The Faded Sun Trilogy (59 page)

Perhaps, he thought, she knew the name of the world into which they were falling: but it was not going to stop them.

And the outrage of it grew in him—that they should die by mischance. For a time he awaited a miracle, from Melein, from some source, certain that the gods could not have directed them so far—only to this.

He waited on Melein; and she said nothing.

“You have two kel’ein,” he reminded her at last, on the day that there was hardly any darkness left in the
starscreen.

Still she said nothing.

“Ask him, Melein.”

Her lips made a taut line.

He knew the stubbornness in her: they were of one blood. He set his own face. “Then let us fall into the world,” he said, staring elsewhere. “Surely there is nothing that I know to do, and your mind is set.”

There was long silence between them. Neither moved.

“It would assure,” she said at last, “that one danger did not reach our destination. I have thought of that. But it would not stop the other. And in us is the knowledge of it.”

Such a thought shook at his confidence. He felt diminished, who had thought only of their own survival, who have been forward with her. “I spoke out of turn,” he said. “Doubtless you have weighed what we ought to do.”

“Go ask him,” she said.

He sat still for a moment, finding her shifts of mind as unsettling as transit, and his nerves taut-strung at the thought that the matter did indeed come down to Duncan.

Then he gathered himself up, called softly to his dus, and went.

*   *   *

Duncan sat, beneath the screen that held the scanner image, eternally whetting away at the blade of an
av-tlen
that he had made out of scrap metal: it was laser-cut and of a balance that Niun privately judged would never be true, but it kept Duncan’s hands busy, and perhaps his mind, whatever darkness hovered in it. The dus lay near him, head between paws, eyes following the sweep of Duncan’s hands.

“Duncan,” Niun said. The noise of the steel kept its rhythm. “Duncan.”

It stopped. Duncan looked up at him with that bleak hardness that had grown there day by day.

“The she’pan is concerned,” Niun said, “about our near approach to this world.”

Duncan’s eyes remained cold. “Well, you do not need me. Or if you do, then you can find some means to
work around me, can you not?”

“I respect your quarrel with us.” Niun sank down on his heels, opened his hands in a gesture of offering. “But surely you know that there is no quarreling with the world that is drawing us into it. We will die, and you will have no satisfaction in that. As for your cause with us, I do not want to quarrel at all on this small ship, with the dusei in the middle of it. Listen to me, Duncan. I have done everything I know to give you an honorable way to put aside this grievance with us. But if you threaten the she’pan, then I will not be patient. And you are doing that.”

Duncan went back to his task, sweeping steel against steel. Niun fought with his temper, knowing the result if he laid hands on the tsi’mri: a dus that was already precariously balanced on the verge of
miuk,
and the ship plummeting toward impact with a world—with some things indeed there was no quarreling. It was likely that the human was no more rational than the dus, affected by the ailing beast. If the dus went over the brink, then so did the mind that held knowledge of the ship.

Melein’s handiwork. Niun clenched his arms about his knees and sought something to say that would touch the man.

“We are out of time, Duncan.”

“If you cannot deal with this,” Duncan said suddenly, “then you certainly could not land safely when you reach your home. I do not think you ever intended to be rid of me. You two seem to need me, and I think the she’pan has always suspected that. That was why she let you have your way. It was only a means of making me less an inconvenience than I would have been, a way of getting past my guard and getting from me what she wanted. I am not angry with you, Niun. You believed her. So did I. She had what she wanted. Only now I am needed again, am I?” The ring of steel continued, measured and hard. “Become like you. Become one of you. I know you tried. You armed me—but you never reckoned on the beast. Now you cannot deal with me so easily. It and I . . . make something new on this ship.”

“You are wrong from the beginning,” Niun said, cold to the heart at such thoughts in him. “There is an autopilot to bring us in. And the she’pan never lied to you, or to me. She cannot.”

Duncan’s eyes lifted suddenly to his, cynically amazed, and his hands fell idle. “Rely on that? Maybe regul
automation is better than ours, but this is a human ship, and I would not trust my life to that if there were a choice. You could come down anywhere. And would you know how to engage it in the first place? Perhaps the she’pan is simply naïve. You do need me, kel Niun. You tell her that.”

