by Kate Elliott
He did not look surprised but he did grow somber. “Well enough it be for them,” he commented when she had finished, “but a sore hard time I do see for ya lassie.”
“And there’s nothing I can do,” she said, and grimaced, afraid that her anger was already turning into resignation.
“Perhaps. Perhaps.” Around the eyes, through the wild design, she could now discern deep lines, aging hidden from the world by color. She glanced down at his hands; they showed wrinkles, lines under lines. “But ya new time be comin’, min—” Here he paused.
“Ransome,” Lily supplied. “Lily Ransome.”
“Ah.” He slid sideways past her and sat down before the terminal. “I did see them bring ya prisoner in, though I didna know it be you, min Ransome. Ya place here, do you see”—he waved his hand to encompass the hall and rooms she had just come from—“it be private to ya govinment, for ya special folk, as they feel true be ya dangerous.”
Lily could not help but laugh. “Dangerous? What do they do with them?”
He turned in his seat to frown at her. “It be not for laughing, missy. Many bad things. Along ya hall, all along, be folk who never hae seen their homes for years and more, that were brought here ya long ago.”
“But their families—” She broke off. She had been told twice that she no longer existed in government banks.
He turned back to the terminal. “And what better choice than ya old tattoo to clean and mend ya place. Poor enough, and with kin enough to keep, to hold ya mouth tight closed. But ya short time back, ya new folk come in, openlike, and they be made much welcome. They be looking for some thing or maybe some folk. Strange they be—dressed sore funny. One, by Dancer, e’en had blue hair.” Calico swiveled in his chair and focused a pair of jewel blue eyes on Lily.
“They’re the ones who talked to me. I didn’t know what they wanted, except—” Except Heredes. “Do you know,” she continued, pressing on past that particular point, “they don’t come from here, from the Reft, I mean.”
His gaze did not waver, but neither did it turn to incredulity. “I suspicioned much like,” he said, and looked pointedly at Bach. “That one be sore strange, likewise.”
“He’s old,” said Lily. “A long time ago, like our ancestors, he came from over ya way.”
“Ah. You know ya story.”
“A little bit of it. But those people, the ones who questioned me, they must have come over the way recently—just days or months ago. From—” She opened her hands. “I don’t know where from.”
“Jehane knows,” said Calico.
The terminal beeped; he turned back to face it as information printed out on the screen. Lily stood up and looked down over his shoulder.
Nevermore Station. Condition: under attack. Status: indeterminate.
Usher Hub: Insurrection in progress; support from at least three cleared merchant vessels. Security forces in need of reinforcement.
Pendulum Hub: Clean, clear, no signs of incursion. Station citizens restless but still under control.
Raven Hub: Unauthorized docking: serious displacement of station axis—red red red—stabilization.
Core: Axis realignment stable. No threat to life systems.
Imp Hub: All communication cut off. Security personnel missing or dead.
“Ah,” said Calico, smiling again. “That be ya Ridani sector.”
“But this is a classified channel!” She leaned forward to stare at the screen. “What’s going on?”
“Jehane hae come.”
“He come, he come,” murmured Lily, trying to recall Paisley’s song. “To lead us far, to home, to home.” She glanced down to see Calico’s face, startled now, gazing up at her. “Is that right?”
“Ya lassie hae trusted you, or been in kinnas to you,” he said.
“We were locked in a cell together.”
“Indeed,” said Calico. He punched more codes into the computer.
Lily stood silent, watching the old man’s face: a kindly one, but much hemmed about by secrets and by knowledge endured from necessity, not choice. Then he smiled as a new message came up on the screen, a smile that, like an open lock, received all before it with impartial certitude of its function.
“We mun go,” he said. “Ya way be clear. This sector be much deserted in any case, as it be sore off-limits but to ya highest level folk. So it were but little task to seal it off.”
“But I still don’t understand what’s happening. Who’s rebelling?”
“Jehane hae come,” he repeated, still patient. “You hae been given ya story by ya lassie.”
