Forever Shores (36 page)

Harder words then.

‘We've discussed it,' Scarbo said. ‘Need you to have this. Wouldn't be right any other way. The others agree. You may be able to bring back help. Get us a reprieve. It has to come from the Order. It happens.'

Tom sat among them, let them see he was listening, turning to face whoever spoke. They all did.

Then it was across to
Songwing
and the whole thing over, and seeing Anna there with the others, belonging so well. It put a new edge on the desperation, and touching her, too, was urgent and strange.

No self-recrimination in her, no blaming herself now, but Tom sensed the ghost of where it had been. How could it not? But how could it stay? They had known what they were doing at Balin, all of them.

‘We get our chance,' she said, as bluff and torn as the rest, because words couldn't cover this now. ‘The world watches more than ever.' All true. So true among the truths.

No time to take it further, no time for anything with them finally down to an hour but renewed strategy talk, renewed urgings with the refrain: ‘Let us give you this.'

The six Captains had had their countless genome/DNA printings done well before, had sat through proliferation recordings that would haunt the airwaves for as long as the foreign sats could carry them. Taunting ghosts to remind the world: this time must not pass easily, must not slip away. State of Nation had done its best, too, filed their protests, called in the official observers, though these remained confined to the coastal cities and could only watch what the friendly sats gave.

Then, when half an hour remained and still nothing had been finally decided, they went to their separate ships, and left it to the Gold Captain, first among them, as Tom knew they would.

Aftervarro judged the time, crossed to
Rynosseros
and found Tom at the quarterdeck rail, staring to port out across the vast fighting ground. There were no new words, not really, just this final saying of them.

‘Nothing on the tree?' Tom asked.

‘Not yet. Corven's
Demeter
is close. May reach it in time. We'll know soon.'

‘But not answering?'

‘It never has. Always suited itself, you know that.' Afervarro left a ten count. ‘Tom, Tartalen is at Azira. Whatever has happened has made him think it's important you know things. He's probably defying the Order, may be putting himself at risk. It has to be important.'

Tom had no new words either. ‘Hasn't before. Years of nothing, now he can tell. Why, Phaon?'

‘Can't know. Can't know Cleven's place in this either. Just that it's playing out. That you surprised him. But a summons is what it is, an official benefice. There would be outside scrutiny all the way, a monitored official escort. You would likely be safe there and back.'

‘While this is happening,' Tom said, regarding the great sweep of the land, dazzling white under blue, flecked with tips of black when you really looked, the wrecks of ships that had fought and died over the years. ‘While you go out there.'

‘It was always borrowed time, Tom. Since Traven, more clearly so. See us as buying time now. You may get back. We can divide the fleet. Break rules, see what they do. Try some strategies we've been putting together.'

‘What, Phaon? What? Divide yourselves? Splay formation? Wedge? Single arrow, what? You think there will be time? This isn't Caerdria? Most definitely isn't.'

‘We will call the tribal ships to us. Officially call them. Some may change sides. It's possible. We have Anna—'

‘Against how many Clever Men?'

‘Tom, who knows what will happen?'

Tom smiled grimly but didn't speak.

Afervarro leant on the rail. ‘Against a thousand, what can it matter if we're six or seven? Let us give you this.'

‘It's important we're together. That we're seen—'

‘And it matters that you want that, Tom. But the outcome won't change. There is no right time. No perfect time for any of us. But this way something continues. This way you have questions answered, answers we've all had in our lives but you haven't. Please let us give you this. Go to Azira. Hear what Tartalen has to say. Come back if you can.'

‘Three hours each way, Phaon—'

‘Less knowing you and your crew. You can still come back. Early or late, what does it matter? They'll allow it. They want you here. It's the only gift we have, Tom. We dearly need to give it.'

‘Phaon—'

‘Barely eight years! Take the gift! Honour us! It's all that makes it worth it, don't you see?'

They watched the salt lake together as if there was time.

