Ganwold's Child

by Diann Read

  “There’s a call from the Watch, sir. Stand by.”

  Kierem disappeared from the monitor to be replaced in a moment by the watch officer, a young man who said, “Sir, we’ve got a new development in the hostage situation. The newsnets are running an interview with your son.”

  Lujan hit the remote button beside the visiphone. The holovid in the far wall came on with a ripple of iridescent color and focused on a sullen youth who said, “What do you want?”

  Tristan!

  Lujan’s jaw tightened. “Call the imagery section and get someone on this,” he said with a glance at the watch officer.

  “We have, sir. They’ve got a team on the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the holovid a newsman said, “. . . congratulate you on your position in the academy’s top flight of first year cadets. Your father would be proud of you—if he knew.”

  Lujan read a moment’s fury in the youth’s eyes and taut jaw before he twisted his face away. “No, he wouldn’t,” he said. “I didn’t earn it.”

  “Son,” Lujan whispered.

  He watched silently for a few seconds before turning back to the lieutenant on the visiphone. “I’ll be in by oh-seven-hundred,” he said, checking his timepiece. “Can you have a preliminary report ready by then?”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said.

  “Thanks. Out here.” Lujan touched the disconnect, then buzzed the exec office. When Kierem’s face reappeared in the monitor, Lujan said, “Please call my office and warn Captain Jiron that the local newsnets will probably jump on this. We don’t need their people underfoot while we’re working on it.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Lujan’s attention returned to the holovid.

  “. . . he’s never responded to the message Governor Renier sent at the time of your rescue from Ganwold,” the interviewer said. “Do you really believe a man you haven’t seen since you were a baby still cares enough about you to help?”

  Lujan saw how the youth stiffened at the question, then let his head droop. “I don’t know,” the boy whispered. “I don’t know.”

  The words pierced Lujan’s soul like a knife.

  Only when his finger began to hurt did he realize how hard he held down the visiphone’s disconnect button.

  * *

  His staff must have already put them out of the Command Section, Lujan thought when he spotted the people with the holocorders. They stood just off the VIP skimmer pad atop the Unified Worlds Tower, huddled together near the doors.

  His driver saw them, too. “Would you prefer one of the mid-level platforms, sir?” the sergeant asked.

  “No, this’s all right.” The skimmer set down and Lujan released its hatch. He smiled as he stepped out. “There’s only three of them.”

  They stepped between him and the entrance, coats wrapped tight and breaths clouding on the morning’s crisp air. Waiting for him.

  He strode directly toward them.

  “Admiral Sergey,” said one, thrusting a voice pickup at him. “You’re no doubt aware of this morning’s news interview with a young man purported to be your missing son. Can you tell us if he is—”

  Lujan looked the reporter in the eye and said only, “Excuse me, please.”

  The man stepped back from him, and Lujan strode past the others toward the entrance.

  “Sir?” the man said from behind him.

  He didn’t look back.

  They didn’t follow.

  Tinted panels parted at his approach, admitting him to an oval lobby built of marble. He surveyed it with a glance, spotted two more media personnel by the controller’s desk, and pivoted toward the nearest bank of lifts. Stepping into one, he said, “Spherzah Intelligence Section.”

  He emerged in an entry control booth and paused before the visual monitor to place his hand on the square plate below it, where an infrared scanner read the capillary pattern in his hand. The monitor’s synthesized voice said, “Sergey, Lujan, Admiral, identification confirmed,” and the security door swung open.

  He turned right, strode down a tiled corridor to a door marked Imagery Interpretation, and punched in its entry code.

  Half a dozen junior officers and NCOs started up from their work stations as he stepped inside, but he said, “Carry on,” before anyone could call the room to attention.

  “This way, sir.” The officer in charge came around his desk, offering a cup of shuk. “Lieutenant Brookes is set up in the conference room.”