“But Jehane—” She raised a hand hopelessly and glanced up at Bach. She found it impossible to offend this old man by telling him that Jehane was merely a legend. After all the prejudice she had seen, she could not help but feel that someone, however shadowy, should champion their cause. “So people here have been waiting? Was it planned, this revolt?”
“Sure,” he said. “All were held ready for when he chose ya time to arrive. And he hae asked special, to see ya prisoner that ya far folk hae had brought in. That be you, min Ransome. And ya time be now.”
Lily followed him into the office, waited while he slipped out to check the corridor. She lifted the plastic bucket. The gun lay there. She picked it up and without further thought unloosened a trouser leg enough to slip it inside, where it hung against the cloth tucked back into her boot. Calico reappeared, beckoning.
Just around the next curve of the hall, Calico fingered a door panel and led her into a spacious office populated by desks and counters. They stood alone in the gloom. A lit terminal scrolled unreadable data past, oblivious to the vacant chair before it.
“Where is everyone?” she whispered.
“It be night cycle,” he said, his normal voice resonating in the empty room. “But we did clear out all o’ ya sector, except them as he were to see.”
Through more offices, ending in a small room with a raised dais and four chairs—Lily stopped. The fourth wall, the one the chairs faced, was transparent. Beyond, in a chamber exactly like the one she had been interrogated in on Remote, sat three of the foreigners she had just spoken with: ruddy-skinned, blue-hair, and the hard-faced woman.
“Don’t be scared,” said Calico. “They canna see you.”
“But I was—I could see—”
“Only if ya certain button be pushed. They see no but ya black wall—you might recollect that?”
“I do,” said Lily, going up to the wall. “But if they’re prisoners there, aren’t I just as much a prisoner here?”
“Do but sit quiet. You shall learn enough, and be safe more than you been back in ya other place. True enough?”
“I can only take your word,” Lily said. He regarded her gravely. “So I will.”
With a hand leathery from age and work he touched her on the forehead, like a benediction, and left. The lock light winked red on the com-panel. As she stepped forward to test it, Bach began to sing.
Patroness, dost thou desire my translation of the conversation beyond?
Listening, Lily realized that she could hear the three people talking. They seemed completely unaware of her or Bach’s presence. Their clothes were startling in the drab room: the sheen of gray on the ruddy-skinned man, the lustrous belt of green draped around the woman, and the heavy gold fabric, inlaid with some indistinguishable design, on the blue-haired one. He rose from the chair he was seated in, one pink-tipped finger lifting to brush at a cheek, and Lily realized that the bulk of fabric that had seemed to gather at his waist was in fact long sleeves, lengths of stiff cloth that hung to sweep with graceful elegance along the floor. Ruddy-skin was speaking.
“—but what else could we expect from a cyro colonization? Their computer systems—laughable! They’ve slipped badly from what they must have brought with them. And having to leave Rayonne on the ship because of their barbaric prejudices.”
“That was not altogether unexpected,” replied the woman.
Ruddy-skin rose. The material moved with his body, highlighting muscle and the length of his limbs. “Your sociologists have blessed us again. Unfortunately they did not predict this political disagreement, and the primitive methods being used to solve it.”
The woman shrugged and looked away from him. “This is pointless quibbling, Anjahar,” she said.
The blue-haired man was running one hand along the wall that separated him from Lily, as if he could feel her presence by touch alone; now he paused. When he spoke, his voice as smoothly featureless as the wall, he spoke in the other tongue.
He says, patroness, that this latest expedition was perhaps a fool’s errand in whatsoever case, as the old man is now dead.
“Dead?” said Lily aloud. They could not mean Heredes.
Anjahar turned to glare at blue-hair. “That may be true enough, Kyosti, but dismantling his terrorist network is another matter, especially now that he is no longer around to protect them. And his sister still lives.”
Kyosti waved a delicate hand in dismissal.
