Daytimes still weren't altogether bad. Her present work was inherently solitary: study, meditation, cut-and-try, bit by bit the construction of a semantic model of the language spoken around Mount Hamilcar on Dido, which would enable humans to converse with the natives on a more basic level than pidgin allowed. Her dialogues were with a computer, or occasionally by vid with the man under whom she had studied, who was retired to his estate in Heraclea and too old to care about politics.
Since she became a research fellow, students had treated her respectfully. Thus she took a while—when she missed Ivar so jaggedly, when she was so haunted by fear for him—to realize that this behavior had become an avoidance. Nor was she overtly snubbed at faculty rituals, meetings, dining commons, chance encounters in corridor or quad. These days, people didn't often talk animatedly. Thus likewise she took a while to realize that they never did with her any more, and, except for her parents, had let her drop from their social lives.
Slowly her spirit wore down.
The first real break in her isolation came about 1700 hours on a Marsday. She was thinking of going to bed, however poorly she would sleep. Outside was a darker night than ordinary, for a great dustcloud borne along the tropopause had veiled the stars. Lavinia was a blurred dim crescent above spires and domes. Wind piped. She sprawled in her largest chair and played with Frumious Bandersnatch. The tadmouse ran up and down her body, from shins to shoulders and back, trilling. The comfort was as minute as himself.
The knocker rapped. For a moment she thought she hadn't heard aright. Then her pulse stumbled, and she nearly threw her pet off in her haste to open the door. He clung to her sweater and whistled indignation.
A man stepped through, at once closing the door behind him. Though the outside air that came along was cold as well as ferric-harsh, no one would ordinarily have worn a nightmask. He doffed his and she saw the bony middle-aged features of Gabriel Stewart. They had last been together on Dido. His work was to know the Hamilcar region backwards and forwards, guide scientific parties and see to their well-being.
"Why . . . why . . . hello," she said helplessly.
"Draw your blinds," he ordered. "I'd as soon not be glimpsed from beneath."
She stared. Her backbone pringled. "Are you in trouble, Gabe?"
"Not officially—yet."
"I'd no idea you were on Aeneas. Why didn't you call?"
"Calls can be monitored. Now cover those windows, will you?"
She obeyed. Stewart removed his outer garments. "It's good to see you again," she ventured.
"You may not think that after I've spoken my piece." He unbent a little. "Though maybe you will. I recall you as bold lass, in your quiet way. And I don't suppose Firstlin' of Ilion made you his girl for nothin'."
"Do you have news of Ivar?" she cried.
" 'Fraid not. I was hopin' you would. . . . Well, let's talk."
He refused wine but let her brew a pot of tea. Meanwhile he sat, puffed his pipe, exchanged accounts of everything that had happened since the revolution erupted. He had gone outsystem, in McCormac's hastily assembled Intelligence corps, and admitted ruefully that meanwhile the war was lost in his own bailiwick. As far as he could discover, upon being returned after the defeat, some Terran agent had not only managed to rescue the Admiral's wife from Snelund—a priceless bargaining counter, no doubt—but while on Dido had hijacked a patriot vessel whose computer held the latest codes. . . . "I got wonderin' about possibility of organizin' Didonians to help fight on, as guerrillas or even as Navy personnel. At last I hitched ride to Aeneas and looked up my friend—m-m, never mind his name; he's of University too, on a secondary campus. Through him, I soon got involved in resistance movement."
"There is one?"
He regarded her somberly. "You ask that, Ivar Frederiksen's bride to be?"
"I was never consulted." She put teapot and cups on a table between them, sank to the edge of a chair opposite his, and stared at the fingers wrestling in her lap. "He—It was crazy impulse, what he did. Wasn't it?"
"Maybe then. Not any longer. Of course, your dear Commissioner Desai would prefer you believe that."
Tatiana braced herself and met his look. "Granted," she said, "I've seen Desai several times. I've passed on his remarks to people I know—not endorsin' them, simply passin' them on. Is that why I'm ostracized? Surely University folk should agree we can't have too much data input."
