whispering, “That old bag, she’s a flap-mouthed gossip. All those Trump Families are.”
Toby was already feeling bad about the incident, and he stopped before leaving the room to catch another glimpse of the screen.
Family Bishop members were murmuring, speculating, even laughing—and not just among the Snowglade folk, either. They argued
and elbowed and laughed with the Trump Families, too. An electric smell came from the crowd, a fidgety excitement.
It struck Toby that the room was jammed not so much because they wanted to see the gaudy pictures, but to provide a place
to gather, gossip, and grumble. All to sharpen their sense of themselves as a fragile human Family in the face of the abyss
outside.
That was essential—holding together.
Argo
held mostly Bishops, from Snowglade, but also Families of the planet they had just left, which its natives called Trump.
Those Families had names Toby didn’t understand—Aces and Deuces, Jacks and Fivers. There were Queens, though, which by logic
should have had the same customs and history as the Family Queen of Snowglade. But they didn’t.
Killeen called these Trump Families the Cards. They were fiercely loyal and prone to follow hot-eyed leaders. Back on Trump
some had obeyed the crazy man who called himself His Supremacy, a fierce-faced type the Bishops had finally had to kill. Somehow
this had meant that the Cards then transferred their loyalty to Killeen.
It made no sense, but then, not much about Trump did. Toby flatly disbelieved the idea that the Cards had gotten their names
from some ancient game. Maybe a game had been made up using those names, sure. But Families were ancient and hallowed and
not the stuff of trivial matters.
Still, the Trumps were a bit hard to take, butt-headed and ignorant. But the Snowgladers were no prize, either, when you looked
close.
Rooks liked to blow their noses by pinching the bridge of the nose and letting fly into the air. They laughed if anybody was
in the way. The hawk-nosed woman was a Rook, true to form.
On the other hand, Pawns saw nothing wrong with taking a crap in full view of anybody who happened by. A perfectly natural
function, they said. What’s to be embarrassed about?
Knights burped and farted at the most formal occasions—they didn’t even seem to notice doing it.
Bishops spit whenever they felt like it, which was pretty often.
Rooks preferred to pee on plants, maintaining that since this was part of the Great Cycle of Life, it must be good for them.
And Kings would cough smack in your face, smiling after they did it. Some said that in the old Citadel days the lost Family
of Queens had even made love in public, feet pointed at the ceiling, rumps thrusting in the air free as you please. They had
some sort of theory about doing it as a show of demented social solidarity. Toby didn’t really believe that, it was utterly
fantastic—but who could truly say what people of the deep past had believed and done?
Still, the Snowglade Families overlooked these differences, acts that seemed to others like gross social blunders, and held
together. And aside from minor incidents, they extended the same hand to the Trumps, even if they were butt-stubborn and ate
with their mouths open. The Family of Families.
Toby knew he had an obligation to keep the social glue in place. Not that he had to like it. He smacked a fist into his palm
as he walked away from the jammed room.
Concerned, Besen asked, “She really got to you?”
“Naysay. Forget it.” But he knew he wouldn’t.
TWO
The Shredded Star
T oby missed having Quath live outside. Anything that big should be free beneath the stars, not closed in.
He was sure of this despite knowing that Quath’s kind had evolved out of a burrowing species that liked to dig in snug and
tight beneath the ground. How such a race developed intelligence was a riddle. It seemed unlikely that something that wormed
into dark, smelly crannies
Toby was already feeling bad about the incident, and he stopped before leaving the room to catch another glimpse of the screen.
Family Bishop members were murmuring, speculating, even laughing—and not just among the Snowglade folk, either. They argued
and elbowed and laughed with the Trump Families, too. An electric smell came from the crowd, a fidgety excitement.
It struck Toby that the room was jammed not so much because they wanted to see the gaudy pictures, but to provide a place
to gather, gossip, and grumble. All to sharpen their sense of themselves as a fragile human Family in the face of the abyss
outside.
That was essential—holding together.
Argo
held mostly Bishops, from Snowglade, but also Families of the planet they had just left, which its natives called Trump.
Those Families had names Toby didn’t understand—Aces and Deuces, Jacks and Fivers. There were Queens, though, which by logic
should have had the same customs and history as the Family Queen of Snowglade. But they didn’t.
Killeen called these Trump Families the Cards. They were fiercely loyal and prone to follow hot-eyed leaders. Back on Trump
some had obeyed the crazy man who called himself His Supremacy, a fierce-faced type the Bishops had finally had to kill. Somehow
this had meant that the Cards then transferred their loyalty to Killeen.
It made no sense, but then, not much about Trump did. Toby flatly disbelieved the idea that the Cards had gotten their names
from some ancient game. Maybe a game had been made up using those names, sure. But Families were ancient and hallowed and
not the stuff of trivial matters.
Still, the Trumps were a bit hard to take, butt-headed and ignorant. But the Snowgladers were no prize, either, when you looked
close.
Rooks liked to blow their noses by pinching the bridge of the nose and letting fly into the air. They laughed if anybody was
in the way. The hawk-nosed woman was a Rook, true to form.
On the other hand, Pawns saw nothing wrong with taking a crap in full view of anybody who happened by. A perfectly natural
function, they said. What’s to be embarrassed about?
Knights burped and farted at the most formal occasions—they didn’t even seem to notice doing it.
Bishops spit whenever they felt like it, which was pretty often.
Rooks preferred to pee on plants, maintaining that since this was part of the Great Cycle of Life, it must be good for them.
And Kings would cough smack in your face, smiling after they did it. Some said that in the old Citadel days the lost Family
of Queens had even made love in public, feet pointed at the ceiling, rumps thrusting in the air free as you please. They had
some sort of theory about doing it as a show of demented social solidarity. Toby didn’t really believe that, it was utterly
fantastic—but who could truly say what people of the deep past had believed and done?
Still, the Snowglade Families overlooked these differences, acts that seemed to others like gross social blunders, and held
together. And aside from minor incidents, they extended the same hand to the Trumps, even if they were butt-stubborn and ate
with their mouths open. The Family of Families.
Toby knew he had an obligation to keep the social glue in place. Not that he had to like it. He smacked a fist into his palm
as he walked away from the jammed room.
Concerned, Besen asked, “She really got to you?”
“Naysay. Forget it.” But he knew he wouldn’t.
TWO
The Shredded Star
T oby missed having Quath live outside. Anything that big should be free beneath the stars, not closed in.
He was sure of this despite knowing that Quath’s kind had evolved out of a burrowing species that liked to dig in snug and
tight beneath the ground. How such a race developed intelligence was a riddle. It seemed unlikely that something that wormed
into dark, smelly crannies
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