The Faded Sun Trilogy (84 page)

There was no reaction anywhere. A slow tremor came into Harris’s muscles, a knee that wanted to jerk against his will. He reckoned that somewhere over the horizon
Saber
would grow concerned when they failed schedule, that somewhere near them
Santiago
must be on the prowl over dayside, regul-watching.

Then a tone sounded in his ear and a blip appeared on the edge of the screen, on and off. He kept his eye on it, his pulse pounding so that it almost obscured his audio. He did not tell Averson. It was of no use yet. He considered
another dive into atmosphere. Maybe, he thought, that was what he was being encouraged to do. There had been two of them.

The sweat ran, the single blip grew no closer, and he wiped at his lip and tried to reckon his chances of being allowed to go his way. He could find himself up against some outrunner for
Shirug,
against which he was a gnat-sized irritant.

“How much longer?” Averson asked him.

“Don’t know, sir. Just stay quiet. Got a problem here to recalculate.”

There was no way it avoided having him in scan, traveling so neatly at the edge of his own.

Suddenly it disappeared out of range.

That gave him no feeling of safety. It was back there; there could be any number back there.

The ruddy surface of the world slipped under their bow and whitened to polar frost. Ahead was the terminator.

Be there,
he entreated.
Saber, Saber, for the love of God, be there.

Averson fumbled after something in his pocket, a bottle of pills. He shook one and put it into his mouth. He was looking gray.

“Things are going all right,” Harris lied. “Relax, sir.”

“We’re alive,” Averson muttered.

“Yes, sir, we are.”

And a blip appeared at three o’clock of the scope, coming up fast. The pulse erupted in his ear, faster and faster, deepening as the instruments gauged size: it was big.

A screen flared, a computer flashed demands to his comp. Hasty pulses flurried across, coded; he punched in, braced for recognition or for fire.

“Shuttle NAS-6,” a human voice said, “this is
Santiago.
”

He punched com, weak with relief. “This is NAS-6. Two bogeys downworld, fire on their side, coming in with a bogey on my tail.”

“Affirmative, NAS-6, we copy. Correct course our heading. Proceed to
Saber.
”

He made the adjustments, recalled Averson, looked into the round-eyed face and nodded confirmation of the hope he saw there.

They crept farther into night, within the protective cloak of
Santiago’s
scan. He had
Santiago’s
scope on-screen now; it showed reassuringly clear, all but human shuttles and a friendly blip that was
Saber.

*   *   *

Harris shifted footing uncomfortably, received the nod that sent him into the admiral’s office . . . stood there, staring down at the hero of Elag/Haven and of Adavan, at the balding visage which up till how he had never had to face alone.

The formalities were short and on his own part unsteady. “Averson?” the admiral asked him, and his voice was grim.

“Meds have him, sir. A little shaken up.”

“Close?”

“Close, sir.”

“Security will have your tapes running now. Sit
down,
lieutenant. Did you get a clear image on your attackers?”

Harris sank into the offered chair, looked up again into that lean, ruddy face. “No, sir. I never managed it. Tried, sir. Not big, not quick on high gee maneuvers; had me, if they could or wanted, . . . harassment or just too slow, maybe.”

“You’re suggesting by that remark that they could have been regul?”

Harris said nothing for the moment. A mistake, a mistake in that opinion: he reckoned where that led; and swallowed bile. “I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure of anything. They were about that size; they shied off from high gee turns and climbs. I’ve flown against mri. Mri feel different. Fast. Apt to outguess you and crosscut your moves.” He silenced himself, embarrassed before a man who had been in it before he was born, who sat regarding
him with cold calculation. Koch would know, all the same. The impression would make sense to a man who had flown against both.

“I’ll view the tapes,” Koch said. Harris reassured himself with that, desperately relieved to believe someone else would be counter-checking his observations. “Did you,” Koch asked, “have your armscomp engaged?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maneuver to fire?”

“No, sir; they came up at my belly and I zigged and got out without firing.”

Koch nodded. It might be approval of his actions or simply introspection. Koch leaned aside to key something into the desk console. There was delay; finally a response lit the screen, but Harris could not read it at his angle.

“Dr. Averson’s under process in sick bay,” Koch said; and Harris reckoned that hereafter would the complaints. He was caught in the vise, civ and military. Someone gave the orders and the complaints ended up on his record. “Meds indicate he came through in good shape,” Koch said, “but they’re going to keep him a little while. We’ll be talking with him. Did he have any comment on the scanning pass?”

