as if he had wanted to remind her of tragedy, but when did she ever forget? It was unbearable to be her friend, and it was unthinkable to not be.
"Why are they here?" she wondered aloud, apparently struggling away from those other thoughts that always arose to hurt her. "Navy never comes to Earth."
Jarwekh seized upon the chance to help divert her attention. "Perhaps you can learn this for us, Denna. Perhaps the prodigal daughter can return home. Perhaps the Navy officer at Pan's place will find you interesting."
"Perhaps the Boss will kick me out," she said with slight humor.
The door opened, letting in the bright afternoon sunlight and a small group of tourists. Their armed escort looked the place over, saw Denna and the two Rhyan, and herded his charges back outside.
"But it's so hot out here!" one of the tourists protested beyond the closing door.
"You must be on your best behavior," Jarwekh said, raising a hand to signal the barkeep.
"When I'm good I'm very good," Denna said, distracted, probably still thinking about the boy - or the other boy, "but when I'm bad I'm better."
"I've heard this before," Jarwekh commented.
"The ancient slogan of an Earthian woman of questionable virtue," Daidaunkh said. "Perhaps the essence of why Denna consorts with the likes of us. You wouldn't see the humor of it."
"Do you?" Jarwekh challenged in a friendly tone.
"It's amazing what a dead Rhyan prince can understand. The burden of Rhyan culture and the codes of noble birth slough away from the corpse, allowing enlightenment - or endarkenment, depending on your interpretation of the mathematics of it."
"If you've had too much to drink," Jarwekh said, "we can wait and hope for a sober interval."
"I don't want sobriety!" Denna declared. "I want action!" Her hand flew to her shoulder, grabbed something there, and drew it upward. A black knife blade with a toothed edge popped into existence, and she flipped it and grabbed it, plunging the blade downward.
Jarwekh captured Denna's wrist with a lightning thrust of his arm, stopping the blade's point a finger's width from her own forearm. "Don't cut yourself today!" he demanded, exasperated, then calmed his nerves. "You need to look your best. So you can be bad." Denna's arm and knife hand trembled with the effort to complete the stab but Jarwekh easily removed the knife from her grasp, turned the power blade off, and placed the handle on the table.
"I think Jarwekh understands your humor," Daidaunkh remarked almost soberly. "And your need for pain."
Jarwekh tapped off the two holograms and collected their projectors, handing the older one back to Daidaunkh.
The barkeep arrived. He was an Earthian, even larger than Jarwekh, very muscular and fat. "You guys just cost me some tourist business," he complained.
Denna winked at Daidaunkh and Jarwekh, then grabbed her knife and shoved it at the ample equator of the barkeep. The barkeep laughed as the bladeless handle glanced away. "Denna, I wouldn't turn off my d-field in your presence even if you were naked and chained to the floor. And next time you ought to turn the blade on first."
"I'll take that as a naughty compliment," Denna said with a rare smile.
"Are you ordering our product," the barkeep inquired, "or do you need me to help lift the mood of your party?"
"Just the sight of your red hair and black skin makes me happier, Fudlump," Denna said. "You have any new tattoos on your fat belly?"
Fudlump pulled up his shirt to expose a landscape of dark brown skin and a herd of bright tattoos, all of which he caused to ripple by slapping the protective field over his stomach. "Sorry you can't fondle them," he said.
"We're not paying for this exhibition," Jarwekh complained.
"It's worth something," Daidaunkh remarked with a belch, throwing a small coin onto the table.
"Normally I can make them move around," Fudlump said, "but the d-field interferes with the microbots." He leaned over and moved the coin back toward Daidaunkh.
"If we buy three beers," Jarwekh said, "will you remove this from our sight?"
"Everyone's an art critic," the barkeep said, deciding to pick up the coin before he departed.
"You'll wear better clothes," Jarwekh said to Denna.
"You really want me to talk to the Navy officer?" Denna asked.
"This woman Navy officer is a surprise to Pan and apparently someone very special to him," Jarwekh answered. "I don't wish to make a mistake and become dead again."
"If this is the real Commodore Keshona I'll gladly pay the price," Daidaunkh said.
