The Summer Queen

by Joan D. Vinge

  “HK!” he shouted, seeing no one, hearing nothing else. “SB!” The others followed him, through a cavernous storage area half full of cryptically labeled bins, and then another, half full of house-sized crates. The green lights that marked their presence on his map closed inexorably with two stable points of red. He shouted his brothers’ names again, still getting no response. He wondered what in the name of a thousand ancestors they thought they were doing. Why didn’t they answer … why didn’t they run—? Instead they were just standing there: silent, waiting; caught red-handed but still humiliating him, forcing him to come to them.

  He pushed off, too hard, trying to reach the access to the next storage area. He collided painfully with the metal doorframe; steadied himself, blinking his vision clear. His hand was slippery on the butt of his gun as he pushed through into the next room, and the pinpoints of light on the map converged.

  In front of him the floor of the room was red: a lake of red, wet, shining, as if someone had spilled a vat of paint. He wrenched his body with his sudden attempt to stop moving; still landing with both feet in the spillage. A drop of red hit the sea of redness in front of him, from somewhere above; and then another. The gun slipped from his nerveless fingers, hit the floor, splattering his pantslegs with red. He raised his head, moving in slow motion, as time itself seemed to redshift around him, as compulsion closed its inexorable fingers around his throat, forcing him to look up.

  His brothers were up there. Hanging from the ceiling, suspended high out of his reach. They hung from a chain like meat, the spine of a grappling hook driven clear through each of their chests, stone dead. He watched as two more drops fell, watched them hit the sea of blood in front of him like silent tears.

  He turned, stumbling, collided with the mass of bodies directly behind him. He saw their faces—the stunned disbelief of Donne and Zarkada and Tilhen, the horror in Vhanu’s eyes. Vhanu turned and bolted back through the doorway.

  “Get them down,” Gundhalinu muttered, forcing his eyes to stay on Donne. “Find somebody … get them down.”

  Donne nodded, gesturing to Tilhen and Zarkada. They went out. Her eyes left his face fleetingly, glanced upward, fell again. Gundhalinu pushed past her. She followed him out; following the blood-red tracks his boots made every time his feet came down.

  They were outside. He stopped moving, staring in surprise at the unchanged light, the unchanged view his eyes found in front of him. Vhanu stood against the building wall, wiping his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed. Gundhalinu looked away from him. His own eyes felt as dry as sand. He couldn’t blink. “Why—?” he murmured to Donne.

  Donne pressed her hand against her mouth, shook her head once, before she could meet his gaze. “Don’t know, Commander.…” Her voice was matter-of-fact, when she answered. “My best guess would be, they did it to make a point.”

  He frowned. “Because the codes my brothers had were useless?”

  “Or because they were your brothers,” she said. “Maybe the whole thing was a setup. To prove that even if the Brotherhood doesn’t dare lay a hand on you, they can still … hurt you. I’m sorry, Commander.…” Her voice faded to a whisper.

  Gundhalinu took an unsteady breath, watching his own hands become fists. The sound of process and progress boomed and reverberated and clattered and whined, nearby, far away, echoing echoing hollowly all around him, through him, inside his head where no meaningful thought would form.

  “BZ—” Vhanu said hoarsely, and came back to his side; he was aware of Vhanu’s hand laid hesitantly on his shoulder, although there seemed to be no feeling at all anywhere in his body. “I’m going to call for help. I’m going to—”

  “No,” Donne said. “We’ll take care of it, Vhanu. No Police involvement. No scandal. No one wants that for the Commander. It will all be taken care of. You understand?”

  Vhanu stared at her for a long moment, his jaw set. At last he nodded. “Understood,” he murmured.

  Gundhalinu turned back to Donne, trying to find words adequate to thank her, and failing. He put a hand on her arm, meeting the gaze of her clear, dark eyes. “In your debt…”

  Donne smiled briefly. “Let’s go, Commander. We’d better go.”

  He turned away from them, from the warehouse door still gaping like an open wound, and started back toward the streets.

