Forever Shores

by Peter McNamara

  More than ever Tom knew he would have to piece everything together himself, as much as he could. Join the parts, stitch the fragments into a whole. Perhaps Tartalen would help, had summoned him to Azira for precisely that, it seemed, and so had triggered these desperate measures from others in the Order. Alarming the Princes. It made sense.

  Tom believed he knew much of it already—the only thing it could be. The jacobi had reached out, sent a greeting, but it had also found a point of connection, something it could use as one, could connect with. Again, it made sense. In trying out its life, in reaching out to more scribed DNA, it had activated something present in that scribing, something dormant, latent, perhaps already accelerating.

  The capacity to participate in mind-war. To reach the Heroes, yes, and use a name of power left there long ago. Rynemonn.

  For that name had been there too, it seemed, not just tagged to a Borrowed Jess or a scrap of information casually brought to his attention. A code word left, laden, freighted with purpose, just as Ship and Star had been, but meant to remain dormant. Yet when brought out, synonymous with him, something with a natural connection. Something innocently coaxed into life by the jacobi, triggered by the neuraesthenic properties of Seren’s poison or her kiss, or something in the fairground sim prepared by Anoki; it went on and on. He couldn’t know.

  But he had fought on the Air as a mind-fighter when he’d first met Sen-Mati, had used mind-war then, some wild form of it, had just now fought the fleet and Clever Men from the Order, had found Cleven Nos Peray and faced him in line of sight and survived.

  And, earlier, unknowing, had given that name to ID-5982-J, who must then have acted as that, triggered more things than Tom could possibly know. The death of Traven for one, directly or indirectly! The raising of a thousand ships. Where did it begin and end?

  Tom could no longer rest. He swung off the bunk and dressed, then crossed the ship’s modest commons to the main cabin. Sackritter and Marcham were both at the door this time, weapons drawn, and this time the door remained open when Tom entered. Once again Cleven was seated before the aft windows, the ship’s tail boiling beyond. He stood this time, respectfully, sat only when Tom was seated.

  ‘You understand that I had to try,’ he said, without further apology.

  ‘I expected it, Cleven. I expect you to keep trying.’

  The Clever Man gave the ghost of a smile and nodded. ‘It is my world.’

  ‘And you are held to account, I suspect. But now the guns are set to kill.’

  ‘Partly why I tried what I did. Your anger. Your talk about your gun.’

  ‘I mean their guns this time, Cleven.’ He gestured back at the open door, at the crewmen waiting there. ‘And there are cameras running. We have you on scan. Not how any of us wish it to be, but if you will not—cannot—bend …’ Tom shrugged. ‘You have something to tell me about my incept.’

  ‘You have a sensor implanted in your forehead.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A bio-organic sensor mote near the pineal gland, highly sophisticated. No ferric components, no nano rejection factor. Integrated. It has been there from the time of your incept and we have no idea who put it there or, alternatively, why your DNA was scribed so it would be there.’

  Don’t believe you! You’re lying! Who put it there? Who did?

  Both strands of thought rushed through his mind, though Tom spoke none of it.

  ‘You’re afraid the Order has been compromised. Infiltrated. You attacked me to provoke a response in extremis.’

  Cleven seemed glad to have it said so bluntly, so openly. ‘Mostly that, yes. And haven’t continued to strike you down because I am now inclined to accept that you have not been aware of it. You are more than a sensitive, more than a National Clever Man.’

  The jacobi linked to it!

  Tom’s suspicions had been correct. ‘Med scans have never showed it.’

  ‘Which tells us something else. That your nano spread is tailored to shield its existence. We know about it because it was discovered in the Madhouse while your nano was still adapting to do that additional task. It flagged extraordinary functions, highlighted the modification. Tartalen knew.’

  ‘Then Seren could have—’

  ‘She did not. She knows nothing of it. We verified that—’

  ‘Cleven—!’

  ‘—long before you met her, Captain. She is safe at Tarpial. Despite Tartalen’s demands, we persevere.’

