by J. D. Moyer
Aina’s face bore a confused expression. “What did he say?” Maro asked impatiently.
“If you value your lives, turn around and return to the place from which you came.” Aina spoke in Latin, but modulated her voice to perfectly mimic the old man’s timbre and intonation. To Maro’s satisfaction, the man’s jaw dropped in surprise. This was what he wanted, to impress these simple folk, to stun them with wondrous sights and sounds. This old fart was a hard sell, but Aina’s trick had made an impression.
The man spoke a few more sentences, and this time Aina translated immediately, still mimicking his voice. “If you continue along this road, you gamble with your lives. You may find what you are looking for. Or maybe Svein will steal your horses, tie you to crosses, and slit open your backs so that he may pull out your lungs and salt them.”
The man paused for effect. Maro, for once, was not sure how to respond.
The old man spoke once more. “It would be a slow and painful death,” Aina translated. “I do not recommend it.”
“He has a way with words,” Livia commented. “Ask him his name.”
Aina did so. The man got up, and despite his age stood straight and tall, at least a head taller than Maro. He replied that his name was Egil, and that he was a poet. He further explained that someone named Saga – the jarl or chieftain of Kaldbrek – was away at another village, and that they should come back in a week or so when Saga had returned. Saga was a fair and reasonable person. They would be wise to wait for her.
Maro nodded. “Thank him for his advice. And invite him to visit us on the Michelangelo – I would like to hear his poems.” Egil was probably too old to survive the stresses of Ancestral Realism, but he was still potentially worthy of study. Maro doubted the pipe-smoking hermit had any talent, but it was better to find out than to lose his words to entropy. Nothing was more important than preservation. And there was something about the poet’s voice, a charismatic allure that had nothing to do with sexuality or bravado. Could that quality be dissected and reverse-engineered? To have such a voice while addressing the Senate would be extraordinary.
Maro dug his heels into the sides of his stallion. The beast ignored him. He kicked again, harder this time, and the horse launched into a full gallop. Maro felt himself tilting to the side and desperately gripped the reins, at first fearing humiliation more than injury but then reconsidering his priorities as a low-hanging branch nearly took off his head. Startled, he ducked and yelled. “Subsisto! Subsisto!” Eventually the stallion came to a full stop and bent forward to nibble at some trailside grass. “Let us hurry!” Maro called back to the others, failing to conceal the irritation in his voice. Aina exchanged a few more words with Egil – more than was quite necessary – and then followed Livia toward Maro, both their mares obediently walking with an appropriate gait.
Maro did his best to compose himself as they entered the village proper. For the moment his steed had calmed, and Maro sat with his spine held straight, a regal posture befitting of an emperor-to-be. Thin urchins with dirty faces watched them wide-eyed as they passed. An old woman dropped an entire basket of soil-encrusted root vegetables.
“Heill ok sæll, heill ok sæll,” Maro repeated, smiling widely. No one answered him, and two young women turned on their heels and fled.
Nothing wrong with a little fear. Some of the tension dissolved from Maro’s back and shoulders. The encounter with the strange poet had left a bad taste in his mouth, but the trip could still be salvaged. It was important to remain optimistic. Not to the point of ignoring reality or underestimating one’s obstacles, but it helped to imagine events unfolding as one hoped they would. It did no good to obsess on what could go wrong, to magnify the possibility of failure. Worry was a natural habit, one born of millions of years of evolution, of self-preservation at any cost. But to achieve greatness, it was a habit that needed unlearning.
A lanky, gray-bearded man with a scarred, pinched face strode toward them, unarmed but also unafraid. Two burly men carrying spears followed, the only well-fed people Maro had seen in Kaldbrek. Was this the Svein that Egil had referred to, with his bodyguards?
Aina gave her rehearsed greeting. The man with the pinched face listened, scowling, though perhaps the scowl was his natural expression, permanently etched into his face. The bodyguards gazed at Livia and Aina with obvious lust, which made Maro uncomfortable. He was glad Livia was with him in case the situation escalated.
