Semiosis Read online

  Bartholomew announced Stevland’s plan to become a citizen.

  “He should be. He’s done so much for us,” said Marie, a member of the Committee who usually analyzes new ideas carefully, but she’s a dental medic and he works closely with the medics, so she already knew him as a trusted coworker.

  A farmer agreed. “Without him, we’d eat a lot less.”

  Hathor said, “A new citizen!” and nudged Forrest. They’d have a fresh target.

  “But does he understand us?” Nevada asked. “He’s never even been to one of these meetings. Does he understand democracy and voting?”

  Bartholomew arched an eyebrow. “That’s a point I’m exploring with him. He plans to grow a stem here to communicate.” He pointed to the open space in the floor.

  The medics said Jersey was stable, but in a grave state. They thought the antibodies Stevland had discovered might be related to an autoimmune disorder or an infection. They were trying to keep her comfortable. Her children had visited her.

  I expected criticism for my decision not to pursue the Glassmakers since there is a tangible passion to know about them. Instead, I got a lot of questions about what exactly I had heard and seen. How did they talk? Smell? Every little detail, told twice. Some of the hunters suggested initiating a process of observation and perhaps gift-giving. Nevada wanted to set copies of Harry’s art in places where it might be found as a peace gesture so they could begin to understand us. Pursuit, many agreed, might have been misinterpreted, but why hadn’t the Glassmakers initiated contact? We wanted to meet them so badly! But we needed to do it right.

  People should have complained about what I did. Hathor and Forrest, at least. But during the meeting, someone began to snack on a piece of fruit. That was it. Stevland had made them docile, agreeable. They were drugged.

  After the questions were answered, I took members of the Committee aside and told them that Stevland wanted to be moderator. “He wants control, and he’s powerful. You know how much he can do, and he would do it, even down to little details of our lives.”

  “Moderators can only do what the Committee lets them,” Cedar said.

  “Can he do that?” Moon asked Bartholomew. “He’s not human.”

  “Technically, once he’s a citizen, it’s possible for him to be elected. But we already have a moderator, so the post isn’t open.”

  “They’d never do that on Earth, let a plant run things and be equal,” Moon said as if it were a good reason.

  “He’s never thought of himself as our equal, always as superior,” I said.

  “But you can work with him,” Cedar said.

  Marie knit her brows, which deepened the wrinkles across her forehead. “Moderator might be too much, but Stevland is our friend. He has his idiosyncrasies, and that’s a concern. Plants think differently and you have to allow for that, but he genuinely cares about us.”

  Docile fruit was at work.

  “Get some rest,” Marie told me. “We’ll talk about this.”

  My husband, when he learned what Stevland wanted and why I wasn’t eating fruit, quietly removed all bamboo fruit from our home so I wouldn’t be tempted.

  So I end the day in a situation worse than last night’s. Then, I was in danger. Now, everyone is, and there’s nothing I can do.

  * * *

  Day 378. Notes from the evening Commonwealth meeting. Agenda created in collaboration with Bartholomew and others. Quorum present, 271 people. Missing: Jersey’s children, her mother, medical personnel, medical patients including Jersey, and city wall guards. Medics and guards represented by proxies. Jersey’s husband was present. I have never seen a more miserable person, pale and drooped like a wilted flower, which was not surprising given what he would have to say.

  First item: Stevland’s citizenship declaration. We had prearranged this ceremony, although Stevland hadn’t been informed of everything. The stem had grown tall, bloated, pale, and leafless. Stevland had said earlier in the day that the growth had been very taxing, and he had had to pull in adenine and sugars from some distance.

  People settled into seats and benches, sat on the floor in the aisles, and stood along the walls. Harry’s art displays had been pushed into corners.