  Like Chesney and Ashforth, Brookes was Jonican: blonde, and taller than himself. She slipped an image chip into the laser scanner beneath the holotank on the wall, and when Lujan had seated himself at the table she touched the ‘on’ switch. “Sir, this briefing is classified Secret, releasable to the Unified Worlds,” she said.

  The holotank lit up and she took a pointer from her pocket. “We have determined that the interview was conducted at the Aeire City piloting academy. This building in the background has been confirmed to be the Physiological Training facility. Analysis of the conversation suggests the interview took place no more than three days ago. The Academy’s winter term concluded on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth standard month, and student appointments for the next term would have been posted a day or two later.”

  “. . . No, he wouldn’t,” said the youth in the recording.

  As he turned his face away, Brookes pressed a couple of buttons on her remote, and the image froze and magnified. With her pointer’s beam, she traced a shadow below the boy’s left eye and another mark that angled across his left cheek. “Sir, these marks are bruises,” she said. “Depending on the treatment given they could be as recent as two days or as old as two weeks.”

  Something twisted in Lujan’s gut. His jaw tightened. He gave a curt nod and motioned for her to continue.

  “He’s also under guard, sir. The uniform and insignia worn by the man standing here behind your son are those of the Sector General’s personal security force.”

  “Which would indicate he’s in Renier’s direct custody,” said Lujan.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lujan nodded again. “Go on.”

  “. . . Was she rescued the same time you were?” asked the Adriatish newsman in the holovid.

  The youth’s head snapped up, his features hard with fury. “I wasn’t rescued!”

  “Where did this come from?” Lujan asked.

  “Adriat’s Ministry of Public Media, sir,” said Brookes, “via Intersystem Broadcast transmission.”

  “Normal news channels. . . . Have our psychological warfare analysts seen it yet?”

  “Yes, sir. We prepared this briefing together,” said Brookes. “They believe it’s an attempt by the Issel Sector to apply pressure through public outrage.”

  “Apply pressure.” Lujan raised an eyebrow. “To whom? Me?”

  Brookes glanced at her superior, standing at Lujan’s shoulder, and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “That fits Renier’s methodology.” The recording ended and Lujan said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He addressed the division chief as he rose. “Tell your people I appreciate their extra efforts.”

  The lieutenant commander nodded. “We’ll have a more complete evaluation ready in time for the staff briefing at oh-nine-hundred, sir.”

  * *

  The cockpit rocked again, throwing Tristan against his acceleration harness, and all the lights turned red. His fingers worked the thruster switches, fighting to maintain control. He punched DAMAGE CONTROL, and the flight computer’s screen filled itself with hopeless data. He braced himself against another rolling lurch. The red lights increased the cockpit’s heat; his hair clung to his forehead in sweaty strands under his helmet.

  Another light began to flash. The screen blanked, and a new message glowed out of it:

  LIFE SUPPORT HAS FAILED

  ESTIMATED RESERVE: 3 MINUTES

  PREPARE FOR EGRESS

  He he
ard his breath catch in his earphones before he realized he’d done it and felt the Instructor Pilot watching him through serious eyes. The airflow through his oxygen mask seemed to diminish. He fought the urge to gulp at it but his heart slammed into full throttle and his hand shook as he thumbed the comms button. “Base, this is Hammer four-three requesting clearance to punch out! I say again—”

  “You don’t have time to ask for clearance, ‘specially when your radio’s already gone,” the other said without emotion. “Just do it.”

  The screen flashed:

  EGRESS! EGRESS! EGRESS!

  Tristan braced himself: heels planted hard at the seat’s base, spine straight, shoulders and head pressed into the chair back. He reached for the yellow handles on either side of the seat and closed his eyes as he tugged the handles.

  He heard the explosion of ejection. Felt the egress capsule blast clear of the cockpit with a pressure that faded his consciousness and threatened to snap his collarbones and neck. He clenched his teeth to prevent an outcry.