Maro activated his internal translator and signaled to Livia to do the same. Aina could translate perfectly well, but it would be faster to read text in his retinal feed. He did not want to be caught off guard.
“What beasts are these?” the pinched-face man asked, not to Maro but to his henchmen, who shrugged in response.
“They’re horses,” Aina answered. “And they can be yours if you volunteer for our project.”
“They’re already mine,” the man said. His bodyguards laughed. “You have trespassed. Everything you carry now belongs to me, Svein Haakonsson. If you’re lucky, you’ll leave with your lives.” He patted the neck of Livia’s mare. “And possibly the shirts on your backs,” he added, leering at Aina.
Aina started to translate, but Maro interrupted. “I understood his words. Tell him he would be wise to be more respectful. We come in peace, but we are more powerful than he appears to understand.”
“You carry no weapons,” Svein said once Aina had spoken, “which means that you have no power. Get off these horses now, before we pull you off.”
Livia glanced at Maro, who nodded. Livia smoothly dismounted and drew her golden blade from the thigh harness concealed beneath her tunic. Svein’s thugs leveled their spears and stepped forward, while Svein himself took a step back, situating himself between the steel spearheads.
Livia raised her blade, pointing it at one of the bodyguards. Several bright bolts of electricity arced between the tip of the weapon and the man’s body, felling him instantly. He twitched on the ground, his clothing emitting wisps of smoke.
“He’ll live,” Maro said. “I hope this—”
Before Aina could even begin to translate, the other bodyguard lunged forward and plunged his spear into the chest of Maro’s stallion. The horse screamed and reared up, throwing Maro to the ground. He landed hard on the packed-earth trail, his right shoulder and hip taking most of the impact. Quickly he rolled away to avoid being trampled, then crouched near a spruce sapling, trying to assess the situation. His horse, still very much alive, was galloping back in the direction of the shuttle. Livia was struggling with Svein, who had grabbed her wrist and was trying to wrest control of the golden blade. The other bodyguard tried to drag Aina from her steed, but the cybrid punched him with such force that his face visibly caved in. He staggered back and collapsed.
“I will kill you all!” Svein screamed. “I will tear out your guts and piss on them!”
Livia kneed Svein in the groin, tripped him, and slid her blade across his throat. A geyser of blood wetted Livia’s tunic. Svein clutched his throat, gurgled incomprehensibly, and collapsed.
Livia regarded her blood-soiled tunic. “It’s ruined.”
Aina dismounted and checked on the man she had punched. “Will he heal?” she asked, sounding genuinely distressed. “His face doesn’t look right.”
Maro stood and approached. The bodyguard lay on his back, motionless, blood seeping from his eyes. Some organic material – possibly his brain – leaked from his nose, which was flattened into his now-concave face.
“I don’t think he’ll make it,” he said to Livia.
Aina paled. While he had seen the cybrid look vaguely upset or perturbed, this expression on her face was something new. If he didn’t know better he would have said that Aina was experiencing utter grief. She turned and fled, following the stallion.
“What’s with her?” Livia asked.
“I’m not sure.”
&
nbsp; Livia removed her tunic and tossed the garment at Svein, covering the dead man’s face and gruesome throat wound. “Well, that could have gone better. What do you suggest we do now?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Ringstation Coalition Council assigned Tem to lead the delegation to the Liu Hui, along with a team that included Regis Foster, Jana, and Katja. Ingrid would stay behind to provide support from the Stanford.
The shuttle trip was short and fully automated. This gave Tem time to plan his appeal to the Zho¯ngya¯ng, the governing body of the Liu Hui, equivalent to the Stanford’s Over Council. There was now direct evidence from high-speed microprobes that the gamma-ray bursts near Chariklo were indeed from the Iarudi, and that the Michelangelo had deployed a vessel to intercept the starship. Requesting military support from the Liu Hui was a big ask, but challenging the Michelangelo was in the Zho¯ngya¯ng’s best interests if they wished to retrieve their own ship.
