Invader: Book Two of Foreigner

by C. J. Cherryh

  The ominous shadow of a plane crossing the mountainside …

  “Look out,” he thought he said, jerking about to see, and feared falling bombs.

  But after that he was riding again, feeling the rhythm of a living, thinking creature under him, feeling the damp cold wind.

  He wanted to be there.

  In a dream one could go back to that hillside.

  In a dream one could find his room again, with the glass-eyed beast staring at him from the wall.

  And his lake, of the ghost-passengers and the bells that tolled with no hand touching them.

  That was what he wanted to save. That and the cliffs, and the wi’itkitiin—and Nokhada, that wicked creature. He wanted to go out riding again, wanted to be in the hills, just himself and that damn mecheita, who’d knocked him flat, jarred his teeth loose, and several times nearly killed him—wanted to see the obnoxious beast, for reasons of God-knew-what. He even wondered, in this dream, if he’d saved up enough in his bank account, and if he could get the funds converted into atevi draft, and if it was honorable of the aiji-dowager to sell Nokhada away from Malguri.

  But then, still in this dream, which turned melancholy and productive of estrangements, he realized the mecheiti had their own order of things, and that he couldn’t take Nokhada from the herd, the flock, the—whatever mecheiti had, that atevi also had, among themselves. Nokhada belonged there. A human didn’t. Nokhada didn’t understand love. Nokhada understood a tidal pull a human didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t ever have.

  In his dream he almost understood it, as a force pulling him toward association, weak word for the strongest thing atevi felt. In his dream he almost discovered what that was. He was walking in the hills, and he watched the mecheiti travel across the land, watched ancient banners flutter and flap with the color of the old machimi plays, and saw the association of lords as driven by what he could almost feel.

  In this dream he saw the land and he felt human emotions toward it. He supposed he couldn’t help it. His need to feel what atevi felt was a part of that human emotion, and more than suspect.

  In this dream he sat down on a hillside, and his Beast walked up to him, still angry about its murder, but curious about the intrusion on the hill. It wanted part of his lunch, which he’d brought in a paper bag, and he shared it The Beast, black and surly, heaved itself down with a sigh and ate half a sandwich, which it pinned down with a heavy forepaw and devoured with gusto. He supposed he was in danger from it. But it seemed content to sit by him and snarl at the land in general, as if it had some longstanding grudge, or some long-standing watch to keep over the fortress that sat on its hill below them. The sky was blue, but pale, making you think of heat, or new-blown glass. Anything might come from it. Maybe that was what the Beast watched for.

  Wi’itkitiin launched themselves from the rocks. And far, far below, an ateva in black came walking, climbing up among the rocks, alone. He thought it was Jago, but he couldn’t prove it from this distance.

  The Beast watched, head on paws, snarling now and again, because it would, that was all. And no matter how long the figure below climbed, it came no nearer, and no matter how anxious he became, he was afraid to get up and go down to it, because he knew his Beast would follow and hunt both of them. It was safe while he kept it fed. As long as sandwiches came from that mysterious place in dreams from which all necessities emerged. The figure below was safe as long as it followed the unspoken Rules of this dream, which demanded it make no progress.

  So was he. That was what he was doing here. He did a lot of dangerous things. But he wasn’t going anywhere. He was stuck on this hillside, overlooking things he couldn’t have. And the sky was free to rain havoc. The sun was shining now, but it wouldn’t in a few hours. The sun was the only thing that did progress, the only thing that was free to move—except his Beast, and it was waiting.

  11

  The last thing he wanted in the morning on waking was a phone call, especially one from Hanks, before he’d so much as sat down to breakfast. Saidin notified him that Tano had notified her, and he asked for tea, went to the phone in the lady’s small office, and took the call.

  “This is Bren Cameron. Go ahead.”

  “I take it you’re the one playing pranks with the phone, you son of a bitch.”

  For some things the nerves in the morning wanted preparation. And his weren’t steady yet, nor was his diplomatic filter in full function.

