I keep going back to "El Arco" whenever I think of images that fit with the Nemaean Cloister on New Ruthenia...there is something wonderfully evocative in the original photograph...but then Marilyn, (Beachzz) has a wonderful eye and so it's no wonder that a photograph of hers would have a profound effect on someone who also happens to be a writer. As a result of both the intimacy and scale of her work, I think I can say that she is the official photographer of Nemaea. And again, you can see the original version of El Arco in her gallery, here: http://www.renderosity.com/mod/gallery/index.php?image_id=1567008&member ___________________________________________________________________________________________ **** The day finds them--Ilya, Aleo, and Dorianna--in the gardens of Cloister-house itself, where they walk meandering paths between patches of false forest. Native trees of rare and delicate pedigree loom here: sponge-bark and caxa, and a few modified off-planet breeds as well. Birches from ancestral Earth, and oaks. But the soils are New Ruthenia are not as friendly to the fauna of another world and so the off-planet breeds have been skewed from their true genetic origins. The birches bear small blue fruits: proof of extensive gene-tinkering, but the berries are hard and acrid on the tongue. They are food for widgets, and small, quarrelsome sparrowkeets. Fungi grow in garish, orange clumps, while creepers of a hundred breeds (or more) cover the loam, tendrils straying across the walkway borders. The air is heavy with caxa-scent, and the vague, peppercorn fragrance of black and violet blossoms. It is quiet here--beyond the suburbs of Bes. Air traffic booms and whispers overhead: shuttles from the port, climbing into orbit, and sub-orbital transports screaming their way from Bes to cities beyond. “So,” Dorianna begins, a hint of a smile in her words. “Are the trees here as dangerous and invasive as your pilots?” It is Aleo who laughs. The sound is deep and at profound odds with the austerity of his cassock. He shakes his head. “The caxas,” he says. “Can break your scalp if you sit beneath one that’s gone to seed.” “I’ll try to remember that.” Their conversation has meandered all day, has danced around a topic that--so far--remains unspoken. Ilya can sense it, almost as a fourth person here; a shadowy distortion that lingers just at the edge of perception. He senses it now, in the way Dorianna smiles, in the way she avoids his gaze, even as he makes every effort to be nice…to play the perfect gentleman. “There’s something on your mind,” Ilya says after long moments, challenging the unspoken thing in the shade of a plentywood tree, its rustling canopy shading them from the sun’s steady ascent to zenith. “It’s nothing.” “You’re lying. I thought we were going to be honest today.” Seated, now, on an aromatic carpet of moss, at growth beneath the tree, Dorianna flushes with a sudden blush. She is silent for a long moment. She inhales. She glances directly into Ilya’s searching gaze. “When we spoke yesterday, I realized something, Ilya…it’s about you.” She glances at Aleo, taking him into the meaning of her comment as well. “About your work.” “And, you don’t trust us?” Ilya asks. She shakes her head. “I trust you…and that’s the problem.” Ilya nods. “We have our jobs, Dashenka…we’ll do what we have to…but never personally against you.” “And that’s the problem, Ilya…if I go back. I’m an anthropologist…at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself; I’m supposed to travel to distant worlds. I’m supposed to learn about interesting and exotic people--and bring riches from exotic places back to my people. Right now, there‘s no one more exotic than the people of Nemaea.” Aleo barks a shot of laughter into the air. “You make us sound like fabulous freaks.” Dorianna shrugs. “In a sense, you are. You’re at odds with everything ‘normal’ in the Centralist Systems. Your ideals, your aesthetics, your government…everything about you is a throwback to the things we‘ve spent centuries abandoning. And you’re smart enough to protect that, smart enough to sabotage my study at every opportunity that you get--by design and by accident. But you’ve done something more as well…you took me to a pilot-swimmer’s bar and exposed me to something.” “A nosy pilot?” Ilya offers. “More than that.” And again, Aleo laughs. “This,” he says, “should be interesting.” It’s obvious that Dorianna has built up a head of steam--the energy, and perhaps (Ilya thinks) the bravery to go on with what she is saying. He bites back comments he can make at this time, and simply grants her silence, leavening it with a measured look of expectation. He connects with her gaze, smiling oh-so-faintly. He feels the muscles in his neck; their subtle, half-perceptible clench is all that marks his nod. “Yesterday,” Dorianna says. “I told you that I’d never do anything to hurt you.” “I remember.” “But you’re aware of something that you aren’t talking about. You mentioned it, once…when we were kids. The Revolution. The War. Do you remember?” “You called it a revolution,” Ilya says. “And you called it the desperate need to stay alive.” She pauses, stretches out on the blanket of moss. She stretches her arms behind her and stares up into the blue-green canopy above. Sun-dapples dance as the foliage sways. Her gaze remains locked for a moment, and then she returns her attention to Ilya. “I was thinking about that last night…and this morning before you two arrived…and I realized something. I’m committed to my study, and I’ll do my best. The Central Worlds