“He likes songs,” Nico reported.
“Yes. Yes, indeed. Isaac has always liked music.” She sat as straight as her contorted body would allow. “Signor d’Angeli, did my son appear well?”
“He’s skinny, but they all are up there,” said Nico, warming to his topic. “There was a lady who died having a baby before we left. Joseba thinks she was too skinny and that’s why she died—because she wasn’t strong enough. We brought food, but a lot of people were so hungry, they threw up from eating too fast.” He saw the signora’s distress but didn’t know how to interpret it. Turning the brim of his hat around and around, he shifted his substantial weight from one foot to the other, and squinted a little. “What should we do now?” he asked, after a little while.
She didn’t answer right away. “I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “I need some time to think.”
HOURS LATER, IN THE FIRST MOMENTS OF CONSCIOUSNESS, LYING IN A bed of unaccustomed comfort, Emilio Sandoz believed himself to be back in Naples. “It’s all right, Ed,” he was about to say. “You don’t have to wait up.” Then he came fully awake and saw that it was not Brother Edward Behr but Sofia Mendes who’d spent the night watching his face as he slept.
“I have spoken with your colleagues in the N’Jarr valley,” she told him without emotion, “and to a woman named Suukmel.” She paused, face neutral. “I don’t rule here, Emilio, no matter what your djanada friends told you. But I have some influence. I will do my best to arrange safe conduct for a delegation of VaN’Jarri to speak with the Parliament of Elders. It will take time and it won’t be easy, even to get you a hearing. The elders remember what it was like, before. There is a woman named Djalao VaKashan who will be difficult to convince. But I will tell them that you and the priests are good men with good hearts. I can’t promise more than that.”
He sat up, and groaned at the stiffness, but said, “Thank you.” The rain was gone, and sunlight was pouring through the awning. “And you, Sofia? What will you do?”
“Do?” she asked, and looked away, to think, before she answered, of well-run cities, of lively politics and burgeoning trade; of festivals and celebrations; of a joyous appreciation of the novel and the untried. She thought of the florescence of theater and explosion of technology, the vigor of the art that had sprung up when the dead hand of the djanada was lifted from Runa lives. She thought of the Runa Elders, who now lived long enough to add real wisdom to raw experience, and of imperfect children, permitted to live, who brought unexpected gifts to their people.
Certainly, there had been a price to pay. There were those who thrived in the new world—liberated in every sense—and those who had been cast adrift, unable to adapt. Illness, debilities, failure, dispute; poverty, displacement, bewilderment—all these were a part of Runa life now. But what they had already accomplished was admirable, and who knew what else they were capable of? Only time would tell.
All that, balanced against tiny crescent claws, and amethyst eyes blinking in the sunlight …
She had read Yeats in Jimmy’s memory, and thought now of the Pensioner: I spit into the face of time / that has transfigured me …
“Do?” she asked again. “I am old, Sandoz. I have spent my life among the Runa, and among them I shall stay.” She was profiled against the light, her blind side toward him, and she was silent for a long time. “I regret nothing,” she said finally, “but I have done my part.”
N’Jarr Valley
December 2078, Earth-Relative
AFTER MONTHS OF CONFINEMENT ABOARD THE GIORDANO BRUNO, Daniel Iron Horse found the mountains surrounding the N’Jarr as seductive as certainty, and set his sights on a high ledge east of the settlement, hoping for perspective of one kind or another. He had no equipment and his shoes were all wrong, and it crossed his mind that a fall in this terrain could easily result in a very fancy death. But Danny needed to be alone, craved the sense that only God would know where he was, and so he left at dawn, telling no one of his plans.