"Too many years have passed since the war," Denna said. "She's been through a major rejuvenation by now. Memories will have been pruned away. She's no longer the same person. Why did you ever expect to find her on Earth?"
"We came here to run from bad memories," Jarwekh answered, "to do something at least symbolically illegal against the Earthian enemy, and to rot away the remainder of our lives. Not to seek Keshona. I had put Keshona behind me, until I saw this woman. All I ask is to learn more - and be careful of Pan."
1-13 Dinner Invitation
He stepped into the doorway and the sound of a woman singing came as a surprise to his ears. He paused just inside, let his eyes adjust to the amber lighting, the rainwater drain from his suit, and the music soothe his nerves. He had nerves that needed soothing. By reputation he was the daring brother, confident in his ability to traverse the dangerous routes between antagonistic alien civilizations. If one didn't have sensitive nerves then one might grow careless.
He moved forward into the crowd and found a table. The waiter's arrival and the meal order occurred almost unconsciously as he tried to study the restaurant without appearing suspicious, without appearing to be looking for a certain person. The voice singing just above the disrespectful clamor of dining patrons now distracted him, for some reason increasing his anxiety rather than soothing him.
A Rhyan woman sat down across the table from him, uninvited, jarring his nerves further. She was a Blend but not nobility, or else she would be escorted. Her dress was too provocative for Desert Folk, her skin too light for Ocean Folk. She was attractive in a decent way but not obviously presenting herself for his appreciation and invitation. What did she want? She could be an agent of the Rhyan Empire, already aware of his mission, but that would be very improbable. He decided to return her smile and remain cautious.
"You're Earthian, aren't you?" the woman asked, and didn't wait for an answer. "I like Bright Eyes. They can be very gifted singers."
She nodded in the direction of the performer. "Bright-eyes" was a strangely positive pejorative for Earthians. Earthians did not understand the negative military implications of too-visible eyes. Rhyans did not see the negative evolutionary implications of their own branch of humanity being too adapted to environment - and to war.
He couldn't see the singer from where he sat but he knew she was Earthian without seeing her. "I'm partly Earthian," he said. "Desert Folk have fine voices, but Ocean Folk don't have the noses for singing."
She laughed, rubbing her own nose, which had some of the flatness of Ocean Folk. She seemed to take his careless remark with good humor.
"Are you partly Rhyan?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Intriguing. I see no evidence of that. And the whites of your eyes are too visible."
"You would be surprised how many Earthians resemble Rhyans or Essiin. Except for the eyes, perhaps. We're all humans, you know."
"But the colors and shapes can be so different."
He didn't want to engage her in argument. It wasn't only futile but risky. Prejudices were often based on minute differences while ignoring vast similarities. Still, he couldn't stop before adding a last point of logic.
"I'm proof that we're genetically equivalent and culturally compatible."
"Where do your sympathies lie, then?" she asked without apparent seriousness.
"Sympathies? In regard to what?" He wanted to dismiss her as a threat. She seemed too preoccupied to have him as
her target. Even as she kept her face pointed away from a certain direction in the restaurant, her conversation turned back to sensitive issues. She seemed insensitive to sensitive issues.
"Most of us think the war will escalate," she said. "Don't be afraid to tell me. One has to keep an open mind, out here in the disputed territories."
"We would be in the minority," he observed. "It may be wisest to admit to nothing, not even to an open mind."
"I think I know where your loyalties lie," she said, at once serious but not unfriendly. "I might disagree with you, but I still hope our peoples will someday become friends. I hope that your heritage was a result of friendship rather than strife."
He relaxed a bit, perhaps prematurely, but he was confident in his assessment of the Rhyan woman. "That's what I know to be true. You're kind to say that. May your house be strong and prosperous."
"Thank you, sir, for letting me sit here a moment. There was someone I was trying to avoid and he's gone now. Don't you think she's a wonderful singer?"
"Who? Oh. Yes. Yes, I do."
He watched the Rhyan woman depart and waited for arrest or some other follow-up to her visit which, to his relief, didn't occur. He turned his attention to the singer. By rising a little out of his chair he could see her on a small stage in the corner of the restaurant. The waiter came with his meal.