“She is negligible.” The woman fixed her severe gaze on Anjahar. “But his saboteur’s lattice must be eradicated once for all.”
“Tell him, Maria,” said Anjahar sourly.
A sister. Heredes was sending her to his sister’s—by his own words. That he was involved in some dangerous mystery was clear now; perhaps had been all along had she cared to read the signs. That they thought her equally involved was, she had to admit, unsurprising at this stage. And what if Heredes was dead?
“I will not believe it,” she said aloud.
What believest thou not, patroness? sang Bach.
Lily only shook her head.
In the other room, the com-panel beeped and the door slid open. The woman stood. Both the men turned to face the opening. Six white-uniformed soldiers strode in. Two were tattoos, but they remained set apart from the others. The soldiers formed a column on either side of the doorway, raised left hands to right shoulders. A woman entered. Brisk, tight-lipped, she examined her three prisoners with uncompromising energy.
“Sit down,” she ordered in ringing tones. Her gaze drifted, for an infinitesimal second, to the wall behind which Lily and Bach watched. None of the three sat down.
“By what authority have you detained us?” demanded the woman called Maria, moving forward to face the new arrival. “We are here on a safe-conduct from your government.”
“Not my government,” replied the woman. Thick hands, strong by their look, gave a swift tug to her plain white jacket. She looked immaculate. “Sit down.”
Anjahar’s complexion thickened to a blotchy red. “This is insufferable!”
“Anja.” The bored tones of Kyosti cut across the ruddy man’s anger. “We can’t fight them all. Much as I’m sure,” he added with a sardonic smile, “you would like to.” He settled himself fussily in one of the chairs, attention partly on the soldier, partly on the wall.
The ostentation of the gesture served to distract the soldier from Anjahar’s anger while Anjahar, breathing unevenly, his muscles tense under the gray fabric, sat down heavily in a chair. He cast a glance at Kyosti that could have been annoyance, or gratitude.
“By what authority?” repeated Maria.
“Sit, bitch,” said the soldier. A slight movement of her hand, and the six guards fanned out into the room; four more entered behind them.
Maria did not move.
“I said sit.” The dark woman gave a hard shove to Maria’s shoulders.
Maria started back; as her knees came up against the chair she sat, ungainly, her beautifully draped dress slipping so that she had to grab at it. But she had, Lily saw, controlled her anger, as if she had summed up the measure of the soul within her captor.
Kyosti said something to Anjahar, who looked ready to rise, and whatever he said caused Anjahar to settle back into his seat with a slight grin.
He assureth his companion that they be indeed amongst the uncivilized, translated Bach.
“Huh.” The woman studied her three prisoners with disgust. “You may,” she added with the greatest of generosity, “address me as First Comrade.” A stifled sound from Kyosti caused her to shift her gaze slowly from the hem of his long gold tunic to the tips of his unruly blue hair. He smiled serenely back at her. “Such as you,” she finished, “unaware of the distinction afforded me by the title, may also address me as Kuan-yin.”
As if he could not help himself, Kyosti began to laugh.
Kuan-yin drew her gun and pointed it at him.
“Oh dear.” He stopped laughing, but Lily could not help but admire the lack of concern with which he regarded the gun. “You must tell me, what is your full name?”
“None of your business,” she snapped, gun still raised.
“You have not yet told us by whose authority you hold us here,” interposed Maria in her most neutral voice.
Kuan-yin holstered the gun. The white uniform set off her brown skin, She swept all three with a belligerent gaze. “By Jehanish authority. The Jehanish rebellion is now in control of Nevermore Station. We have ordered all ships to surrender to our authority or be blown up in their docks.”
“I see,” said Maria calmly. “What is this ‘Jehanish’ authority?”
A soft beep stirred the air behind Lily, followed by an indrawn sigh. She whirled. The door slid open. She saw Calico’s face, but he retreated beyond her view, and a man entered the room. Lily took one step back.
