by Far Freedom
” She’s a guest of Pan. She’s an admiral. There’s also a Navy captain and a male child named Samson. The captain is here with Pan. The admiral and the boy are elsewhere.”
“Where?” Daidaunkh inquired.
“Out where we never go.”
“A boy?” Denna always spoke slowly. The breath of her voice whispered around her words, adding emphasis, even yearning. “What does he look like?”
Jarwekh sensed the error he was about to make, but too late to stop his tongue. “Very young and injured.”
“Injured? And you want to kill his mother? Have you seen the boy?”
“Don’t think about the boy!” Daidaunkh demanded.
“How is he injured? Is it serious?”
“Stop talking about the boy!” Daidaunkh ordered, slamming the beer mug on the table.
Denna didn’t react to the loud sound or to the beer that splattered on her. She ignored Daidaunkh, as though he said nothing at all.
“If I tell you the child is badly injured yet free of pain and full of spirit, will you put your mind at rest and leave the subject?” Jarwekh waited to see how Denna would react. He chastised himself for mentioning the child in her presence. It was almost as if he wanted her to be reminded of tragedy, but when did she ever forget? It was unbearable being her friend, and it was unthinkable to abandon her.
“Why are they here?” she asked, apparently at peace with herself concerning the boy. “Navy never comes to Earth.”
“Perhaps you can learn this for us, Denna.” Jarwekh seized upon the chance to divert her attention. “Perhaps the prodigal daughter can return home. Perhaps the captain will find you interesting.”
“Perhaps the Boss will kick me out.”
The door opened, letting in the bright afternoon sunlight and a small group of tourists. Their armed escort looked the place over, saw Denna and her two Rhyan, and herded his charges back outside. “But it’s so hot out here,” one of the tourists protested beyond the closing door.
“You must be on your best behavior,” Jarwekh said, raising a hand to signal the barkeep.
“When I’m good I’m very good,” Denna said, “but when I’m bad I’m better.”
“I’ve heard this before,” Jarwekh said.
“The ancient slogan of an Earthian woman of questionable virtue,” Daidaunkh said. “Perhaps the essence of why Denna consorts with the likes of us. You wouldn’t see the humor of it.”
“Do you?”
“It’s amazing what a dead Rhyan can understand. The burden of Rhyan culture and the codes of noble birth slough away from the corpse, allowing enlightenment - or endarkenment, depending on your interpretation of the mathematics of it.”
“If you’ve had too much to drink,” Jarwekh said, “we can wait and hope for a sober interval.”
“I don’t want sobriety,” Denna said. “I want action!” Her hand flew to her shoulder, grabbed something there, and drew it upward. A black knife with a toothed edge popped into existence, and she brought it down.
Jarwekh captured Denna’s wrist with a lightning thrust of his arm, stopping the knife a finger’s width from her own forearm. “Don’t cut yourself today!” He was always prepared for such antics from Denna. “You need to look your best. So you can be bad.”
“I think Jarwekh understands your humor,” Daidaunkh remarked. “And your need for pain.”
Jarwekh tapped off the two holograms and collected their projectors.
The barkeep arrived: an Earthian male even taller than Jarwekh, very muscular and fat. “You guys just cost me some tourist business,” the man complained. Denna winked at Daidaunkh and Jarwekh, then shoved her knife into the equator of the barkeep. The barkeep laughed as the blade glanced away. “Denna, I wouldn’t turn off my d-field in your presence even if you were naked and chained to the floor.”
“I’ll take that as a naughty compliment.” Denna switched off the knife to make it disappear.
“Are you ordering our product,” the barkeep inquired, “or do you need me to help lift the mood of your party?”
“Just the sight of your red hair and black skin makes me happier, Fudlump,” Denna said. “You have any new tattoos on your fat belly?”
Fudlump opened his shirt to expose a landscape of dark brown skin and a herd of bright tattoos, all of which he caused to ripple. “Sorry you can’t fondle them.”