  The pressure lifted almost immediately; the seat bumped and stopped. Through his headset, the IP said, “Debriefing’s in ten minutes, Sergey.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tristan said without looking at him.

  Riding the simulator’s ejection seat back down its rail, he pulled off his gloves and fumbled with hands that still quivered to unfasten one side of his oxygen mask. Then he sat back, breathing through his mouth and waiting for his pulse to steady.

  The cockpit’s lighting returned to normal; the sensors and readouts functioned again. Tristan disconnected his helmet’s intercom and oxygen lines, released the flight harness, pushed himself to his feet. His knees wobbled.

  Captain Coborn sat at their table in the classroom when Tristan came in from the support room. He gestured at one of the two students’ chairs opposite his own and said, “You got an unsatisfactory on that ride, Sergey. If that’d been the real thing, we’d be conducting this debriefing in the morgue.”

  “What, sir?”

  “Watch the recording,” Coborn said, “and tell me what you did wrong.” He flicked on the desktop holovid.

  Tristan watched himself at the simulated controls, listened to the radio dialogue. He cocked his head at the instructor when it ended.

  “Off the top,” the captain said. “What’s the first thing you do when a malfunction light comes on?”

  Tristan recited the Emergency Procedures text: “Maintain control of the ‘craft.”

  “You did that right. Then what?”

  “Check Damage Control to determine the nature and extent of the damage and take necessary action to correct it.”

  “All right, you did that. You had a mechanical failure. Now what?”

  “Declare a distress condition and request assistance immediately,” Tristan said. “Squawk mode three-alpha, seven-oh-seven Emergency Code, and establish communications with the ASTC facility.”

  “Good enough. You’re still alive to that point. But look at the egress sequence again.” Coborn hit FAST FORWARD on the holovid.

  Tristan said, “I was in the proper position, sir!”

  “That’s not going to do you a whole lot of good if you haven’t switched over to your capsule’s emergency life support,” said Coborn. “You’re just committing slow suicide by suffocation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tristan said quietly.

  The IP studied him. “I don’t get it, Sergey. You’ve never blown a written Emergency Procedures quiz. Never blown a standup EP—you rattle those things off like an audicorder!” He rose, shaking his head. “You’ve got one more shot at this. Nobody goes to the flightline until they’ve passed the EP simulator ride.”

  * *

  “We missed you at dinner again this evening,” Larielle said from the antechamber’s curtained doorway.

  Tristan sat cross-legged on the bed with his back to the wall. He didn’t look at her. “I’m not hungry.”

  Through his peripheral vision he watched her cross the little space toward him, felt her sit down on the edge of the bed near him, but when she reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder he jumped and stared up at her, almost raising a hand to touch his forehead.

  “Tristan,” she said, “are you ill?”

  “No,” he said. He let his gaze fall to hands knotted white in his lap and drew a long breath. His stomach felt like a knot in the middle of his body.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said gently, and moved closer to him. “You’ve missed dinner more often than you’ve come lately, and even when you do come you hardly eat anything. You’re tense and jumpy all the time.”

  “How long do I have to keep doing this?” he asked abruptly. “Going to the academy, I mean. It’s been almost six months since I left my mother. She could be dead by now!”

  “Sh-hh!” Larielle twisted around, and he followed her gaze toward the doorway. She didn’t relax. “I don’t know, Tris,” she said. “I’m sorry.” Before he could say anything else, she asked, “Did something happen today? Is it something I can help you with?”

  He shrugged and ducked his head. “I failed the simulator test. I forgot a couple of things, and if it’d been real, I would’ve died.”

  She said, “You’ll remember next time.”

  “I don’t know if I will—and I don’t even care anymore. How can I think about piloting stuff when my mother is dying?” He made a desperate gesture with both hands.

  “Tris,” she said, trying to comfort him.

  He shook his head and didn’t glance up. “I can’t stay here!” He shoved himself off the bed, to his feet, and began to pace the cubicle. “I need to be with my mother! I shouldn’t ever have left her. I—didn’t even tell her good-by!”

