Faded Sun Trilogy Omnibus

by C. J. Cherryh

  And the sum of her life rested in the freckled hands of a whipcord young soldier with no sense what he was about.

  “I’m going,” she said. “Emil, I’m going to talk to young Mr. Galey and he’s going to listen.”

  “Jeopardize the operation for your personal satisfaction.”

  She turned a furious look on him, took a breath and drew herself up to her small height. “I’m going to give them the best they can get, Emil, that’s what; because I know more than Damon Tensio or Sim Averson or any three of the assistants put together. Say otherwise.”

  He did not. Perhaps, she thought halfway down the corridor at as fast a pace as she could manage—

  She glanced back, half-expecting to see him in the doorway. He was. He nodded to her slowly—too old himself, she realized; he knew her mind, knew to the bottom of his heart. He would be down the hall ahead of her if he could.

  She nodded, a tautness in her throat, turned and went hunting Galey.

  * * *

  Harris kicked in the engines, took a cursory glance at the instruments, his mind wandering to Saber, to a hot cup of coffee; and to the next day off-duty, which was the reward of a down-world flight. Last of all he cast a glance to his right, at the little man who fussed nervously with the restraints.

  “They’re all right,” Harris said. Groundling, this Dr. Averson, a dedicated groundling. He decided, humanely, to make the lift as gentle as possible; the man had some years on him. Averson blinked round-eyed at him, the sweat already broken out on his brow. Harris diverted his attention again to the instruments, advised Flower bridge of his status, began slow lift.

  The shuttle responded with a leisurely solidity. He watched the altimeter, leveled gradually at 6,000 m and banked to come about for their run.

  “We’re turning,” Averson said; and when he gave no answer: “We’re turning.” Averson raised his voice well over the noise of the engines. “We never turned. What’s the matter?”

  “We’re coming about, sir,” Harris said, adjusted the plug in his left ear to be sure he could hear warnings over Averson’s clamor. He set the scan to audio alarm, wide-range. “Shuttles handle different than Flower. We’re just heading where we should be.”

  They came to course. The desert slipped under them by slow degrees, with the indigo to pink shadings of the sky above and the bronze to red tones of the desert, the great chasm which might once have been a sea—passed the area of the recent storm and across the chasm. Scan clicked away the whole route, the instruments moduled into cargo. They crossed no cities this way and made no provocations. It was a tame run, toward a gentle parting with Kutath’s pull. He relaxed finally as Averson settled down; the man took enough interest to lean toward the port and look down, though with a visible flinching.

  Quiet. Sand and sky and quiet. Harris let go a breath, settled for the long run out.

  Suddenly a tone went off in his ear and he flicked a glance at the screen, his heart slamming in panic. He accelerated on the instant and their relation to the blips altered in a series of pulses as Averson howled outrage.

  He angled for evasion and the howl became a choked gasp.

  “Something’s on our tail,” he said. “Check your belts.” The latter was something to take Averson’s mind off their situation. He was calculating, glancing from screen to instruments. Two blips, coming up at his underbelly.

  He veered again. The blips were in position to fire on the rise, could; might; he felt it in his gut. He increased the climb rate and the ship’s boards flashed distress at him.

  For the first time the bogies separated, shifting position and altitude. His heart went into his throat and he flipped the cover off the armscomp, ready. “Hang on,” he yelled at Averson, and punched com, breaking his ordered silence. “Any human ship, NAS-6; we’ve got a sighting.”

  He banked violently and dropped; and Averson’s scream echoed in his ear. The bogey whipped by and a screen flared; they had been fired on. He completed his roll and nosed up again as rapidly as the ship could bear.

  “Get us help!” Averson cried.

  “Isn’t any.” He punched com again, hoping for someone to relay to Saber. “Got two bogeys here. Does anybody read?”

  The pulse in his ear increased, nearing. He whipped off at an angle that wrung a shriek from Averson, climbing for very life, trying at the same time to get an image on his screen. The sky turned pink and indigo, the pulses died, went offscreen. In a little more the indigo deepened and they were still accelerating, running for what speed and altitude they could attain: the sound of the engines changed as systems began to convert.

  Averson was sick. Harris reached over and ripped a bag out of storage and gave it to him. For some little time there was the quiet sound of retching, which did no kindness to his own stomach.

  “Water in the bottle there,” Harris said. And fervently: “Don’t spill anything. We’re going null before long.” He devoted his attention the while to the vacant scan, to making sure all the recorders were in order. He heard Averson scrabbling about after the water, the spasm seeming to have passed. His own stomach kept heaving in sympathy. “Disposal to your right.”

  Dayside was under them, and Saber was over the horizon. The instruments had nothing, not a flicker. Harris calculated. Somewhere on this side of the world lay regul Shirug, beyond their scan; and somewhere downworld were cities with weapons which could strike at craft in orbit, if they once obtained a fix on so small a vessel as themselves.

  Or if they had it already.

  Averson snatched at another bag, dry-heaved for a time. They were in a queasy wallowing at the moment. Harris gave them visual stability with the world, wiped at the sweat that coursed his face, trying to reckon where Shirug might be. He had a dread of her coming up in forward scan, and the bogeys coming up under him again.

  “Going to go back on course,” he said to no one in particular. “At least that way downworld isn’t so likely to have a shot at us.”

  Averson said nothing. Harris reoriented and Kutath’s angry surface swung under their forward scan.

  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 flar
ed, 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 r
obes, 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.