  KHAREMOUGH: Gundhalinu Estate

  Gundhalinu watched the last of the mourners depart, moving away through the passionate colors of the gardens dressed in somber gray. He stood where he had stood all through the memorial service, motionless, emotionless, the perfect model of gracious, civilized inhumanity. Waiting … he wasn’t sure for what. Waiting for it to be over. Waiting to feel something. Waiting.

  He knew what he must do now: what he had avoided doing during the entire week that he had been home, keeping himself too busy with details and arrangements that could have been handled by others, too busy communicating with the people he had left in charge of the shipyards up in orbit, to do this one thing.…

  He glanced back at the manor house rising behind him, as servos began to move among the clustered seats, clearing them away. The vine-traced wall, fitted together out of blocks of native stone, still stood as solid as he had always believed his family’s reputation to be. Its windows gleamed with the sun’s reflected light, making him squint, the brightness making his eyes burn until the colors of the gardens swam, like colors in an oil slick.

  He turned back again, starting across the smooth stones of the patio with a lump in his throat … stopped.

  One final guest stood limned by garden colors at the far side of the open space: a woman, in a characterless gray robe, her hair swept up and back, twisted and pinned in deft, fluid folds that made him think of wings. He changed his trajectory to intersect her. She did not move, making him come to her—although he sensed that it was not arrogance but uncertainty that held her there.

  His footsteps slowed again as he saw her face clearly. “Netanyahr-kadda,” he murmured, in surprise, as he recognized the woman who had once owned his estates.

  She bowed, lifted her head again as he crossed the final distance between them. “Gundhalinu-sathra,” she said, and for a moment he could not think why there was such sorrow in her voice, such compassion in her gaze. “I imposed upon an invited guest to bring me with her … I hope you will forgive me, for committing trespass upon your goodwill again. I did not wish to embarrass you, but I wanted to—to see you again. To offer my condolences—” she went on hastily, as he felt his own expression change. “I was so terribly sorry to hear about your brothers’ accident.”

  Don’t be, he almost said, didn’t.

  “I wanted you to know that after all this time I hadn’t forgotten you—your extreme kindness to me. Simply to send you a meaningless message of sympathy, among thousands of others, was not enough. But I was unlikely to meet you by chance. So I came, to tell you that.” He nodded acknowledgment, saying nothing. “And now I will leave you alone.” She bowed again, and after a moment’s further hesitation, turned away.

  He watched her begin to disappear among the flowers; she was almost lost from his sight before he could free his body from its paralysis and call her name.

  He entered the path between rows of shrubbery massed with golden blossoms, walking quickly; found her waiting for him beside the octagonal, blue-and-gold tiled fountain. “Thank you for coming,” he said, before he even reached her. He stopped, meeting her gaze, and suddenly was struck speechless again.

  She looked at him expectantly; he looked away. “Netanyahr-kadda…” he said at last. “I was about to go down to the family shrine and pray.” Try to. “I would be pleased if you would care to accompany me.”

  Her face registered surprise, but she nodded. They walked together through the gardens, making meaningless, innocuous conversation about the plants and the weather. Surreptitiously he watched her face as she took in the view, saw the longing she could not quite conceal. He could never keep his own ey
es off the view for long. The manor house sat at the peak of a narrow pinnacle of limestone, one of dozens scattered across the ancient, eroded terrain. He could see many of the others from here, rising like gnarled chimneys from the lush green of the plain, most of them bearing estates like his own. My own— He looked back suddenly, at the house on the rising slope behind him, and out at the view again; feeling a rush of vertigo.

  The family shrine lay ahead of him, gleaming whitely on an outcrop at the edge of the sheer drop. There was no maze of shrubbery concealing it; the promontory itself offered a privacy that most estates did not have. Pandhara Netanyahr stopped as they reached the waiting-bench beside the path. She glanced at him, her fingers brushing the filigreed seatback; uncertain whether he wanted her to wait, or to stay at all.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen the estates since I returned to Kharemough … the first time I’ve set foot on this path since I left home to join the Police, years ago,” he said. He turned back to her; she settled onto the bench, looking up at him. “When you … when you came here to pray, what did you say? I don’t know what to say, anymore.”