  “Deana, let me tell you, you’ve got a choice. You can be civil and get a briefing on what’s going on, or you can sit it out until everything’s beyond your useful input. Make a career choice.”

  “I’m not solving your problem for you! I’m here by Departmental mandate, I take everything that’s happened including the damn phone as something you know about and something you arranged, and you listen to me, Mr. Cameron. You can hang yourself, you can work yourself in deeper and deeper, or you can listen to somebody.”

  “I’m listening, Deana.” Past a certain point temper gave way to a slow simmer in which he could accept information, and he didn’t give a particular damn about his source. “Give me your read on the situation. I’m listening with bated breath.”

  “Son of a bitch!” They were speaking Mosphei’, Deana’s choice from the moment he’d picked up the phone. “You’re going to hear from more than me, mister. I heard your speech. I heard the whole damned sales job. You go off to the interior and hold secret meetings, you sell out to the atevi overlord that wanted you back, and threatened my life to get it—”

  “Sorry about that. But you weren’t invited. You’re playing with fire, Deana. This isn’t our justice system. The aiji is well within his rights to remove a disturbance of the peace—”

  “You—”

  “You shut up, Deana, and get it figured this isn’t Mospheira, it’s not going to be Mospheira, and I don’t care what you think your civil rights are on Mospheira, these people know their law, it works for them for reasons we don’t have the biological systems to understand, far less come here and criticize. If you don’t know what you’re asking for when you go against atevi authority, I assure you, you don’t belong here.”

  “Oh, and you do. You’re working real hard at belonging, and damned right they moved heaven and earth to get you back, you’ll give them anything they want. I heard your speech, I heard every damned word of it. I get the news. You want a list of the regulations you’ve broken?”

  “I’m fairly well aware of them.”

  “Our internal politics, our policy disputes, all out waving in the wind—that’s not just against policy, Mr. Cameron, that’s against the law! You’ve incited atevi to act against our government—”

  “Never against our government. Against your political backers, maybe.”

  “Don’t you talk about my political backers. Let’s talk about yours, let’s talk about selling out, Mr. Cameron.”

  It wasn’t getting anywhere. “What about lunch?”

  “Lunch?”

  “Let’s have lunch.”

  “I’m locked in this damn apartment, you rang my phone for twelve hours straight—”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “You’ve got the nerve to ask me to have lunch?”

  “I think it might be productive. We’ve done rather too much shouting. And I’d like to know where you got the seal you’re using.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “You’re not in office,” he said, if she missed the point “You’re alive because Tabini-aiji is a patient and fortunately powerful man who can afford a nuisance. A less powerful aiji would kill you, Deana, because he’d have no choice. I suggest you have lunch with me, act less like a prisoner and more like an official guest—”

  “And be in public with you. And compromise my interests.”

  “Thank God you do understand. I’d begun to fear you’d no notion of subtlety. In private, then.”

  “I’m not coming to your apartment—which I understand has scandalize
d the Atigeini as is, speaking of subtlety, Mr. Cameron. I’m not being gossiped about.”

  “Watch your mouth! There’s no swearing there are no atevi that understand you. Edit yourself, for God’s sake, or I can’t protect you.”

  “Protect me, hell!”

  “You are a fool.”

  “No.” Evidently not quite such a fool. The tone was quieter. “No, I’ll meet you for lunch. When?”

  “Noon. In this apartment. And you will be courteous to the lady’s and my staff or I’ll pitch you out on your head, Ms. Hanks. We’re not playing games. I’m trying to salvage your reputation and prevent you doing another foolhardy thing that may get you killed. I can’t say at the moment I feel overmuch sympathy for the mess you’re in, but if you want to continue to watch the news for reports on the situation, you’re quite free to rely on that.”

  At times he shocked himself. Maybe it was atevi court manners that took over his mouth when he suffered whiteouts of temper—court manners with all the vitriol that attended.

  “Barb Letterman’s married,” Hanks said. “Did you know?”

  “How kind of you to let me know. Please bring me your seal. Or I’ll have your apartment and your person searched.”

