The Braided World (45 page)

A commotion in the hallway. Gilar turned as a sister hailed her, singing: The radio, Gilar!

As Gilar ran to join them, the sister showed her down the stairs and then into a room where Mim and several others were standing, surveying a place of electrical machines. Among tangles of cords, machine parts, and denuded paper spindles, a long empty table commanded the center of the room.

A judipon cowered in the corner, subdued by a sister twice his size. “Oh, he took it, yes, mistress,” the man blathered. “Nirimol took it. The transmitter. He had use of it, he said.”

So did we
, Gilar thought. So much for the judipon's vow of river hands.

She had little time to consider this setback, for a new
person had entered the radio room. In the company of several hoda, there stood the human woman, Bailey.

“I'm so sorry about Maypong, my dear,” the old woman said.

Out on the Puldar in a skiff, Bailey had found groups of hoda huddling on piers, watching the river. None of them knew where Gilar was, until Bailey had happened upon Osa, a lone hoda in a tattered skiff. The woman was a scout Gilar had sent out to look for trouble. Bailey had hoped she didn't fit that definition.

Osa had brought her to Homish's pavilion, where Bailey half expected to be spindled on one of those great storage needles. The judipon were the king's enemies, of course. But she'd braved it out, and now stood with the youngster in charge of one of the Olagong's revolutions.

In this cluttered room with abandoned cords and dusty radio tubes, Bailey asked for a riser to sit upon. She had no business asking for favors, but it was late, and her old legs felt as if she'd walked from the palace, not ridden in a boat.

Seating herself, Bailey began, “I've made mistakes.” Several dozen hoda were watching her, warily, bristling with arms. “I haven't been paying attention as I should have. But I mean to do better.”

Gilar looked at an old hoda standing nearby, one Bailey took for an officer, or some such thing. The ragtag group was at least organized enough to have taken the judipon pavilion. Still, they remained silent.

Bailey continued, “I have some influence with the king. I'll help you, if I can. If you're willing to trust me. And,” she added, “if he's still the king after all this fuss settles down.”

The hoda were singing among themselves, an annoying little hum, just when Bailey felt they should be paying attention to what she was saying.

Finally, Gilar signed, Why did Captain Anton leave you here?<

“Because I refused to go home. It's late in my life for long voyages.”

Will other humans come here, after he has gone? And will there be other beings, with other ships?<

“Gilar, I don't know about other—beings. I shouldn't think they'd be showing up anytime soon. And as for other ships from Earth, well, that is years away, if ever.”

The girl seemed to absorb this, watching her, no longer the waif she had been that day in the skiff, desperate and bedraggled. No, this was a new Gilar. She was surrounded by hoda who watched out for her. How many followed this girl with the fine soprano voice?

“When this fighting is over,” Bailey said, “I'd like to teach you a song or two, if you're still interested.” She looked at the girl's hand, bandaged, reminding Bailey of the penalty for songs in the wrong place. But still, she would teach her.

Gilar's face softened. The song of the palace? That you sang for the king?< She looked around at the other hoda, and by their expressions, Bailey thought the suggestion went over.

“You know,” Bailey said, “we could all get in a dreadful lot of trouble.”

Gilar smiled. Yes. But we rise, Bailey-rah.<

One thing they had to get straight was that Bailey would not undermine the king. “You should know, Gilar, that I won't help you harm Vidori.”

Gilar raised her chin. He won't die of a song.<

Well, the girl was bold, indeed. The hoda watched Bailey, waiting for something.

Finally, Bailey stood.
When in doubt, follow your impulses.
The maxim had served her well in the past, even if it had gotten her into a world of trouble at times. It did appear that they wished to start their singing lessons forthwith.

She uttered the first, glorious notes of “Sempre libera.” Verdi, for the revolution.

Coda Ten. Cultural Opposition.