"Isn't she great?" the waiter commented, seeing where he looked. "Enjoy her while you can. She's been packing them in for a week but we can't get her to extend her contract past tonight."
"Who is she?"
"Ruby Reed."
He ate and listened. He didn't want to listen. He discovered he was trying not to hear the singer, and as soon as he realized that, her voice became familiar. He looked again at the dark woman under the spotlight. It couldn't be her, but it did look like his contact. The song ended with generous applause. The applause faded and the singer began another song. The song meant something to him. The voice meant something to him. He was compelled to dig in his memory.
The singer stood in front of him, causing him to blink. The song had ended many moments ago. He hadn't noticed, he was so immersed in forbidden memories. He was upset he had been able to retrieve the memories. He got to his feet, on the verge of trembling from shock at what his mind contained. He clutched his napkin before it could fall.
"May I?" she asked.
"What?"
"Sit with you."
It was her! And it was also - but the wrong color - her. Ruby Reed! Before he could respond, she was already seated. The waiter brought her a drink, paid her compliments on her singing, and departed. She took a few sips of her drink and watched him expectantly. He hated for her to drink alcohol. Why did he?
When he failed to say anything for several moments, she said, "It's been rather dry in the valley lately."
He blinked again, and seriously considered not responding, but was already saying, "Not as dry as it will be."
"You're late to our appointment," she complained. "It worried me."
"You are not Ruby Reed," he said, yet knowing she must have been.
"Of course not! That isn't important."
"You sing exactly in her style, and with her voice."
"Do I? I made up the name. There is no Ruby Reed. Is there?"
"There was a Ruby Reed. I knew her." He couldn't bring the memory into sharp focus. He knew he shouldn't try. The memory was very potent and very personal. Then he remembered a time before Ruby Reed, and another woman who was African! She was that woman also! The distant past yielded to his need to understand. Memories flew at him with a vengeful sharpness.
She kicked him under the table, breaking his inward-gazing trance. He opened his eyes to see her frowning at him.
"Stay alert, please," she ordered, her quiet voice laden with authority.
"I'm sorry. My conditioning seems defective. Your singing was a…was disturbing to me."
"I had to have some reason," she said, "for waiting around here so long. You need permits and employment or they kick you off this world. Rhyan make up most of the population here. I knew they liked singers. I've been told I can carry a tune, so I made myself into a singer. The name Ruby Reed just popped into my head. Perhaps it was a name I once knew. You knew her?"
"You don't know how good a singer you are!" He tried to keep his voice unexcited but failed. He should have said nothing! Whole performances of hers were ripping through his inner vision, all but supplanting the reality in front of him. He dared not try to convince her she was Ruby Reed.
"And you're the music expert here?" she queried. It was an amiable challenge, as though she was pleased with his appraisal of her talent.
"I think I am. You've unlocked a door to my past that I wasn't supposed to open. I suspected this would happen. There was not enough time and not the right equipment to fully suppress my memories. Consequently, I may jeopardize this mission."
"Stop talking," she ordered, and drained her whiskey.
He finished his meal. They acted out their parts to appear as normal as possible. They left the restaurant and boarded a random personal transport vehicle.
"Are you the guide?" she asked, as soon as they began moving through the rainy night.
"I know where the door is." How could she be so different? She was purposeful, powerful, decisive, daring. What made her think she could get herself hired as a singer? How could she still sing so well? She was rejuvenated. The talent she labored a lifetime to develop was supposedly erased by cellular rebirth. How could she not understand the quality of her musical gift? How could she not wonder at its existence? How could she ignore the information he should not have offered her?
"Do you know how to get us off this planet?" she asked.
"I assumed you would know," he replied.
"A week ago I would have, but you took too long getting here. How long did you live in Sol System? You're not Earthian."
"How did you know?"
"I'm an expert on languages and speech patterns. Sounds like you've lived with Earthians most of your life."
He knew, as she said it, that she was such an expert, long ago. Did she relearn the expertise, or did she remember it, the way she remembered how to sing? It wasn't supposed to be possible.