“We’re not paying for this exhibition,” Jarwekh said.
“It’s worth something,” Daidaunkh remarked with a belch, throwing a small coin onto the table.
“Normally I can make them move around,” Fudlump said, “but the d-field interferes with the microbots.”
“If we buy three beers,” Jarwekh said, “will you remove this from our sight?”
“Everyone’s an art critic,” the barkeep said over his shoulder as he departed.
“You’ll wear better clothes,” Jarwekh said to Denna.
“You really want me to talk to the Navy captain?”
“This admiral is a surprise to Pan and apparently someone very special. I don’t wish to make a mistake and become dead again.”
“If this is the real Commodore Keshona I’ll gladly pay the price,” Daidaunkh
78 Far Freedom said.
“Too many years have passed since the war,” Denna said. “She’s been through a major rejuvenation by now. Memories will have been pruned away. She’s no longer the same person. Why did you ever expect to find her on Earth?”
“We came here to rot away the remainder of our lives, not seek Keshona,” Jarwekh said. “I had put it behind me, until I saw this woman. All I ask is to learn more - and be careful of Pan.”
Section 009 Dinner Invitation
He stepped into the doorway and the sound of a woman singing came as a surprise to his ears. He paused just inside, let his eyes adjust to the amber lighting, the rainwater drain from his suit, and the music soothe his nerves. He had nerves that needed soothing. By reputation he was the daring brother, confident in his ability to traverse the dangerous routes between antagonistic alien civilizations. If one didn’t have sensitive nerves then one might grow careless.
He moved forward into the crowd and found a table. The waiter’s arrival and the meal order occurred almost unconsciously as he tried to study the restaurant without appearing suspicious, without appearing to be looking for a certain person. The voice singing just above the disrespectful clamor of dining patrons now distracted him, and for some reason increased his anxiety rather than soothing him.
A Rhyan woman sat down across the table from him, uninvited, jarring his nerves further. She was a Blend but not nobility, or else she would be escorted. Her dress was too provocative for Desert Folk, her skin too light for Ocean Folk. She was attractive in a plain way but not obviously presenting herself for his appreciation and invitation. What did she want? She could be an agent of the Rhyan Empire, already aware of his mission, but that would be very improbable. He decided to return her smile and remain cautious.
“You’re Earthian, aren’t you?” the woman asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. “I like Bright Eyes. They can be very gifted singers.” She nodded in the direction of the performer. “Bright-eyes” was a strangely positive pejorative for Earthians. Earthians did not understand the negative tactical implications of too-visible eyes. Rhyans did not see the negative evolutionary implications of their own branch of humanity being too adapted to environment and to war.
He couldn’t see the singer from where he sat but he knew she was Earthian without seeing her. “I’m partly Earthian,” he said. “Desert Folk have fine voices, but Ocean Folk don’t have the noses for singing.”
She laughed, rubbing her own nose, which had some of the flatness of Ocean Folk. She seemed to take his careless remark with good humor. “Are you partly Rhyan?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Intriguing. I see no evidence of that.”
“You would be surprised how many Earthians resemble Rhyans or Essii
n. Except for the eyes, perhaps. We’re all humans, you know.”
“But the colors and shapes can be so different.”
He didn’t want to engage her in argument. It wasn’t only futile but risky. Prejudices were often based on minute differences while ignoring vast similarities. Still, he couldn’t stop before adding a last point of logic. “I’m proof that we ‘re genetically equivalent, and culturally compatible.”
“Where do your sympathies lie, then?”
“Sympathies? In regard to what?” He wanted to dismiss her as a threat. She seemed too preoccupied to have him as her target. Even as she hid her face from a certain direction in the restaurant, her conversation turned back to sensitive issues. She seemed insensitive to sensitive issues.
“Most of us think a war is coming,” she said. “Don’t be afraid to tell me. One
has to keep an open mind, out here in the disputed territories.”
“We would be in the minority. It may be wisest to admit to nothing, not even to an open mind.”