  ‘I must speak with Tartalen. For all our sakes.’

  ‘I might agree, but many others do not. But you are on your way to do so, though it means your fellow Captains face the Air challenge without you.’

  ‘I could use com. Speak to him now. You have the connection.’

  ‘Captain, such a call would never get through. Too many interested parties would see to that.’

  ‘You relish this, don’t you?’

  ‘For all sorts of reasons, yes, but not as much as I did. Most of all I want it ended. The Captains. This mystery. I want to know what Rynemonn is, why you named a rogue belltree that, why you shouted it as a mind-war integer when you struck at me.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think I believe you. But you have had it all your days. While wearing surveillance tech for others, other motes and tech assists at other times, you have had that too. Reading all the while.’

  ‘Recording?’

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps not. Activated only when needed perhaps. Simply there.’

  ‘You aren’t sure of any of this.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It’s not …?’ Tom hesitated.

  ‘A coterminous personality? No.’

  ‘You’re so sure.’

  ‘One of the first things they checked in the Madhouse. This is wholly and solely you.’

  ‘Power readings?’

  ‘Bio-organic, as I said. It is indistinguishable from the power of the brain or central nervous system, the electromagnetic fields of the body’s organs. You power it. It is you.’

  Tom felt enormous relief. ‘You say. Not implanted?’

  ‘Seems not. Though that’s how we’re conditioned to see it. How many still see it.’

  ‘Then it’s in your interests—the Order’s best interests surely—to let me reach Tartalen.’

  ‘Again, I might agree. Many others do not. Tartalen has always had too much influence. Too much power. Too many secrets.’

  ‘Which is why the Air challenge eventuated.’

  ‘Partly. Most would say that the elevation of Anna caused that.’

  ‘Very convenient though, wouldn’t you say? Cleven, what more can you tell me? What more can you do for all of us?’

  The Ab’O watched the dust boiling beyond the port. ‘My concern now is what you will do with me. I would like to live.’

  ‘We will release you when we reach Rynosseros.’

  ‘Can I believe that?’ It clearly surprised him.

  ‘Unless you strike at me again, yes.’

  ‘What of your hard decisions? The killing of the tree?’

  ‘I try to tell myself that you are a patriot. I am ashamed of you. As a human you are lacking, but you think you are doing the right thing.’

  ‘You are ashamed of me!’ Surprise and anger flashed in the dark eyes.

  ‘Of course. Something is missing. I am sorry for you.’

  And Tom stood and left the cabin and went out to be in the day.

  Charvolants still used this secondary Road, so Carlyr was only a little surprised to see a stoneman up ahead, tiny with distance but recognisable by the long cracker athwart his back. The distinctive walk-rhythm confirmed it, the bending, fitting and slinging.

  Another time, another day, Carlyr would have quickened his pace to join him, but this wasn’t something he wanted now—a travelling companion, a witness to what had to be done.

  Carlyr slowed his pace. Then, bending to the exigencies of the situation, he finally moved to the side of the Road, found so
me rocks that gave a little shade and settled against them, pulling the wide brim of his traveller’s hat low over his eyes against the harsh light. Even as he rested, he heard—probably imagined—the far-off strike of the stoneman’s cracker against the gibbers, even the thrum and whoosh of the sling as a stone was flung aside. He found those things comforting. Reaffirming. It was good to know that the world went on in the little things people did. In what he did too. What he was doing now. He drowsed, knowing it would be soon.

  It was ironic that Cleven’s presence made possible the night-run, allowed Sycorax to reach the great fighting ground of the Air at dawn and without further incident. Ironic too that four tribal charvolants provided escort for the last thirty k’s, so that Sycorax was allowed to use the old trail of the Gaenea—the McCubbin in old National naming—and so reached the salt beach at Toley with three hours to spare. There on the old salt and sand shore in the early light stood Afervarro’s Songwing, Lucas’s Serventy, Glaive’s Quicksilver, Massen’s Evelyn, with Doloroso’s Albatross and Anna’s recently inherited Manticore beyond them. Rynosseros stood further out still, closest to where the Gaenea rejoined the Quaeda Si and continued on to Azira.

