“Whatever they must, they told us. We are ordered to cooperate. Their captain promised they will try not to disrupt anything of ours. I left them at the quarters we have appropriated.”
“But it is not that simple, really, is it?” Eiko slipped at him.
“No,” he yielded. “Strange enough that Guthrie-san would . . . panic. Have we not plenty of loyal, able folk among us whom we could alert to watch out for saboteurs? Has the company ever before kept us in the dark? Well, maybe this emergency is unique.”
“You cannot quite believe that, can you?” she pursued.
He surrendered altogether. “No longer. I should keep it secret, even from you—especially from you, my dear—but—” He straightened. His voice grew firm. “Yesterday too, some hours after we were told to expect the police, I received a lasergram addressed to me personally in my office. It appeared to be a routine memorandum, but the signature informed me that the real message was encrypted within it and came from Guthrie-san or a highly trusted agent of his. He takes what he calls ‘just in case’ precautions, you know, such as preparing this clandestine means of communication. I did not sleep much last nightwatch.”
Her pulse lurched. “What did it say?”
“It could be no more than a few words long, or a monitor might well suspect something beneath the surface.” They must be wired into him by now, the way he recited: “Secret launcher approaches 23.”
“What can that mean?”
He smiled, a grimace. “I have considered it. ‘Secret.’ That must include, above all, secret from the occupation force. ‘Launcher approaches.’ A spaceship could never come anywhere near us undetected, of course, but if no special watch is kept, a launch rocket falling free would not be noticed, except by an unlikely chance, until it got within about a thousand kilometers.”
At least, if it wasn’t on a collision orbit, Eiko realized. A bit of rock or junk that was to pass harmlessly by would register at a considerable distance, but attract no attention, no curiosity; such objects were too many. “Approach.” The launcher would be traveling cold, on a trajectory that could only be guessed. However, the guess might be shrewd . . .
“The number twenty-three must be a date, and of this month,” Tamura continued. “That means daywatch after tomorrow. Assuming neither the launcher nor its mother ship have special capabilities, this implies—I ran a computation—it left the ship in the vicinity of Earth, the ship probably being bound for Luna.”
“What. . . is it. . . carrying?”
“I do not know. But this does not accord well with the story and the commands we have received from Quito, does it?”
Eiko considered her father’s face. It had become a samurai mask. She must fight to speak: “Do you mean to have it intercepted and its contents brought in?”
“What else? I am thinking how to do that unbeknownst. You are well-informed about our operations, and better acquainted with various of our personnel than I am. I welcome any ideas that occur to you.” Sternly: “But this shall not pass from you to anyone else, nor shall you do anything except help me plan. Is that clear?”
“I can do more,” she protested. “Yes, in space itself. Perhaps better than others. You will surely be watched, but who would pay attention to me?”
Who indeed? she thought. A short, thin, plain-featured maiden lady of quiet manners, white streaks in the hair bespeaking her forty-two years. . . . Ragaranji-Go was too huge to monitor closely. Workers were always bound in or out, inspections, maintenance, flits to unmanned spacecraft that had cargo to offload but would not actually dock. The—Sepo, was that what the North Americans called them?—would naturally try to control all activity, make certain that each exit or entry was on a definite, ordinary task. Nevertheless, a person who wasn’t expected and who knew her way around might well be able to slip past unobserved. Harder would be to return likewise. Still, with certain prearrangements—
“No!” exclaimed Tamura. “It is not your risk to take. I gave troth, but you did not. Your obligations are to your home.”
Pain twisted in Eiko. He had never said outright why he had discouraged her from the ceremony, but she knew. His oldest son underwent it, and Fireball’s executives had no doubt made every effort to find satisfying, meaningful work for Jutaro. Nothing that would challenge his particular talents remained that a machine was not already handling. Jutaro was on Earth these days, subsisting on citizen’s credit, doing odd jobs—some pettily criminal, she suspected—to earn the price of repeated admission to a quivira.
Noboru Tamura would keep the faith he had plighted. He did not want more of his children thus bound to a way of life he saw as doomed. Eiko did not want him hurt further.
He managed a smile with a bit of warmth in it. “After all,” he said, “I keep my hopes that you too will eventually give me a grandchild.”
There was still time for that, she kept scrupulously to her biomedical program, but the time was dwindling—faster and faster, it seemed.
The door trilled. A neighbor, a friend? Eiko rose. She would welcome a caller, anyone who might ease the tension between her and her father. Perhaps he felt the same, for he moved ahead and himself admitted the newcomers.
They were three men unknown to her, in tan uniforms with shock guns at their hips. Armbands displayed the infinity symbol. They came straight through. The last one closed the door.
Eiko’s heart ticked away the while in which Tamura stood motionless before he said most softly, in English, “Good evenwatch, Captain Pedraza and gentlemen. To what do we owe this visit?”