“I think I know where your loyalties lie. I might disagree with you, but I still hope our peoples will someday become friends. I hope that your heritage was a result of friendship rather than strife.”
He relaxed a bit, perhaps prematurely, but he was confident in his assessment of the Rhyan woman. “That’s what I know to be true. You’re kind to say that. May your house be strong and prosperous.”
“Thank you, sir, for letting me sit here a moment. There was someone I was trying to avoid and he’s gone now. Don’tyou think she’s a wonderful singer? “
“Who? Oh. Yes. Yes, I do.” He watched the Rhyan woman depart and waited for some other follow-up to her visit - which, to his relief, didn’t occur. He turned his attention to the singer. By rising a little out of his chair he could see her on a small stage in the corner of the restaurant. The waiter came with his meal.
“Isn’t she great?” the waiter commented, seeing where he looked. “Enjoy her while you can. She’s been packing them in for a week but we can’t get her to extend her contract past tonight.”
“Who is she?”
“Ruby Reed.”
He ate and listened. He didn’t want to listen. He discovered he was trying not to hear the singer, and as soon as he realized that, her voice became familiar. He looked again at the dark woman under the spotlight. It couldn’t be her, but it looked like his contact. The song ended with generous applause. The applause faded and the singer began another song. The song meant something to him. The voice meant something to him. He was compelled to dig in his memory.
The singer stood in front of him, causing him to blink. The song had ended many moments ago. He didn’t notice, he was so immersed in forbidden memories. He was upset he was able to retrieve the memories. He got to his feet, on the verge of trembling from shock at what his mind contained. He clutched his napkin before it couldfall.
“May I?” she asked.
“What?”
“Sit with you.”
It was her. And it was also - but the wrong color - her. Ruby Reed. Before he could respond she was already seated. The waiter brought her a drink, paid her compliments on her singing. She took a few sips of her drink and watched him expectantly. He hatedfor her to drink alcohol. Why did he?
When he failed to say anything for several moments, she said, “It’s been rather dry in the valley lately.”
He blinked again, and seriously considered not responding. “Not,” he said, “as dry as it will be.”
“You’re late to our appointment. It worried me.”
“You are not Ruby Reed.”
“Of course not. That isn’t important.”
“You sing exactly in her style, and with her voice.”
“Do I? I made up the name. There is no Ruby Reed.”
“There was a Ruby Reed. I knew her.” He couldn’t bring the memory into sharp focus. He knew he shouldn’t try. The memory was very potent and very personal. Then he remembered a time before Ruby Reed, and another woman who was African. She was that woman also. The distant past yielded to his need to understand. Memories flew at him with a vengeful sharpness.
“I had to have some reason,” she said, “for waiting around here so long. You need permits and employment or they kick you off this world. Rhyan make up most of the population here. I knew they liked singers. I’ve been told I can carry a tune, so I made myself into a singer. The name Ruby Reed popped into my head. Perhaps it was a name I once knew. You knew her?”
“You don’t know how good a singer you are.” Whole performances of hers were ripping through his inner vision. But he dared not try to convince her she was Ruby Reed.
“Andyou’re the music expert here?“It was an amiable challenge.
“I think I am. You’ve unlocked a door to my past that I wasn’t supposed to open. I suspected this would happen. There was not enough time and not the right equipment to fully suppress my memories. Consequently, I may jeopardize this mission.”
“Stop talking,” she ordered, and drained her whiskey.
He finished his meal. They acted out their parts to appear as normal as possible. They left the restaurant and boarded a random personal transport vehicle.
“Are you the guide?” she asked, as soon as they began moving through the rainy night.
“I know where the door is.” How could she be so different? She was purposeful, powerful, decisive, daring. What made her think she could get herself hired as a singer? How could she still sing so well? She was rejuvenated. The talent she labored a lifetime to develop was supposedly erased by cellular rebirth. How could she not understand the quality of her musical gift? How could she not wonder at its existence? How could she ignore the information he should not have offered her?