  Sallander had called ahead, and the long tables on the commons of Songwing were set up again and already crowded, the Captains and their crews waiting under awnings as Sycorax rolled in.

  They made a splendid sight, the seven Coloured ships drawn up like this. In all likelihood, it was the last time they would be together this way, the last time their crews would share talk and time and braid their lives. In three scant hours, they would enter the vast salt lake, go out among the old wrecks left from centuries of tribal war, and face their destiny.

  Now Sycorax was here, bringing their missing Captain at last, and such a reunion followed—as heartfelt, riotous and bittersweet as circumstances allowed—and it went in stages. Even as Cleven was sent on his way on an old four-kite skiff, with nothing more said than farewell, Tom crossed to Rynosseros.

  They were all watching as he approached: Scarbo, Shannon, Strengi, Rimmon and Hammon, not yet at the long tables on Songwing, not when there was this to do. The homecoming.

  Smiles first and the joking.

  ‘See what happens when you go off on your own!’ Scarbo called when Tom finally reached the ladder.

  ‘Flying yet!’ called Rim, when he was on the travel platform. ‘An aviator. You make it hard to keep up!’

  And from Shannon, when Tom was on the rungs and climbing: ‘You came in for that Tarpial junket and didn’t stop by!’ Playing moody, miffed, disgruntled.

  A Catalan blessing, curse or both from Strengi when Tom first reached the commons (always playing one of the Spanish Exiles), followed by: ‘Another fine mess!’, key line from one of the ancient entertainments they plundered for their deck-spieks.

  A simple ‘Welcome home, Tom!’ from Hammon, youngest, still not easy with the ragging and jokes. Tom was his first captain ever. Possibly first and last with what was coming. All there in what didn’t need to be said by any of them, not yet.

  Easy words then, quick replies, treasured spieks to span the days and make it right. Embraces, longer than the usual, more edged on such a day, then the sitting around. But all measured with the deadline approaching.

  Harder words then.

  ‘We’ve discussed it,’ Scarbo said. ‘Need you to have this. Wouldn’t be right any other way. The others agree. You may be able to bring back help. Get us a reprieve. It has to come from the Order. It happens.’

  Tom sat among them, let them see he was listening, turning to face whoever spoke. They all did.

  Then it was across to Songwing and the whole thing over, and seeing Anna there with the others, belonging so well. It put a new edge on the desperation, and touching her, too, was urgent and strange.

  No self-recrimination in her, no blaming herself now, but Tom sensed the ghost of where it had been. How could it not? But how could it stay? They had known what they were doing at Balin, all of them.

  ‘We get our chance,’ she said, as bluff and torn as the rest, because words couldn’t cover this now. ‘The world watches more than ever.’ All true. So true among the truths.

  No time to take it further, no time for anything with them finally down to an hour but renewed strategy talk, renewed urgings with the refrain: ‘Let us give you this.’

  The six Captains had had their countless genome/DNA printings done well before, had sat through proliferation recordings that would haunt the airwaves for as long as the foreign sats could carry them. Taunting ghosts to remind the world: this time must not pass easily, must not slip away. State of Nation had done its best, too, filed their protests, called in the official observers, though these remained confined to the coastal cities and could only watch what the friendly sats gave.

  Then, when half an hour remained and still nothing had been finally decided, they went to their separate ships, and left it to the Gold Captain, first among them, as Tom knew they would.

  Aftervarro judged the time, crossed to Rynosseros and found Tom at the quarterdeck rail, staring to port out across the vast fighting ground. There were no new words, not really, just this final saying of them.

  ‘Nothing on the tree?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Not yet. Corven’s Demeter is close. May reach it in time. We’ll know soon.’

  ‘But not answering?’

  ‘It never has. Always suited itself, you know that.’ Afervarro left a ten count. ‘Tom, Tartalen is at Azira. Whatever has happened has made him think it’s important you know things. He’s probably defying the Order, may be putting himself at risk. It has to be important.’