  Bartholomew explained the constitutional provisions. Stevland presented his statement of sympathy with the spirit of the Commonwealth of Pax: “I share your natural disposition for joy, community, freedom, and peace, especially peace.…”

  Freedom. Stevland and I had discussed that earlier in the afternoon. I don’t think he understood what that meant. “Animals are repetitive,” he had said. “If they can be prevented from repeating mistakes, their lives would be more free.” We wrangled over that for some time. He still wanted to ban boat races.

  But at the meeting, he continued:

  “I regret the loss of the bamboo civilization before my germination, but you have brought me aspirations beyond my imagination. I share your love of beauty and curiosity in the world and universe around us, and your hope for a happier life. With some of you, I also share vanity, and that is why I did not tell you I could hear and understand your language. I was waiting for fluency.…”

  Liar. But freedom includes the freedom to lie, especially to ourselves. The truth fruit had only made people miserable.

  “And therefore,” he said, “I, Stevland Jamil Barr, now declare myself a citizen of the Commonwealth of Pax.”

  He had claimed the full Earth name of the first human to die on the trip here. What cheek.

  Everyone rose to applaud. Children came forward to sing and dance the welcoming song for newborns, which Stevland had not expected. “Thank you,” his stem said. “I am very happy. It is the start of a new life.”

  Item two was Jersey, and went as planned. Medics reported that they could care for her paralysis but not her pain, which was severe. They discussed the antibodies in her blood and the probability, according to medical texts, that the infection had affected her behavior. Her husband, who had spoken with her, rose to plead with great dignity on her behalf for her death, a gentle euthanasia.

  Stevland, as planned, offered to work with the medics to investigate her condition to see if it could be treated. He promised to prevent her pain during the investigation and her final sleep as he had done in previous cases of euthanasia. Her husband said that nothing would make him and Jersey happier than to be sure no one would ever suffer from that illness again. Citizens agreed on a voice vote.

  So everyone was happy, especially Stevland, who had wanted her dead and would kill her. The hard issues were avoided.

  The third issue was the Glassmakers. The hunters, as they had proposed earlier, rose to suggest setting out gifts for the Glassmakers and slowly initiating a peaceful encounter. Stevland, who had not been consulted, warned that the Glassmakers could be capricious. “They left the city suddenly. I do not know why, but now they have no interest in this place or you. We would waste our time and effort.”

  The debate was long, deep, and productive, and several people pointed out that we could ask them why they left if we developed contact. The hunters’ proposal, somewhat modified, passed with fifty-three votes opposed, including Stevland, although most of the opposition was from people who wanted to move faster.

  I wonder what it’s like for a creature used to solitude for so long to discover the compromises of social living.

  Fourth, Stevland’s candidacy for moderator. He hadn’t formally announced it, but that didn’t matter. The Committee had a plan. Bartholomew spoke:

  “Of course, there’s no vacancy, although of course the Committee could vote Tatiana out, but I think this would be a good time to discuss the nature of the office itself.” He discussed in detail the duties, constraints, and prerogatives of the office. A historian recapped the administrations of the previous moderators.

  The children began to fidget, and who could blame them? The talks were not for their benefit. Speakers from the floor outlined the relationship of the moderator to gro
ups like the farmers, weavers, and hunters. Stevland was listening, and occasionally Bartholomew asked him if he had understood a certain issue. Marie rose to speak on the Rule of Generations. Each generation sets its rules, dress, habits, and organization as freely as possible.

  I believe in that, of course, which was the only reason I allowed the meeting to continue. Cedar had brought me Generation 6’s plan just after lunch. They were worried about Stevland. I hate the plan, but they had put together a majority, and the worst thing is that their logic might be correct. She led me out to a yam field to talk far from any bamboo.

  “He’ll get what he wants one way or another,” she said acidly, but she’s always like that. She’s young, tough, and a leader because she elbows her way to the front of a group. “I know he means well, but, you know, he wants a lot, and he doesn’t really understand us. We are worried. But we can’t survive without him, and we’ve been working and living with him for a long time. We brought the Greenies in on this. Even Marie.”