“Do you know how to get us off this planet?” she asked.
“I assumed you would know.”
“A week ago I would have, but you took too long getting here. How long did you live in Sol System? You’re not Earthian.”
“How did you know?”
“I’m an expert on languages and speech patterns. Sounds like you’ve lived with Earthians most of your life.”
He knew, as she said it, that she was such an expert, long ago. Did she relearn the expertise, or did she remember it, the way she remembered how to sing? It wasn’t supposed to be possible. “I consider myself human,” he said, “in the Earthian sense of the term.”
“You’re supposed to be mostly Essiin.”
“One-fourth. One-fourth Earthian. Half Rhyan.”
“Why do you appear so Earthian?”
“Believe it or not, this is my normal appearance.”
The vehicle moved through the night with only the sound of the rain pelting against the windows. Lights streaked by in the darkness between cities on the sparsely-populated planet. The rare surface-habitable planet was one of many subjects of contention between Union and Empire. Lightning bloomed in the clouds, making their billowing towers visible for brief intervals. Thunder came muffled into the vehicle.
“You don’t look like a killer to me,” she said, breaking a stretch of silence.
“I’m not. Why would you expect me to be?”
“Because you and I will kill a lot of people.”
“I’m sure that isn’t the plan. This is a coup d’etat. Self-preservation will limit the casualties.”
“They’re dead if they give up their power. They’ll hide among the general population and call my bluff, hoping to wait for their fleet to arrive. Then I’ll have to decide if it’s a bluff.”
“You’ve already decided.”
“At this point in time the cost of failure looks much higher than the cost of success.”
“You said ‘my bluff.’ That makes you the person in command - the commodore. You’re here alone. If you’re caught, is it so easy to replace you?”
“Anyone can be replaced. I think there’s a betting pool on whether I make it back to the task force. Even odds, last I heard.”
He sat in silence, gazing at the barely visible face of the dark woman who sat next to him. He remembered the singer with more and more clarity. He remembered the person she was before that, and realized that woman also sang. Ruby Reed fell into perspective in his mind: admired, cherished, loved, but not nearly so important as the woman she once was. The thought of her being in this situation on this wild little planet, waiting to do the awful thing that lay ahead of them, brought stark fear and dread to his mind. “No, I don’t think you can be replaced. You aren’t supposed to put yourself in such danger.”
“This is war. If I don’t make it back, someone else can have the pleasure of slaughter.”
“It goes beyond the war. You’re important to other people. I can’t explain it but I know I’m part of it. Perhaps neither of us should be here, but I’m here because you are. You’re…” - the word just came to him - “…the sentinel. I’m your protector.”
“I can take care of myself. You ‘re beginning to worry me. What sentinel? “
“I don’t know. I’m a little confused.”
“Don’t be. You’re more important than I am. You know where the secret weapon is. Don’t do anything heroic. What’s your real name?”
“Pan.”
She stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Pan. My name is Keshona.”
“Sir?”
Pan broke out of the dream and sat stunned for many moments before he could reclaim his wits. He could still smell that rainy night, the whiskey on her breath, the well-used interior of the car, the sweet and sweaty aroma of the woman who sang for several hours. He could still feel the strong emotions of a man in a dangerous situation with a woman who meant too much to him. He could still hear her voice and her accent: it was her, Fidelity Demba. Each facet of the memory was intense and almost too detailed to be a real memory. He struggled to emerge from the experience, not really wanting to leave it, knowing it would fade too quickly and too well. He opened his eyes and saw his android companion. “Fred. What is it?”
“You called me.”
Pan hadn’t felt right for many months. He suffered brief moments of disorientation, followed by vague impressions of having seen things he couldn’t remember seeing. He grew to feel that something was about to happen. If he didn’t have that feeling, he might not have watched so diligently for unwelcome visitors to his planet, might have missed the fight at the African Space Elevator. He would have missed her . “I did? I did call you. I forget why I wanted you!