Not that Boarmus saw the irony. At least he didn’t say anything about it. Not that he said much where anyone—anything—could hear him. Still, everyone knew about the Brannigans by now. Knew, whispered, but never said it out loud. One said Monstrous Crawler, Great Lord Clore this, Great Lord Clore that. One said Mighty Lord Breaze or Magna Mater. One said Sweet and Adorable Lady Bland. One said litanies, new ones every few days. Heart of Heaven, Wall of Desire, Mouth of Morning. Great Temple of Love. That was one for Thob. One could say things like that, but one didn’t say Brannigan. One pretended not to know about that.
Jacent tapped softly on Aunt Syrilla’s door. He hadn’t seen her for some days. Somebody ought to check on her, be sure she was all right.
There was no answer, but then people these days sometimes didn’t bother answering. Sometimes it was better if they didn’t. He tried the door, which was not sealed. He pushed it open. The room inside seemed empty. A little dusty and disarranged, but that was the usual thing these days, with so many of the automatic systems out of order and nobody left to repair them.
“Aunt Syrilla?” The doors inside the suite were open. He could see all the way through it. The bedroom was empty. The bathroom. He walked through into the wardrobe, lined on both sides with racks and chests and shelves.
It was almost as if he’d known she’d be there, on the shelf next to the ceiling, her purple face hanging over the edge, the rest of her squashed into an impossibly small space in the corner.
Jacent made it to the saniton before he was sick. Parts of her had run down the wall, dripped onto her clothing below. He took deep breaths, one after the other, trying not to remember what she looked like. There were a few like this every now and then, strange deaths, impossible deaths, just enough to make everyone imagine the next one would be him, or her. And then some person would claim to have had a vision of what the god wanted, and everyone in Tolerance would dance or sing or chant or engage in ridiculous, meaningless actions, and nobody would be killed for a while. Almost as though the Brannigans had been distracted. Or really had wanted everybody to do whatever ritual it was they were doing.
When he had recovered enough that he could walk, he slipped out into the corridor, almost knocking Boarmus down as he came through the door.
“I was looking for you, boy,” whispered Boarmus. “Come with me.” And he set off down a side corridor, dragging Jacent along by the arm as he ducked through a servant’s door, thus avoiding a group of several hundred persons slithering down the corridor on their bellies to the sound of drums and cymbals. Jacent tried to hold him back, babbling about what he’d found back there.
“I know,” said Boarmus. “I found her this morning.”
“Where …” breathed Jacent. “Where are we?”
“Garage,” said Boarmus. “I’m sending you to Panubi.”
“Me!”
“You. In a ZT thirty-four, which is the only thing we have capable of getting you there in one swoop. I hope your operational skills are good.”
“But I can’t fly a thirty-four,” the boy blubbed. “Honestly, Boarmus. I’ve only been in one once.”
“It’s the only way,” said Boarmus. “Any other type flier, you’ll have to land and recharge, and the minute you land, they’ll eat you.”
“You come with me,” begged the boy. “You can fly one of those.”
“I can’t come with you.” He laughed harshly. “I never thought duty impressed me that much, boy, but this is duty. I’m trying to keep a few of us alive here. If I can.”
“Send a pilot, then.”
“What pilot? Where? You see any pilots? You see any maintenance people? You see any messengers? You see any patrols? Use your head, boy. You wanted excitement, now you’ve got it. You either teach yourself to fly this machine or you die pretty soon, as likely all of us will anyhow.”
Jacent screamed into the weary face before him, “They won’t kill me if I bow down! If I do the rituals and things. If I crawl. They won’t kill me if I crawl!”
Boarmus shook him until his head flopped. “Maybe not today. Maybe they’ll wait until tomorrow. Then they’ll have a heresy trial, maybe, just for amusement. And they’ll make up new rules and kill everyone who doesn’t know what they are. Jacent, remember Metty. She didn’t do anything to anyone. What did Syrilla do? What have any of us done? Don’t you understand what’s going on here? You expect you can figure out what to do to keep yourself out of trouble. You expect logic. You expect good sense. You don’t understand what’s happening.”
Jacent took a deep breath and tried to control himself. He’d never thought he would fall apart like this. But there was blood everywhere these days, blood and messy things. Pieces of people falling out of closets and off of shelves. People coming apart right in front of you, while they were working, while they were eating even. One of his friends had his girlfriend come all to pieces while they were making love, right there on the bed, leaving him covered with parts of her while this terrible gulping laughter went on and on. Horror piled on horror, and nobody knowing why or what to do about it.
“What am I going for?” he said from a dry mouth, trying to control his shaking.
“You’re going to tell Zasper Ertigon or whoever else you find there—Danivon, maybe—that if he can think of any way to
