The Faded Sun Trilogy (47 page)

And from the war there were also men like himself, thousands like himself, who did not know what they were, or from what world; war-born, war-oriented. War was all his life; it had made him move again and again in retreating from it, a succession of refugee creches, of tired overworked women; and then toward it, in schools that prepared him not for trade and commerce but for the front lines. His own accent was unidentifiable, a mingling of all places he had lived. He had no place. He had for allegiance now nothing but his humanity.

And himself.

And, with considerable reservations, the Hon. G. Stavros.

He exited
Saber
’s ramp onto the broad dock, his escort left behind, paused to look about at the traffic of men and women busy about their own concerns.

Haveners.

Regulars.

*   *   *

In the command station of
Fox
, Duncan found himself among
Fox
’s entire body of officers, unhappy-looking men and women, who exchanged courtesies with dutiful propriety.

“Sealed orders,” the departing captain told him. “Crewless mission. That’s as much as we know.”

“I’m sorry about this,” Duncan offered, an awkward condolence.

The captain shrugged, far less, doubtless, than the unfortunate man was feeling, and offered his hand. “We’re promised another probe, incoming.
Fox
is a good ship, in good maintenance—a little chancy in atmosphere, but a good ship, all the same. We’re attached to
Saber
, and
Saber
’s due that replacement probe as soon as it’s ferried in; so we’ll get it, sure enough. So congratulations on your command, SurTac Duncan; or my condolences, whichever are more in order.”

Duncan accepted the handshake, in his mind already wondering what was contained in the sealed courier delivery that had come back by shuttle and resided now in the hands of the departing captain of
Fox
—in his own possession, once the passing of authorities was complete. Duncan accepted the courtesies all about, the log was activated a last time to record the transfer of command; and then, which was usual on SurTac missions, the log files were stripped and given over into the hands of the departing captain. There would be none kept on his flight.

Another, last round of ceremonies: he watched the officers and their small crew depart the ship, until there was no one left but the ever-present security detail at the hatch—four men, with live and deadly arms.

There was quiet. Duncan settled into the unfamiliar cushion and keyed in the command that played the
once-only tape from Stavros: under security lock as it was, it was destroying itself as it played.

Such procedures assured that Authority would not have records coming back to haunt them: that had been the saying during the war, when SurTacs routinely expected the destruction of all records that dealt with them, records destroyed not alone for fear of the enemy, but, they bitterly suspected, destroyed to keep clear the names of men that sent them into the field, should a mission fall: losing commanders lost commands.

Stavros’ face filled the screen.

“My apologies,” Stavros said softly, “for what I am about to ask. I will make my proposal; and after hearing it, if you wish, you can return command of
Fox
, and accept temporary assignment at the station, pending stabilization of the situation here.

“By now you are in command of
Fox.
You are authorized to take the mri aboard, along with all their possessions, and the artifact. The probe will be equipped according to your requirements. In your navigation storage is one tape, coded zero zero one. It comes from the artifact. Proceed out on a course farthest removed from incoming regul, and maintain secrecy as much as possible. You are to follow, the tape to its end. There will be no choice once the tape is activated; the system will be locked in. Gather what data you can, both military and personal, on the mri: that is the essence of your mission. Deal with them if possible. We grow more and more certain that it is in our interests to understand that tape. In those interests we are prepared to take a considerable risk. You will gather data and establish what agreement is possible with the mri.

“If you have decided by now to withdraw, wait until the end of this tape and contact
Saber.
If you have, on the other hand, decided to continue, make all possible haste.

“You will in either case say nothing of the contents of this taped message. You will exercise extreme caution in making records during your flight. We want nothing coming home with you by accident. You will have an armed self-destruct, and you will operate under no-capture priorities. If to the best of your judgment you have entered a situation which would deliver your ship into hostile hands, destruct. This is imperative. Whatever choice you make, whether accepting or rejecting this mission, is a free choice. You may refuse without prejudice.”

The tape ran out. Duncan still sat staring at the gray screen, knowing that he wanted to refuse, go back to
Kesrith, make his peace with the authorities—find some safe life in the Kesrithi hills.

He did not know by what insanity he could not. Perhaps it was something as selfish and senseless as pride; perhaps it was because he could not envision a use for himself thereafter—except perhaps to open the backlands to human habitation. And the world would change.

He cut the screen off, gazed around at the little command station that would be his for what might be the rest of his life, with which he could live for a little time. It was enough.

*   *   *

He boarded
Flower
with no change of insignia, nothing visible to indicate the change in circumstances; but the officers of
Flower
had been informed, evidently, of the authorizations granted him, for there was no demur when he asked the transfer of his gear and for preparations on the dockside.

And when he had done so, he went to Luiz, and last of all to Boaz.

It was the hardest thing, to break to her the news that all her labors were without issue so far as security would ever let her know, that he was taking her charges from her permanently—he, who had assisted her, and now returned to the military wing that she hated.

“Reasons are classified,” he said. “I’m sorry, Boaz. I wish I could explain.”

Her broad face was touched with a frown. “I think I have an idea what’s toward. And I think it’s insane.”

“I can’t discuss it.”

“Do you know what you’ve let yourself in for?”

“I can’t discuss it.”

“Are they going to be all right? Are you yourself content with arrangements for them?”

“Yes,” he said, disturbed that she seemed to guess so accurately what was in progress: but then, Boaz had done the researches on the artifact. Doubtless many on
Flower
had an idea—and surmised after one fashion and another what the military would do with the information they had found. He suffered the scrutiny of her eyes for a moment, guilty as if he were betraying something; and he did not know what power had claimed him—whether
friends or enemies of Boaz’ principles—or what he himself served, whether she would understand that, either.

