The Dark Reaches

by Kristin Landon

  Linnea struggled to gather her scattered thoughts, calm herself. This could finally be her chance to ask questions that would be answered. To begin to understand what she had let herself and Iain in for. She would need all her wits, all her skill with people, to protect them both.

  They passed another man in green standing guard, and entered a different corridor—more spacious, more artfully lit. And the air was definitely warmer. Another guard stood at the end of the passage, in front of a high door made of copper-colored metal. As they stopped in front of him, he raised his wrist to his mouth and muttered something.

  The door slid open, and they passed through into warmth and brightness.

  A gust of fresh-smelling air ruffled Linnea’s hair. She blinked, looking around. Sunlight? That couldn’t be sunlight. And she smelled grass—

  Their guards set them on their feet just inside the door. “You’ll walk from here,” the dark-skinned man said. “Madame expects it.” Linnea moved to Iain’s side, cradled his arm in both of her hands. She looked around, disoriented, a little afraid.

  The space was huge by the standards of any station she had ever been on; larger even than a landing bay for a passenger shuttle. She couldn’t judge its size; the ground was grassy, rising and falling in little hills. Shrubs and clumps of small trees blocked her view of the space’s walls. But the air smelled green, alive. Somewhere birds were singing, though she couldn’t see any.

  A nudge in her back, and she and Iain started forward along a path that looked like stone. Maybe it was. Iain had his head down, his strength already about gone, she guessed. It was up to Linnea to observe everything. That blue arching ceiling, meters overhead—that was no sky, of course, just artful paint. White clouds glowed here and there, concealing the light sources. A curve in the path brought them to a stone wall, more than man height, and a gate of—wood? She supposed it could really be wood. There were trees here. But how—

  The guard spoke rapidly, and a distorted voice answered. The gate swung open. A short stretch of path, symmetrically lined with immaculate white pots of red flowers, led to a door painted glistening red. The door slid aside as they approached it. She could see only shadows beyond. She helped Iain over the porch sill and into the—house? The guards followed; the door slid shut, sealing them all in.

  Linnea blinked in dimness. It was a large room—warm, softly lit, carpeted in amber and black. A window at her left must overlook the park—if that was the word—but heavy black curtains had been drawn over it. An arrangement of orange and blood-colored flowers stood on a tall table near the door. On a hearth beneath an open chimney of hammered copper, a stone glowed orange, shimmering with heat.

  And from a high, flimsy-looking chair near the hearth, a tall figure rose to face them.

  A woman. Clear, direct brown eyes met Linnea’s, moved to study Iain. Linnea knew at once that this woman held power. Black hair streaked with gray, pulled tightly back, framed a face that was still handsome. She wore a sleeveless tunic of shining red material that reached to her sandaled feet, skimming her body. Her pale, slender arms were bare even of jewelry.

  With a shock Linnea recognized her: This was the woman in the portraits she’d seen in the corridors on the way here.

  A woman who might have answers to give. But clearly Linnea would have to be careful.

  The woman turned to Iain and spoke, her voice hard. “I am Tereu of family Perrin, First Citizen of the people of Triton. This is my residence.”

  Iain only looked puzzled. But Linnea understood—she had been learning to hear these people, to understand the words framed in a strange accent, the vowels a different shape, words spoken quick and clipped. After a moment, she said, “He’s not used to how you talk here.”

  “Your name,” Tereu said to her.

  Linnea eyed her. “Linnea Kiaho.”

  “I am addressed as Madame,” the woman said. “Family Linnea?”

  Linnea blinked. “Family Kiaho. Madame.”

  “I’ve never heard of either one.” Seeming to dismiss Linnea, Tereu turned again to study Iain. The baggy blue coverall hung on his tall, thin frame. The long, frizzled braid hung straight and still down his back as he stood there looking back at Tereu, his eyes watchful. Linnea saw Tereu’s hands clench into fists. “You are Line,” she said curtly. It was an accusation.

  This time, clearly, he understood her. “No,” he said, and turned aside to cough. “I am a pilot, as Linnea is. But not Line.”

  “A Line pilot would lie from fear, of course,” Tereu said. “And he would be right to fear, on Triton.” She did not move her gaze from his face. “Your name and family?”

  “Iain, Madame,” he said. “Of family—of the family of Paolo.”

  “We are not Line pilots, Madame,” Linnea said. “We—”

  Tereu’s hand whipped up, palm out, and Linnea broke off. “I will not be lied to,” Tereu said, still speaking to Iain. “You look Line to me, from the old records. And this woman—she cannot be a pilot at all.”

  “Madame, the ship we arrived in is mine,” Linnea said quietly. “I was pilot.”

  Again the hand flashed up, commanding silence. Tereu studied Iain, then frowned, steepling her fingers at her chin.