"I've queried around about you," Stewart replied. "It's curious kind of tension. Outsider like me can maybe identify it better than those who're bein' racked. On one hand, you are Ivar Frederiksen's girl. It could be dangerous gettin' near you, because he may return any day. That makes cowardly types ride clear of you. Then certain others—Well, you do have mana. I can't think of better word for it. They sense you're big medicine, because of bein' his chosen, and it makes them vaguely uncomfortable. They aren't used to that sort of thing in their neat, scientifically ordered lives. So they find excuses to themselves for postponin' any resumption of former close relations with you.
"On other hand"—he trailed a slow streamer of smoke—"you are, to speak blunt, lettin' yourself be used by enemy. You may think you're relayin' Desai's words for whatever these're worth as information. But mere fact that you will receive him, will talk civilly with him, means you lack full commitment. And this gets you shunned by those who have it. Cut off, you don't know how many already do. Well, they are many. And number grows day by day."
He leaned forward. "When I'd figured how matters stand, I had to come see you, Tatiana. My guess is, Desai's half persuaded you to try wheedlin' Frederiksen into surrender, if and when you two get back in touch. Well, you mustn't. At very least, hold apart from Impies." Starkly: "Freedom movement's at point where we can start makin' examples of collaborators. I know you'd never be one, consciously. Don't let yon Desai bastard snare you."
"But," she stammered in her bewilderment, "but what do you mean to do? What can you hope for? And Ivar—he's nothin' but young man who got carried away—fugitive, completely powerless, if, if, if he's still alive at all—"
"He is," Stewart told her. "I don't know where or how, or what he's doin', but he is. Word runs too widely to have no truth behind it." His voice lifted. "You've heard also. You must have. Signs, tokens, precognitions. . . . Never mind his weaklin' father. Ivar is rightful leader of free Aeneas—when Builders return, which they will, which they will. And you are his bride who will bear his son that Builders will make more than human."
Belief stood incandescent in his eyes.
13
South of the Green Bowl, hills climbed ever faster. Yet for a while the stream continued to flow peaceful. Ivar wished his blood could do likewise.
Seeking tranquility, he climbed to the foredeck for a clear view across night. He stopped short when he spied others on hand than the lookout who added eyes to the radar.
Through a crowd of stars and a torrent of galaxy, Creusa sped past Lavinia. Light lay argent ashore, touching crests and crags, swallowed by shadows farther down. It shivered and sparked on the water, made ghostly the sails which had been set to use a fair wind. That air murmured cold through quietness and a rustle at the bows.
Fore and aft, separated by a few kilometers for safety, glowed the lights of three companion vessels. No few were bound this way, to celebrate the Season of Returnings.
Ivar saw the lookout on his knees under the figurehead, and a sheen off Erannath's plumage, and Riho Mea and Iang Weii in their robes. Captain and chaplain were completing a ritual, it seemed. Mute, now and then lifting hands or bowing heads, they had watched the moons draw near and again apart.
"Ah," Mea gusted. The crewman rose.
"I beg pardon," Erannath said. "Had I known a religious practice was going on, I would not have descended here. I stayed because that was perhaps less distracting than my takeoff would have been."
"No harm done," Mea assured him. "In fact, the sight of you coming down gave one extra glory."
"Bes
ides," Iang said in his mild voice, "though this is something we always do at certain times, it is not strictly religious." He stroked his thin white beard. "Have we Kuang Shih religion, in the same sense as the Christians or Jews of the Ti Shih or the pagans of the tineran society? This is one matter of definition, not so? We preach nothing about gods. To most of us that whole subject is not important. Whether or not gods, or God, exist, is it not merely one scientific question—cosmological?"
"Then what do you hunt after?" the Ythrian asked.
"Allness," the chaplain replied. "Unity, harmony. Through rites and symbols. We know they are only rites and symbols. But they say to the opened mind what words cannot. The River is ongoingness, fate; the Sun is life; Moons and Stars are the transhuman."
"We contemplate these things," Riho Mea added. "We try to merge with them, with everything that is." Her glance fell on Ivar. "Ahoa, Sir Mariner," she called. "Come, join our party."
