Revolt on War World

IV

A communal symphony convened. We made music and let it take us into complicated realms of certainty and doubt, where Pythagoras fought with numbers and found the octave and the twelve chromatic semitones, our disciples, from whence came spherical harmony, as from chaos and cacophony a symphony universal evolved.

My fingers manipulated the rhythm sticks automatically and I hummed in tune, even as my mind kicked and screamed at the onslaught now facing us. We'd done fine for an Earth-year or so, and anyone joining us would be interlopers, even if they shared our faith.

Reverend Castell let the Chosen pulse with rhythms and song for only a few rondeaux verses before appearing in the town square himself, in fresh robes bleached white. In the orange of Haven's day he seemed covered in fiery blood. Raising his hands, he commanded silence. His gaze scanned us, and he shook his head, his face showing disgust.

"My efforts," he said. Then he glanced down for an instant and started again. "Our efforts to live in harmony with all forces of the universe have been blessed until today. Many have been injured, and most of us continue to marvel at the sheer harshness of Haven's environment, but we're still here. We have not thrived, but we have gotten by.

"Now the CoDominium has followed us, and its decay is spread even unto our crisp air and unsullied waters. This is cause for resentment, perhaps, but such negative feelings create disharmony, which shall, if indulged, prove our nemesis.

"We must welcome not only other Harmonies, but also the pitiable families transported here by the CoDominium. They purchased a share in our world and no doubt harbor dreams of better lives. They are more akin to the Chosen than most others from that rotting planet whose name is a synonym for dirt.

"Haven was the name of Tycho Brahe's island where he brought together the best astonomers of his time to form Uraniborg, the Heavenly Castle, an estate of science and truth, a refuge from idiocy and Earthly corruptions, and Haven is our planet's name, chosen and bestowed by my father, and a haven it shall ever be, to all those who must be clean of Earth."

The Chosen murmured amongst themselves and milled about, and Reverend Castell glanced at me and smiled, perhaps in atonement for the earlier scowl. "They're big enough," he told me in a soft voice. "They can accommodate even this latest of added burdens."

I nodded and returned his smile, squaring my shoulders. If such was Reverend Castell's new course for Haven, then such would I support, for I trusted him to sense the resonance, the harmonics.

The fact that we had no choice may have helped us be gracious in our first greetings when, a few hours later, the first clumps of miners arrived.

Those of us with boats helped ferry people ashore, while the rest of us either got on with urgent tasks or stood gaping up as shuttle after shuttle arrived. I figured there were five shuttles in all, working in a chain. They soon had the new arrivals on the ground.

Our women comforted the newcomers' wives and children, while our men harmonized with old friends and amazed colonists who'd expected a more settled world.

Some of the Chosen were eager for news from Earth, others contented themselves with the festive atmosphere that was developing as tours of our town and fields were given. It was as if we had visitors.

Visitors, however, soon depart, whereas this overwhelming number of people were here to stay.

To escape the confusion and conflicting feelings of giddiness and horror, I clapped hands outside Reverend Castell's house and was bid enter. Stepping down the four steps, I got on my hands and knees and crawled in through the curtain.

He sat in the dim light of a single wick-lame, holding but not reading a copy of the Writings. "Key, he said "have you completed your circuit?"

I remembered my five-sleep walk, the people I'd visited, and the vermin I'd dropped on my run toward the lake, then forced myself toward peace, in order to better remember my tour. "Yes, Reverend, all the outlying farms are well. Some vermin and one possible raid from the outcasts are the only discords."

He nodded as if not really interested. "Can we increase our harvests by a factor of ten or more?"

Blood drained from my face. With all the confusion, I hadn't given thought to starving.

Reverend Castell blinked, and I saw tears flowing. "Maybe they've brought extra seed-grain, or implements, despite what the officer said."

I sat heavily, unbidden, on a pallet by the door as the truth sank home like an arrow in my heart: Even if the new arrivals took to farming in a trice, there was not near enough seed-grain to allow planting.

"They must spread through the Shangri-La Valley," Reverend Castell said. "How ironic that name's become. I wonder if the first surveyors foresaw this planet's strife?"

Not fully understanding his references, I remained silent.

"Muslcylopes, perhaps," he said. "Or groundhogs, when we spot them. But we cannot slay them unthinkingly, as, we did the American bison and so many other species."

I let him chatter to himself for a few moments, then said, "Reverend, you've always taught me that a note gains its power when it acts in concert with other notes according to the laws of harmony."

He glanced up at me, surprise on his face. A smile blossomed. "You are a good soul," he told me.

Unsure that he'd understood what I meant, I blushed but forced myself to say, "I mean, we can't abandon our Writings now," and gestured half-heartedly at the book he held. "I must tell you, there's already unrest spreading. Some of the newcomers describe themselves as service merchants. They have harlots, and gambling is on their every word, in their every thought. I have even scented alcohol on the breaths of some of our own, who perhaps shared a secular communion with less-strict brothers in Harmony."

It felt worse than a toothache to presume to tell Reverend Castell anything so crass, and I fidgeted and finally stood to excuse myself, preferring to let him think in solitude than risk being exposed to another of his rantings. Before I could move, however, someone poked his head through the curtain into the room and said, "Castell? That you?"

Aghast at such effrontery, I looked at the reverend, who appeared as amazed as I by such a breach of town etiquette. "I am he," the reverend said, standing. He placed the Writings on a stone shelf and folded his hands in front of his belt-line.

The man had curly brown hair and a dentist smile. He brushed off the dust from the short tunnel, then stretched up to touch the roofing. "Quaint," he said, more or less ignoring us as he surveyed the room's contents. He bent and brushed more dust from his trouser's knees.

Finally he said, "Oh, uh, I'm Julian Anders' secretary, Rollie Tate, and I was asked to bring you to see him right away, so can we get going?"

His words shot through me like high voltage.

Reverend Castell said, "Am I to understand that Anders is a Harmony?"

The little man nodded enthusiastically. "Sure what else? He's our leader, he brought us all to this dump. Now can we get a move on? Reverend Anders doesn't like waiting."

My expression must have betrayed my inner turmoil, because Reverend Castell stepped forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. He leaned close and whispered, "A song always has more notes."

He meant that the notes left unsounded are as important as those we sing, a quotation intended to soothe me.

Did he also mean we should have seen this coming?