The Garden of Chiron is all open air, no domes. The streets are wide enough for people, but clearly not designed for cars. Although there is plenty of activity here at midday, people talking and business happening, it is so much quieter than the Morgan dome. The absence of slot machines and obnoxious ads makes a big difference, and it’s a lot less cramped, too.
We pass a shop with an open front. The artisan is making furniture right there, in plain view. Other stores have food on display, all manner of plants, fungus, and even fish-type creatures. I take in all the business as we go by, idly wondering whether there are any good tattoo artists. Would Marina even know the answer to that if I asked? Then a different, but very relevant, question occurs to me. “What’s the currency around here?”
“Dollars,” Marina says. She pulls out a wallet and shows us the bills. I’m surprised to see that they use paper notes. She hands me a dollar to examine and explains that it’s made from a very leafy plant that grows along the coast. That’s as much detail as she can provide; her xenobotany has been focused elsewhere. The notes are all rectangles of slightly different sizes and shapes, depending on the denomination. The colors are slightly different, too, but the printers haven’t invested a lot into exquisite dyes.
The one dollar bill has a picture of Unity on it with Earth in the background. When Marina shows us the five, she explains that its design is based on a photo taken of Chiron as Unity approached the planet—before the ship fell apart, of course. The ten has a portrait of Captain Garland, martyr of that debacle. The biggest bill Marina has is a twenty, which shows the Monsoon Jungle. All of them bear the simple motto, “We adapt.”
As we approach one of the larger buildings, we see a group of a few dozen people gathered in a plaza. The structure is a repurposed section of Unity, and it has a platform at its base. With the bald head, brown skin, and loose robes, my first thought when I see the person addressing the crowd is of Tibetan monks. However, this presenter speaks with a fervor that is far from peaceful. “Preach it, Sal!” one of the audience members calls out. Turning to their companion, they comment, “They have such passion!”
“Ugh, what are those cultists doing near the memorial?” Marina groans.
“Cultists?” I echo in surprise.
Marina sighs. “Yeah… They call themselves the Cult of Chiron.” She sounds embarrassed.
“We must throw off the shackles of a dead world!” Sal cries, to supportive murmurs from the crowd. “Embrace the gift of Chiron!”
“Are they protesting the memorial?” I ask Marina, trying to get some context for this unexpected social movement. I’m interested in people and societies in general, but more to the point, we need to know what we’re working with here. If there’s a cult sympathizer on the council, that could change what tack we take.
“No, this is just one of the most prominent places in town. Though now that I think about it, maybe they’re unhappy about it.” She shakes her head in disgust. “Their claims are just completely unfounded. I mean, we’re good stewards of the environment, but I don’t know what their deal is. It’s worse than pseudoscience.”
There are a lot of assumptions in that, a whole lot that feel like non sequiturs to me, but Marina is ready to drop this topic. I’m not, but there’s no need to press her, not when I can gather my own information. I drift over to the crowd, while Marina remains on the other side of the plaza, pulling out her notes to shut out the screed. Cleve comes with me, curious about what qualifies as a cult here in the Garden of Chiron. In the Morgan domes, the Stepdaughters as a whole are considered a cult by some. I’m sure he’s assessing the scene for threats.
I listen for a while and put together a few pieces. I still haven’t heard anything that I’d classify as pseudoscience, but it’s clear that Sal is a major xenophobe—just not in the Morgan sense. No, they distrust pretty much anyone on this planet who isn’t a part of their cult, and fear the destruction of their movement, their way of life. They may dress it all up as concern for the planet, but I’m sure there are other motives at play here.
“We must not remain quiet! We must do whatever it takes to preserve this planet from our own infestation.”
“Wow, these guys could really drink the Kool-Aid,” Cleve mutters next to me.
“Chiron must be saved, no matter the cost. We must shut down every factory. We have to stop Morgan Industries at the source!” That sounds more militant than I’ve come to expect from the Stepdaughters of Chiron.
“Gonna get themself killed,” Cleve’s quiet commentary of the speaker continues.
I split my attention between Sal’s preaching and the crowd listening to it. About half of them are definitely into it, fellow cultists present to hear the good word. They respond at the right time with the right words. And they’re dressed similarly to Sal, in robes decorated with bits of local flora. Some have flowers or fungus pinned to them—no judgment from me for that. Others wear leis that look to still be alive.