Iang, who could stay solemn longer than her, continued: "Our race, or yours, has less gift for the whole ch'an—understanding—than the many-minded people of the Morning Star. However, when the Old Shen return, mankind will gain the same immortal singleness, and have moreover the strengths we were forced to make in ourselves, in order to endure being alone in our skulls."
"You too?" Erannath snapped. "Is everybody on Aeneas waiting for these mentors and saviors?"
"More and more, we are," Mea said. "Up the Yun Kow drifts word—"
Ivar, who had approached, felt as if touched by lightnings. Her gaze had locked on him. He knew: These are not just easy-goin', practiced sailors. I should've seen it earlier. That coffin—and fact they're bound on dangerous trip to honor both their ancestors and their descendants—and now this—no, they're as profoundly eschatological as any Bible-and-blaster yeoman.
"Word about liberation?" he exclaimed.
"Aye, though that's the bare beginning," she answered. Iang nodded, while the lookout laid hand on sheath knife.
Abruptly she said, "Would you like to talk about this . . . Rolf Mariner? I'm ready for one drink and cigar in my cabin anyway."
His pulses roared. "You also, good friend and wise man," he heard her propose to Iang.
"I bid you goodnight, then," Erannath said.
The chaplain bowed to him. "Forgive us our confidentiality."
"Maybe we should invite you along," Mea said. "Look here, you are not one plain scientist like you claim. You are one Ythrian secret agent, collecting information on the key human planet Aeneas, no?" When he stayed silent, she laughed. "Never mind. Point is, we and you have the same enemy, the Terran Empire. At least, Ythri shouldn't mind if the Empire loses territory."
"Afterward, though," Iang murmured, "I cannot help but wonder how well the carnivore soul may adapt to the enlightenment the Old Shen will bring."
Moonlight turned Erannath's feather to silver, his eyes to mercury. "Do you look on your species as a chosen people?" he said, equally low. At once he must have regretted his impulse, for he went on: "Your intrigues are no concern of mine. Nor do I care if you decide I am something more than an observer. If you are opposed to the occupation authorities, presumably you won't betray me to them. I wish to go on a night hunt. May fortune blow your way."
His wings spread, from rail to rail. The wind of his rising gusted and boomed. For a while he gleamed high aloft, before vision lost him among the stars.
Mea led Iang and Ivar to her quarters. Her husband greeted them, and this time he stayed: a bright and resolute young man, the dream of freedom kindled within him.
When the door had been shut, the captain said: "Ahoa, Ivar Frederiksen, Firstling of Ilion."
"How did you know?" he whispered.
She grinned, and went for the cigar she had bespoken. "How obvious need it be? Surely that Ythrian has suspected. Why else should he care about one human waif? But to him, humans are so foreign—so alike-seeming—and besides, being a spy, he couldn't dare use data services—he must have been holding back, trying to confirm his guess. Me, I remembered some choked-off news accounts. I called up Nova Roma public files, asked for pictures and—O-ah, no fears. I am one merchant myself, I know how to disguise my real intents."
"You, you will . . . help me?" he faltered.
They drew close around him, the young man, the old man, the captain. "You will help us," Iang said. "You are the Firstling—our rightful leader that every Aenean can follow—to throw out those mind-stifling Terrans and make ready for the Advent that is promised—What can we do for you, lord?"
Chunderban Desai broke the connection and sat for a while staring before him. His wife, who had been out of the room, came back in and asked what was wrong.
"Peter Jowett is dead," he told her.
"Oh, no." The two families had become friendly in the isolation they shared.
"Murdered."
"What?" The gentleness in her face gave way to horror.
"The separatists," he sighed. "It has to be. No melodramatic message left. He was killed by a rifle bullet as he left his office. But who else hated him?"
She groped for the comfort of his hand. He returned the pressure. "A real underground?" she said. "I didn't know."
"Nor I, until now. Oh, I got reports from planted agents, from surveillance devices, all the usual means. Something was brewing, something being organized. Still, I didn't expect outright terrorism this soon, if ever."
"The futility is nearly the worst part. What chance have they?"
He rose from his chair. Side by side, they went to a window. It gave on the garden of the little house they rented in the suburbs: alien plants spiky beneath alien stars and moons, whose light fell on the frosted helmet of a marine guard.
