Antagonist - Childe Cycle 11 (8 page)

He
stopped
to
raise
both
arms
up
and
behind
his
head,
in
a
lazy, tension-relieving
stretch
that
made
them
all
aware
of
how
long
they had
been
cooped
up
in
the
conference
room.

"I
don't
know
if
that
can
work
on
Ceta,
though,"
he
said,
as
if musing
to
himself.
"Your
reports
have
never
mentioned
that
any such
organization
exists
here.
In
fact,
not
even
the
potential
for such
an
organization."

He
yawned,
and
stood
up.

"Think
about
it,"
he
said.
"And
you'll
have
time
to
do
so,
since Dahno
and
I
have
to
appear
at
some
minor
diplomatic
functions
for
a few
days,
and
then
go
out
to
visit
the
Friendly
troops.
We'll
be
all around
the
planet;
but
if
we're
needed,
Pallas
Salvador—"
He
turned to
look
at
her.
"—will
know
where
to
find
us
at
any
given
time.
Keep in
mind
that
we're
going
to
have
our
hands
full.

"For
now,
get
some
rest;
then
take
a
few
days
to
think
about
all the
things
we've
discussed.
Consult
with
each
other,
if
you're
so inclined—or
whatever
helps
you,
individually,
think
better.
If
you can
come
up
with
suggestions
for
coordinated
action,
we'll
all
want to
hear
them."
He
smiled
tiredly.
"Shall
we
say,
eight
days
from
now, at
noon,
here?"

CHAP
TER7

On
the
second
day
of
their
visits
to
leased
Friendly
troops,
Bleys overrode
his
local
driver
and
had
his
limousine
turn
off
their
scheduled
route,
separating
from
the
rest
of
his
official
party
and
reaching,
in
slightly
more
than
an
hour,
the
coordinates
he
had
been given
for
the
place
where
Will
MacLean,
along
with
the
rest
of
his unit,
had
been
buried.
They
had
all
spent
the
previous
night
in
a very
good
hotel,
but
Bleys
had
to
wonder
how
much
sleep
Henry had
gotten.

His
uncle,
as
usual,
showed
no
signs
of
either
fatigue
or
emotional
reaction.

"Was
this
a
good
idea?"
Dahno
whispered,
as
they
stood
beside their
vehicle
on
the
edge
of
an
unpaved
and
overgrown
roadway, looking
out
across
a
featureless
field.
Their
view
was
poor,
because the
field
sloped
slightly
downhill
from
their
position;
anything
that might
once
have
been
visible
was
totally
obscured
by
the
brush.

"You
know
it
was,"
Toni
answered
for
Bleys.
"How
would
Henry feel
if
we
went
back
to
Association
without
even
trying
to
find
his son's
grave?
Not
that
he
would
ever
say
anything,
of
course."

"I
know,
I
know
...
you're
right."
Dahno
looked
about.
"But where
exactly
is
the
cemetery?
It's
been
years,
and
it
looks
like everything's
been
overgrown—all
I
see
is
a
field
full
of
nasty-looking weeds."

Henry,
who
had
been
standing
several
meters
in
front
of
the
others,
up
to
his
knees
in
drying
vegetation
and
facing
a
wide
gap
in the
weathered
wooden
fence,
chose
that
moment
to
stride
down into
the
field.
Toni
immediately
followed,
accompanied
by
Bleys, and
Dahno
trailed.

If
the
field
they
were
crossing
had
ever
been
under
cultivation,

Bleys
could
not
tell
it.
The
surface,
hidden
by
tussocks
of
a
dried-out
grasslike
plant,
was
uneven,
and
he
quickly
discovered
that
a foot
incautiously
planted
on
the
edge
of
one
of
those
clumps
of
vegetation
was
likely
to
slide
sideways
into
a
hidden
narrow
patch
of bare
dirt.
Henry
turned
to
warn
the
others
of
the
danger
of
a
twisted ankle,
and
they
slowed
their
pace;
but
Henry
himself
seemed
to move
as
fast
as
before
over
the
broken
footing.

