The Emperor of Everything

Chapter 8

Corean cursed, a low, bitter, monotonous stream. She hung upside down from the acceleration webbing, unable to see out because of the mud and vegetation plastered across the sled’s armorglass bubble.

The craft shifted and subsided slightly. She cut short the curses. Time for that later, after she had somehow prevented the sled from sinking into the bog.

She slapped at the webbing releases, and fell sprawling onto the ceiling. The sled lurched again, and she felt a touch of fear. How deep was the bog?

She examined herself, waggled her limbs. She discovered no broken bones — though she ached everywhere.

She crawled to an upside-down flight panel, and peered at the readouts. She cursed again. The sled was dead; the blast that had grazed it had thoroughly fried the power and control systems.

She heard a clicking rattle and looked around. Marmo was carefully easing himself to an upright position.

“Are you functional?” she asked.

“I believe so,” he replied. “How is the Moc?”

“Don’t know.” She got up and picked her way across the ceiling, back toward the cargo bay. When she pulled herself up through the hatch, she saw the Moc, standing by the burst-open lock. One midarm hung by a thread of chitin.

The insectoid bondwarrior seemed otherwise undamaged, and the midarm would regenerate — though the injury cut its firepower in half, since its midarms carried implanted energy weapons.

It swiveled its head to look at her, and she saw from the nervous rasping movements of its mandibles that it was preparing for combat. It bowed its head, a lightning flicker of movement, and bit off the encumbering remnant of its arm.

“What is it?” Corean moved to the lock and cautiously peered out through a crevice. She saw, beyond the cattails that bordered the bog, a line of peasant guardsmen staring at the sled. They wore plumed hats and carried archaic weapons: pikes, harquebusses, crossbows. Behind them an armored individual sat an elegant mech charger. The armor imitated steel plate, but Corean was certain it was of more advanced design, since it seemed not to weigh heavily on its wearer. The rider wore an ornate broadsword in a sling across the back. The charger, looking something like a steel horse with claws instead of hooves, seemed equipped with more potent armament; two blackened orifices opened in its breastplate.

Corean narrowed her eyes. Bad enough that she was stranded in the middle of a mudhole — all she needed now was an irate local squire.

The armored person rose in the stirrups and called out. “You in the sled! Come out, hands empty and in plain sight.”

“Oh, sure,” she said in a low voice. She settled her helmet on her head, flipped down the visor, and checked the toggles that held the collarpiece securely to the rest of her armor.

“Last chance,” shouted the squire. Moments passed, and then flame coughed from the charger’s breast.

A spinner charge hit the lock and fragmented, sending a hail of glass slivers into the bay. The Moc jerked, then looked at her. The slivers had shredded its doublet, but bounced off its carapace, which was as dense as the armor she wore. One of its great compound eyes had taken a grazing hit, and thick yellow fluid welled from the wound.

Corean bared her teeth. The peasants were moving forward, sinking knee-deep in the mire, raising their harquebusses. “First,” she said, “kill the rider. Then the others.”

The Moc nodded, and blurred into movement, hitting the lock and crashing it open. It was past the peasants before they had time to react. It took a diagonal veer, so as to avoid the charger’s armament. The charger was very quick, however, and whirled to protect its rider before the Moc had quite cleared the bog. It fired again, but the Moc had already gone into an evasive movement pattern, so that the spinner missed. It detonated in midair, killing half of the guardsmen and maiming the rest.

Corean took her usual satisfaction in watching the Moc at its work, though the battle was decided in the first second. The Moc sprang, tearing the rider’s head off with a rip of its remaining midlimb. It continued the motion until its energy tube pointed down into the charger’s barrel. It triggered a short burst of energy, burning out the charger’s interior mechanism, freezing it instantly — and then the Moc was on its way back to finish the surviving peasants.

It was, she thought, a wonderful thing to own such an irresistible juggernaut of destruction. She remembered the time she had ordered the Moc to spare Ruiz Aw. Such foolishness. She would never be so soft again; when next Ruiz Aw fell into her hands, he would die quickly. Or maybe not; maybe he would live for a long time, but wish he could die quickly. Yes… that would be better.

Marmo came to stand next to her, and looked out at the Moc standing immobile among mangled bodies. “What’s this?”

“Local bog owner, who objected to our landing without permission.”