From the moment Emilio Sandoz left the valley to meet Mendes on the road, Danny had felt the man’s absence like a shedding of weight. Now, as he began to climb the main rockface, he was happier than he’d been in a year. Calm claimed him, his attention absorbed by the delicate, tactile search for purchase. Hooking his fingers into cracks in the stone, he saw the sturdy bone of Grampa Lundberg’s wrists, thick as fenceposts; felt in his chest the heart of Gramma Beauvais, strong and steady in her nineties. Funny, he thought, how his grandparents had always tried to parse him out. He’d resented their urge to divide his DNA, particularly when his father’s family warned him, with tragic justification, about having “that Lakota liver.” Now, finally, he was in a place where none of that made any difference, where he was simply an Earthman. Only here had he come to understand that he was not a battleground—to be divided and conquered by his grandparents—but a garden, where each person who’d contributed to his existence longed to see that something of themselves had taken root and grown.
For a time, he abandoned himself to a pure enjoyment of strength and agility, but altitude was a factor. Winded, he gave up a few hundred meters shy of the target ledge, and found instead a rubble-filled indentation that had collected enough debris to provide a humus cushion. Swinging into it, he sat quietly awhile, studying the layout of the evacuated village—alert to clues about social structure—and prayed for the well-being of the refugees who’d left it two weeks earlier. It had been a long time, he realized, since he’d felt like either a political scientist or a priest.
Chagrined by the time it took for his breathing to come back to normal, he admitted to himself that altitude was not the only thing slowing him down. The words of Vincenzo Giuliani came to him: “You are young, Father Iron Horse.” Not all that young, Danny thought, filling his lungs with thin mountain air and remembering that night in the Naples garden. “You are young, and you have the vices of the young. Short-sightedness. Contempt for pragmatism …”
High above the valley, the only sound was the roar of water falling from a cataract so near he could feel its mist when the breeze shifted. Alone now and able to think, Danny forced himself to be still, to picture the chessboard, assess the pieces, see the long game. Unknowingly, he asked himself the very question that had formed the basis of much of Vincenzo Giuliani’s career: So, who have I got to work with here?
Nothing came clear. Judging by the outcome of the first mission, catastrophe lurked behind the smallest mistake; muddled impasse seemed the best that they could hope for. That’s Sandoz talking, Danny thought with sudden insight. But this is politics. We just have to find a way for all the players to get at least some of what they need.
Hardly aware of his movement, he stood and began again to climb toward the ledge he’d set out for, and by the time he reached it, the solution had come to him like the revelation at Cardoner, and seemed so obvious that he wondered if Vincenzo Giuliani could have foreseen this situation. That was impossible, and yet …
You win, you old fox, Danny thought, and he seemed to hear the sound of a soul’s laughter as he pulled himself onto the ledge and stood like a colossus overlooking the valley. Suukmel first, Danny thought. Then Sofia Mendes. If she agrees, then Carlo. And from there to the others.
The irony of what he was going to propose was palpable, and he knew that he would not live long enough to see the outcome. But at the very least, he thought, it might buy time. And time was all that mattered.
JOHN CANDOTTI WAS SITTING ON A TREE STUMP, SURROUNDED BY THE pieces of a broken pump he was trying to fix, when Danny strode buoyantly into the center of the village late that afternoon. “Where the hell have you been?” John cried. “Sean and Joseba are out looking for you—. What happened to your knees?”
“Nothing. I slipped,” Danny said. “What time is it on the Bruno?”
John pulled his chin in, surprised by the question and by Danny’s air of enterprise. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked at a watch in days.” He glanced up at the suns
and worked it out. “Must be about eight in the evening, I guess.”
“So it’s just after supper, ship’s time? Good. I’ve got a job for you,” Danny said, jerking his head in the direction of the lander. “I want you to get Frans on the radio. Tell him to try the yasapa brandy.” John didn’t move, reluctance plain on his open face. “I could ask you to trust me,” Danny offered, small eyes dancing, “or I could just tell you to do as you’re told.”
John blew out a breath and put down the gasket he was making. “Ours is not to reason why,” he muttered, and followed Iron Horse to the edge of the valley where the lander crouched. “I don’t suppose you’d like to explain?” he asked, as they climbed inside.
“Look,” said Danny, “I could do this myself, but I promise you it’ll be more fun if you help. Just suggest to Frans that this would be a very good time to have a nice little postprandial drink, okay?”
