Also see:

Interview with Stacy Eaton
the World Literary Cafe

Interview with Gail M Baugniet,
a Hawiian mystery writer.

 [SufferStone is] " ... an intricate
and intense tale of greed, corruption, idealism, and the spirit.
You will hear much from
Stella Atrium in years to come."
—Ted Anton,
author of Eros, Magic,
and the Murder of Professor Culianu



 [SufferStone is] "... definitely in the
top ten of all I have read this year.
Your use of the different belief systems and cultures was marvelous.
Thank you for a very literate book
and a great read."
—Steve Algieri,
Editor at Eternity Online


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Summer 2012 launch
of Book II

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Sample Chapter from SufferStone
Chapter Nine

It was common practice in the past for Company medical staff to sterilize indentured female colonists. Company policy favored mining colonies on planets where the atmosphere mix or labor conditions were hostile to the presence of children. Fieldmen claimed they could not assume responsibility for families who were left behind when contracts expired and supply lines severed. But you see, if no births occurred in a colony, then property rights were managed by the Company until indentured terms ended. Without property or groundborn offspring, free men and women had no rights of redress for relocation assignments. I know about these acts because my husband and I signed away our future work for fifteen years each in exchange for passage to Dolvia.

Why here, you ask? Why anywhere? We heard about the colonized planet rich with animal life, farming and minerals, and sparsely populated. It sounded like paradise to colonists and freighter conscripts without a single handful of dirt to own.

When we arrived on Dolvia I was nineteen, committed to my husband but unwilling to raise children on the freighter. The shuttled landed and we disembarked onto solid ground. Well, I have no words for that day.

Sunlight is free. The air was free. A hot breeze kicked grit into our faces. I stretched out my arms away from my body, turning in all directions, and did not touch another person. I ran in a straight line until I was out of breath and did not slow or swerve to avoid another. On the freighters we never had such privileges.

From that first day when I breathed fresh air, when I saw the horizon through the shimmering heat, when I laughed openly and people did not stare as though I had violated their privacy — I sent down roots here. My roots are deep and broad, seeking the nutrient rich old water that gives abundant life. My roots support a firm base and spreading full limbs to nurture my groundborn children. Whatever the cost, whatever was asked of me — these I did without complaint. I wasn't moving. I was not leaving.

Carl's trade was building machines, and we disembarked with his tools and single destination license for importing parts and raw materials. The Blackshirts led by Captain Ellis closely assessed the monthly tariff plus the added 'living fee,' but we got by.

Our assignment was the end apartment of a long dormitory in the former garrison barracks, a woodframe, two room, dirt floor home with a tile roof and simple fireplace for cooking. Carl inspected the door that could be locked from the inside. He made me wait in the yard for a moment while he tried the key from both sides. Then we entered the dusty room and secured the deadbolt. What a feeling of privacy to lock out the universe.

As much as we counted our blessings, we knew our residence here could end within a few hours. We could be killed or evacuated, our groundborn children sent offworld as conscripts. Life was but a breath.

When the other colonists opened businesses on tables or stacked boxes next to the native bazaar, I wanted to pursue my long held desire for an enterprise of my own. Some had brought household staples and farm tools to trade. I noticed early on, though, colonists excluded or cheated tribespeople who came to barter. Without a fair rate of exchange, both sides traded on perceived value, a treacherous method.

That was my opening. Near the arched gate of the garrison's high wall, I bartered with Cylahi women for gold. Some merchants used the kam and oblu, but I asked for gold that was not their legal tender. Cylahi frowned, but later brought pieces of rough-hewn gold jewelry, some rather large and well-shaped, asking if that was good enough.

Soon I traded Dolviet goods door-to-door with the colonists who shunned the tribeswomen and openly insulted the men in the common bazaar. I shrugged when colonists asked how I could bring myself to address and touch Cylahi in barter. They spoke out their prejudice while they feasted on Dolviet-grown vegetables seasoned with native herbs. The colonists' bigotry doubled the price they paid for simple toiletries and staples.