“Said nothing, sir. Wasn’t much to see.”

“And the ships?”

“Don’t think he observed much, sir.”

“Point of origin?”

“From my view, east and low, veered to my heading and tailed.”

Koch nodded slowly, leaned back. “I appreciate the job, lieutenant. That will be all. Dismissed.”

“Sir.” He rose, saluted, left, his knees still wobbling in carrying him past the secretary in the front office and down the corridor outside. There would be other flights, he suspected so; backup or not, there would be use found for him. He had beaten the odds in the war, and the war was supposed to be over. He had believed so. Every human alive had believed so.

He took the turn down to the prep room, half seeing the scatter of men and women who were ordinary about the place, preferring this company until he had his nerves steady again. It was the unofficial center for preflight
meetings and for beating the goblins after; it had hot coffee around the clock, an automat, and human company that made no demands—a clutter of zone charts on the walls, unofficially scrawled with notes—
home,
one wit had scrawled on a system chart, with an arrow spiraling forlornly off the board—a screen linked to scanning; tables and hard chairs, lockers for personal gear.

He wandered over to the coffee dispenser and filled a cup, stirred ersatz cream into it, suddenly aware of silence in the room. A group of men and women were clustered about the center table, some standing, some seated . . . . He looked that way, found no one looking at him directly, and wondered if he was the subject of the rumor. James, Montoya, Hale, Suonava—he knew them . . . too well for such silence.

He ventured among them, stubborn and uncomfortable, and Suonava moved a foot out of a seat for him: his rumpled blues and their crisp ones marked which had priorities at table in this room without rank. He sank into the chair and took a sip of his coffee.

The silence persisted. No one moved, some seated, some standing. He set the cup down, looked about him.

“Something wrong?”

“NAS-10’s failed rendezvous,” one said. “Van is missing down there.”

His heart began that slip toward panic, the same as it had when the ships turned up in scan. He took a drink of coffee, hands shaking, set it down, his fingers still curled around the warmth. He knew Van. Experienced at Haven. One of the best. He looked for others who had flown out with him, on his tail and Galey’s. There was no one else; likely they were still tied up in security’s triplicate-copy debriefing . . . if they had returned.

“Any details?” he asked them.

“Never showed, that’s all,” Montoya said. “Everyone else is in; should have come in ahead of you that went to
Flower.
But Van didn’t show.”

“There’s bogeys out there,” Harris muttered, guilty at contributing to the rumor mill that operated out of this room; it would be traced; there would be a reprimand for it. But these people were flying out into that range next. Lives rode on such rumors; apprehension made reflex quicker.

“Mri,” Suonava spat. “Mri!”

Harris brought his head up. “Didn’t say that,” he insisted, forcing the words. And because he was already committed: “And I don’t think so. The feel was wrong. I don’t think so.”

There was silence after sober-faced men and women settling about the table. No one spoke. It would be all over the ship by the next watch, on
Santiago
by the next. Harris did not plead for discretion. Suddenly advancements and careers shifted into small perspective.

“That doesn’t leave us in a good spot,” Montoya said, “does it?”

“Quiet,” Hayes muttered.

Cups were refilled, one after the other retreating to the dispenser and returning. Pilots settled back at the table and drank their coffee, grim-faced. No one said much. Harris stared into the lights reflecting off the coffee, thinking and rethinking.

*   *   *

It was a joyous sight, the appearance of a kel’en standing high among the rocks near the camp. Hlil flung up an arm and waved, and the sentry gave out a cry taken up by others. The very rocks seemed to come alive, first with black figures, and then with gold and blue. The weary column hastened, finding new strength in galled limbs and aching backs, as brothers and sisters of the Kel hurried out to their aid, as even blue-clad children came running to lends their hands, shouting for delight.

Only the sen’ein who drew the Pana accepted no help until others of the Sen could reach them to take the labor from them. And Hlil, freed of his burden by another kel’en, walked beside them up into the camp. Where the Pana went there went a silence in respect, a pause, a gesture of reverence, before celebration broke out again.

But all was quiet when they drew near the center of the open-air camp, where the she pan waited, conspicuous in her white robes, seated on a flat stone. The sen’ein who drew the sled on which the Pana rested stopped it before her, and Hlil watched with a tautness in his throat as she lifted her eyes from that to him.

