Inheritor (27 page)

On the other side, the legislature wanted justification for the sacrosanctity and autonomy that a Guild enjoyed, when they did nothing that regarded confidentiality, which was the essence of a Guild.

That was one problem. Tossing into it Banichi's information, there were interface problems with other Guilds, and the question of how such a Guild would relate to, say, the Messengers — who argued at length that the pilots in question might fit within
their
Guild structure since they traveled and carried messages.

Like hell, was the succinct version of the pilots' opinion, as it came to his ears.

To add to the mix, a fact which he knew and others might not, there was serious talk this winter of the Astronomers attempting to regain their position as a Guild, but as Tabini put it, their Guild status had originally been based on their predictive ability, and getting into
that
now-antiquated forecasting function would touch off a storm of controversy among several atevi philosophies, which on one level was ludicrous, but which to believers was very serious and which, to politicians, signaled real trouble.

The pilots wanted him to write a recommendation to the aiji and to the legislature — and there was, additionally, a letter from the head of the Pilots' Association stating that they accepted the use of computers on his recommendation that they would prove necessary (this had been a
very
difficult matter) and hoping again, since he had supported the paidhi in that situation, that the paidhi would grant his support in their cause.

The fact was, he did take the Guild status seriously — for reasons he didn't quite want to make clear to the pilots involved.

Yet.

They were, assuredly, going to enjoy a certain importance once the earth-to-orbit craft was flying; and once the coming and going became frequent; but more than that — more than that, he began to think, the computer programs the pilots right now disdained were ultimately going to be run by atevi computer programs, using atevi grasp of mathematics.

And in that respect he could see where it was going to go over a horizon he couldn't see past, into mathematical constructs where a lot of atevi couldn't follow, arcane mysteries that might
totally
confound a set of philosophies built on mathematical systems. And responsible handling of
that
might be far more important to atevi than any reason these men and women yet saw.

Aiji-ma
, he wrote somberly,
these pilots will in years to come work closely with the Mathematicians' Guild and with the Astronomers in whatever capacity the Astronomers enjoy at that time. I believe in due consideration that there will be reasons to facilitate exchange of information at Guild level. I know that I, being human, only imperfectly comprehend the advantages and disadvantages of a change from professional Association to Guild, but there may be special circumstances which will place these persons in possession of sensitive information which I think your greater wisdom and atevi sensibilities alone can decide
.

Let me add, however, that the term Guild as atevi apply it is not the human model; and this should be

considered: it came to be among the most divisive issues of the human-against-human quarrel that sent humans down to the planet.

There was a human named Taylor once, when the ship was lost in deepest space and far from any planet. Taylor's crew gave their lives to fuel the ship and get it to a safer harbor. The sons and daughters of the heroes, as I was taught was the case, gained privilege above all other humans, used their privilege and special knowledge ruthlessly, and attempted to hold other humans to the service of their ship, a matter of very bitter division.

He stopped writing — appalled at the drift of what he was admitting to atevi eyes, to an ateva who was working to his own people's advantage far above any theoretical interest he held in humans — an ateva whose
feelings
about the matter he couldn't begin to judge, no more than he could expect Tabini or even himself accurately to judge the feelings of humans dead two hundred and more years ago.

He was appalled at how far he'd forgotten the most basic rules in dealing with atevi. He security-deleted what he'd just written, wiped every possible copy, and then grew so insecure about his fate and that of the computer he wasn't sure humans had told him the truth about a security-delete.

The room after that was quiet. There was the dark outside the windows. There was the hush in a household trying not to disturb those doing work they generally couldn't discuss. There was the burden of knowing — and not being able to talk about things.

Never being able to talk. Or relax. Or go out of that mode of thought that continually analyzed, looked for source, looked for effect.

Looked for ulterior motive.

And he was on the verge of making stupid, stupid mistakes.

He needed a human voice, that was what. He badly needed to touch something familiar. He needed to
see
something familiar — just to know — that things he remembered were still there.

He folded up the computer, got up, walked back to the office, quietly so. Jase was still in the library, reading, but Jase didn't look up as he shut the office door.

And dammit, no, Jase wasn't the prop to lean on. A human born lightyears from the planet wasn't it. A man under Jase's level of stress wasn't it. He didn't need to dump all his concerns on anybody.

He just needed — he needed just to hear the voices, that was all. Just needed, occasionally, to hear the accents he knew, and the particular human voices he'd grown up with, and even — he could be quite brutally honest about it — to get mad enough at his family to want to hang up, if that was what it took to armor him for another three months of his job. He loved them. He was technically allowed to say the fatal word
love
in their instance, angry and desperate as they could make him.

Maybe, he thought,
that
was the part of his soul that needed exercising. Maybe it was hearing Jase talking to his mother. Maybe it was the self-chastisement that maybe he ought to make peace with his own family, and not carry on the war they'd been fighting.

Maybe it was the definite knowledge that his mother had justification for complaints against her son. It came to him with peculiar force that he'd been blaming her for her frustration when it was the same frustration and anger the whole island of Mospheira was likely feeling with him, and showing to his mother by harassing her sleep.
He
couldn't explain his position to her, hell, he couldn't explain it to himself on bad days, and now she had health problems the stresses of
his
job weren't helping at all.

Not mentioning the mess he'd put his brother and his family in.

At least he could call. At least he could make the gesture and try to plead again that he
couldn't
come back and turn over the job to Deana Hanks, which was his alternative.

Jase didn't look up. The hall was shadowed: possibly Jase didn't notice him at all. Or thought he was being checked on by security or one of the servants — or by him — and purposefully didn't notice.