  “Tris,” Larielle said again, and rose, and crossed to him. Standing in front of him, she studied his face for a moment before she raised both hands and began to gently knead his neck.

  Her touch, where his clan mark rose from the skin at his nape, sent a shiver down his spine and heat up over his face. His heart accelerated. He couldn’t take his vision from her face.

  “Tristan,” she said suddenly, “you’re blushing.” She sounded surprised.

  His mouth felt dry. “Why are you doing that?” he asked in a rasp.

  “You’re so tense.” He heard her voice as if from miles away as she continued to knead. “Your muscles are in knots.”

  Her fingers sent sensations through him that he’d only known in dreams from which he woke embarrassed. He stood paralyzed, watching her, waiting for the caress to turn to claws at the clasps of his jacket.

  “Peace in you, mother!” he said in gan, and used the word for one’s mate. He gasped it. “Peace in you!”

  Larielle drew back her hands. Her eyes showed perplexity. “Tristan, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” He shook his head, still watching her. “No.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Gan females do that,” he said, “when they choose their mates.” His face throbbed. He lowered his eyes. “It’s part of mating.”

  “Oh.” Larielle’s face grew pink. After a pause she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No,” he said, and dared to look at her. “Don’t be sorry.”

  He recoiled, shocked at himself for saying it.

  She studied him for several moments, her expression gentle, almost a smile. Then she raised one hand, as cautiously as if he were a wild creature that might bolt, and touched his temple. She slipped her fingers through his hair, running them lightly above his ear. “Humans have a different way to show their affection,” she said, her voice very quiet. “Would you like me to show you?”

  He felt breathless again. He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  She leaned up to him, closing her eyes. Her hand slipped to his neck again, drew his head down. Her mouth met his, warm and firm, and made it tingle. He started to lift one hand, to reach for her, and froze.


  Her hand slid from his neck, from his shoulder. She stepped back, and her gaze touched his, her smile suddenly shy. “You’ll do fine on the sim ride,” she said, still quietly, and turned and left the room.

  He thought about her for a long while after he curled up in the warmth of the blankets.

  But he dreamed of Ganwold, of standing alone beside a smoldering funeral pyre. He woke up cold, his body rigid, his hands and teeth and stomach clenched.

  When the nightmare didn’t fade with waking and the tension didn’t ease, he sat up in the dark, drew the blankets about his shoulders against the chilliness, and released a despairing sigh.

  I shouldn’t have left. None of this would’ve happened if I had never left. She would’ve died but I would’ve been with her. Now, because of me, she’s dying anyway—alone.

  His heart and mind felt weighted, burdened with guilt. He couldn’t lift his head.

  He felt someone studying him. He glanced over his shoulder without twisting around.

  Pulou sat cross-legged on the cot behind him, grooming his mane. He cocked his head. “You do what, little brother?”

  “I think,” Tristan said, and sighed again. “It’s my fault she dies like this.”

  Pulou blinked at him, puzzled. “Why?”

  Tristan couldn’t answer for a moment. When he did, he said, “If I stay there, she isn’t alone when she dies. If I stay there, there isn’t all this—” he gestured all-inclusively, “—this trouble with the governor and my father.” He let his hands drop.

  Pulou studied him for some moments. “You try to help, little brother,” he said at last. “You do what you think is right. Maybe it helps, maybe it doesn’t. There’s no fault in that.”

  He thought about Pulou’s words for a long while afterward. Wished he could believe them. But the ache inside, and the deep fear, wouldn’t let him.

  He still sat there, wrapped in the blankets, when Rajak came to wake him up.

  * *

  “. . . deflectors full front, nose down thirty degrees, thrusters at one and two to make one-three-five, roger.” Tristan’s fingers moved over the thruster switches. His gloves’ linings had grown damp with sweat.