  She grimaced. The two women did not like each other. Cedar continued:

  “She said he’s been acting as a leader of his own little team for a long time, in many ways a citizen already. But every team leader is held accountable, and that’s a kind of control. We decided the best way to control him is to give him some of what he wants, limited power, the limits that any leader winds up having. You know what I mean. You’ve been working well with Stevland. You can keep him reasonable, and the Committee will back you.”

  I answered slowly. “He can control us with drugs. He did that with smart fruit and truth fruit, and he could do it to make us agree with him.”

  She dismissed my objection with a shake of her head. “Marie talked to him. He said he wasn’t happy about that fruit. He needs us healthy. He knows better than to ‘unbalance’ us, as he likes to say. Look, we have a lot of power in this relationship, Tatiana. We’ll tell him it’s a fair division of power and responsibility, a balance.”

  Cedar hadn’t come to explain the plan to me, she’d come to deliver orders. She certainly wasn’t docile, and maybe there really isn’t any docile fruit, but she was incredibly optimistic about what I can actually do. But I didn’t have a better idea or the votes to get it passed if I did, and I’m used to doing what I don’t want to do. Thus Pax would sidestep another crisis. I agreed to become co-moderator, and we all wondered how Stevland would react. If he turned on us, we were dead.

  Bartholomew’s show-and-tell was meant to convince him that he would need a human co-moderator to balance him.

  “Now,” Bartholomew concluded, “the moderator is a busy person. Perhaps too busy. Some duties take reflection and wisdom. Some take immediacy and action. As our population grows, so does the burden. So I propose creating co-moderator positions. Sylvia and her descendants have served us well. So has Stevland. Who can doubt his contributions to our success? What do you say, Stevland? Co-moderator?”

  I had the time to take and exhale five slow deep breaths before Stevland responded. I know how fast he can answer. He was thinking. Finally: “I accept.” I wonder how sincerely. A voice vote confirmed his election.

  End of meeting. We remained crowded inside the Meeting House in sort of a wake for Jersey, able to express our grief at her illness and avoid the harder question of her evil deeds. Things like that don’t happen on Pax.

  Cedar gave me a pat on the back, her beaded vest rattling. “Good work,” she whispered in my ear. “Good luck.” She and other Beads and Greenies had gathered around Stevland to butter him up. I left the meeting early and paused at a stem in the street that I knew had ears. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Stevland and I had already talked earlier that afternoon, and it hadn’t been pleasant. Stevland had noticed I wasn’t eating fruit. “Are you afraid I will try to control you?”

  Suddenly the greenhouse filled with slugs, humming and squirming toward me. My hands had been tied to the table, and bones already poked through the flesh. Termite worms drilled through the bones. And then the vision was gone.

  “It is a scent,” the words on the stem said. “A gas that makes bad dreams. Do not be afraid of the fruit. I make it pleasant, I make it healthy, but I do not make it to control you. I could do much but it would be wrong. I have learned to trust Pacifists, and I have learned that leadership is not violence. Force is violence. Mutualism involves trust, so I will show that you can trust me. I want to help all Pacifists, and I can do great good. The future can be a new way to live. You will like it.”

  Thank the stars I’m an old woman. I won’t have to deal with Stevland forever.

  * * *

  Day 379. So the crisis is over, the problems are solved. I rose this morning, dressed, and went to the ovens. Nye, a baker, worked with teenage efficiency, pulling lentil-filled turnovers from ovens that vented white smoke. Flour dusted his arms, and a strand of beads dangled around his neck. The sweat on his cheeks dampened the curls of the first hairs of a beard. He worked under the sign he had carved and placed over the ovens: “Bread is the essence of Pax. Its first crop was wheat.”

  I like getting bread in the morning. The ovens line the back wall of a square building. Soot on the walls and ceiling makes it dark like a cave. The wide doors stand open in all but the worst weather, and even the cold dawn breeze couldn’t dilute the air inside, warm and scented with yeast, browning crusts, and hickory wood. I was among the early risers, as usual, waiting with yawning children and farmworkers preparing to hike to distant fields. Cedar arrived, looped in strings of Generation 6 beads like a dew-covered doll. She’s a meteorologist as well as a cartographer, and sunrise observations matter to her.