She smiled sadly, a mask that covered other feelings. “Well,” she said, “hard for us, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Sten, take care.” The smile died. “Take care for yourself. I’m going to worry about you.”

He was touched by this, for if he had a friend anywhere about Kesrith, it was Boaz, fortyish and the only ranking woman in the civ sector. He took her by the hands and, on an impulse, by the shoulders and kissed her on the side of the mouth.

“Boz, I’m going to miss you.”

“I will have to get myself some new dusei,” she said. Tears were very close to the surface. “I imagine you’ll be taking them, too.”

“Yes,” he said. “Be careful of those beasts, Boz.”

“Watch yourself,” she urged him hoarsely. For a moment it seemed she might say something further. At last she glanced down and aside, and together they set about the necessary business of arranging the transfer of the dusei.

*   *   *

The whole section was closed to foot traffic and all movement down the rails was halted while the transfer was being made—the matter of sealed canisters of supplies and Duncan’s own uninteresting baggage first; and then the mri, from
Saber
, in the sealed automeds used in evacuations of wounded—not a man on the docks that could not guess who was being moved under such extraordinary security; but the precautions were as much to protect the mri as to conceal their removal. Mri were bitterly hated, and the looks that followed those sealed units were in many cases murderous.

And lastly, the docks entirely cleared, came the dusei, for whom no such protective confinement was practical. Duncan had consulted much with Boaz on the question of their transfer, considered using freight canisters, and finally, all such possibilities discarded, simply directed everyone to clear the corridors, ordered the loading crews behind sealed doors, and had the hatches opened.

Then he went down to meet the dusei, and touched them and soothed them, disturbed by their disturbance, fighting his own fear—and he felt their eagerness too, when he opened the door that let them completely free.

They walked with him, a shambling, rolling gait, broad noses snuffling the strange air as they entered the dock. About them lay a great expanse of docking area, vast room for them to stray off, get out of hand, break into freedom that could only end in harm. Duncan tried to think only of the ship
Fox
, of the mri, of the dusei going—trying to make them understand, if understand they could.

They went, the big one slightly before him and the smaller so close at his side it constantly touched. Once the big one gave a cry that echoed all over the vast station dock, a sound to send chills down the back.

In that moment Duncan feared he was going to lose control of them; but after a moment’s skittishness, they walked docilely up the ramp to
Fox
, and inside. Doors were open along the way that they must go, unwanted alternatives sealed. Duncan walked them down to the hold that was prepared for them there, and let them in, himself delaying in the doorway to be sure they settled. They were excited, fretting with activity, pacing and swaying their massive bodies in the anticipation that coursed through them. One began that rumbling pleasure sound, that numbed and drew at the senses.

Duncan fled it, closed door, sealed them, retreated into the sane corridors and deathly quietude of the ship that was henceforth his.

*   *   *

“Clear,”
Saber
control informed him. A visual on his screen showed clear space all about; a second screen showed a system mockup, with a red dot at the limit of it, which was regul, and trouble. A second dot appeared at the margin, likewise red, and flashed alarmingly.

“
Saber,
” he queried the warship, “is your system mockup accurate?”

There was a long pause, someone checking for clearance to respond, no doubt. Duncan waited, pulse elevated, knowing already that the screen would have corrected itself by now if there had been any mistake.

“Affirmative,”
Saber
informed him. “Further details not yet available. You have no lane restrictions,
Fox.
Officially there’s no one out there but you. Clear to undock, take course of your choosing.”

“Thank you,
Saber,
” Duncan replied, noting the flash of data to his screen. “Stand by.”

He began the checks, a few run-throughs, though the most important would check once he was clear.
Fox
was recently in from a run through nonsecure space and her sheet was impeccable.

He warned
Saber
and loosed the grapple to station, a queasy feeling as he slipped tiny
Fox
through the needle’s eye of clearance between
Saber
and the station.
Hannibal
obstructed his view as he came over the crest, then fell away below.

Fox
came under main systems now, aimed for the shortest run away from Kesrith and Arain’s disruptive pull. He kept the world between himself and the incoming regul. He heard voices relayed from the station: the regul ship was in contact, voices harsh and dialectic. He heard the station and
Saber
respond. He made out that they were doch Alagn vessels, come for the reverence bai Hulagh Alagn-ni, for his rescue: this was a relief, to know at least that the incoming ships were not doch Holn. He was grateful that they had chosen to relay to him, a consideration that he would not have expected with his status.

He could draw a whole breath, reckoning humanity at Kesrith base safe for the moment, poised, on the knife’s edge of safety that Stavros had prepared, cultivating the reverence bai Hulagh.

And absenting the mri, who rested now, secretly, in the belly of a very vulnerable and very small outbound probe.

Remain invisible,
he mentally read the wish that came with that relayed message, a communication they dared not send him in other terms now. He reckoned himself well-placed—reckoned with grudging admiration that Stavros might have done the right thing. If Stavros imperiled the peace by antagonizing the regul, there would be outcries at Haven; once it was known—demands for his recall, even if Kesrith remained safe. If Stavros lost the mri and
Fox,
in this present mad venture, there would be questions asked, but the whole incident would be passed off and forgotten. The mri were out of the affair at Kesrith. Accidents happened to probes: they were written off. The mri were only two prisoners; and no one had ever kept mri prisoners successfully. Mri artifacts were curiosities, obtainable wherever mri had died in numbers—meaningless curiosities now, for the species was dead:
that news would have flashed back from Kesrith with all possible speed, joyous news for humankind, glory for Stavros, who had done nothing to obtain it, and who had kept his hands clean in the massacre. Reports coming from Kesrith were doubtless carefully worded, and would be in the future.

It only remained to see whether Stavros could deal with the regul. It was highly possible that he was going to succeed.