“Ah. What now?”

She shrugged. “Lensh and Fensh will follow when they can. We could try for the manor house, but it’s probably defended heavily — if we hadn’t had the Moc, the squire would have taken us. These retired pirates have a lot of enemies — this one was well armed, despite his playacting with the guardsmen.”

“Best to wait here and hope the squire has no friends to avenge him, then.” He leaned out and examined the surroundings. “The bog seems shallow enough that we won’t disappear into it.”

Corean nodded. “Yes. Let’s sit tight. A dreary wait — but it’ll pass. I’ll spend the time considering how best to make Ruiz Aw suffer for his sins.”

Marmo looked at her curiously. “He’ll be in SeaStack by now. He’ll probably be long gone by the time we get moving again.”

She glared at him. “No! I will have him again — I refuse to believe that he can escape me. Besides, how would he get past the pirates’ screening probes? Would they allow such a dangerous creature aboard one of their shuttles?”

“He fooled you,” Marmo pointed out.

She snarled wordlessly, then spoke in a deadly monotone. “Yes. But the matter has gone beyond business now. And have you forgotten? He knows about the Gencha. What if he somehow finds out that it’s not just a few rogues, what if he finds out what’s really going on, and spreads the word through SeaStack? We’ll be ruined, and one of the pirate lords will take the Gencha. We must be sure he’s dead.”

“I see,” said Marmo. If he had forebodings, he kept them to himself.

With full dark, only a few dim lightstrips illuminated the barges — just enough for safety. Ruiz noted that their captors had chosen dull discretion over the spectacular display of the night before, and he applauded their caution.

In SeaStack, wise beings attracted no unnecessary attention.

The night brought no relief from the heat, and Ruiz tried to ignore the rivulets of sweat that trickled down his body. The air must feel even stranger to the Pharaohans, he thought. They had spent their lives on a hot planet, but one with negligible humidity. Dolmaero seemed particularly affected; he mopped constantly at his broad face and his breathing had an unhealthy rasp. Ruiz hoped he wasn’t getting sick.

“It’s so tall,” Nisa said, craning her neck to look up at a particularly high and twisty spire. The lower terraces, which began a hundred meters above the water, were strung with tiny green and blue pinlights. From these terraces a festive murmur drifted down, composed of an odd staccato music, laughter, and occasional screams of delight. Apparently a celebration was in progress, or perhaps the dwellers in this particular seastack sold entertainment.

Ruiz felt a stab of envy for the celebrants, and more than a little pity for himself. He contrasted his sad little group with the apparently carefree people above. The comparison made Ruiz’s situation seem even more intensely unfair.

To distract himself, he began to tell Nisa about SeaStack. “It’s even bigger than it looks — SeaStack is. Most of its habitats are below sea level — many of the folk who live in SeaStack have never seen the sun.”

Dolmaero spoke up. “So you’ve been here, Ruiz? How much do you know about it? Do you have friends here, or allies?”

Ruiz laughed. “No one knows very much about SeaStack, not even those who live here. I may have met a few locals, one time or another, but even if we were free to seek them out, we might not find them. And if we did, they’d have no reason to help us.” There were doubtless a number of League agents in SeaStack, he thought, but they would be in extremely deep cover, impossible to contact. The great pirate lords who controlled SeaStack were the League’s bitterest enemies; any League agent who fell into their merciless hands could expect a miserable death at best.

He could think of only one person in SeaStack who might be persuaded to assist them, but Ruiz was reluctant to consider that possibility. That individual was hardly a friend, and he would be an ally only if his circumstances required such an alliance, or if Ruiz could force him to help.

Ruiz began to regret his openness with the Pharaohans. Were one of them to tell the wrong person all about Ruiz Aw, serious difficulties might arise. He’d had his attack of candor at a moment when he’d been almost certain that he wouldn’t survive another day; still, he’d been ludicrously incautious.

“So,” Dolmaero said. “You still have no idea who the barges belong to? Or what they want with us?”

Ruiz shrugged.

“I have a feeling it’s nothing too terrible,” said Nisa, surprisingly. Indeed, in the semidarkness, her face seemed unclouded by fear or uncertainty, and Ruiz wished he could be so optimistic.

Dolmaero shook his head doubtfully. “Has anything happened to us on this world that is not terrible?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Nisa.