‘Delay them, Phaon,' Tom said then. ‘Do anything to waste the day. Hide in the wrecks. Run up to Madiganna, anything. Promise you'll delay them.'

‘Aye. We'll do that.' He squeezed Tom's arm once then went to join his ship.

Carlyr saw the tree ahead, this powerful, meddlesome ID-5982-J, which had caused such trouble, proved so durable. A sky-strike could have put an end to it, Carlyr knew, or ship-tech from passing charvis. But more than tribal sats watched this place now. There was Chandrasar and Tosi-Go, Mikel and Sesta, clients, allies, interested parties. Those sats could see the smallest laser strikes if they cared to, could see men with cutters and torches, hammers and blades for that matter, given allocations and alignments. The world knew the story of this tree and what it had done.

So Carlyr played an innocent nomad who just happened to be wandering this back-Road and chanced upon the famous construct. It's what nomads did. No sat could read his kill-tech. He would wander past, focus direction for twenty, thirty seconds, then vanish into the land. Later he would call his skiff to him and sail back to Cana. Later. Now there was this to do.

At 0900 the advance order came through com. The thousand had entered the lake at Cresa and were approaching, a spectacle like none ever seen on the Air, so many ships here for this particular kill. At Toley the six had already lofted battle canopies, signatures deployed among death-lamps and parafoils, everything trimmed for speed and minimum fire damage. Now
Songwing
began moving down the Toley strand, followed by
Serventy
, then
Quicksilver
and
Evelyn
, finally
Albatross
and
Manticore
. That was how they entered the lake, with Afervarro leading, but then—clear message to all—Anna's
Manticore
advanced to point, with Afervarro at her left and Lucas to her right.
Evelyn
took port flank,
Albatross
moved to starboard beyond
Quicksilver
. The ships of the seven Captains had always tended to stay apart, meeting in twos and threes. They had never moved like this, not six together, but they managed it skilfully considering and it, too, was something to see.

Such a hard leave-taking, though little was said, and better for all once it was happening at last. Harder for
Rynosseros
turning away, angling off along the Gaenea to rejoin the Quaeda Si, to seek miracles and answers another world away.

Learning that the ship-core of
Rynosseros
had died had been hard. Knowing ID-5982-J had fallen. That Traven had, and Anoki and aerotropts and so much else. This was the hardest.

Scarbo did what he could to make business, found real tasks to distract them all, all but Tom, who was left to the never-enough of his dilemma. The crew worked quickly and well, took
Rynosseros
to a 100 k's in record time, put speed and ever more distance between them and the Air, getting beyond the beginnings and into the doing. This ship. This deck. This time. Hardest for them, too, in all the different ways, none of it spoken. Only the doing mattered now.

Carlyr saw the tree on its rise, standing back from the Road where it turned by some old rocks. He glanced once at his harness settings, unnecessary, habit and instinct playing out, just what you did. Nothing could be left to chance.

Soon now. Not even five minutes. The Road had followed the old watercourse for the last five k's. Now it made the gentle rise to the tree. All easy.

The stoneman appearing atop the rise surprised him, but was hardly an issue. The rocks had been hiding him was all. He hadn't moved on.

Carlyr had his weapons, his readiness, his training. It was the recognition that did it, made him hesitate. How could it be—
that
stoneman,
that
smile, the hand raised in greeting?

By the land! Rocky Jim! It was! But
here
. Here!

How could it be? He had been, what?—ninety k's away at least! Would have needed time, more time than he'd had, would have—

He had been brought!

Even as Carlyr reacted, the man's sling was there, spinning in the hot air, making its blur, its lightning flash.

Not now! Not like this! Carlyr thought. Not before—

But the lightning was there, small, hard and shockingly real, and all that Carlyr had hoped and dreamed and ever sought to be snapped back into night.

They were running hard when Strengi called up from com. ‘Lucas is hit!'

Tom gripped the rail. ‘Down?'

‘Burning. Still running. A distance strike. But they're closing. Committed.'

Lucas.

Scarbo laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. ‘They understand, Tom. They're giving this. You deserve answers too.'

