way over to the book shelf. The coffee shop doubled as a bookstore, and was a perfect place to loiter. He set down the book he originally picked up and selected another. He paused as if to think about it, then turned to the girl. "Ever read Samuel Clemens' work?" he asks casually.

She jerked in surprise, her eyes darting about to see who might have noticed his forward approach. "N-no, I...uh...don't read Mark Twain," she replied hesitantly.

Amateur, he derided in his mind. But good enough. He slide into the seat across from her and tossed the book down on the table. "You ought to. He had a lot to say about the ruling elite and the upper crust of society. Most of it was uncomfortably accurate. Suppose you were a Congressman. And suppose you were an idiot. But I repeat myself."

She blinked in confusion, clearly not following him.

"That was a quote," James explained. When he saw that she still didn't understand what he meant by it, he said, "Twain was mocking Congressmen, calling them all...oh hell. Nevermind. You probably wouldn't appreciate it."

"Don't talk down to me like I was some ignorant netha!" she snapped. Her startling eyes glittered with righteous anger as she bristled at him.

"Shut up," James said coldly, but quietly. "You wanna get caught? Fine, go turn yourself in. Me, I like breathing. Now that the pleasantries are finished, tell me why I'm risking my life talking to you. Why should I help you?"

She matched his glare in vehemence, but after a moment she relented and struggled to control herself. "I have...information. My father is...was...important. The data I possess will help me avenge his murder. You get to strike a blow for the nethi." Again the word was formed with extreme distaste, as though not fit for polite conversation. To her, it probably wasn't. "I escape to take revenge for my father's death."

"Fine, fine," James said airily, then sipped at his coffee. "But what is it? State secrets? Blackmail? Technical plans? Photos of that Reif guy wearing his wife's underwear? What have you got that's worth risking my life for?"

She shook her head imperiously. "It's important enough. That's all you need to know."

He started to growl, then stifled it. He slammed down his coffee cup and renewed his glare at her. "Listen to me, girlie. I'm not one of your slave ktanisi. I'm a free agent, and I have no reason or inclination to help you get to free lands except for whatever ace you're hiding. So either you tell me what I want to know, or you can swim to Callas for all I care."

She stiffened, and her perfect face twisted. "Maybe I've made a mistake. I'm sorry for wasting your time." She started to rise.

"Sit down, dammit," he hissed at her. Slowly, unwillingly, she did so. "You didn't bring it with you today, did you?" A shake of the head. No. "All right, that's smart. Fine, keep your secrets a little longer. I couldn't smuggle it, or you, out today anyway. Come back in two days. We'll arrange it through Dad again." Father Simon, of course. "We'll either be ready to move you then, or give you instructions for where to go. But that information better be gold, girlie, or you won't be swimming to Callas. You'll be feeding the sharks. You got me?"

Slightly pale now, the girl nodded.

"Fine. Enjoy the book. You could learn something from it." James stood abruptly and walked away, abandoning the book and the coffee. He had a hankering for something much stronger to clear the taste from his mouth, but he didn't dare. He had to talk to Sandy, first.

He wished he could just run from this. He could practically smell disaster looming.