Frowning, John said, “But then he’ll tell Carlo—”
Danny grinned.
Lips compressed, John shook his head, but sat down in front of the console and raised the Giordano Bruno.
“Johnny!” Frans cried moments later, a shade too heartily. “How are things?”
“We, um, got your message, Frans,” John said, not sure if Carlo was monitoring the conversation. “Sandoz is taking care of it.” He coughed and looked up. Danny was making “Go on” motions. “Listen, Frans, have you tried any of that yasapa brandy yet?”
“How’d you find out about that?” Frans asked warily.
“Lucky guess. Had a taste yet?”
“No.”
“Well, Danny Iron Horse thinks this might be a very good time to give it a try, okay?” John suggested. “Feel free to tell the boss what you think.”
“Beauty,” Danny said, when John signed off. “Now: wait ten minutes.”
It took five.
“Nice to hear from you, Gianni,” Carlo began affably. “I should like to speak to Iron Horse, if you please.” John stood up and waved Danny into the console chair with a look that said, You’re on your own.
“Evening, Carlo,” Danny said sociably, and waited.
“Business is business,” Carlo said, by way of truncated explanation. “No hard feelings?”
“Hell, no. This is all going to shake out fine,” Danny said confidently. “The question is, Do you want to discuss terms with me now? Or would you like to try your luck with Sofia Mendes again? I should mention that I’ve had a little talk with her, and she seems to feel you’ve misrepresented a few facts when you made that last deal with her. She sounded kind of pissed off.” Countable seconds went by, marked by the gradual dawn of understanding that had begun to light up John Candotti’s face. “Or you could come on back down to Rakhat and deal directly with the Runa,” Danny suggested helpfully, when Carlo failed to respond. “Just keep that anaphylaxis kit handy. Course, you’ll have to hope you can explain to some Runao how to use it, because we won’t be around to help you. Your call, ace.”
The silence from the Bruno didn’t last long. “And your terms are?” Carlo asked with admirable dignity, given that he could probably hear the small, blissful noises John was making.
“You off-load all your trade goods here in the N’Jarr valley,” Danny began, “and don’t try to bullshit me, because I’ve read the manifests. We keep the manned lander and all its fuel—”
“The lander cost a fortune!” Carlo protested.
“Yeah, but by the time you get back to Earth, that plane’ll be older than most second wives,” Danny pointed out as John began to do a little victory dance featuring Italian gestures aimed at a position in the sky somewhere above the 32nd parallel. “Now, then,” Danny continued, “our cut will be one hundred percent of the coffee trade, but we’ll broker the rest for you—”
“What guarantee do I have that you won’t keep the drone after I send the last shipment down?” Carlo asked suspiciously. “You could leave me with a half-empty hold.”
“Which is exactly what you deserve, you miserable SOB,” John sang joyously, wiping tears from his eyes.
“I guess you’re just going to have to trust me, ace,” said Danny, stretching his long legs out luxuriously and settling in for what promised to be a very satisfying day’s work. “But if you think you can get a better deal from somebody else …”
Carlo didn’t, and negotiations began in earnest.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” EMILIO CRIED DAYS LATER, AS TIYAT AND KAJPIN shuffled off with Nico to find something to eat. “Danny, the reservations were a disaster for the Indians—”
“Sandoz, this is not the United States,” the Canadian said firmly, “and we are not the BIA, and we have the benefit of hindsight—”
“And a reservation is better than extinction,” Joseba pointed out with chilling accuracy. “I estimate that even an increase of ten additional deaths a year over present rates could kill the Jana’ata off in a couple of generations. If you have to choose between apartheid and genocide—”
“And Danny knows all the ways a reservation system can be awful,” John started, “so he can—”
“Desperate measures for desperate times,” Sean was saying. “And as much as I hate partition, it’s a way to stop the killin’. Gives people time to get over their grudges, or at least stop accumulating new ones—”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Emilio begged, his mind so fogged by fatigue that he found himself wishing they’d speak Spanish—a sure sign of exhaustion. Countless hours on a treadmill had prepared him to some extent for the month he had just spent on the road, but he was wrung out from seeing Sofia again, and hadn’t reckoned on being mobbed by men full of news and anxious for his approval the moment he came within sight. “All right,” he said finally, deciding he could manage another few minutes of this. “Tell me again …?”