It is necessary to set aside cultural dread. Conflict and avoidance of contact are barriers to the progress of civilized worlds and the custodial duty. Coda One describes how ours is not an enduring and safe universe. Higher life has a narrow temporal and spatial range. The universe needs no assistance to deplete complex life. What is required is to overcome xenophobia and endeavor to further the prospects of sentient species. The cultural records stored here and elsewhere may provide familiarity and interest in diverse sentient populations. Species and cultures may undergo change as a result. In approaching concourse with other advanced species, avoid fear and consternation. We are not immune from such states of dread. While accepting the custodial duty, we could not accept ourselves changed or our culture altered. It is a barrier to our survival. We do not survive.

Anton awoke, overheated, sweat slicking his body. Checking the time, he saw that he'd slept a full shift and more, pursued by disturbing dreams: the judipon lowering
the wire cage over a girl's head; Maypong walking, red footprints on the path.

Anton dressed, then sat on the edge of the bunk, dreams lingering. On a day when he should have awakened thinking of what lay ahead, he was beset by things that had passed. The people he must put behind him: Maypong, Bailey, Vidori, Gilar, Shim. And Oleel. Today the
Restoration
would leave orbit, beginning the run to the Kardashev tunnel, the journey back.

He found himself going in search of someone to talk to. That would be Zhen.

She wasn't in her cabin, but he soon found her. She was with Sergeant Webb, sitting in his compact cabin, a flask of whiskey on a table between them.

Webb stood. “Busted,” the older man said. “Begging your pardon, Captain.”

Anton said, “I hope you have another glass, Sergeant.”

Webb's mouth curled into a smile. He rose to accomplish the task, then plopped down a chipped mug and splashed some amber liquid in it. Given the ship's space and personal stowage limitations, Webb was rumored to have nursed three bottles of fine whiskey through the entire voyage. Captain Darrow had taken a glass or two with the man, but this was Anton's first.

Zhen smirked. “I didn't think you broke the rules, Captain.”

“Sometimes you have to,” Anton murmured, and got a rare smile from her.

They drank in silence for a time. Webb watched Anton with a steady gaze. He leaned forward to top off his captain's drink.

Webb refilled his own, waving the bottle at Zhen, who demurred. He sat back with his drink, saying, “We're about done with systems tests, Anton. Could fire up anytime.” It was time for that, of course.

Anton rolled the whiskey over his tongue, swallowed. And again. It cauterized the bad taste in his mouth. The one
that came from his misgivings, the misgivings that now, after a bit of whiskey, were becoming clear to him. The bad taste came from abandoning Maypong's world. Even though he had to.

Though he had a clear responsibility and mission, and there was no possible dispute of what he had to do, he had been fending off an errant thought for days now. The unwelcome knowledge that his mission, so extraordinarily successful, was yet a failure. In a moment of cynicism, the entire endeavor could be summed up in a few cold words:
We came. We took. We left.

“Captain?” Webb leaned back, cradling his drink. In a tone both straightforward and muted, he said, “It might help to talk.”

“Yes, I think it would.” Anton floundered for a beginning, but Zhen and Webb weren't in a hurry, and there was half a bottle left.

Anton said, barely audible, “Feels like hell. Leaving.” He took a drink. “That's the short of it.”

Webb raised an eyebrow at Zhen, then refilled all of their glasses. ‘And the long of it?”

Anton tilted his chin in the direction of the portal in Webb's cabin. “That world below us, Ethan. It's the repository. We're leaving it to a raging tyrant, a woman who can depose a decent king.”

Zhen said, “I thought you killed her.”

“With luck. But Nirimol could carry on.” After a pause he said, “But it's not just the Olagong on my mind.”

“No,” Zhen said. She took a drink, murmuring, “It's worlds within worlds.”

Webb frowned. “But we've got the code.”

Zhen murmured, “Some of it.”

Anton had the sudden, gladdening thought that the woman just might be walking down the same logic path he was. He turned his attention to Webb, the man who might have missed Captain Darrow, but who'd remained loyal to the new captain.