could stand to learn something about Nemaea…but life in Centralist Space is different…there’s a price tag on everything, including what I’d take back. That’s what you’re afraid of, that’s why you’ve been commissioned to sabotage my study--and don’t say otherwise, I’m not to first anthropologist to come here and deal with the backhanded tactics of Cloister-house and the Frontier Guard. That’s also why I have a favor to ask you. The biggest favor you’ll ever grant.” She has Aleo’s attention. Ilya sits, rapt. “A favor?” he asks. And Dorianna nods. “I want to complete my study, unimpeded.” Ilya shakes his head. “Everything you record, everything that goes into Centralist Space must be censored.” “I don’t want my data censored.” “Then it can’t go back.” “Precisely.” “Then,” Aleo says, “we appear to have a problem.” Ilya can hear the pitch in which his words are measured. He’s egging Dorianna on, encouraging her to keep talking. “One easily solved,” Dorianna says. Ilya leans forward. “We’re not looking the other way, Dashenka…don’t ask us to.” “I’m not,” she says…shifting. There is a look of veiled terror on her face, a look of simmering shock, as he reaches into the breast pocket of her light, gray jacket. She tweezers something between two fingers, then closes it into her palm. For a long moment, she says nothing. And then, extending her hand to Ilya, she locks him in her piercing, unblinking gaze. “This is a full-sense copy of my…encounter with the pilot in the bar. Unedited. Raw feed. It’s yours to do with as you please.” “In exchange for what?” Ilya tastes the bite in his question. “Two things. The first. Let me continue my study. I have to do this…because of my second request.” “Which is?” “I want to stay here and I need to learn all that I can in order to survive. I’m learning about who and what you are…Nemaeans, I mean…and I’m learning about that skinny kid I had a crush on when my father dragged me all the way here from the core of Sol System itself. I like what I see here, and I know why your oh-so-mysterious Cloister assigned you to me with probable orders to make things…difficult for me. I know what my people are like, and how they’re likely to use what I learn and take back to them. So rather than…well…rather than help them to correct the mistakes that cost them the resources and profit-potentials after the war…I’d rather help Free Nemaea remain as it is.” Deep in his gut, Ilya knows where this is going…what Dorianna will ultimately say. He glances at Aleo, but Aleo is focused ahead, his features calm and impassive. If he has any clue as to what Dorianna is saying…is about to say…he isn’t letting on, though Ilya can see the vague trance-expression of deep cognition. Dorianna continues: “I need for you to help me,” Dorianna says. “Whether this is an atypical situation or not…I need for you to help me to defect.” She reaches forward, grabbing Ilya’s fingers, and opens his palm. She places the recording-chip in his grasp and closes his fingers around it. Cradling his hand in both of hers, she raises his fist to her lips and kisses the flesh of his fingers. “Do with this what you please,” she says. “You’re Cloister-trained, and I’m sure that you know a thing or two about Central System mentalities. I’m sure there’s something you can use there.” “This is treason against your people,” Aleo says quietly, with no emotion in his voice. “I know what it is,” Dorianna shoots back. “You’re sure you want to do this?” “What choice have I got?” “Multiple choices,” Ilya says, his voice calm and measured, but his throat is tight, constricted, and the words taste shrill and shaky. “Nemaea is a harsh realm for you,” Aleo says. “You have to know this. We’re human…just like you are…which means that we have our share of hypocrisies, double-standards, and every species of offense you can imagine. We value what we have, but we don‘ t live in some ideal utopia. Ilychka and I are committing a serious crime if we allow you to think that life here is a beautiful and noble thing.” “You’re not telling me anything new.” “But we’re telling you the truth,” Ilya says. “There is no reason for you to live here…no reason for you to turn your back on the only life you’ve ever known. You have people back home…people who care for you. You have family there…parents…a lover, perhaps.” “My father died last year. I can do with out the others I have there.” “But you have friends.” “In high places,” she says. “And they’re dangerous. They’re as young as you are…and they remember the war as well. They see the year 120 as the year we made a mistake…our strategies weren’t subtle enough and we moved against you with military might. A mistake. You call it the Widow’s Year…in Centralist Space, we call it…the year we let wealth slip out of our grasp.” Ilya is chilled, he feels his hands furl, involuntarily, into fists. “And you’re saying that members of your government are prepared to make a move against us?” Dorianna nods. “I’m saying that they’ll do it if they get the chance…but you can stop them from ever thinking it. You can make sure that Nemaea remains free, and unmodified by the Corporate-Capital interests that dictate the lives I want to leave behind.” There is pause enough to let her words sink in. And then, quietly: “Ilychka…please…help me.” She reaches forward and places the data-chip in Ilya’s grasp. She cradles his hand in both of hers, closing his fingers around the treachery she has placed there. She kisses his fingertips and stares into his gaze with such naked entreaty that he is forced to look away. “Help me,” she repeats. ****