Snark knew that. When the invigilators had dragged her before the huge, unbearably shiny robo-judge, they’d read her the words printed across its front: EQUAL JUSTICE; THE SAME REMEDY FOR THE SAME CRIME, EVERY TIME.
“On Alliance Central, human rights are those rights our people grant one another and enforce for one another,” the machine said in its solemn, mechanical voice. “There are four human rights universally recognized. The first of these is the right of all individuals to do what they choose with an absolute minimum of interference. Man is not required to meet any standard of behavior so long as he is not adversely sensed by any other human. The second right is that of choosing one’s dependents. Persons may not be taxed or otherwise forced to support dependents they have not chosen, though they are absolutely required to care for those they have signed for. The third right is to be protected from those who would infringe upon the first two rights through interference or unlawful dependency. Thievery, of which you have been convicted, is a crime of interference and dependency. You have put others to inconvenience and you have supported yourself at others’ expense. You may be brought into alignment with social norms if you so choose. Do you so choose?”
Of course she hadn’t so chosen. And she never would! Which she’d said, not quite that politely.
Imperturbably, the machine had gone on: “If one chooses not to be aligned, the fourth human right is to die. Do you choose to die?”
She hadn’t chosen that either.
“On Alliance Central, persons choosing neither to be aligned nor to die have only one alternative remaining—to become shadows.”
Or, as Kane the Brain said later, “Spend two thirds of your time asleep or serving the bureaucracy so they’ll let you think you’re doing what you want one third of your time!”
Which is what Snark had ended up doing. No fix for her. No having her mind changed so she wouldn’t want to steal anymore. No having her chemistry changed so she wouldn’t want to maim or kill. No, better be herself one third of the time than never be herself at all.
“So go to the simul and kill somebody,” Susso had yelled at her when she’d tried to damage Susso and found herself curled up on the floor, thumb in mouth. “Go to the simul and slap people around, kill people, that’s what you want. Do it! But you can’t do it out here!”
It sounded great, but nobody stayed dead in a simul! How could you get any satisfaction killing somebody who didn’t stay dead? You wake up the next day, the same person is still walking around, looking through you. No matter you’d disposed of him in the simul, you’d still be smelling him. And even when Snark was in the simul, something inside her just knew the people in there weren’t real, even though they looked just like the ones, sounded just like the ones Snark hated!
Sounded like Kane, talking like he did. Or looked just like that bastard Willit, egging her on that way, making her end up with her thumb in her mouth. Sounded like that bastard Procurator, him with his fancy tea parties. If Snark wanted, she could bring up the Procurator in the simul booth, or that black-haired woman he’d had with him the other day, Lutha Tallstaff. There she’d sat, hair perfect, face perfect, dressed in clothes you could kill for, holding out a cup to be filled, never noticing who it was that filled it! Never noticing who brought the food, who served it! Not a nod. Not a smile. Pretending Snark really was invisible!
Bitch! What she’d like to do to that bitch! She could tie her up and make her watch while Snark carved the old bastard into slices. Then, when it got to be her turn, let her feel what it was like not to exist! Let high-and-mighty Lutha Tallstaff learn what it felt like to be chopped up into bloody pieces, made into nothing!
Whimpering in eagerness, ignoring her hunger, Snark ran from the locker room in the direction of the simul booth.
The day I went to the House Without a Name, Chahdzi, my father, spent the morning cleaning the upper pool. In the afternoon it was his responsibility to carry food down into the canyon, so all day he kept an eye on the shadow at the bottom of the canyon, judging the progress of the day. If he was to return before dusk, he would need to stop work on the upper pool when the shadow touched the bottom of the eastern wall, or perhaps, for safety’s sake, a little time before.
When the shadow was where he thought it should be, he went up the short ladders to the cave floor, took a sack of Kachis-kibble from the storehouse, put it over his shoulders, fastened it onto the carrier belts that crossed his chest, swung himself around the ends of the ladder, and began the descent to the canyon floor. Tonight he needed to speak to songfather about the old outlander ghost who was causing so much inconvenience. When he had done that, perhaps he could also discuss certain conflicts in his own life that needed patterning. Had these conflicts been decreed by Weaving Woman? If so, could they be sung and acknowledged? Could his annoyance be exorcised in song? Or must it remain silent, part of the corruption inevitably incurred when the terrible choice had been made?
I, Saluez, know this, because I know how he thought. My father often spoke to me of his troubles, of his confusions. He did not get on well with Zinisi, his wife (who was not my mother). Always he resolved to speak to his father,