Tom's hands never left the rail. ‘Aye. But Lucas.'

Words so simple that again there was silence of a fashion, accepting, caring silence set in the flow of wind, the roar of wheels on sand, other ship-sounds, ineffably dear.

‘Forget the three hours!' Shannon said, dealing with the moment. ‘I figure two and a half if we push it; two and a half getting back!'

Tom looked about him, saw the talk for what it was, that they truly and keenly understood, knew this too was right. That more than one thing could be. More than one. Accepted that it wasn't the choosing now, just the working through.

But there was the deck, and the wind in the lines, and the sun drawing the kites—that kite!—into the empyrean, and the new drumming thunder of the wheels. Sunlight flash off mica and gypsum. Red gibber. Life and light. Choosing after all.

There is no right time. No perfect time for any of us.

And behind, when he did look back through scan, there were the closing lines of ships, battle canopies flung like toys, startlements, deadly gardens upon the blue, with twisting, spinning death-lamps, so many diamonds in the fiery white gold of the day.

The only moment.

It took him back, forward, completed itself.

As human does.

‘Hard about, Ben! Bring us round!'

‘But Tom!' Scarbo cried. ‘This is—'

‘Hard about!' Tom was grinning, laughing. ‘It doesn't matter!'

‘But we understand. We all do!' Shannon cried, even as Scarbo worked the helm and the ship slowed and began the turn.

‘I know you do. I know.' He brought up his hand, open palm. ‘See what I have, Rob. See what I already have!'

There were frowns, smiles, nods, acceptance, all in moments as the ship completed its one-eighty and plunged back along the Gaenea. Simple. All simple now. The clear, simple words of a lonely tree in another time.

What is in the empty hand but the universe entire,

What is in the eye but all there is.

What is for the heart but the only fire,

And for the soul? The only moment. This.

Now
Rynosseros
ran, sending out proclaimed intent—this is what we do!—so that all could hear. The Gaenea still flanked the Air; a thirty degree adjustment was all it took.

The crew plundered the kite lockers, something else they
could
lay their hands to. The ship ran under a blossoming mantle, two score kites and more as Scarbo, Rim and Hammon sent them aloft: parafoils, Haikkokus, bright Sodes and Demis, Chinese Hawks, Jacob's Ladders climbing on the sky in tiers, one, then another, with angels, wind-thieves, suncatchers and racing footmen and, highest of all so the tribes and sats could see, the rhino head, blue on ochre. Colour ship here!

They were at 120 k's, heading for 130. Boiling behind was a rooster tail, bloody red becoming white as they entered the Air at last, ran on, on, towards the converging battle lines. The wheels roared, the lines thrummed their own travel song. Deep down the ship cores, the nested, borrowed lives, sang and sang.

The other Captains and crews read her approach soon enough, read choices, more than one, allowed not just closure but slowed their advance so
Rynosseros
would reach them in time. They did more, trimmed their battle canopies, sent up their own signatures and brights as well, their best and finest in tiers and blossoming geometries, so the six ships—the seven!—were like crowns, birds, brilliant flowers, confections of light and colour.

And while—late to the dance—Tom would have kept to the left of the line, two words from Afervarro at centre, first Colour, Gold, flashed on com:
Take point
, and led
Rynosseros
to the middle of the chevron. It was a beautiful manoeuvre, done perfectly this once (such is the irony of desperation!), saw the chevron extend and
Rynosseros
plunging in tandem with Anna on
Manticore
, then ahead, needfully ahead, taking point.

Oh, if you could see them as they ran, the seven against the dazzling thunder of the thousand, a few bright stars before the crackling storm, six kilometres becoming five, four, steadily falling to nothing in the beat, beat, beat of the dance. Oh, if you knew how all across the land we sang in our thousands, not unison, no, fervent discord, sang and sang, all of us that lived, the greatest and the least, startling nomads, travellers, vagrant stonemen, delighting so many who had forgotten to remember we were always there.