"I consider myself human," he said, "in the Earthian sense of the term."
"You're supposed to be mostly Essiin."
"Only one-fourth. One-fourth Earthian. Half Rhyan."
"Why do you appear so Earthian?"
"Believe it or not, this is my normal appearance."
The vehicle moved through the night with only the sound of the rain pelting against the windows. Lights streaked by in the darkness between cities on the sparsely-populated planet. The rare surface-habitable planet was one of many subjects of contention between Union and Empire. Lightning bloomed in the clouds, making their billowing towers visible for brief intervals. Thunder came muffled into the vehicle.
"You don't look like a killer to me," she said, breaking a stretch of silence.
"I'm not. Why would you expect me to be?"
"Because you and I will kill a lot of people."
"I'm sure that isn't the plan. This is a coup d'état. Self-preservation will limit the casualties."
"Their enemies will kill them if they give up their power. They'll hide among the general population and call my bluff, hoping to wait for their fleet to arrive. Then I'll have to decide if it's a bluff."
"You've already decided."
"The enemies of the aristocracy may also need a message, as they have become just as ruthless. Also, at this point in time the cost of failure looks much higher than the cost of success."
"You said 'my bluff.' That makes you the person in command - the commodore! You're here alone. If you're caught, is it so easy to replace you?"
"Anyone can be replaced. I think there's a betting pool on whether I make it back to the task force. Even odds, last I heard."
He sat in silence, gazing at the barely visible f
ace of the dark woman who sat next to him. He remembered the singer with more and more clarity. He remembered the person she was before that, and realized that woman also sang. Ruby Reed fell into perspective in his mind: admired, cherished, loved, but not nearly as important as the woman she once was. The thought of her being in this situation on this wild little planet, waiting to do the awful thing that lay ahead of them, brought stark fear and dread to his mind.
"No, I don't think you can be replaced," he said. "You aren't supposed to put yourself in such danger."
"This is war. If I don't make it back, someone else can have the pleasure of slaughter."
"It goes beyond the war. You're important to other people. I can't explain it but I know I'm part of it. Perhaps neither of us should be here, but I'm here because you are. You're..." - the word just came to him - "...the sentinel. I'm your protector."
"I can take care of myself! You're beginning to worry me. What sentinel?"
"No, it isn't the exact word. But you are waiting and watching."
"For what?"
"I don't know!"
"I think you have our roles reversed. You're more important than I am. You know where the secret weapon is. What's your real name?"
"Pan."
She stuck out her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Pan. My name is Keshona."
"Sir?"
Pan broke out of the dream and sat stunned for many moments before he could reclaim his wits. He could still smell that rainy night, the whiskey on her breath, the well-used interior of the car, the sweet and sweaty aroma of the woman who sang for several hours. He could still feel the strong emotions of a man in a dangerous situation with a woman who meant too much to him. He could still hear her voice and her accent: it was her, Fidelity Demba. Each facet of the memory was intense and almost too detailed to be a real memory. He struggled to emerge from the experience, not really wanting to leave it, knowing it would fade too quickly and too well. He opened his eyes and saw his android companion.
"Fred. What is it?"
"You called me."
Pan hadn't felt right for many months. He had suffered brief moments of disorientation, followed by vague impressions of having seen things he couldn't remember seeing before. He had grown to feel that something was about to happen. If he hadn't had that feeling, he might not have watched so diligently for unwelcome visitors to his planet. He might have missed the fight at the African Space Elevator. He would have missed her.
"I did? I did call you. I've forgot why I wanted you! You know I have two Navy officers and a small boy as guests. If something happens to me, such that I'm unable to be here with you, please offer your services to them. Protect them if you can. Is this order clear to you and now in effect?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you in good working order, Fred? You seem slightly different. I can't describe what it is."
"I'm unaware of any mechanical or computational defect, sir. Shall I report for a tear-down inspection?"
"No! Just let me know if you have any problems."
"How would you define a qualifying problem for me, sir?"
"I'm not sure, Fred. Is there something you think I might want to know?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell me, then."
"I can't, sir."
"Extraordinary!
Keshona Far Freedom Part 1 Page 24