“What?” asked Dolmaero in a challenging voice.

“Hot muffins,” said Molnekh, showing his large teeth in a grin.

“My resurrection,” said Nisa. “And there have been other nice happenings.” She looked meaningfully at Ruiz, and he felt his heart quiver pleasantly.

Dolmaero grunted noncommittally, but his eyes twinkled, and Ruiz saw that the rigors of the journey hadn’t worn away all of the stout Guildmaster’s good humor.

“I can tell you a little more about SeaStack,” Ruiz offered.

“Please,” said Dolmaero.

“All right. Have you wondered how it was built?”

“Yes.”

“So does everyone else. When humans first arrived on Sook, SeaStack was already here, though inhabited only by animals and a few devolved aliens. The early explorers thought the spires were natural formations, until they found the first doors. The stacks are hollow, for the most part, but divided into millions of levels, corridors, shafts. No one knows how deep they go, but they tell stories of habitats two kilometers or more below sea level.”

“Who made them?” Dolmaero’s eyes were wide with wonder.

“No one knows that either, but I’ve heard several theories. Shall I tell you my favorite? Some say they’re junked starships, stripped and left here before the land subsided, a few million years ago.”

“Whose starships? The Shards?”

Ruiz shrugged. “Unlikely. Their tech level is unremarkable. No one builds starships that big. Maybe they were built by whoever the Shards took Sook from — though that was probably too recent an event.”

No one spoke again for a while, and their faces were somber.

Perhaps, Ruiz thought, the talk of measureless eons had oppressed them. The first time he had visited SeaStack, he’d felt the same diminishment.

The note of the barge’s engines changed subtly. Directly ahead was a narrow gate at the foot of one of the smaller spires. In keeping with the decorative theme of the barges, the gateposts were tall phalli.

When they were a little closer, Ruiz saw that a low relief of intertwined copulating figures swirled around the posts.

Low red lights illuminated the dark water within.

Apparently they had arrived at their destination.

The barges entered a lagoon between steep cliffs of black alloy, drifted to a stop alongside broad metal ledges. The only sound was the scrape of the hulls against the landing, and Ruiz tried to force himself to a higher level of alertness.

Mooring posts rose from the landing with a whine of hidden motors. Toggles extended from the barges and locked to the posts.

In a moment all was still.

“What now?” asked Dolmaero.

Ruiz shook his head. “Who knows? Molnekh, go get Flomel. We should be ready.”

Molnekh nodded and hurried aft.

Ruiz took Nisa’s hand. She squeezed his hand and rested her head against his shoulder.

They waited.

A series of clicks sounded from the alloy wall directly in front of their barge; similar sounds echoed along the landing. With pneumatic sighs, a series of narrow blast doors levered up, one opposite each barge.

Almost immediately, folk began to leave the barges and enter the doors. From the trailing barge came the pretty young couple; from the barge just ahead came the three mismatched vagabonds. From the leading barge came a half-dozen people, cloaked in concealing white gowns.

Ruiz looked at their door. Blue lightstrips revealed a metal corridor, which curved into dimness after ten meters.

“Should we go?” asked Dolmaero hoarsely.

Ruiz studied the moorage. The surrounding vertical walls offered no handholds; they could not climb out. Nor could they swim to freedom. Despite the jocular graffiti at the Edge, no one with any sense swam unprotected in SeaStack’s murky waters. Besides disease, poisons, hazardous currents, submerged machinery — there were the many scavengers that lived on the refuse discarded by SeaStack’s inhabitants. The most terrifying of these were the margars, great armored reptiles big enough to swallow a small boat in one gulp — but there were countless others, ranging in size down to the tiny brainborers that infested the sewage outfalls and waste-heat exchangers.

What would happen if they stayed aboard? Ruiz sighed. He was pessimistic. Probably the barges would be fumigated for vermin — which they might well be considered, if they refused to leave.

“Let’s go,” he said, reluctantly.

They filed off the barge, Ruiz leading. He disengaged his hand reluctantly from Nisa’s — best to be ready to act. Behind her came Molnekh, leading Flomel, who cringed and rolled his eyes. Dolmaero brought up the rear, walking with slow dignity.

Ruiz paused for a moment before entering the doorway, to confirm that no other exits offered escape, then he shook himself and went in.