  Then she looked up, waved a hand in a gesture of dismissal, and their guards left them. As the door sealed behind the men, Tereu broke into a warm smile. “I apologize for my discourtesy, but it was necessary for me to judge you for myself before I could welcome you correctly. You have had a long journey, and I’m told you have both been ill. Come and rest by my fire.”

  She waved her hand toward two chairs like her own, facing hers near the glowing stone. Puzzled by the change in Tereu’s manners, Linnea settled carefully into her own chair. She found that it held her more naturally and comfortably than a low chair would have done, with no need to bend herself tight in the middle. The hearth gave off waves of welcome heat. She hoped it would not make Iain sleepy.

  Tereu seated herself. A high table made of brushed-silver metal stood at her elbow, with what looked like a spherical black-and-silver pillow resting on it. “Please accept chee,” Tereu said—no, “tea.” Linnea nodded politely, wondering where the pot was. Then Tereu snapped a small cloth bag onto a plastic disk on the side of the cushion, and squashed the cushion down with her palm. The bag swelled. When it was full, she tugged it free, then leaned forward and passed it to Iain, with a polite inclination of her head. He accepted with the same half bow—to precisely the same degree, Linnea noticed; sick or not, Iain never missed the nuances of status. His Line training, of course. Linnea accepted her own bag of tea with the same nod, then puzzled over it until Tereu pulled a thin silvery straw free of the cloth on her own bag and sipped.

  Linnea did the same. The tea was scalding hot and tasted of smoke and salt. She did not let herself react. But not until Iain, too, had sipped at the tea did Tereu speak again. And again her manner changed—the intense urgency returned.

  “Forgive me,” she said to Iain, “but there are some urgent questions I must ask. First, how you came here from the Hidden Worlds.”

  Linnea saw the glint of anger in his eyes. “We traveled in Linnea’s jumpship,” he said. “Madame.”

  Tereu blinked at him. “So you insist that this is true?” Then she turned for the first time to face Linnea fully. Linnea met her gaze, saw thought stirring there, the elegant brows drawn down into a faint frown. “You were pilot,” Tereu said, as if marveling. “How can this be?”

  “I have the gift, so I was trained,” Linnea said steadily.

  “A pilot who is a woman,” Tereu said. “Not even the deepsiders—” She broke off. “So you have come from the Hidden Worlds. So dangerous a journey,” she said, as if marveling. “How far are they?”

  Linnea met Tereu’s eyes, sipped at her tea. “I cannot say, Madame.”

  “You mean you will not say.” Tereu set down her tea, turned back to face Iain, with her fingers laced neatly together. “Your Hidden Worlds are well na
med, Paolo Iain. Off they went, the last of those great men of the Line, leaving promises. And then silence. We had no ships that could follow so far—we had no one left who could pilot them. No one who knew where to follow. We had to teach ourselves to pilot. We had four jumpships left—we lost two, learning. The story is—still painful.”

  Iain frowned. “I know part of this history,” he said. “We learned it as well. But perhaps your people have forgotten that the pilots built as many ships as they could. They made the journey as many times as they could. Your medtechs must have reported to you what that jump did to Linnea and me, in a modern ship. Yet those men in those ancient ships spent their entire lives, for two generations, ferrying people to safety. They saved tens of thousands of people. They founded the Hidden Worlds.”

  “And ten thousand and more were left behind,” Tereu said. “Here in the shadows, living at the edge of the system, like rats in the ruins of a house. You will forgive us if we feel a little resentment.”

  “We didn’t know that anyone had survived here,” Linnea said. “And Iain and I rejoice at it.”

  “We would all rejoice,” Tereu said, “if we could be as safe as you in the Hidden Worlds. Hidden away.”

  Linnea saw Tereu’s sharp eyes watching and assessing. Time to hit her with something she did not expect. “We were hidden,” she said. She saw Iain’s expression turn stony, but now she had Tereu’s attention.

  “The Cold Minds found us, too, Madame,” Linnea said. “A few years before we left to come here. We’re fighting them, but—you know there can’t be any final victory. Not over them.”

  “I know it well,” Tereu said. “That is why I have been wondering—”

  A soft chime shook the air, and Tereu stood up. Linnea studied her—the woman’s face had gone stiff and sallow. Fear? Or rage? “Please excuse me.” Tereu turned and left the room through an inner door.

  “Perhaps,” Iain said quietly, “that was news to her. And not given in the best way.” His gaze was calm and level.

  “I don’t think it was news. That was—something else.”

  “Remember that we agreed—” He broke off, his eyes on the ceiling.

  “Iain.” Linnea gripped the metal arms of her chair. “We will get nowhere, we will never be safe, if we lie to these people. And if we lie, that woman will know. She’s no fool.”