  “Nice meeting last night,” she said.

  A few people nodded. “Everything was thought through,” one of them said.

  “More like a show than a discussion,” I said. Stevland didn’t have a stem nearby.

  “We said what we wanted to.” Cedar shrugged and smiled. “Anyway, now you have an assistant.”

  “I’m sure Stevland thinks I’m the assistant.”

  She glanced at the bamboo rising over the houses and shrugged again. “Fippokats think we’re here to invent games for them. This afternoon, we’re going to go pick flax and bring it to them, and they’ll race each other to clean the fluff from the seeds and eat them, and we’ll use the fluff to stuff mattresses. Kats can think what they want. So can Stevland.”

  I got a warm loaf and, as I left, I picked up a couple of pink bamboo fruit from a basket set on a bench outside the ovens, a delicious helping of vitamins, minerals, and maybe a few antibiotics along with mildly stimulating alkaloids, because our health matters. Perhaps Cedar would make a good next moderator, and she’s young enough to serve for decades. I need to start thinking about that. I think the next co-moderator ought to come from Generation 6 because the co-moderator idea came from their ranks. Let them cope.

  I ate, walked with my husband to his workshop, joined a team to harvest lentils, and went to bathe. Finally I went to the greenhouse and, although it was warm inside, closed the door.

  “Committee meetings are always open to observation,” I wrote. “Our consultations ought to be, too, starting tomorrow. If you have anything private to say, say it now.”

  “Why observation?”

  “Because we are responsible to other citizens for what we decide.” I hoped that an audience might make Stevland temper his outbursts and ease my burden, although, more importantly, I would be setting a good precedent. The intent was to keep him under control, after all.

  “I have something private to say.” Those words disappeared quickly, replaced by a paragraph:

  “I do not agree with the decision about the Glassmakers. I did not understand much regarding the Glassmakers because I lacked a comparison society of intelligent animals, but I have observed you now, and I am troubled by their behavior. They did not seem entirely intelligent. Yet, by a decision of the citizens of Pax, we will initiate contact, and we must try for peace and un
derstanding. I will donate fruit to their taste as gifts. I believe that if there is trouble and if they are used to fruit, then we can use it to control them.”

  The words faded and the stem remained blank.

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  “Persis and Wolf are bullying other children.”

  “They like to lead rough-and-tumble games. You might misinterpret their fun. But I’ll look into it.”

  “There is a group of women that meets certain evenings near the west gate in seclusion,” it said. “This is suspicious.”

  “The Philosopher’s Club. They like to debate.”

  “Why do they exclude others?”

  “To keep out serious people.” I had attended only once as a guest.

  “I will listen to them.”

  “You will learn interesting things.”

  “Do you have anything private to say?” Stevland asked.

  I wanted to mention Vera as a warning to heavy-handed leadership, but Stevland wouldn’t understand. “It’s hard to be a moderator,” I said. “You will have few real friends.”

  “I am pleased to be a moderator, especially a co-moderator. Duality is good in moderators, animal and plant, transient and permanent, a stronger leadership for Pax and a perfect balance, as Bartholomew explained. I have examined the polysaccharide in my most active roots and come to conclusions about equality.”

  “Are we equal?”

  “Equality is not a fact, like the length of days. Clearly I am superior to you in size and age and intelligence. Equality is an idea, a belief, like beauty. The duality at root is barbarity and civilization. It is barbarous for eagles to eat Pacifists. It is civilized for Pacifists to seek peace with Glassmakers. It is civilized to live as an equal with Pacifists. It was barbarity that destroyed bamboo civilization when my ancestors allowed their interactions with animals to become selfish. Civilization will govern my interactions and give them a meaning and new purpose to my species.”