I liked the tribeswomen, or some of them at least. The richly painted and naked Cylahi were easily frightened, but grateful for a kind word. Putuki women were servants at heart, broad stanced with rich black skin. Arrivi women were hard to know, hidden under burkas and traveling in large groups. One family only, women related to their leader Rabbenu Penli, traveled without burkas displaying their long coils of hair and peridot earrings. The women of rabbenu had an improprietous taste for imported luxury items of every description.

We had heard many stories about native myths and their revered ancestors, but we did not know what to believe of the hearsay. Certainly we put no weight on the story of the Mekucoo warrior who ate the beating hearts of his enemies, or the tale of the ghost of one Spindel who wandered the savannah and became a ketiwhelp at any approach.

I traded occasionally for tektite pieces, like onyx only weighty, and said to improve memory. When Carl and I saw a market develop on the transport, and later on Cicero and throughout Westend, for Cylahi gold jewelry, even the cheapest and least skillful pieces, our bartering abilities increased tenfold. Within a few years we bought our indenture papers and became free. Carl became a colony spokesperson, but not because he led Hardhands or was adamant about their complaints. Carl's trade had no need of the Company. He was seen as independent, an impartial businessman.

Our involvement with politics in Somule began slowly. Late one evening I saw them talking in the dusk, Carl with the electricians Hank and Jim. Carl's shoulder-length hair was tied at his neck. His hands were jammed into his pockets, and his back was arched. His head tilted to the right and downcast, the age-old freightate gesture of resistance. Hank made the pitch. Jim stood silent and lethal with a friendly smile frozen on his face. I saw the blades of long sabers swing out from their bodies and repeatedly pierce Carl's side. I blinked and looked again. But they only finished talking and shook hands. Jim and Hank walked away with long-legged strides in sync.

The vision of the long sabers troubled me, but I did not share it with Carl. He came in, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and sat on the floor. Gravity seemed to pound him into the earth. He was the same texture as the dirt floor he so highly prized.

I clearly remember that moment. My hair was just at shoulder length, still tightly bound under a headscarf. Joey was in diapers. We did not have Carline yet. Carl's wide shoulders and strong arms curled in a deep circle while he hunched with Joey on his lap, inspecting a toy and tickling his son. I heated dinner and softly called his name. I took Joey from his arms when he came to the table.

But Carl stopped short. He touched my cheek with the back of his hand, then reached with both hands and pulled the scarf from my head. He ran his fingers through my red hair, gently encouraging it to hang close to my cheek. "Wear it down," he said.

"I will, in our home."
"All the time. You have no reason to hide."
"What happened, Carl?"

He sat at the table. "The Company raised the import tariff for merchants. They won't accept their own script, only native minerals."

"But the Company controls the value of the script."
"And they devalued it. Shops will close. Goods will remain on shipping platforms, or run up storage costs. Eventually, colonists will move onto the next station."

"Without their businesses?"
"As conscripts." Carl poked at his food with a fork. I sat next to him with Joey on my lap. Conscript was an frightful word meaning one had no defense against the Company.

"Us too?" I asked.
"They just now invited me to stay. Hank Kempler said I could continue to pay with script."
"In exchange for what service?"
"Hank encouraged me to buy up the import licenses and supply contracts."
"From the colonists who have no gold?"

Carl nodded and pushed away his plate. The opportunity was so valuable, but it was a Company offer. Next week they could demand the same from us or start some blackmail. "Tomorrow we meet with Martin Sumuki, the Putuki man at Tri-City," Carl said. "He knows some tribal people who may have an exchange rate for the script."

"I will close shop and come over to the workroom. I can greet your customers if someone needs to pick up an order."

Carl put his hand on mine. "Tomorrow there will be no retail. You will come with me. And no headscarf. I want them to see the beauty of my wife."

"Who will be there?"
"The holy woman Oriika, Martin Sumuki, Brian Miller who operates Brittany Mill, and some Mekucoo."