The leader saluted. “Good evening, Sr. Tamura and Señorita.” Below the politeness, Eiko heard steel. “My apologies for this interruption. We’ve received new orders. Further information about terrorist activities suggests your life may well be in danger, sir. We are to protect you and certain other persons till the danger is past.”
“Indeed?” Tamura murmured. “What if I decline your kind offer?”
Eiko foreknew the answer: “I’m afraid we must insist, sir. Surely you can imagine how an attempt on you, in this environment, could lead to a terrible loss of life among innocent bystanders. Por favor, pack what you’ll need for the next few days and come along. You’ll have safe, comfortable lodging and open lines for communicating with anybody you wish.”
The Sepo listening in.
“I see.” Tamura spoke without tone and stood like a statue, expressionless. But he was defeated, Eiko knew. And she, she must not embrace him, she must not cry out, before these enemy strangers.
“I suppose you haven’t had dinner yet,” Pedraza said. “We’ll give you a nice one. Now, por favor, gather your things and we’ll go.”
Tamura nodded. A guard followed him out.
Pedraza addressed Eiko: “I promise you, Señorita, no harm will come to the señor if we can possibly prevent it.”
A bitterness that she could taste burst from her. “Yes, hostages work better alive than dead.”
“I know you’re unhappy.” With studied emphasis: “The situation is critical. That’s why we’re acting. My superiors don’t want the resentment, the agitation, this can bring on. Protective custody is still custody. But it’s protective. Por favor, understand—tell your friends—if anything untoward happens, we may no longer be able to guarantee the safety of the persons in our care.”
Hostages in truth. She had better not say that again. “I understand.”
They waited mute. Tamura soon came back, a bag in his hand. “Sayonara, Eiko,” he breathed. In English, lest the Sepo think the two conspired: “Remember what I told you. Wait this out quietly.”
“It’s not adios,” Pedraza said. “Only for a few days, I’m sure, and you can phone each other whenever you like. I’ll try to get permission for visits in person.”
“Thank you,” Eiko said automatically. It angered her that she did, until the thought passed through her that this officer most likely was sincere, a basically decent man who obeyed orders because he was pled
ged to and he trusted his superiors, but who might be as puzzled and apprehensive as she was.
Or more so. Resolution surged.
She bowed to her father. He returned the gesture. They would give nothing else to the eyes of these men. He left with them.
* * * *
26
T
he Moon, beloved old scarface, neared and swelled till it was no longer ahead but below, no longer a heavenly body but a wastescape of mountains and maria, craters and boulders, shadow-limned by an early afternoon. Using her opticals to filter out the glare and magnify, Kyra glimpsed some of the jewelwork her race had laid across it, silver threads that were monorails, Tychopolis agleam in the south and lesser communities elsewhere, scattered star-points across the land already nighted that marked other habitations. Then Maui Maru swung about and blasted, backing down on her goal. Pressed into her couch, Kyra looked up at an Earth waxing toward the half. Its own night blocked off a part of the sky. There she saw a few glints, megalopolises. Its blue-and-white day revealed to unaided vision no mark or trace of humanity.
Silence clapped upon her. After a final shiver through the hull, she weighed barely more than ten kilos. She did not seem to float from her harness and down to the crew lock as erstwhile. She went heavily, heart-sluggingly, toward whatever waited beyond.
She wasn’t afraid of death, she told herself. She didn’t like at all the idea of leaving a generally wonderful universe, but she had long since come to terms with it. The assurance was thin. Sweat lay rank in her armpits. There were other things that she did fear.
Yet when she touched the exit button, it was like a declaration. Guthrie wouldn’t send her on a hopeless mission. Dread dissolved in movement. The valves swung aside. She passed through, into the gang tube that had reached to osculate and down its ladder, a few leaps to the underground reception room for this berth.
The console that would ordinarily have taken her report and admitted her onward into Port Bowen stood silent. Six men crowded the chamber, uniformed Sepo.
She had more than half expected them. “What in MacCannon’s name is this about?” she blustered.
“I think you know,” replied the leader. He was a big man, afro, his name badge reading Trask. In spite of discipline, his voice held strain. “You’re under arrest, Pilot Davis. The charges are public endangerment, hijacking, and conspiracy—among others. Come along.”
“You can’t arrest me. You’re thirty Earth diameters out of your jurisdiction.”
“We’re here at the request of your employers, and they have police powers in this enclave. Come. Reilly, with me. The rest of you, secure the ship and commence your search.” Kyra spied an instrument among them, yes, a circuit resonator, a Guthrie detector.
Trask gestured raggedly. “Don’t make us use force,” he said. They were in a hurry, she knew, only half informed about their job, nerves drawn taut by these foreign surroundings. What that might lead them to do to her, once they reached whatever rooms they were based in, was not pleasant to think about.
They were athletic and alert, but Earthsiders. She might get a chance to break free, escape, with the swiftness of low-g habituation. They’d take her through side passages which they’d made sure were clear of Fireball folk. However, if she could scream the truth aloud someplace along the way where somebody would hear— Her consortes wouldn’t stand for outsiders shockshooting their own— Kyra went between the two.