  She shook her head, glancing at the shrine. “I didn’t know what to say, either, Gundhalinu-sathra.”

  He nodded, and went on along the path alone. He went in through the always open door, into the cool, echoing interior. He paused, startled by the quality of the light. He had forgotten how the light … forgotten so much. There were no windows at all, but daylight shone through the translucent ceramic of the walls, silhouetting the countless barely visible names inscribed along their luminously glowing planes: the actual names of members of his family for every generation, for as far back as anyone had ever been able to remember and record, in a record that began well over a millennium and a half ago. He noticed, with a sense of dim surprise, something that he had never realized before—that his family actually claimed to be descended from Ilmarinen. He touched the name, feeling an odd electricity run up his fingers, wondering whether it was true.

  He moved on along the walls, running his hands over the names, following them up through time into the present … stopping at last by the names of his parents, his brothers, himself. His own name was the only one with a red stain, coloring rubbed into the letters … he was the only one left alive. He stared at his own name for a long time.

  At last he turned away, facing the small bench in the center of the room—a simple surface of gleaming white, mottled now with the dust of neglect. Still beside it were the cylindrical covered urn of the same perfect whiteness, and a container holding incense. He moved to the bench, sat down, with a peculiar reluctance. He took a stick of incense and held it between his hands like a flower, before he struck it sharply with his thumbnail, kindling it. He blew out the sudden flame, left it smoldering, watched as it perfumed the air with its bittersweet smoke. The old familiar scent brought the past flooding into his mind: memories from his childhood of sitting silently on this same bench while his father, his First Ancestor, head of the Gundhalinu family, prayed.

  But his father’s prayers were silent, he had never known what they said … they didn’t help him now, as he tried to form something like a coherent thought. He looked up at the walls again, rolling the incense stick between his palms, the smoke making his eyes sting with artificial grief. This was the place where you came to feel pride, and tradition, to meditate on your family’s accomplishments; to worship the perfect order in which everyone knew their place, and yours had always been on top … to call it justice.

  But he no longer believed that, had not believed it for a long time now. What was he supposed to do now? Ask forgiveness—? For whom? For himself, for losing faith, or for seeing the truth? For his father’s failure to act, for his brothers’ cravenness and venality and greed, for the ultimate degradation and humiliation of their deaths? His hands dropped the incense, left it smoldering between his feet. He should weep. He was the last of his line, and he was living a lie. And he could not weep, could not grieve, could not feel anything at all. He made himself remember the moment he had learned of his father’s death—when he had been far away, on Tiamat. Made himself remember his mother, her face blurred by time, as she kissed him goodbye and abandoned him in the rose-colored light of dawn. He pictured how his aged father had stood, leaning against the carven mantel in the main hall, his eyes like garnets as he urged his youngest son to usurp his brothers’ place, to spit on the ideals he had been raised to revere.… Forced himself to see his brothers suspended like meat in an abattoir.

  He realized that his face was wet, that there were real tears on it, this time. Tears of self-pity. He wiped them away, disgusted. Gods … I’m so tired. Slowly he got to his feet, and slid aside the top of the urn beside the bench. It was filled with ashes—the ashes of his ancestors, a pinch added at each death, before their remains were scattered into the wind. He sank a finger into the surface of the ash, and painted the requisite smudge of grief on his forehead.

  He left the shrine, taking a deep breath to clear his lungs as he started back along the narrow path. Pandhara Netanyahr was still sitting alone on the waiting-bench, gazing out across the valley. She did not even look up as he approached, until he said, softly, “Netanyahr-kadda.”

  She started, looked up at him with a slight shake of her head, as if she had been completely lost in the view.

  “Yes,” he said, answering the look, “it is beautiful here, isn’t it?” He sat down on the bench beside her.