Anton decided to trust him. He had to say this thing before his better judgment quelled the thought, much less the words.

He said, “What if we stayed?”

The sergeant was gazing at him, betraying nothing.

For a moment, Anton thought of Vidori. When they had first seen the fires on the river that were meant to stamp out the Quadi legacy, Vidori had said,
You and I, Anton, are not devoted to such worlds …
Leaving unsaid,
We are devoted to more narrow concerns. You for Earth, I for my power in the Olagong. And this is not a good thing.

Zhen was staring fixedly at her glass of whiskey.

Finally Webb said, “Earth needs what's in those holds, Anton.” He locked gazes with his captain, not with hostility, but immovably. To someone like Webb, the mission goal was not for tampering with.

Anton wanted to say,
Sometimes the goal changes.
But he thought better of the direct approach. Rather, he said, “Earth could still have it. We could send word back about what we've found. Let them decide to come for it.”

Webb hadn't moved. “That would take years, Captain.”

Years. Three years for the mission's report to reach Earth, if borne by a drone craft through the subspace tunneling. Given Earth politics, it could take considerably longer.

Anton said, “They have some time.” It was a risk to say so. It sounded like he was consolidating his position. And so he was.

“Look, Ethan,” he said. “The Olagong is more than it appears. That war down there is not just about which petty ruler wins. We have a stake in it. Oleel and Nirimol mean to destroy much of what the old race worked to save.” He looked at Zhen. “Worlds.”

Zhen put her glass on the table, sitting upright. “There are varieties of that plant that have been thriving in narrow ecological niches for ten thousand years. The loss is…” She shook her head. “It's unthinkable.” She looked up, noting

Webb's confusion. “The other worlds are folded into other subspecies of langva. On board here we only have the few species I was working on, that I had in the lab this week. What we have in our hold represents a damn narrow goal.”

Anton said quietly: “The mission can change its goal.”

Webb took a long pull on his drink. Staring into the glass, he said, “The crew might not last the ride home. It's not what anybody wants to say, but the radiation pounding is making hash out of our resistance. Maybe the virus reservoir is right here, in our own crew. It could break out again. With our luck, it will.” His shoulders relaxed then, and he turned to Anton with a more open face. “I don't know about other worlds; that goes beyond what's in my keeping. But the lads and gals are mine to see to, begging your pardon, Anton. They've been in my care. I put half of ‘em in shrouds. I don't care to do that again.” He stopped then, not giving an aye or nay to the matter, but leaving room for Anton to do so.

And he did. “Here's a proposal then. I won't make this an order—but I'm not putting it to a ship vote, either.” He clearly remembered Bailey's acid words:
This isn't a union ship. We don't whine, and we don't vote.
“We send our report to Earth. Tell them everything, urge them to come. But out front, tell them about the Dassa: what they are, and why. And why it's hard—sometimes impossible—to accept. Tell them there are varieties of worlds. Varieties of human. So they can get used to the idea.”

And whether they came or not, his crew would also have to accept changes. Their future was with the born to bear. If Maypong had lived, she would have insisted that he have sarif with those most like himself. He was sure that she would have. And in like manner, she would have claimed full sarif expression for herself. They would have worked it out, somehow.

He closed his eyes, thinking of her.

“Captain?” Zhen was frowning. ‘Are we going to do this or aren't we?”

Anton looked up. For this to work, he needed Webb's support. His firm support. He locked gazes with the man, and Webb understood what was being asked.

Webb gave the slightest dip of his chin as an answer. “God help me,” Webb said.

“God help us all,” Anton murmured.

“Was that a
yesì”
Zhen snapped.

Anton thought of the small band they would form, when eventually everyone came down to the Olagong. They would be immigrants, and would very much need each other. He realized that he had always liked Zhen, despite her quick temper. She always said what she thought, and that would be a relief in the Olagong.