Beyond the safety lock they entered a corridor that should have bustled. Its length was quite hollow. A pair waited. Trask slammed to a halt. Kyra heard him curse under his breath. She knew, with upsoaring joy, that the Lunarians had not been there before.
They were both male, of tower-tall slenderness but wide in the shoulders. The features of one were like a Grecian sculpture for regularity and whiteness, within a frame of silvery tresses. He wore an incongruously ordinary unisuit. The other was hawk-nosed, amber-skinned, his hair blue-black, though on him the big, slanting eyes were also gray. His garb was more ethnic, if that meant anything, jerkin above wide-sleeved shirt, tight hose below puffed and slashed short trousers, curl-toed shoes, all in dark green and gold. On each one’s breast hung a medallion, a black circle ringed by irregular pearliness, the Eclipse of power.
“Greeting,” said the first. His English flowed with the singing Lunarian accent. “We will take charge now, if you please.”
Trask slapped hand to holstered weapon. “What do you mean?” he rasped. “Who are you?” His companion gripped Kyra’s arm painfully hard.
“You may address me as Arren, and my associate as Isabu.” The reply was dispassionate. “We are ancillaries of the lord Rinndalir, who has bidden us escort this person.”
“No! This is—is Fireball territory, and we’re deputized—”
Arren lifted a hand. Trask sputtered into silence. “The contract delegates authority in Port Bowen to Fireball Enterprises but does not affect the sovereignty of the Selenarchy, which the lord Rinndalir hereby applies.”
“I’ve got my orders.” Trask raised his gun a few centimeters in its sheath. “Don’t interfere. Stand aside.”
Isabu smiled. “I advise you against drawing that,” he said levelly.
The Lunarians appeared unarmed, but Trask let go the butt and signed his fellow to stay put. He breathed hard. “We’ll find out who’s got what rights.”
“Yes, fine,” Kyra gibed. “Let’s go straight to the director’s office, hook into the net, and talk to as many people as possible.”
“That would not be in your best interests, would it?” Arren challenged Trask—how softly!
The Sepo looked right and left, as if praying for help to come out of the walls. He’d been commanded to utmost secrecy, Kyra knew. And enjoined to avoid trouble, scenes, anything that might bring on publicity. And doubtless raised on a diet of Earthside folklore about Lunarians, their cunning and ruthlessness and mysterious resources. She must admire how he mustered will and demanded, “Show me your warrant.”
“Such is not required of a Selenarch’s messengers,” Isabu told him.
“You have obstructed us long enough,” Arren added. He touched an informant on his wrist. “Shall I summon assistance? If so, you and yours will be brought to judgment.”
It might or might not be bluff. In the longer term, it absolutely was not. “You don’t claim the ship she came in, do you?” Trask yelled. “Bueno, go, then, go!”
Arren beckoned to Kyra, turned, and departed with the bounding gait of his kind. She followed, exultant, Isabu at her side. Oh, they were both stunningly handsome. Giddily, she cast a glance back over her shoulder. Trask stood staring after her. As she watched, he swung on his heel and made for the entry. Dutiful dog; he’d ransack Maui while he could, for all the good that would do the cause which he himself was ignorant of. His man shambled after him in dazed fashion.
“Mil gracias, señores,” Kyra caroled. “You’ve done more than save me from a bad time, do you know? Listen, what’s happened is—”
Isabu’s palm chopped air in front of her mouth. “Pray do not speak of it to us,” he said. “We will bring you to the lord Rinndalir.”
The glory chilled the least bit. She remembered Guthrie admitting he didn’t know what the Lunarian would do.
Yet she was out of Avantist control. She was free to cry the words that would blow their whole damned house of cards down around their ears. It could wait till she got to Rinndalir, since he so desired, and that ought to be one almighty interesting visit.
“Whatever you want,” she said. “Though we can make conversation, can’t we?”
Arren gave her a look and a smile. She couldn’t tell whether it was friendly or wolfish or what. “We can attempt small talk later, if you wish,” he said. “First we must seek our vehicle. Pray do not speak to anyone we meet along the way.”
She realized that wasn’t a request. They might very well have means to silence her. Bueno, they were still her deliverers, and there could be excellent r
easons for not immediately shouting forth her story. “If somebody I know hails me, it’d seem odd if I don’t respond,” she pointed out.
Isabu considered. Was such behavior foreign to him? “Correct,” he agreed. “You have an able mind, my lady.”
The corridor opened on a central space of screens, panels, baggage carriers, benches, shops. It was less busy than it should have been. The Lunarians hastened Kyra along. Stares trailed them.
“Hola, Davis! When did you get in?” The woman who drew alongside was an old acquaintance.
“Buenas dis, Navarro. I’m sorry, got to run, awful rush, see you later—” and again anonymous faces separated them. Kyra was glad she heard no more greetings. That single encounter made her feel briefly, freezingly alone.
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