“Nervous about seeing your former colleagues?” Tem asked Regis. The ex-military man had served in the elite Koˇngbù Wu¯zéi special forces under Commander Umana. That association had once cast suspicion on his character, but Regis had proven himself to be a hard worker and loyal to the cause of Ilium. Along with Xenus, Lydia, and the other founders, Regis had invested his own sweat, blood, and tears into transforming the settlement into a viable community. Ilium had weathered hard times, including food shortages, viral outbreaks, and major equipment failures. Officials on the Stanford, wanting to avoid appearances of violating Repop protocols, had provided support to the settlement only minimally and reluctantly in that first crucial decade. Many on the Stanford had been disgruntled when the AFS-1 outpost had renamed itself Ilium and declared itself an independent community, some even labeling the settlement as rogue. There were still lingering resentments on both sides.
Tem imagined that similar feelings might exist between Regis Foster and the security division of the Liu Hui under which Regis had once served. Regis had left under extenuating circumstances: Commander Umana had embarked on a murderous rampage, revealing the full depths of her insanity. Still, Regis had defected to co-found Ilium, as had many of his crew.
Regis grunted in agreement. “Of course I’m nervous. They might arrest me on sight. People on the Liu Hui have long memories. The culture is different there, more hierarchical. More conservative and formal.”
“Do you think they will? Arrest you, I mean.” Tem hadn’t even considered that possibility. After all, Regis had lived on Earth for twenty years, unbothered by the Liu Hui.
“Probably not. I’ve tried to be a helpful asset to my former colleagues.”
“What does that mean? You’ve been spying for them?”
“Of course not. But I’ve maintained exploration drones that supply ground data to all the ringships. Satellite mapping only gets you so far.”
Regis stretched his arms and arched his back. The belts holding his weightless body in place looked like they might snap under the tension. Like most people who had grown up on the Liu Hui, Regis was tall and broad, with an impressive physique. The physicality was mostly an aesthetic choice, one that would have been less practical on the Stanford, a smaller ringstation that was moderately overpopulated. Though in recent years even the larger Liu Hui ringship was feeling the effects of population growth.
Tem noticed Jana regarding Regis with suspicion, an expression he had caught on the Bosa woman’s face more than once. He wondered what she had against Regis. Katja reached out and took Jana’s hand, squeezing it. Jana relaxed visibly and turned her attention to Katja. Tem had been slow to notice that his aunt and Jana were in a relationship, but he was happy for them. Especially for Katja, who had lived alone in Happdal for as long as Tem could remember.
“Do you think they will help us?” Jana asked.
“I do. We can’t let the Michelangelo push us around. If the other ringships work together, we’re much stronger.”
“I don’t want to start a war, not even to rescue my friend.”
“I understand. But there’s much more at stake. We need to come to some kind of agreement with the Michelangelo, and we may need a show of strength to get their attention. Though I don’t think it will come to war.”
“I can’t wait to see the next generation of Liu Hui battleships,” Regis said. “The Iarudi was a brilliant feat of engineering, but that was twenty years ago.”
Jana scowled openly, but Regis didn’t appear to notice.
***
Docking and decon went quickly and smoothly. Perhaps the Liu Hui had more sensitive and efficient biosensors than the Stanford. Still wearing the clothes they had arrived in, Tem and the others cleared their biochecks, reconvened, and descended to the main wheel in a high-speed elevator. They were greeted by a slender Asian woman somewhat younger than Tem’s mother.
“Mèng!” Regis exclaimed. “It’s wonderful to see you! You look exactly the same.”
Tem disagreed – Mèng looked significantly older than the last time he had seen her – but he did recognize the woman, who had once served with Regis under Commander Umana. She had been the first to rebel against the Squid Woman, and Tem respected her for that decision. For many years Mèng had lived on the Stanford, but more recently she had returned to the Liu Hui, her original home.