“Kel-second,” she said. He came, half-veiled as he was, dropped to his knees in the sand before her and sat back.

“There are three dead,” he said in a calm, clear voice that carried in the silence about them. “Sen Otha, sen Kadas, kel Ros. At An-ehon . . . a collapse killed them. The edun is in ruin.”

Her eyes lowered to the Pana, lifted yet again. “Who recovered it?”

“I,” he said, “for any harm that attaches.” He removed the headcloth, for all that there were children present. “Merin and Desai and Ras—by my asking.”

“And the power in the city . . . live or dead, after the collapse?”

“Live,” he said. “I saw: forgive.”

“How far alive?”

For all the dignity kel-law taught him, his gesture was uncertain, a helpless attempt to recall what he had tried to wipe from his mind. He built back what he had seen, shut his eyes an instant, recalled with the meticulous care with which he had been trained to retain images. “Each row . . . some lights, mostly red, some gold; generally two hands of lights; more, the third row of machines. It spoke; I gave it my name and yours; it called for you.”

She said nothing for the moment. He stared into her face . . . young and cold and scarred with kel-scars. A curse, he thought, that would be her gift to him. A chance for her to be rid of him, who was of the old order.

“Was the Pana damaged, kel Hlil?”

“No.”

“You sent back half the force you took. We here thank you for that. We are without deaths in this camp because you sent us strength enough to shelter us. We could hardly have kept the sand clear without that help.”

He blinked at her confused, realizing dimly that this was honest, that this cold young she’pan offered him praise.

“
J’tai
are owed you,” she said. “Every one.” She bent forward, kissed his brow, took his hands and rose, making him rise.

“She’pan,” he murmured, and stepped back to let others through. One by one, to the very last and least, she took hands and kissed them, and there were bewildered looks on the faces of more than one of the Kel, for she had no reputation for such gestures.

Only Ras hung back, and when she was too obviously the last: “The kel’anth is not back,” Ras said to his hearing and that of too many others. “Where is he, she’pan? I ask permission to ask.”

“Not back yet,” said Melein.

And Ras simply turned her back and walked away.

“Ras,” Hlil hissed after her, his heart sinking; he hesitated between going after her and staying to plead with the she’pan, who must reprimand the rudeness; someone Must. It could not be ignored. It was on him, kel-second, and he stood helpless.

But Melein turned her face away as if not to notice Ras’s leaving. “Make camp,” she said into that deathly silence . . . clapped her hands with a sharp and commanding energy. “Hai! Do it!”

“Move!” kel Seras called out, and clapped his hands, an echo of hers. Kath’ein called to children and sen’ein joined kel’ein in helping Kath divide the loads they had brought.

Hlil stood still, caught the she’pan’s eyes as she glanced back across an intervening distance. Her calm face considered him for a moment, face-naked as he was, and turned from him.

*   *   *

There was canvas overhead this night, the brightness of lamps, the comfort of mats spread on the ground, in the place of the cold sand and rocks which had been their bed; enough to eat, and warmth besides closeness of bodies. But most of all . . . the Pana. Melein kept it by her—once opened, to be sure that the precious leaves within were intact. She had her chair, robes for her lap, and outside, evident in laughter—happiness in the camp, after all past sorrows.

Concerning Niun, she refused to give way to fear; there had been the storm, and the desert and Niun’s mission kept no schedules. He could fend for himself no less than those born to this land; she convinced herself so.

She sat, throned in her chair, the pan’en beside her, veiled again. She reached out her hand and touched it from moment to moment, this object which had come with her all her long journey and which contained all the voyage of those before. She feared . . . not personally, unless it was a fear rooted in her pride, an unwillingness to
fail when millennia of lives rested on her shoulders. It was a burden which might drive her mad if she allowed herself to dwell on that. Kel-training had given her the gift of thinking of the day as well as of the ages, as Sen thought. It was said that she’panei—the great and true ones—acted in sub-conscious foreknowledge, that the power of the Mystery flowed through their fingers and the shapings that they shaped were irresistible—that they sat at the hinge-point of space and time. From such a point—events flowed about one, and all who stood nearest. Time was not, as Kel and Kath perceived, like beads on a string, event and event and event, from which Darks could sever them, breaking the string. There was only the Now, which extended and embraced all the Past which she contained and the pan’en contained, and all the past which had brought Kutath to this moment; and all the future toward which she led.