“So you are a rebel, Ser Mantenon?” the man asked.
Mantenon pondered his reply. “I am a musician,” he said. “I want to make music.”
“You suborned an official vessel of the CUG Navy,” the man said. “This is not the act of a musician.”
“How he did so…” interrupted a woman near Mantenon. He looked at her. Her eyes were the same green as the others, her dark hair streaked with silver.
“How he did so is not the issue, Sera. Why he did so matters to me. What he will do in the years ahead matters to me. Will he bring trouble on us?”
“No,” said Mantenon firmly. “I will not. I am not a rebel that way—stirring up trouble. I only want to make music: write music, play music, conduct—”
“Your music makes trouble.” That was a balding man halfway around the table. “Your music made them bring you… it might make us go. If you have that power, you must have plans to use it.”
“To give pleasure,” said Mantenon. Suddenly the room felt stuffy. He’d been so sure anyone living on a planet would understand why he had to get off that ship. “I don’t want to control people with it. I only did it because it was the only way.”
“Hmmm.” Eyes shifted sideways, meeting each other, avoiding his gaze.
“Pleasure,” said the woman who’d spoken. “That’s a good thought, Ser Mantenon. Do you like this world?”
“I hardly know it yet, but it seems… well, it’s better than the ship.”
She chuckled. “I see. And you want to give us pleasure—the colonists?”
“Yes. I want to make music you will enjoy.”
“And not to send us to war with Central Union?”
“Oh, no.” This time, after his answer, he felt an odd combined response: relaxation and amusement both rippled around the table.
“And you are willing to work?”
“At music, certainly. I can teach a number of instruments, music theory, conduct, if there’s an orchestral group with no conductor, as well as compose. But I have had surgical modifications that make some kinds of work impossible.”
“Of course. Well.” She looked sideways; heads nodded fractionally. “Well, then, we are pleased to welcome you. We think you will find a place, though it will not be what you’re used to.”
And from there he was led to a ground vehicle of some kind (he noticed that the shuttle had already been canted into its takeoff position), and was driven along a broad hard-surfaced road toward a block of forest. Within the forest were clearings and buildings. Before he had time to wonder what they all were, he found himself installed in a small apartment, with clean bedding stacked on the end of a metal bunk, and the blank ends of electrical connections hanging out of the walls. His original escort yelled something down the passage, and two men appeared with utility connections: cube player, speakers, intercom.
“We have not installed your machine… your composing machine… because we do not yet know if you will stay here, or prefer to live somewhere else.”
“That’s fine,” said Mantenon absently, watching the men work.
“The group kitchen is on the ground floor, two down,” the man said. “If you think you will wish to cook here, we can install—”
“Oh, no,” said Mantenon. “I don’t know how to cook.” The man’s eyebrows rose, but Mantenon didn’t ask why. He was suddenly very tired, and longed for sleep. The workers left, without a word, and the escort twitched his mouth into a smile.
“You are tired, I’m sure,” he said. “I will leave you to rest, but I will come by before the next meal, if that is all right”
“Thank you.” Mantenon didn’t know whether to wave or not; the man suddenly stepped forward and grasped his hand, then bowed. Then he turned away and went out the door, shutting it behind him.
Mantenon spread a blanket over the bunk and lay down. Something jabbed him in the ribs, something angular. The captain’s message cube. He sighed, grunted, and finally rolled off the bunk to stick the cube in the player.
It was a holvid cube, and the captain’s miniature image appeared between his hands. He stepped back, slouched on the bunk.
“Mr. Mantenon,” she began, then paused. Her hair was backlit by the worklight on her desk, her face the same cool, detached face he’d known for these years of travel. “You are an intelligent man, and so I think you will appreciate an explanation. Part of one. You resented being tricked, as all young artists do. You were smart enough to avoid violence, and obvious rebellion. I suspect you even knew we had experienced attempts to use art against us before. And I know you suspected that I knew what you were doing. If you are as smart as I think you are, you’re wondering now if you’re in prison or free, if you’ve won what you thought you were winning. And the answer is yes, and the answer is no.
“You are not the first to try what you tried. You are not the first to succeed. Most do not. Most are not good enough. Your music, Mr. Mantenon, is worth saving… at the cost of risking your effect on this colony. Although you will never be allowed to leave that planet, for you I think it will be freedom, or enough to keep you alive and well. Students to teach, music to play… you can conduct a live orchestra, when you’ve taught one. You were not ambitious, Mr. Mantenon, and so you will not miss the power you might have held at the Academy. You can curse me, as the representative of the government that tricked you, and go on with your life. But there’s one other thing you should know.” Again she paused, this time turning her head as if to ease a stiff neck.
“You can think of it as plot within plot, as your music wove theme within theme. The government removes the dangerous, those who can wield such power as you, and protects itself… and yet has a way to deal with those who are too powerful for that isolation. But the truth is, Mr. Mantenon, that you did overpower my ship. You are free; we must return, or be listed as outlaws, and if we return, our failure will cost all of us. You hoped we would rebel, and follow you into freedom. You did not know that our ship is our freedom… that I had worked years for this command, and you have destroyed it. You see the government as an enemy—most artists do—but to me it is all that keeps the worlds together, providing things for each other that none can provide alone. Like the Academy, where you may send a student someday. Like my ship, in which we traveled freely. I don’t expect you to believe this, not now. But we were honored to have you aboard, from the first: truly honored. And we were honored by the power of your music. And you destroyed us, and we honor you for that. A worthy enemy; a worthy loss. If you ever believe that, and understand, write us another song, and send that.”
And nothing lay between his hands but empty air. After a long moment he breathed again. In the silence, he heard the beginnings of that song, the first he would write on his new world, the last gift to the old.
No Pain, No Gain
Meryl the shepherdess woke from nightmares in which she waded through glue on grotesquely swollen legs. She opened her eyes to the smoky rafters of her mother’s little hut, and stretched luxuriously. Bad dreams make good days, Gran always said. Flinging back the covers, she rolled out of bed and burst into screams. There they were, attached to her own wiry body—the plump soft legs of her dream, and when she took a step, it felt as if she were wading through glue. She didn’t stop screaming until her mother slapped her smartly across the mouth. Gran said it was the Evil Eye, and probably the fault of Jamis the cowherd’s second wife, no better than she should be, jealous because her girl had a mole on her nose, for which she had blamed everyone but herself. Everyone knew that the Evil Eye didn’t cause moles on the nose: those came from poking and prying.