“I see this as politically independent territory,” said Danny. “The Jana’ata are already isolated up here—it’s just a matter of getting the government in the south to formalize the situation! And Suukmel thinks this may be a workable solution. She’s convinced Shetri, and they’re off trying to get Athaansi’s faction on board.”
Who the hell is Athaansi? Emilio wondered dully. He probably looked like shit, but then again, he always looked like shit, so nobody was attaching much significance to it. “Have you spoken to Sofia about this?”
“Of course!” said John, his happiness still barely containable. “We talked to her a few days ago. It’s not like we were sitting here sucking our thumbs while you were gone—”
“She said she’d float the idea,” said Danny, “but it’ll be up to the Runa Parliament in Gayjur. It’s going to take time, but—”
“The problem right now,” Joseba said, “is getting the word out so the VaN’Jarri know that the army’s turned back and it’s safe to come home. We should have set up some kind of signal for that, but nobody thought of it.”
Nico arrived with two mess plates of food from the lander. “Don Emilio,” he interjected quietly, “I think you should sit down. Are you hungry?” Sandoz shook his head at the question, but sat on a stool.
“—going to rebuild their numbers, they’ll need food,” Joseba was saying, “and plenty of it, but that central plains region is a meat factory, and perhaps the Runa would be willing to provide game in exchange for coffee or something. Eventually we’ll find something new to domesticate.” He didn’t even notice that he’d begun to think in terms of “we.” “The Jana’ata think kha’ani could be bred to lay eggs all year round—”
“In the meantime,” John said, “we go out and shoot something big every so often—”
“I can help with hunting,” Nico offered, not fully understanding what was being discussed, but content to be of service to Don Emilio and the priests, now that Carlo was going to desert them.
“Ah, I’m sure y’could, Nico,” Sean said, “but you and Sandoz’ll be goin’ home after all.”
Nico’s mouth dropped open, and an expectant hush fell. Sandoz lo
oked at Sean sharply, then stood and walked a few steps away. When he turned, his face was unreadable. “It’s a long walk back to Naples, Sean.”
“Well, it would be, ace, but we already booked you passage home with Carlo,” said Danny. “We got him to agree to wait a while before he goes back. You’ll be on the drone with the last shipment of trade goods from Rakhat.”
John was grinning. “We arranged for Frans to sample a little of the yasapa shampoo. All of a sudden, Carlo decided to reconsider his business arrangements. It was amazing, Emilio. Danny cut the VaN’Jarri a beautiful deal—”
Resilience now utterly gone, Sandoz shook his head. “No,” he said flatly. “Nico can go back, but I gave my word, I told Sofia that I’d stand surety for the Jana’ata—”
“Christ, she told us,” Sean said. “Now there’s a woman who’d feel at home in Belfast! She’s a wee hard bitch, but y’can do a deal with her, if she gets what she wants. I’ll be the goat, Sandoz. You go home and see if y’can find that sweet Gina and her Celestina.”
It was Danny who broke the silence. “You’re done here, ace,” he said quietly. “We got this covered.”
“But there’s more,” John added excitedly. “Rukuei wants to go back to Earth with you—”
“I tried to talk him out of it,” Joseba said. “They need all the breeding pairs they can get, but it turns out he was neutered, so—”
Sandoz frowned, now thoroughly confused. “But why does he want …?”
“Why not?” Sean shrugged, unsurprised by yet another example of wayward sentient willfulness. “He says he needs t’see Earth with his own eyes.”
It was all too much. “No puedo pensar,” Emilio muttered. Pulling his eyes wide open, he shook his head. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
WAITING FOR SANDOZ IN THE FOREIGNERS’ HUT, RUKUEI KITHERI PACED and paced, helpless against imagination, burdened with possibility, like a pregnant woman who cannot know what she carries within her.
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