  Tom had no new words either. ‘Hasn’t before. Years of nothing, now he can tell. Why, Phaon?’

  ‘Can’t know. Can’t know Cleven’s place in this either. Just that it’s playing out. That you surprised him. But a summons is what it is, an official benefice. There would be outside scrutiny all the way, a monitored official escort. You would likely be safe there and back.’

  ‘While this is happening,’ Tom said, regarding the great sweep of the land, dazzling white under blue, flecked with tips of black when you really looked, the wrecks of ships that had fought and died over the years. ‘While you go out there.’

  ‘It was always borrowed time, Tom. Since Traven, more clearly so. See us as buying time now. You may get back. We can divide the fleet. Break rules, see what they do. Try some strategies we’ve been putting together.’

  ‘What, Phaon? What? Divide yourselves? Splay formation? Wedge? Single arrow, what? You think there will be time? This isn’t Caerdria? Most definitely isn’t.’

  ‘We will call the tribal ships to us. Officially call them. Some may change sides. It’s possible. We have Anna—’

  ‘Against how many Clever Men?’

  ‘Tom, who knows what will happen?’

  Tom smiled grimly but didn’t speak.

  Afervarro leant on the rail. ‘Against a thousand, what can it matter if we’re six or seven? Let us give you this.’

  ‘It’s important we’re together. That we’re seen—’

  ‘And it matters that you want that, Tom. But the outcome won’t change. There is no right time. No perfect time for any of us. But this way something continues. This way you have questions answered, answers we’ve all had in our lives but you haven’t. Please let us give you this. Go to Azira. Hear what Tartalen has to say. Come back if you can.’

  ‘Three hours each way, Phaon—’

  ‘Less knowing you and your crew. You can still come back. Early or late, what does it matter? They’ll allow it. They want you here. It’s the only gift we have, Tom. We dearly need to give it.’

  ‘Phaon—’

  ‘Barely eight years! Take the gift! Honour us! It’s all that makes it worth it, don’t you see?’

  They watched the salt lake together as if there was time.

  ‘Delay them, Phaon,’ Tom said then. ‘Do anything to waste the day. Hide in the wr
ecks. Run up to Madiganna, anything. Promise you’ll delay them.’

  ‘Aye. We’ll do that.’ He squeezed Tom’s arm once then went to join his ship.

  Carlyr saw the tree ahead, this powerful, meddlesome ID-5982-J, which had caused such trouble, proved so durable. A sky-strike could have put an end to it, Carlyr knew, or ship-tech from passing charvis. But more than tribal sats watched this place now. There was Chandrasar and Tosi-Go, Mikel and Sesta, clients, allies, interested parties. Those sats could see the smallest laser strikes if they cared to, could see men with cutters and torches, hammers and blades for that matter, given allocations and alignments. The world knew the story of this tree and what it had done.

  So Carlyr played an innocent nomad who just happened to be wandering this back-Road and chanced upon the famous construct. It’s what nomads did. No sat could read his kill-tech. He would wander past, focus direction for twenty, thirty seconds, then vanish into the land. Later he would call his skiff to him and sail back to Cana. Later. Now there was this to do.

  At 0900 the advance order came through com. The thousand had entered the lake at Cresa and were approaching, a spectacle like none ever seen on the Air, so many ships here for this particular kill. At Toley the six had already lofted battle canopies, signatures deployed among death-lamps and parafoils, everything trimmed for speed and minimum fire damage. Now Songwing began moving down the Toley strand, followed by Serventy, then Quicksilver and Evelyn, finally Albatross and Manticore. That was how they entered the lake, with Afervarro leading, but then—clear message to all—Anna’s Manticore advanced to point, with Afervarro at her left and Lucas to her right. Evelyn took port flank, Albatross moved to starboard beyond Quicksilver. The ships of the seven Captains had always tended to stay apart, meeting in twos and threes. They had never moved like this, not six together, but they managed it skilfully considering and it, too, was something to see.