It had the sound of truth. Niun had no answer for it, shaken in his own confidence. There were things Melein could not reasonably know, things involving machines not made by the regul and motives of those not born of the People. Yet she proceeded on her Sight; he wished earnestly to believe in that.

“Come,” he pleaded with Duncan.

“No,” said Duncan, and fell to work again.

Niun rested unmoving, panic stirring in him. The rhythm became louder, steel on steel, metal clenched in taut, white-edged fingers. Duncan would not look up. A body’s-length away, the dus stirred, moaned.

Niun thrust himself to his feet and stalked out of kel-hall, through the corridors, until he came again to Melein.

“He says he will not,” Niun told her, and remained veiled.

She said nothing, but sat quietly and stared at the screen. Niun settled by her side, swept off
mez
and
zaidhe
and wadded them into a knot in his lap, head bowed.

Melein had no word for him, nothing. She was, he thought, finally reckoning with what she had wrought, and that reckoning was too late.

*   *   *

And by the middle of the night there was no more darkness left in the screen. The world took on frightening detail, brown patched with cloud swirls.

Suddenly a siren began, different from any that had sounded before, and the screens flashed red, a pulse terrifying in its implications.

Niun gathered himself to his knees, cast an anguished look at Melein, whose calm now seemed thinly drawn.

“Go to Duncan,” she bade him. “Ask again.”

He rose and went, covered his head, but did not trouble this time to veil himself: he went to plead with their enemy, and shame seemed useless in such a gesture.

The lights in kel-hall had dimmed: the screen, pulsing between the red of alarm and the white glare of the world, provided all the light, and Duncan sat, veilless, before it. There sounded still the measured scrape of metal, as if he had never ceased. Beside him lay the mass of the two dusei, that stirred and moved aside as Niun came and knelt before Duncan.

“If you know anything to do at this point,” Niun said, “it would be well to do it. I believe we are falling quite rapidly.”

Duncan rasped the edge one long stroke, his lips clamped into a taut line. A moment he considered, then laid aside his work and wiped his hands on his knees, looked up at the world that loomed in the pulsing screen. “I can try,” he said equably enough, “from controls.”

Niun stood up, waited for Duncan, who rose stiffly, then walked in with him through the ship. The dusei started to trail them. Niun forbade them with a sharp word, sealed a section door between, and brought Duncan into that section that belonged to the she’pan.

Melein met them there, in the corridor.

“He will try,” said Niun.

She opened controls to them, and came in after, stood gravely by as Duncan settled himself into the cushion at the main panel.

Duncan paid them no further heed. He studied the screens, and touched control after control. A flood of telemetry coursed one stable screen. One after another the screens ceased their flashing and took on images of the world in garish colors.

“You are playing pointless games,” said Melein.

Duncan looked half-about, back again. “I am. I have watched this world for some few days. It is puzzling. And it is still possible that the ship’s defenses may take over when we reach the absolute limit: there are choices left, but for some reason it is not observing the safety margin, and the world’s mass has anchored us, so that jump is
impossible. Here.” He took the cover off a shielded area of controls and simply pushed a button. Lights ran crazily over the boards. Immediately there was a perceptible alteration in course, the screens shifting rapidly. Duncan calmly replaced the cover. “An old ship, this, and it has run hard. A system failed. It should have reset itself now. It will avoid, then pull us back on course. I think that will solve the problem. But if there is an error in the tape that caused it to happen, why, we are dead.”

He offered that with a cynical tone, and slowly rose, still looking at the scanners. “That world is dead,” he said then. “And that is strange, given other things I read in scanning.”

“You are mistaken,” said Melein harshly. “Read your instruments again, tsi’mri. That is a world called Nhequuy and the star is Syr, and it is a spacefaring race that lives there and all about these regions, called the etrau.”

“Look at the infrared. Look at the surface. No plants. No life. It’s a dead world, she’pan, whatever your records tell you. This is a dead system. A spacefaring people would have come to investigate an intrusion this close to their homeworld. But none have. Not here, not anywhere we have been, have they? You could not have answered a challenge. You could not have reacted to their ships. You would have needed me for that, and you have not. World after world after world. And nothing. Why do you suppose, she’pan?”