  She looked at him a little oddly; he realized, embarrassed, that she was searching for some intentional slight. But it was not there for her to find, and her expression eased again. “Thank you for letting me have the pleasure of its company awhile. I feel as if this place and I are like old lovers, in a way. The parting was painful, but there will always be something special between us.”

  He heard the melancholy in it, and glanced down. “Yes, I think I know what you mean.” He looked toward the house, where it rose above the gardens like an extension of the peak itself. “I’ve felt the same way, since my return home.”

  “But you are the head of family now, aren’t you?”

  Head of family. He sat down, wondering dismally what he was going to do, now that he was … now that everything he saw, every fond detail, with all the painfully bright memories of his former life they evoked, only rubbed salt in the wounds of his bitterness. Even if his only memories had been happy ones, there was no way that he could possibly stay here more than a few days longer. Then it would be back upstairs—to the shipyards, to the halls of the government centers and Police headquarters. There could only be brief, stolen visits to this place, at long intervals if at all, once he was back at work. And then there would be Tiamat waiting, and the gods only knew when, if ever, he would return from there.… He pressed his hand to his eyes, resting his arm on the seatback.

  “Gundhalinu-sathra…” Netanyahr rose from the bench beside him as though she thought somehow her words had been to blame. She touched his shoulder briefly. “I should not have stayed. I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t go.” He caught her hand, when she would have started away.

  She turned back, sat down again, looking at him silently.

  “I’m glad for a little companionship that has no deadlines attached to it,” he said, forcing a smile. “I don’t want to go back up to the house. It’s full of guests and messages of condolence, all with frantic inquiries about my return attached to them—”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Are you truly so indispensable that they can’t leave you in peace even to mourn?”

  He laughed sharply. “Not as indispensable as I’ve made them think I am, I’m sure.… Vhanu tells me I have problems delegating authority. So I suppose I can only blame myself.”

  She tucked back a strand of dark hair that the wind had freed. “Is that why this is your first visit home, then—because of your work?”

  He glanced away. “Partly … You may know that my brothers and I never got along pa
rticularly well.”

  She nodded, and he saw her mood shift.

  “Did you know my brothers?”

  Her hands knotted in her lap; he sensed her sudden embarrassment. “I met them when I bought the estates. And of course I saw them again after they returned to Kharemough from Number Four. When I was forced to give everything up, they … I…” She shook her head. “I knew them only slightly.” She folded her arms, hugging herself as she looked out at the view.

  “What did they do to you?” he asked, forcing her with his voice to look at him again.

  Her golden-brown eyes regarded him steadily. “Your brother SB told me that I could stay on at the estates, live here and do my work—if I was willing to sleep with them both, and do whatever they asked me to. I actually tried it … until I found out what sort of tastes they had.” Her hands closed over her arms, squeezed.

  Gundhalinu looked away, swearing under his breath.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Gundhalinu-sathra,” she said quietly. “Although … at the time I confess that I thought it was.”

  He looked back at her. “Do you remember my reaction when your pitcher of slops hit my brothers instead of me?”

  “You laughed and laughed,” she said, and something like understanding came into her eyes.

  “My brothers tried to kill me, on Number Four.”

  She stared at him, blinking.

  “Do you know anything about World’s End?”

  She nodded. “The place where you found the stardrive plasma. Yes, information about it was all over the newsnet when you returned. It was incredible … terrifying.”

  “My brothers got themselves lost out there, trying to strike it rich.” He looked up at the milky greenblue dome of the sky, wondering suddenly whatever had inspired his brothers to think of such an insane scheme in the first place. Wondering whether it had really been chance; as he wondered about everything, lately. “I went out there to find them. I brought them back. But the things that had happened to them—to all of us—” his voice roughened, “out there, changed them. It twisted them. All the things I’d always disliked and resented about them—being out there made those things worse. My brothers wanted to hold the stardrive plasma for ransom. I didn’t. They ambushed me and left me for dead. But I stopped them. That was probably all that kept me alive: needing to stop them.…”