The corridor curved to the right and descended at a gentle incline. Their steps echoed strangely as they trooped along. After a bit, Ruiz realized that they were following a spiraling path into the roots of the spire.

Other than the blue lightstrips, the corridor was featureless, the floor free of dust, and the walls polished to a high shine. Clean cool air sighed from concealed ventilators; otherwise the silence was complete.

The corridor abruptly ended in a broad high-ceilinged hall. A serving mech waited for them there, its chassis a simple unmarked ovoid. It stood motionless until they had all entered the hall, then it spoke in clear unaccented lingua pangalac.

“Your rooms are prepared,” it said.

“What does it say?” asked Dolmaero.

“Apparently we’re expected,” Ruiz replied in Pharaohan. “We’re to have rooms.”

“Or cells,” muttered Dolmaero pessimistically.

“Perhaps.”

“Come,” said the mech, and inclined its chassis.

It led them to the first of a dozen doors. “Yours,” it said to Ruiz.

The door swung open silently. Ruiz debated the wisdom of acceptance. He glanced about. No security devices were visible, but he had no doubt that they existed — their captors seemed fond of hidden weaponry. He sighed. What choice did he have? He started to lead Nisa inside, but a manipulator extended from the mech and barred her from entering.

“Each must be alone for now,” it said.

Ruiz teetered on the edge of attacking the mech, but controlled the impulse. He smiled encouragingly at Nisa, lifted her hand, and kissed it gently. “It says we must have separate accommodations, Nisa. I think we should obey, for now. Be alert, and remember: There’s always a way out, if we can be clever enough.” Ruiz turned to Molnekh. “You’ll have to release Flomel, I suppose. We’ll rely on our hosts to control him.”

He turned again to Nisa, filled his eyes with her.

Then he went inside and the door locked behind him.

His cell was a small apartment, equipped with all the necessities and most of the luxuries a pangalac person might require. The walls shone with soft white light, the floor was of warm, slightly resilient softstone. A suspensor lounge occupied one corner. Across from it was a plush levichair, floating before a dark holotank. An autochef’s stainless-steel louvers filled a recess in the far wall, just above a dining ledge.

Ruiz jumped when a door to his left slid open. Inside, a warm light beckoned, and he heard a splash of water in the shower enclosure.

He shrugged and went in to get cleaned up.

Later, wrapped in the soft robe the valet slot had delivered when he was finished, he sat in the levichair, studying the holotank. He was strangely reluctant to activate it. After all, he might learn something unwelcome from his captors, who obviously expected him to make use of the tank.

“Ah, well,” he said finally. Then, “Activate.”

The tank bloomed with random color for an instant, then organized swiftly into the scaled-down image of an uncannily handsome man.

He had a narrow fine-boned face and luminous green eyes. He smiled in a professionally friendly manner and spoke in a smooth baritone. “Welcome, seeker,” he said. “Shall we introduce ourselves? My name is Hemerthe Ro’diamde. And yours?”

Ruiz saw little point in claiming an alias — the others would quickly prove him a liar. “Ruiz Aw.”

“An interesting name. You’re of Old Earth stock?”

“I’ve been told as much. Who can say for sure?”

Hemerthe smiled again. “True. We thought to seed the stars, but there have always been many fine vigorous weeds among us.”

Ruiz was having difficulty following the thought. “I suppose,” he said. “Will you tell me who you are, and where we are?”

Hemerthe widened his eyes in dramatized surprise. “You don’t know? Why then did you board the Life-Seeker?”

Ruiz assumed he referred to the barge. “It was somewhat of an emergency — no other transport was available, and we were fleeing for our lives.”

“Ah.” Hemerthe’s face smoothed out as he digested the information. “You did not, then, intend to seek refuge with us?”

Ruiz’s curiosity was piqued. “Refuge?” They needed refuge, if the cost was not too high.

“This is the purpose of the Life-Seekers, to bring to us those who hope to be worthy of refuge.”

That sounded less promising, as though there might be tests of “worthiness.” “I see,” said Ruiz, though he did not.

“Good. To return to your questions, I am the autonomous revenant of one of our prime founders, who departed his embodied life almost sixteen hundred years ago. And this is Deepheart, where immortal love defeats eternal death.”