The
going
was
made
even
more
difficult
in
those
spots
where
the tussocks
were
obscured
by
the
longer,
still-green
blades
of
a
different plant
that
sprang
up
around
and
among
them.
Three
of
the
party,
at least,
quickly
found
that
the
green
blades
were
sharp-edged
and needle-pointed,
able
to
work
their
way
through
the
light
material
of trousers
meant
for
urban
wear.
The
three
younger
ones
began
to weave
so
as
to
avoid
the
worst-looking
patches,
but
Henry's
strides never
wavered
from
the
direct
line
he
seemed
to
be
set
on.
The
others
only
caught
up
with
him
when
he
stopped.

They
came
up
behind
Henry
as
he
looked
down
on
a
foot-high block
of
pale
gray
granite,
roughly
hewn
on
the
sides
but
polished on
top.
For
the
first
moment,
the
others
stood
in
a
row
behind
him, but
as
he
continued
to
stand
without
sound
or
movement,
they moved
up
beside
him.

A
simple
cross
had
been
incised
into
the
polished
top
surface
of the
stone.
Beneath
it
was
a
legend:

Here
lie
27
men
of
the
Militia
of
Association, who
were
blessed
with
death
in
the
service
of
our
God.

In
the
silence,
a
stiff
breeze
fluted
softly
among
the
reedlike weeds.
Bleys
had
prepared
himself
to
deal
with
some
sort
of
emotional
reaction
when
this
moment
came,
but
he
found
he
was numbed,
as
if
his
feelings
had
been
removed
from
his
body
and deposited
on
the
other
side
of
the
planet.

The
stone
before
them
seemed
to
connect
to
nothing,
to
be
only a
neutral
and
dead
object.
It
had
nothing
to
do
with
his
young cousin—and
with
that
thought,
he
remembered
the
day
it
had
been abruptly
decided
that
he,
Bleys,
must
leave
Henry's
farm
and
move into
Ecumeny.

Will
had
reached
up
to
hug
his
tall
cousin,
and
Bleys
had
returned
the
hug—so
strange
a
thing
for
him
to
do
...
and
with
that memory
the
reaction
Bleys
had
feared
rose
up
in
him
after
all.
But
it was
far
worse
than
he
had
imagined,
and
he
was
totally
unprepared for
the
chaos
that
fell
on
his
mind.

It
was
as
if
he
had
been
treacherously
abandoned
by
that
rational watcher
in
the
back
of
his
head,
who
in
the
past
had
always
guided him,
shielded
him
from
the
dangers
of
emotional
crises,
by
keeping him
separate
from
the
world.
His
vision
blurred,
and
his
mouth flooded
with
saliva,
so
that
he
had
to
gulp
to
keep
from
choking;
the effort
made
his
nose
burn
inside.

His
legs
trembled
with
a
wild
impulse
to
turn
on
his
heels
and walk
away,
and
he
knew
if
he
did
so
he
would
have
to
discipline
his steps,
to
keep
that
walk
from
turning
into
a
run.
He
was
vaguely aware
that
his
breathing
had
become
rapid
and
shallow,
and
he
could not
seem
to
order
his
eyes
to
come
back
into
focus
...
and
as
he
hung there,
motionless
and
struggling,
some
thoughtless
level
of
his
mind futilely
tried
to
pick
a
tune
out
of
the
sound
of
the
wind
in
the
weeds.

His
memories,
out
of
his
control,
skipped
from
that
leave
-
taking through
a
series
of
fragments,
bits
and
pieces
that
he
felt
rather
than saw:
Henry
holding
a
gun
on
the
crowd
in
the
churchyard
.
..
his mother
turning
from
her
mirror
to
look
at
him
with
murder
in
her eyes
.
.
.
the
sound
of
a
sword
searching
for
him
in
a
darkened
corridor
...
They
popped
into
his
head
and
then
blew
away,
without
being
worked
on
by
his
rational
mind
at
all;
as
if
it
had
all
happened
to someone
else,
and
he
was
held
immobile,
forced
to
watch
someone else's
life
story.