  The receiver went down. Hard.

  Tag.

  Which didn’t make him calmer. But he had the phone, he had the moment. He took a sip of tea and called the Bu-javid operator.

  “Nadi, this is Bren-paidhi. Please ring the Mospheiran operator.”

  “Yes,” the answer came back; he heard the relays click.

  And abort.

  “Nand’ paidhi,” the operator began, “the connection—”

  “Is having a difficulty at this hour. Yes. Thank you. Would you give me the telegraph service?”

  “Yes, nand’ paidhi,” the operator said, and a moment later, a new operator came on, with:

  “This is the telegraph, nand’ paidhi.”

  “Please send to the following numbers: 1-9878-1-1, and to 20-6755-1-1, and to 1-0079-14-42. Please voice-record for transcription.”

  “Ready, nand’ paidhi, go ahead.”

  “Beginning message. Am doing fine. Are you all right? Last transmission was garbled. End message.”

  There was no fighting the phone system. It was part and parcel with the security problem—it went when you most needed it. And it could be retaliatory against him; it could be precautionary; it could be atevi doing. He couldn’t know, as long as it was down.

  That had gone to his mother in the capital, to Toby on the North Shore, and to his office in the capital. And presumably they’d know to resend. And possibly his mother’s message would get past the censors this time, or possibly Toby would phrase things more obliquely. Their mother was not a diplomat.

  Barb—

  Barb could get on with her life. He didn’t want to rake over that set of feelings before breakfast. He didn’t know how much of what he was feeling was Hanks’ meddling and how much was being, still, mad at the way Barb had gone about it, and mad at that edge-of-his-bedtime “Call me.”

  He sipped the remainder of the tea, decided he wouldn’t dress yet, and went off to the breakfast room, advising the staff on his way that the paidhi was ready for his breakfast, thank you, and meant to take his time and, which he didn’t mention, to let his headache and his temper settle. It did him no good to wake up his nastier side before breakfast—he started the day in attack condition and he found it hard to escape it. Particularly with the notion of sitting down at a table with Deana Hanks before afternoon.

  He hadn’t seen Banichi this morning. He hadn’t seen Jago. He hoped he had security still in the apartment, and that the mysteries that were going on around him had no truly sinister import.

  He had, for one very major point, to requisition materials on Determinism, and try to coax a human brain to handle concepts of physics Deana Hanks herself hadn’t remotely understood when she’d lightly tossed off the concept of faster-than-light without Departmental approval.

  He didn’t know folded-space physics. He was doing damned well to get chemical rocket design down. He didn’t understand Determinists.

  But he had to before the week was out.

  Tea and seasonal fruit, eggs and buttered meal, chased by toast and another pot of tea—with the distant blue vista of the Bergid range floating unattached above the tiled roofs of Shejidan, the curtains blowing in the long-awaited breeze, and the crises seemed suspended, the world peaceful and ordinary.

  If one didn’t know what was in the heavens demanding attention, and beyond the sunrise demanding attention, and across the water demanding attention. He’d like to go to the library after the cup of tea, spend his entire day looking through the antique books on horticulture, taking advantage of the rare opportunity the apartment and all its history presented.

  But on that very thought Tano arrived bearing a tray of letters for, one hoped, mere signature and seal.

  “Routine matters,” Tano said.

  “You’ve been a vast help,” Bren said. “I truly am grateful.”

  “Thank the lady’s staff. These are simple courtesies. There are others the aiji may perhaps lend staff to answer. Tabini-aiji gave us a verbal message that the paidhi should not by any means be obliged to distract himself with schoolchildren.”

  “The paidhi finds in the schoolchildren the best reason for keeping this job,” he muttered without censoring, in the growing confidence that Tano bore no tales and Tabini would understand anyway. “Ask Banichi about salads. Jago is back this morning?”

  “Asleep.”

  “Where’s Algini?”

  “He had to go—”

  “—out? What in hell is going on, Tano?”

  “There’s a vote in the Guild we must attend.”