This speech was delivered with well-projected fervor; it had the ring of an oft-repeated motto. Ruiz searched his memory for anything related to a cult called Deepheart. Nothing definite emerged, but the name tickled at something in the depths. Sooner or later he would remember.

“Perhaps,” Ruiz said, “you might be more specific?”

“Perhaps,” answered Hemerthe tolerantly. “But first the Joined must discuss the meaning of your presence, and our response.”

“Might I ask what sort of responses you might consider?”

Hemerthe smiled. “They vary widely. We might throw you to the margars who swim the lagoon’s depths, or sell you to the slave pound uplevel. That’s the usual fate of those found unworthy — which discourages the frivolous from crowding the Life-Seekers.”

“Oh.”

“Or, you might be offered refuge.” Hemerthe was abruptly serious. “You have a certain hard beauty — if your mind matches your flesh, you may find a place among us.”

Ruiz wondered if his smile had gone somewhat sour. “There are no other options?”

Hemerthe shook his head. “Rarely.”

“Oh.”

Hemerthe was suddenly brisk. “You may wish to assist us in making the others of your party comfortable. Their language is not immediately identifiable; can you help?”

“They’re natives of Pharaoh; they speak the major dialect,” said Ruiz, and gave the coordinates of the system.

“Thank you. We’ll acquire an adaptor module in a few minutes; our datastream is well connected.”

“Good,” said Ruiz, in a hollow voice.

“Yes, a good start,” said Hemerthe. “Now, sleep, recuperate, luxuriate. Prove to us that you can enjoy these simple pleasures.”

Ruiz nodded.

Just before he turned to a cloud of glowing confetti and faded away, Hemerthe winked at Ruiz and said, “I was just teasing you, about the margars.”

Nisa also took advantage of the shower and the robe, but she had no idea what function the holotank served, so she ignored it until it chimed and filled with misty color.

The woman whose image condensed in the tank smiled reassuringly at Nisa. “Don’t be afraid,” she said in a soft clear voice.

“I’m not,” said Nisa. To her surprise, she discovered that she was telling the truth. Was she becoming inured to wonders?

“Fine.” It seemed to Nisa that the woman was as striking as Corean, in a different way. Her body, clothed in a clinging silky gown, was fuller, its contours more lushly female. She appeared to be somewhat older than Corean, and her smooth oval face had a time-polished beauty, a quality of confident experience — the sort of beauty, Nisa thought, that a face as perfect as Corean’s would never gain. Nisa wondered how old the woman actually was.

“My name is Repenthe,” said the woman. “What is yours?”

“Nisa.”

“A pretty name. It suits you.” The woman smiled, with what seemed genuine warmth. “You’ll have questions. We’ve already talked to Ruiz Aw, who must be your leader. We understand that you boarded the Life-Seeker by mistake; we’ll consider your status carefully. Meanwhile, I’m here to help you. Call on me anytime, by speaking the word activate.”

Nisa thought. “Can you tell me who you are, and why you send out the barges? That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“Yes; how perceptive of you. We send out the Life-Seekers to expand the breadth and strength of love available in Deepheart — which is the name of this place, our community.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Not yet. But you will. Perhaps there will be refuge here for you — you are lovely, and we have evidence that you can love.”

“Excuse me?” Nisa was having difficulty following the meaning of Repenthe’s words.

Repenthe laughed. “Watch.”

She faded away magically, and was replaced by darkness and the sparkle of tiny lights.

Nisa watched for several seconds, before she understood that the holotank was showing her a scene from the night before, when she and Ruiz had made love on the barge. She watched, trying to decide how she felt. Part of her was outraged — she had regarded those moments as private, as belonging only to her and Ruiz. But her body remembered the sweetness, and reacted. She felt her heart thump a little more strongly, felt desire simmer to life. She was compelled to admire the grace with which Ruiz touched her; there was nothing awkward in his movements — nor in hers, as if the intensity of the act had somehow lifted them beyond the inevitable small clumsinesses of lesser passions.

When the recording ended and the woman reappeared, Nisa felt a sharp stab of loss, which must have shown on her face.

“No, don’t worry,” said Repenthe. “Our tradition is that seekers must rest alone on their first night in Deepheart, so you cannot go to him. But all will be well. I feel it strongly, Nisa. Two such lovers will surely find a place in Deepheart.”