“It’s good to see you too, Regis. And you as well, Tem. I’ll be your official liaison. We have a meeting scheduled with several members of our Coalition committee in two hours. Would you like to get something to eat in the meantime?”
“I’m famished,” said Regis.
Mèng took them to a small restaurant high on the Earthside curve. The view of Eurasia was spectacular, and Jana spent more time looking out the viewing wall than eating. The meal of fresh sauteed vegetables and a meat substitute resembling pork was delicious. Even Tem, who had been raised on real boar meat, was impressed.
After their dishes had been cleared, Jana and Katja went over to the viewing wall to marvel at the sight of Earth from orbit. Regis excused himself to use the bathroom. Once Regis was out of earshot, Mèng gave Tem a serious look. “I have some bad news for you.”
For a moment Tem thought she must be joking, but her expression did not change.
“What?” He hadn’t seen Mèng in years, and had no contact with anyone on the Liu Hui. Perhaps there was some news of Shane and the Iarudi. He had hoped his friend might somehow be alive, but he’d known the chances were slim.
“One of the Coalition representatives we’re meeting with – you know him. Or at least know of him.”
“Who is it?”
“Aldo Manning.”
Tem didn’t recognize the first name, but the last name triggered an unpleasant memory. “Manning – he was the tech who tried to kill my mother.”
“He was never officially accused—”
“I know what happened.”
Manning had cut a deal, informing on Adrian Vanderplotz, his mother’s academic advisor and the one who had orchestrated the attempt on her life. Manning had been a tech for SecondSkin at the time, the consultancy that had designed the survival bioskin Car-En had worn during her field research in the Harz mountains. Manning had allowed Adrian to override the bioskin’s safety mechanism to administer a near-fatal dose of insulin into his mother’s bloodstream. Esper and the village medicine woman had managed to save Car-En’s life, and no one had ever been charged or prosecuted for the crime.
“How in the hell did Manning end up on your Coalition committee?”
“That’s a good question. He is no doubt a skilled engineer and could have stayed in that field despite the rumors regarding his reputation. But he chose to become a diplomat, and has swiftly risen in that career.”
“Is he…any good at it?”
Mèng raised one eyebrow just slightly. “In my opinion, he is an adequate negotiator. He is intelligent and invariably well-prepared
.”
“You’re leaving something out.”
“There are certain members of the Zho¯ngya¯ng that are perhaps more deferential to Manning than they need to be.”
“I see.” So Manning had some dirt on some higher-ups. “What do you think he’s after?”
“I don’t know. Power, maybe. He’s already extremely wealthy.”
Power. Power over others, specifically. Tem had never seen the point, but he was wise enough to understand that such motivations existed. Some people felt an insatiable need to dominate and control others. Tem had known powerlessness as a child, and he hadn’t liked it. But now he was in control of his own choices and destiny – as much as that was possible – and that was enough power for him. To everyone else his attitude was live and let live.
But not everyone felt that way.
***
After the meal, Mèng showed them to their accommodations, which she described as simple and utilitarian. While not luxurious, Tem’s room was spacious and featured a large porthole with a stunning Earthside view. He showered and put on a set of clothes Mèng had left for him, a white synthetic-silk uniform that was customary for all council meeting attendees. The clothes – most likely just fabricated based on his boarding bioscan measurements – fit him perfectly, but internally he felt uncomfortable. Something about Liu Hui culture was intimidating. Maybe it was the big people, or the formalities, or the ringship’s obvious wealth. Whatever it was, Tem suddenly felt inadequate.
His room had a com panel. After experimenting with the controls, he managed to place a call to Maggie in Ilium.
“Hello? Tem? Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I just wanted to hear your voice. We’re meeting with their Coalition representatives—”
“What?”
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes, now I can. There’s a delay.” Maggie sounded busy. He’d called because he’d wanted some reassurance, maybe even some bolstering. And he knew that if he came right out and said so, she’d be happy to give it to him. She was always generous that way. But for some reason he couldn’t just ask.