  “Ah.” One clear question to the right source. “About assassinating the paidhi?”

  “No, nand’ paidhi. That’s already been defeated.”

  It didn’t even rate a blink. “Then may I ask?”

  Tano looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Please ask Banichi, nand’ paidhi.”

  “Forgive the question, Tano-ji. Thank you for what you’ve told me. Will you wait for these, and share a cup of tea with me, or have you urgent business?”

  “Nand’ paidhi, I am of junior rank.”

  “High in my personal regard. Please. Sit with me. —Saidin?”

  Saidin always seemed in earshot. “Another cup,” he decreed as the head of staff appeared in the doorway, and Saidin departed without a word as Tano settled uneasily into a separate, fragile chair, perched as if for ready escape.

  “I intend no improper or unwelcome questions,” Bren said, and affixed his seal to one after the other of the documents on his small table. “You looked as if you could stand a round or two of tea. And more mindful courtesy. I’m very abrupt, Tano-ji. When I’m bothered and in a hurry I can become quite preoccupied. I hope you never take it for intended rudeness.”

  “Nand’ paidhi, you are extremely courteous.”

  “I’m quite glad.”

  “I assure the paidhi the votes against his detractors were overwhelming.”

  “Tano, you are not here for me to ask you more improper questions.”

  “I’ve no difficulty speaking about a past vote, Bren-paidhi. You have very many supporters. It hurts nothing at all that both Banichi and nand’ Cenedi alike spoke for you.”

  “Cenedi.” He was surprised.

  “Nand’ paidhi,” Tano began, seeming uncertain of himself or his permission. But in that moment the tea and the cup arrived on two trays with two servants to carry them. The tea tray in the corridor, on the cart with all the electrical connections, seemed to maintain hot water at all moments.

  And Tano had lost his momentum in the gentle courtesies of tea service. He balanced the fragile porcelain in his hand and looked down as he drank.

  “Tano,” Bren said, when the servants—one with lingering attention to Tano—had departed, “please don’t feel o
bliged. I only want company this morning, just a voice. Tell me when your leave is coming, tell me what you’ll do, tell me where you’re from and where you go—talk about your job. I’m interested.”

  “It’s very uninteresting, nand’ paidhi.”

  “It’s very interesting to me, Tano-ji. I wonder if people have happy lives. I hope they do. I hope they’re doing exactly what they want to do, and that I haven’t snatched them up out of something they’d rather be doing, or diverted them out of a course they’d rather be following.”

  “I assure the paidhi not. I’m very content.” Something seemed to linger on Tano’s tongue, and drown in a sip of tea.

  “You would have said?” Bren asked.

  “That I only worry about failing. About making some mistake that would cost immensely.”

  He’d not thought. He’d not measured Tano’s steadily increased responsibility. Or the worry the paidhi put on his assigned guards, when he insisted on breakfasts with the aiji-dowager and lunch with Deana Hanks.

  “I promise,” he said, “I promise, Tano, not to do anything to make your job harder. I’ve put upon you shamefully. You weren’t set here to manage stacks of paper. I’ve leaned on your support because I felt you had the judgment to discriminate the emergencies—I never meant to let it grow to this size.”

  “If the paidhi can concern himself with these papers, the paidhi’s security can certainly value them.”

  “But answer them in stacks? Tano-ji, I’ve misused your courtesy.”

  “It’s all quite instructive, paidhi-ji. I’ve learned who you contact, I’ve learned who are your associates and who are petulant and ill-disposed. I’ve learned that the paidhi considers the letters of ordinary citizens to be answered seriously. —So when I voted in the Guild, I also spoke about that, nand’ paidhi. I’m not supposed to tell you that, but I did. Also Algini flew back from Malguri early, so he could vote in your behalf.”

  “I’m in his debt. Does the Guild call in absent members—for all proposed contracts?”

  “When a contract involves matters so high as this, yes, it does, nand’ paidhi: it goes to the total assembly of the Guild, as this had to, once members filed in opposition. I’m not forbidden to say that.”