Melein looked on him with shock in her unveiled face, a helpless anger. She did not answer, and Niun felt a chill creeping over his skin in her silence.

“The People are nomads,” Duncan said, “mercenaries, hiring out whatever you have been. You have gone from star to star, seeking out wars, fighting for hire. And you have forgotten. You close each chamber after you, and forbid the Kel to remember. But what became of all your former employers, she’pan? Why is there no life where you have passed?”

Niun looked at the screens, at the deadness they displayed, at instruments he could not read—and looked to Melein, to hear her deny these things.

“Leave,” she said. “Niun, take him back to kel-hall.”

Duncan thrust back from the panel, swept a glance from her to Niun, and in the instant Niun hesitated, turned
on his heel and walked out, striding rapidly down the corridor in the direction of kel-hall.

Niun stared at Melein. Her skin was pale, her eyes dilated: never had she looked so afraid, not even with regul and humans closing on them.

“She’pan?” he asked, still hoping.

“I do not know,” she said. And she wept, for it was an admission a she’pan could not make. She sank down on the edge of a cushion and would not look at him.

He stayed, ventured finally to take her by the arms and draw her out of that place, back to her own hall, where the chatter of the machines could not accuse her. He settled her in her chair and knelt beside her, smoothed her golden mane as he had done when they were both only kath’dai’ein, and with his own black veil he dried her tears and saw her face restored to calm.

He knew that she was lost, that the machines were beyond her capacity; she knew that he knew; but he knelt at her knees and took her hands, and looked up at her clear-eyed, offering with all his heart.

“Rest,” he urged her. “Rest. Even your mercies were well-guided. Is it not so that even the she’panei do not always know the Sight when it moves them? So I have heard, at least. You kept Duncan, and that was right to do. And be patient with him, for my sake be patient. I will deal with him.”

“He sees what is plain to be seen. Niun, I do not know what we have done.”

He thought of the dead worlds, and pushed the thought away. “We have done nothing.
We
have done nothing.”

“We are heirs of the People.”

“We do not know that his reckoning is right.”

“Niun, Niun, he knows. Can you be so slow to understand what we have seen along the track of the People? Can there be so many worlds that have failed of themselves after we have passed?”

“I do not know,” he said desperately. “I am only kel’en, Melein.”

She touched his face, and he felt the comfort that she meant, apology for her words, and they did not speak for a time. Long ago—it seemed long ago, and impossibly far—he had sat by another she’pan. Intel of Edun
Kesrithun, and leaned his head against the arm of her chair, and she had been content in her drugged dreams to touch, to know that he was there. So he did now, with Melein. Her hand restlessly stroked his mane, while she thought; and he sat still, unable to share, unable to imagine where her thoughts ran, save that they went into darkness, and into things of the Pana.

He heard her breath shudder at last between her teeth, and fore-bore to breathe, himself, fearful of her mood.

“Intel,” she said at last, “still has her hand on us. The she’pan’s kel’en: she held you by her until I wonder you did not go mad; and passed you to me—to see that her chosen successor succeeded not only to Edun Kesrithun, but to rule all the People. That Intel’s choice survive. She would have waded to her aim through the blood of any that opposed her. She was
the
she’pan. Old—but age did not sanctify her, did not cleanse her of ambition or make her complacent. O gods, Niun, she was hard.”

He could not answer. He remembered the scarred and gentle-eyed Mother of Kesrith, whose hands were tender and whose mind was most times fogged with drugs; but he knew that other Intel too. His stomach tightened as he recalled old angers, old resentments—Intel’s possessive, adamantine stubbornness. She was dead. It was not right to cherish resentments against the dead.

“She would have taken ship,” Melein said in a hollow voice, “and gods know what she would have done in leaving Kesrith. We no longer served regul; we were freed of our oath. She sent me to safety; I think she tried to follow. I will never know. I will never know so many things she had no time to teach me. She talked of return, of striking against the enemies of the People—ravings under the
komal
-dreams, when I would sit by her alone. The enemy. The enemy. She would have destroyed them, and then she would have taken us home. That was her great and improbable dream, that the Dark would be the last Dark, to take us home, for we were few already; and she was, perhaps, mad.”