"Mekucoo? What do we have to do with them?"
"Dolviets listen to them in everything. You must be there. It's an insult if you don't attend, like I have no trust to show my family. We tend to think of the tribes as separate, but Martin says differently."

"You will do just fine."
"We will. We're a team now."
"And the colonists?"
"Some will leave. They have already decided."

###

I could see why they called him Gaucho. Brian Miller dressed in millmade linen with a Mekucoo knife at his waist. It was said he walked crosscountry without discomfort, even visited Arrivi homes. Beyond the hearsay, Brian Miller had a Mekucoo escort. Two small and dry men in loincloths and sandals, both with disfiguring scars and carrying rifles called karkars, followed him everywhere. Neither as servants nor companions, they were often out of sight, way up the street. But you only saw them when Gaucho was there, or was about to arrive. For his part Brian spoke to them with command and only concerning tribal questions. They were not in service at his request, but assigned to him. Why strive against the honor of it?

Tribespeople lived for honor and debt. Their system of relative debt was the mechanism Carl hoped would give the colonists enough headroom to save their fortunes, or at least the cost of passage.

I wore a scarf over my hair until we entered the Tri-City Bank Corp. Carl encouraged me to remove the scarf in the public room where a few tribespeople made deposits and withdrawals. When I pulled it off, we heard excited whispers and clucking. Martin Sumuki uneasily looked around, and moved to invite us into his office. Carl and I were first, being the supplicants in this transaction, and sat at the far right. Gaucho and the holy woman sat on the left, facing Martin's desk. Each nodded to us and then stared straight ahead.

"I thought you said this was scheduled for outside," I whispered.
"The invitation list changed."

We waited maybe ten minutes. I was charmed by Martin's office that was native adobe and local wood painted gray and apricot. Light streamed in the south window that looked out on the street of shops. An acrylic-fronted cabinet housed books and some collectibles. The dial of a dehumidifier was set but turned off in the dry season.

Martin came in with two others, one who I knew. While the men greeted each other, Julia Luria-Penli, dressed in her foreign-made clothes and heavy mantilla, nodded to me. I realized my hair was a shock to everybody. The Arrivi man with her was introduced as Dillan Rabbe Penli. The tension in the room increased palpably when this couple sat in cane chairs between the two groups and slightly behind. Martin took his seat behind the desk.

"We have a common problem," Martin began. "The Company has devalued its script for commerce on Dolvia. The Tri-City Bank Corp is underwritten by mineral wealth and by the government in Cylay. Our immediate concern must be the import/export licenses owned by the colonists. By dropping the bottom out of their own system, the Company more than doubled the cost of using these contracts. Their intent, of course, is to consolidate their position in traffic by buying up the contracts that default. We're here today to discuss ways to share the weight of the extra cost and avoid defaults.

"Present today are Brian Miller of the Brittany Mill," he continued. "And Oriika, the holy woman, who represents tribal interests and is empowered to take a message to some who may be able to help. Also present are Carl Osborn and his lovely redheaded wife Heather. They represent colonists' concerns. Dillan Rabbe Penli represents some private interests who are willing to discuss equitable loans for the colonists who want to stay."

"Private interests?" Brian Miller asked. "Company interests, you mean. Why did you tell him about this meeting?"

"I thought you told him."
Brian stood and faced Dillan. "Go back to the Company, messenger boy, and tell them no deal."

Dillan jumped up. "The Company owns you and Ricardo."
"Now gentlemen," Martin said. "Please. Let's talk sensibly."
"And what about Tri-City?" Dillan said. "You're their puppet."

"Listen, you little snake," Brian shouted. "I would rather enter a ketiwhelp den with Martin than cross the street with you. No solutions will be discussed with you here."

"Get in line, Company man," Dillan shot back. "Prosper when we prosper."
"Company prosperity?"
"What do you think you have now?"
"I'm not with any group that includes you."

Oriika leaned forward and stared past the posturing men. Her deep eyes sought my face, so I leaned forward to meet her gaze. She smiled, so I smiled and nodded just as though I too had a secret. I had no understanding of why they argued.

###