He had golden hair. Not just blond, not yellow by any stretch of the imagination. Gilded by the ore itself, paling at the ends. He moved with the grace of the wind, filling space as though he were meant by the laws of the universe to be there. Entering—becoming—the room, he saw Lily and offered her an apologetic smile. It said, “Forgive me, for disturbing you, for causing you any inconvenience,” at the same time, he beckoned to her to approach him, and she found that she simply walked over to him—and hated herself for doing so.
“Who are you?” she asked, unable not to ask; she felt as if her will had left her of its own volition, and gone to reside in this man.
He considered her first for a long moment, afterward turned his attention to Bach, clearly puzzled, half-amazed, but pleased, Then he walked to the window—he had that immediately definable posture that marked him as a master of whichever art he had chosen. His gaze as he studied the scene below was, if not benign, then effortlessly all-encompassing. Finally, having drunk his fill, he returned his gaze to Lily. She had not moved. His eyes were mild, a deep, rooted green, but piercing. His voice was, of course, mellifluous.
“I am Jehane,” he said. “But you may call me Alexander.”
9 Nevermore Hosts Alexander
“OF COURSE,” SAID LILY without thinking. She blushed.
His expression did not change. “This, then,” he said, drawing her gaze up to Bach, “is the peculiar or, shall we say, gifted, robot you”—his pause was a question—“own?”
“Not quite,” said Lily.
A different smile curved his mouth. “Possess the loyalty of?” He seemed to be inviting her to embrace some amicable conspiracy.
“Yes.”
“I see.” He shifted to look down again into the other room, lifted a wrist communicator to his mouth. What he said Lily could not distinguish, but Kuan-yin gave the barest start and the expression on her face cleared to one of polite disinterest.
“You are under arrest,” she said to her three prisoners, “under suspicion of collusion with the illegal government at Central. You will be allowed to clear yourself of suspicion.”
Anjahar shifted impatiently in his chair. “If we answer the right questions?”
“There will be questions.”
“And if we can’t answer them, or if we refuse to cooperate?” Maria smoothed out her dress with a few unhurried strokes.
“Then you will deal with the consequences.” Kuan-yin smiled.
Kyosti raised a languid hand and ran it through his hair. “Perhaps you hav
e not yet realized,” he said, his tone as amused as bored, “that a far more dangerous authority than your government at Central will retaliate for any harm done to us or to our ship.” His gaze lingered as if he had not the energy to move it on Kuan-yin.”
“Yes,” breathed Jehane, leaning forward with more interest.
“That’s the one you have to watch,” said Lily, without meaning to.
Jehane’s glance, like fire, shifted to her. “Why is that?” It was a question he already knew the answer to.
“He’s not afraid.” Lily looked down, as if the blue-haired man’s attention might stop her from continuing to talk in this fashion to Jehane, but Maria was speaking to Kyosti in their second tongue. “It’s as if this is a game to him,” she added compulsively. “He simply doesn’t care.”
“Perceptive,” said Jehane, a wealth of compliment in one word. His attention returned to the interrogation.
“My darling Maria,” Kyosti replied in Standard. “We may as well toss our cards on the table, had we such implements.”
“Which cards?” Anjahar’s voice was sharp.
Kyosti shrugged. “As many as my feeble brain can recall.”
Maria looked at Anjahar. The glance conveyed an order that Anjahar clearly did not want to obey, but he acquiesced with a frown that manifested itself as much in his posture as on his face. And by some imperceptible communication, Lily felt that he and Maria surrendered their wills to Kyosti, a gesture she recognized, having so recently done it herself. But their surrender was willing, and conscious, as if they accepted him as more capable of dealing with the kind of situation they now faced.
Beside Lily, Jehane stood silent, but his presence surrounded her.
“Go on,” ordered Kuan-yin.
Kyosti remained silent for a space of five breaths. Everyone watched him. “Ah,” he said suddenly, as if he had just recalled an important fact. “Jehane.” He smiled. “‘It is customary for there to be modesty about him.’”