"I don't know," he said. Despite the low gravity, his back slumped. "They must have some. It isn't the hopeless who rebel, it's those who think they see the end of their particular tunnels, and grow impatient."
"You have given them hope, dear."
"Well . . . I came here thinking they'd accept their military defeat and work with me like sensible people, to get their planet reintegrated with the Empire. After all, except for the Snelund episode, Aeneas has benefited from the Imperium, on balance; and we're trying to set up precautions against another Snelund. Peter agreed. Therefore they killed him. Who's next?"
Her fingers tightened on his. "Poor Olga. The poor children. Should I call her tonight or, or what?"
He stayed in the orbit of his own thoughts. "Rumors of a deliverer—not merely a political liberator, but a savior—no, a whole race of saviors—that's what's driving the Aeneans," he said. "And not the dominant culture alone. The others too. In their different ways, they all wait for an apocalypse."
"Who is preaching it?"
He chuckled sadly. "If I knew that, I could order the party arrested. Or, better yet, try to suborn him. Or them. But my agents hear nothing except these vague rumors. Never forget how terribly few we are, and how marked, on an entire world. . . . We did notice what appeared to be a centering of the rumors on the Orcan area. We investigated. We drew blank, at least as far as finding any proof of illegal activities. The society there, and its beliefs, always have been founded on colossal prehuman ruins, and evidently has often brought forth millennialist prophets. Our people had more urgent things to do than straggle with the language and ethos of some poverty-stricken dwellers on a dead sea floor." His tone strengthened. "Though if I had the personnel for it, I would probe further indeed. This wouldn't be the first time that a voice from the desert drove nations mad."
The phone chimed again. He muttered a swear word before he returned to accept the call. It was on scramble code, which automatically heterodyned the audio output so that Desai's wife could not hear what came to him a couple of meters away. The screen was vacant, too.
She could see the blaze on his face; and she heard him shout after the conversation ended, as he surged from his chair: "Brahma's mercy, yes! We'll catch him and end this thing!"
14
&
nbsp; Jade Gate had nearly reached the Linn when the Terrans came.
The Cimmerian Mountains form the southern marge of Ilion. The further south the Flone goes through them, until its final incredible plunge off the continental rim, the steeper and deeper is the gorge it has cut for itself. In winter it runs quiet between those walls, under a sheath of ice. But by midsummer, swollen with melt off the polar cap, it is a race, and they must have skillful pilots who would venture along that violence.
At the port rail of the main deck, Ivar and Jao watched. Water brawled, foamed, spouted off rocks, filled air with an ongoing cannonade and made the vessel rock and shudder. Here the stream had narrowed to a bare 300 meters between heaped boulders and talus. Behind, cliffs rose for a pair of kilometers. The rock was gloomy-hued and there was only a strip of sky to see, from which Virgil had already sunk. The brighter stars gleamed in its duskiness. Down under the full weight of shadow, it was cold. Spray dashed into faces and across garments. Forward, the canyon dimmed out in mist. Nevertheless he spied three ships in that direction, and four aft. More than these were rendezvous-bound.
As the deck pitched beneath her, the girl caught his arm. "What was that?" he shouted through the noise, and barely heard her reply:
"Swerve around one obstacle, I'm sure. Nothing here is ever twice the same."
"Have you had any wrecks?"
"Some few per century. Most lives are saved."
"God! You'll take such risk, year after year, for . . . ritual?"
"The danger is part of the ritual, Rolf. We are never so one with the world as when—Ai-ah!"
His gaze followed hers aloft, and his heart lurched. Downward came slanting the torpedo shape of a large flyer. Upon its armored flank shone the sunburst of Empire.
"Who is that?" she cried innocently.
"A marine troop. After me. Who else?" He didn't rasp it loud enough for her to hear. When he wrenched free and ran, she stared in hurt amazement.
He pounded up the ladder to the bridge, where he knew Mea stood by the pilot. She came out to meet him. Grimness bestrode her countenance. She had bitten her cigar across. "Let's get you below," she snapped, and shoved at him.
Captain Flandry: Defender of the Terran Empire Page 22