The other half of the audience are here mainly for the entertainment value. Like most of the people we’ve seen in the town, they’re in tunics with pants or skirts, sometimes dresses. The robes definitely seem to be a cult thing. The average citizen here is dismissive of Sal’s words but watches the show because it’s something to do. One man sticks out from all the others though, partly because he seems split between the two groups. He knows all the responses, but his echoes of them are unenthusiastic and irregular. He seems on the fence about the cult. And he seems so familiar. Peach skin, with rose cheeks and blue eyes in a round face surrounded by crinkly dark brown hair. Where have I seen him before? At the Morgan dome? Did the Stepdaughters have spies there? Does Morgan have a spy here? I shouldn’t know anybody else on this planet who looks about my age like he does.
“You there! You must be travelers.” Sal’s words cut through my ruminations, and I realize they’re looking right at us. “Have you heard of the good word of Chiron? From where do you come? Surely across the sea?”
A lot of eyes are on us, and that’s a question I very much want to deflect right now. “Well, we all come from Earth, ultimately. And if this ‘good word of Chiron’ is what you’ve been spouting, then, yes, I think I’ve heard enough of what this group is all about.” I’m a little off my game here, it’s true. I was caught a bit unawares, distracted as I was by this mysterious not-quite-stranger in the crowd. “There’s so much this world has to offer, and I don’t think I’m going to find that here,” I say, indicating the gathering. “This is not sufficiently… interesting. Seems like you’re kind of limiting the way you’re going to interact with the planet, rather than fully cooperate with it.” Chiron can nurture human life, I know it can, but we’re not going to get there by keeping it completely pristine. We need to work with it intelligently.
“On the contrary,” Sal replies, “we will be unlimited because we do whatever we can to support this planet against all other foul forces. And we will take whatever steps are necessary. Whatever steps.” Foul forces? What kind of armageddon is this Sal figure suggesting? And are they really including all non-Stepdaughters in that bundle? “We will strike down Morgan Industries, dismantle their factories—no! Destroy their factories outright! Cleanse their foul presence from the sea, from the land, from the air.”
“Okay, don’t quite disagree there,” Cleve mutters.
Well, I do. The violence in Sal’s tone indicates this isn’t just about factories. People like Fritz and Louisa, like Yushi and Shu-Fen, they have a right to their lives. The domes aren’t inherently bad, just mismanaged. If the younger generation had the opportunity, they could use the resources of Morgan Industries to integrate with the planet, rather than fear it like some of the old guard do. “And then once ‘we’ are in control?” I ask Sal. Somehow this has turned into a debate. There are more eyes on me than I intended when I joined the fringes of this crowd.
“Then we, the Cult of Chiron, and I—” a sigh of false modesty “—as the Prophet of Chiron, must be steward over that land, where no human feet shall tread.”
“Not even yours?” I shoot back. Cleve’s eyebrows leap up to the brim of his hat as he regards me with surprise. ¡Dios mío! I’ve turned into a heckler. But, vaya, this Sal is really getting under my skin. Murmurs from the crowd suggest I’m not the only one who is finding Sal to be a little much.
However, they still have their supporters. “You can’t talk to the prophet that way!” someone from the audience shouts at me. “Who do you think you are?”
Who do I think I am? Who does Sal think they are, deciding who gets to live where on Chiron? “What, do you have some spaceship to take all the humans off this planet? That’s not feasible,” I say.
“This planet was not made for humans,” Sal proclaims. “Since we are here, we must wipe those who do not respect it off of the planet and ensure that their ways cannot exist.”
We may not have evolved here, but we’re here now. And Chiron has already been knocked off its natural evolution by Progenitors, anyway. Someone needs to clean up their messes as well, or victims like Checkerboard will never experience healing. No one can tell me that I don’t belong on Chiron. My eyes are burning with just how much I belong here. I shut them to hide the purple glow and turn away from this whole discussion. I’ve heard enough. And I’ve derailed us from what we’re supposed to be doing. “We don’t need to listen to this anymore, Cleve,” I say. “I think we understand what’s going on here.”
“All right,” he says agreeably. He’s learned whatever he wanted to.
We cross the plaza, and just as we reach Marina, her bioscanner goes off. ¡Ay! I hope that’s not my fault. “Hang on,” Marina says, checking it. “Oh no, miasma’s coming.”