He went to the little personal office instead, picked up the phone and, through the Bu-javid operator, put through a call into the Mospheiran phone network, which got a special operator on the other side. Checking the time, he put through a call to his brother Toby's house.

"This number is no longer a valid number. Please contact the operator."

"
I'm sorry
," the Mospheiran operator said coldly, cutting in. "
There's a recording
."

I know there's a damn recording! was what he wanted to say. Instead, he said, reasonably, "Call Bre-tano City Hospital. My mother's a patient there."

There wasn't even a courtesy Yes, Mr. Cameron. The operator put the call through, got the desk, a clerk, the supervisor:

"We have no Ms. Cameron listed as a patient."

"
They say
," the operator said, "
they have no Ms. Cameron listed
."

He
didn't
want to call the Foreign Office. He had a short list of permitted persons he
could
call as paidhi without going
through
the Foreign Office or higher. And he was down to the last ones. His mother's home phone didn't work during the evening hours: the phone company had blocked incoming service because of phone threats. Toby
might
be there. His mother might be. Possibly she'd come home from the hospital and Toby might have taken his entire family there because he didn't dare leave the kids or his wife alone back at their house.
Damn
the crawling cowards that made it necessary!

"All right. Get me Barbara Letterman," he said to the operator. "She's married to Paul Saarinson."

"I don't have authorization for a Paul Saarinson's residence."

"You have —" He made a conscious effort to keep his language free of epithets. "— authorization for Letterman. She is the same Barb Letterman. She has a State Department clearance to talk to me. She hasn't changed her clearance. She just got married."

"I
can only go by the list, sir. You'll have to contact the State Department. I can put you through to that number
."

The operator
knew
that number wouldn't find anybody able to authorize anybody at that hour. He could try Shawn Tyers at home. But he didn't want to compromise Shawn, and he had sure knowledge that his calls were monitored at several points: in this apartment, with Tabini's security, with Mospheiran National Security and God knew, it was possible there were leaks with this particular operator.
George's
friends were gaining increasing access through appointments to various offices, just a quiet erosion of people he
used
to be able to reach.

And it did no good, no good at all to lose his temper. He wasn't out of names, if
that
old list was the one she was going by. There was one woman, one woman he'd dated in time past and who had gone on the list, before he and Barb had almost gotten to talking about a future together. Sandra Johnson was a
date
, for God's sake, not a resource for a Foreign Office field officer in trouble. But she was a contact — to prove he could get someone.

"Sandra Johnson."

"
Yes, sir
."

He shut his eyes and blocked out the atevi world. Imagined a pretty woman in an ivory satin jacket, candlelight,
Rococo's
, and a quiet chat in her apartment. Nice place. Plants everywhere. She named them. Clarence, and Louise. Clarence was a spider plant, one of those smuggled bits that the colonists weren't supposed to have taken, and some had, and spider plants were common, but no ecological threat. Louise was a
djossi
vine, and he'd said — he'd said she should set it on her balcony. They liked more light. The paidhi knew. They grew all over Shejidan.

The phone was ringing. And ringing.

Please, God, let someone pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Sandra? This is Bren. Don't hang up."

"
Bren Cameron
?" Justifiably she sounded a little shocked. "
Are you on the island
?"

"No. No, I'm calling from Shejidan. I apologize. Sandra. I —" Words were his stock in trade and he couldn't manage his tongue or his wits, or even think of the social, right words he wanted in Mosphei'. It was all engineering and diplomatese. "I've run out of resources, Sandra. I need your help.
Please
don't hang up. Listen to me."

"Is something wrong?"

God. Is something wrong? He suffered an impulse to laugh hysterically. And didn't. "I'm fine. But —" What did he say? They're harassing my family and threatening their lives? He'd just put Sandra Johnson on the list, just by calling her. "Sandra, how are you?"

"Fine. But —"

"But?"

"I just — was rather surprised, that's all."

"Sandra, my mother's in the hospital or she's home. I can't get the hospital to admit she's in there. Probably it's a security precaution, but the clerk's being an ass. I know —" God, he had no shame. Nor scruples. "I know I have no right to call up like this and hand you a problem, but I can't get through and I'm worried about her. Can you do some investigating?"

"Bren — I —"

"Go on."

"I
know she's there. I know they've got police guards. It's in the news. Bren, a lot of people are mad at you
."

"I imagine they are. But what in hell's it doing in the news about my mother and police guards?"

"Bren, they've thrown paint on the apartment building. Somebody shot out the big windows in the front of the State Department last week. You're why."

He felt a leaden lump in his stomach, "I don't get all the news."

"
Bren, just
—
a lot's changed. A lot's changed
."

The operator, he was sure, was still listening. The call was being recorded.

"Shouldn't have bothered you."

"Bren, I'm a little scared. What are you doing over there? What have you done?"

"My job," he said, and all defenses cut in.

"They say you're turning over everything to the atevi."

"Who says? Who
says
, Sandra?"

"
Just
—
on the news, they say it. People call the television station. They say it
."

"Has the President said anything?"

"Not that I know."

"Well, then, not everything's changed," he said bitterly. Eight days out of the information flow, maybe. But by what Banichi had said about things not getting to Tano's level, with Banichi gone for six months, God alone knew what hadn't gotten to him.

And common sense now and maybe instincts waked among security-conscious atevi told him he'd both made a grave mistake in getting on the phone and that he'd learned nothing in this phone call that he could do a damn thing about. "So now that I've called you,
you
could be in danger. How's your building security?"