"In other words," I said, "some dire calamity has afflicted them with Tired Brains."
"Exactly. And the same thing is happening to other species. Fasskisters, for example the greatest mastersof nanotech in our sector, but these days they hardly work at all. Oh, they still take jobs if they find the assignment amusing (and if the price is right); but they haven’t initiated anything themselves for quite some time. They don’t dream up projects on their own. It’s as if they’re incapable of imagining what they might do: they need an outside commission to kick them into activity."
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, lightyears 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.
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. Boy, do those guys have disposable income!"
Festina seized my other arm before I showed Lady Bell what "disposable" really means.
No Such Thing As An Immediate Departure
"So," Uclod said to Bell, "you can do the broadcast right away?"
The lady whooshed gusts of air from several apertures in her skin. I believe this was a Disdainful Scoff. "We’re running a crusade," she told the little orange man. "We have an instant-play contract with four major news-wires and enough broadcasting wattage to saturate every star system from here to the globular clusters. When we preach a sermon, we preach a sermon."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Uclod asked. "Let’s go!" Alas, it was not so easy as that. Arrangements had to be made. While the prophets’ ship (called Unfettered Destiny) could hold those of us scheduled to give testimony, the rest of Hemlock’s crew had to be offloaded in ones and twos to other vessels in the flotilla. This would require significant coordination of effort, and neither Lady Bell nor Lord Rye wished to supervise the work: such "petty details" were beneath the dignity of important prophets. Moreover, Lady Bell insisted her broadcast witnesses could not possibly spare the time to help clear the navy ship. We had to start recording without delay; otherwise, she might decide to make us slaves after all.
This was merely an empty threat — anyone could see she did not care about slaves half so much as she cared about the broadcast. Bell literally jiggled with joy at the prospect of disseminating our testimony; she clearly expected to reap substantial benefits. No doubt she would become famous as the person who brought my poignant tale to the universe. Moreover, I suspected the broadcast was not going to be delivered free of charge — the audience would have to pay a fee in order to see my beauty. This meant Lady Bell would surely become rich, for everyone enjoys watching a person as lovely as I, especially when the person has a Sobering Tale To Tell.
The promise of forthcoming largesse explained why Bell grew upset with Festina. My Faithful Sidekick wished to remain on Royal Hemlock long enough to ensure there were no slip-ups in the evacuation… whereas Lady Bell desired to leave right away, and stamped her foot impatiently at waiting even a little bit. "If you must hang around here," she told Festina, "I’ll take the others and get started without you."
But that did not please Festina: she had the air of a person who believes everyone else will make an Awful Cock-Up of giving testimony, emphasizing the wrong details, skipping important evidence, and generally creating a flawed impression with the viewing public. She did not trust us to do things correctly unless she was there to supervise.
In the end, Lady Bell agreed to wait just long enough for Festina to find Captain Kapoor and put him in charge of the evacuation. This, as it turned out, was merely a ruse on the lady’s part — as soon as Festina left the transport bay, Bell attempted to persuade us to depart immediately.