Nisa could think of nothing to say. She was pulled between anger and embarrassment — and distracted by remembered lust. She wondered if there was any way to make the woman go away, even though she should probably be formulating questions.

As if she had read Nisa’s mind, Repenthe smiled and said, “Sleep now; then call me when you need me.”

Ruiz rested uneasily, and woke to the smell of breakfast wafting from the autochef.

He ate slowly. He was buttering a last muffin when the holotank chimed.

The woman was tall and slender; her face had a delicate strength that made her beautiful despite the irregularity of her features. “Hello, Ruiz Aw,” she said, as if they were old acquaintances.

“Hello. Who are you?” asked Ruiz.

She laughed, showing charmingly crooked teeth. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Hemerthe, of course.”

Abruptly, Ruiz seized the memory connected to Deepheart, dragged it struggling to the surface of his mind. Now he knew where they were, and what the dwellers here wanted of them. It could, he thought, be worse.

“Ah,” she said. “You do know of us.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good, good. Then you won’t come to judgment in ignorance.”

Ruiz seemed to be losing the thread again. “Judgment?”

“Follow the mech when it comes for you,” said Hemerthe, and dissolved.

The mech paused at the next door. When it slid back, Nisa stepped out. She saw Ruiz and rushed to him.

“A strange place,” she whispered, holding tight.

“True,” he said, smoothing his hand over her glossy hair.

Dolmaero joined them, then Molnekh and Flomel.

“How was your night, Guildmaster?” asked Ruiz.

“Tolerable.” Dolmaero seemed pale and uncertain; Ruiz again wondered about his health.

“The food was excellent,” said Molnekh, grinning.

Flomel had regained some of his former assurance; he said nothing, but Ruiz could see that his hatreds had lost none of their virulence.

They followed the mech through more featureless corridors.

Dolmaero paced along at Ruiz’s side. “What have you learned, Ruiz Aw?” he asked.

“A bit. I remembered a little about this place, Deepheart, and those who dwell here. They call themselves the Sharers.”

Dolmaero pursed his lips. “High-sounding… but indefinite. What do others call them?”

Ruiz smiled. “Several things… but most commonly, they’re known as the Fuckheads.”

“Indelicate,” said Dolmaero. “What does it mean — in this context?”

“Yes, what does that mean, Ruiz?” Nisa gave him a little shake.

Ruiz considered how best to explain. “Well… these are folk who have deified sexual adventure. It’s hard to explain briefly, but they claim to believe that the highest human purpose is to give and receive sexual pleasure. All their laws and institutions are aimed at promoting this belief.”

Nisa shrugged. “I’ve known people like that. What’s different about these Fuckheads?” Her expression seemed to say that she saw nothing so dreadful in such a belief.

Ruiz was a little taken aback, but he persevered in his explanation. “They go to great lengths to promote the diversity of their experiences — they believe that human beings are designed to take the greatest pleasure with new lovers, so they contrive ways to maximize the novelty of their couplings.”

“They still don’t seem so unusual,” said Nisa.

Dolmaero looked faintly repulsed. “Then they do not form permanent bonds? They spend every night with a different lover?”

“Oh, it’s stranger than that,” Ruiz said.

They looked puzzled.

“They spend every night with a new lover — and also in a new body.”

“How can that be?” asked Dolmaero.

“They have the means to switch personalities from body to body — as easily as you’d change your clothes. It greatly increases the sexual variety available to them. But they’re always looking for new recruits, because…” Ruiz hesitated. How much should he tell them? “They never die — their minds live as long as they care to, so they must find new lovers somewhere, so as to avoid excessive repetition. Eternity’s long.”

They looked stricken. “Don’t they ever grow old? Have accidents?” Nisa seemed overwhelmed by the thought; her eyes were wide with shock.

He took a deep breath. “In the pangalac worlds, people live as long as they can afford to — the wealthy could live forever, if they wished. And if the Sharers lose a body to some mischance, they can replace it with a brainwiped body from the slave market, or a mind-suppressed clone.”

Nisa seemed to struggle with some tangential thought. Eventually she spoke in a small voice. “And you, Ruiz? How old are you?”

Ruiz cursed himself for failing to see the personal implications of his revelations. “I’m a little older than I look,” he said gently.

No one spoke for a long time after that, as if they were having difficulty digesting these startling ideas.