Burn | Page 7

a living?"
"All on planet Walden are living, I hope. Not saved?"
"Yes, we are." Spur grimaced. He rose from the tell and retrieved his wallet from the
nightstand beside the bed. Maybe pix would help. He flipped through a handful in his
wallet until he came to the one of Comfort on a ladder picking apples. "Normally I tend
my orchards." He held the pix up to the tell to show the High Gregory. "I grow many
kinds of fruit on my farm. Apples, peaches, apricots, pears, cherries. Do you have these
kinds of fruit on Kenning?"
"Grape trees, yes." The High Gregory leaned forward in his throne and smiled. "And all
of apples: apple pie and apple squeeze and melt apples." He seemed pleased that they had
finally understood one another. "But you are not normal?"
"No. I mean yes, I'm fine." He closed the wallet and pocketed it. "But... how do I say this?
There is fighting on my world." Spur had no idea how to explain the complicated
grievances of the pukpuks and the fanaticism that led some of them to burn themselves
alive to stop the spread of the forest and the Transcendent State. "There are other people
on Walden who are very angry. They don't want my people to live here. They wish the
land could be returned to how it was before we came. So they set fires to hurt us. Many
of us have been called to stop them. Now instead of growing my trees, I help to put fires
out."
"Very angry?" The High Gregory rose from his throne, his face flushed. "Fighting?" He
punched at the air. "Hit-hit-hit?"
"Not exactly fighting with fists," said Spur. "More like a war."
The High Gregory took three quick steps toward the tell at his end. His face loomed large
on Spur's screen. "War fighting?" He was clearly agitated; his cheeks flushed and the
yellow eyes were fierce. "Making death to the other?" Spur had no idea why the High
Gregory was reacting this way. He didn't think the boy was angry exactly, but then
neither of them had proved particularly adept at reading the other. He certainly didn't
want to cause some interstellar incident.
"I've said something wrong. I'm sorry." Spur bent his head in apology. "I'm speaking to
you from a hospital. I was wounded... fighting a fire. Haven't quite been myself lately."
He gave the High Gregory a self-deprecating smile. "I hope I haven't given offense."
The High Gregory made no reply. Instead he swept from his throne, down a short flight
of steps into what Spur could now see was a vast hall. The boy strode past rows of carved
wooden chairs, each of them a unique marvel, although none was quite as exquisite as the
throne that they faced. The intricate beaded mosaic on the floor depicted turtles in jade
and chartreuse and olive. Phosphorescent sculptures stretched like spider webs from the
upper reaches of the walls to the barrel-vaulted ceiling, casting ghostly silver-green
traceries of light on empty chairs beneath. The High Gregory was muttering as he passed
down the central aisle but whatever he was saying clearly overwhelmed the tell's limited

capacity. All Spur heard was, "War Memsen witness there our luck
call the L'ung...."
At that, Spur found himself looking once again at a shining green turtle resting on a rock
on a muddy river. "The High Gregory of Kenning regrets that he is otherwise occupied at
the moment," it said. "I note with interest that your greeting originates from a jurisdiction
under a consensual cultural quarantine. You should understand that it is unlikely that the
High Gregory, as luck maker of the L'ung, would risk violating your covenants by having
any communication with you."
"Except I just got done talking to him," said Spur.
"I doubt that very much." The turtle drew itself up on four human feet and stared coldly
through the screen at him. "This conversation is concluded," it said. "I would ask that you
not annoy us again."
"Wait, I --" said Spur, but he was talking to a dead screen.
Four
But if we stay at home and mind our business, who will want railroads? We do not ride
on the railroad; it rides upon us.
- Walden
Spur spent the rest of that day expecting trouble. He had no doubt that he'd be summoned
into Dr. Niss's examining room for a lecture about how his body couldn't heal if his soul
was sick. Or some virtuator from Concord would be brought in to light communion and
deliver a reproachful sermon on the true meaning of simplicity. Or Cary Millisap, his
squad leader, would call from Prospect and scorch him for shirking his duty to Gold,
which was,