  “I don’t propose that we lie,” Iain said. “I just propose that we give only information that must be given. Because you’re right: We will never be safe.” Looking hard into Linnea’s eyes, he pointed at the ceiling.

  After a moment, she nodded. Monitors. Monitors everywhere, probably. Never safe. Never private. Never alone.

  But still she would ask her questions; still she would learn what she could. They would learn nothing if they stayed on Iain’s cautious path.

  She took his hand, tried to smile reassuringly. But she saw the watchfulness in his eyes. He knows me.

  He knows me too well.

  Tereu kept her shoulders straight, her head high, as the soundproof door of her inner office slid shut and sealed behind her. Hiso was waiting for her, as she expected—standing in shadow as he always liked; on a wall-screen behind him, old Neptune glowed in crescent, the old cold bastard, the sign of their exile. And now of their people’s end—in three generations, or ten, no one could know; but it was as inevitable as her own individual death.

  She locked the door, then touched the control that sealed the room even from her own private surveillance system—sometimes she was sure that Hiso had long had the key of it. “You heard,” she said, forcing her voice to steadiness. Her desk screen still showed a view of the room next door, the two strangers sitting silently. She longed to go beyond courtesy with them, to get at the truth of this matter. Yet it could not be done. Damn custom, and damn hospitality, too.

  First Pilot Kimura Hiso swung to face her. His short iron-gray hair and beard, neat as always, were outward signs of the order and control he prized above all other things, prized most of all in Tereu herself. “Certainly I heard,” he said.

  “Why did you interrupt me?” Her voice was tight but level.

  “I was afraid,” Hiso said, “that in your generosity you might say too much.”

  “Too much?”

  “I do not wish them,” he said, “to understand us too well. Or—our role in recent events.”

  “Does it matter?” she asked him acidly. “Here is the great expedition you said would come soon after the invasion struck. Here is the great alliance you promised me. And what have we received? A woman. A sick man. And one single ship.”

  “A beginning,” he said mildly. “They are at war. We could expect little more than this—at first.”

  “You see hope in these?” Tereu felt the old sick despair rising again in her throat. No great expedition from the Hidden Worlds would descend to destroy the Cold Minds on Earth; there would be no rescue fleet. The bitter thought burned in her mind and heart.

  She hoped Hiso could not see it. He used weakness. How well she knew it. She summoned her thoughts. “Have there been any more incursions?”

  “If there had been,” Hiso said, “I would not be here attending on you; I would be out patrolling with my wing. I’m glad I am not. This is more important than you realize.”

  “Two strangers, one little ship,” she said. “I don’t believe either one of them.”

  Hiso smiled. “Yet the woman does have the look of a pilot.”

  “And what look is that?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A pilot knows.” He looked back at the strangers’ images on the commscreen. “She is young. They both are. Not as experienced politically—or otherwise—as you and I are. I will use that in dealing with them.”

  Years ago he had dropped all pretense in private that they were partners, that she was leader. She turned her back on him, sipped water from a bulb, trying to wash away the taste of the vile ceremonial tea.

  “I’m sure the man captured your particular attention,” Hiso said. “Young, handsome, no doubt a competent pilot. Just what you’ve liked in the past.”

  She swung on him. That was years ago. “He’s Line. Or so he looks to me.”

  “He is certainly an aristocrat,” Hiso said. “Born to wealth and power. And he has a pilot’s eyes. He’s looked into the deeps. But so has the woman.” He eyed Tereu. “They could not have found their way here without a jump point. Without access to Line records.”

  “I read the hospital’s report,” Tereu said impatiently. “The woman has been ill. Fevered. She kept telling some mad story or other—saying she was called here.”

  “ ‘Called’?” Hiso’s eyes narrowed.

  “She’s demented. Or else she thinks we’re fools,” Tereu said. “She’s Line, too—by association, anyway. A Line man wouldn’t travel with a woman unless she was his.”

  Hiso smiled coldly. “With you it’s always a matter of sex, isn’t it? Have you considered that she might be telling the truth? In which case, there’s a tale there. An important one.”

  “You ask her, then,” Tereu said, “if you have time for tales.” She faced him. “So what have you learned about their ship?”

  Hiso made a show of serving himself whiskey, sipping at the straw, sighing with pleasure. She watched him closely. He isn’t sure how much he wants to tell me.

  He set down the tiny bulb, half-slack, and eyed her. “We could examine it only from outside. The ship’s hatch is sealed, tight as demon’s teeth. I suspect the pilot is the only one who can admit us. But the measurements and readings we’ve been able to make remotely are—enticing. Power levels that it’s hard to believe.”

  “Can’t you cut your way in?”

  “No,” Hiso said, his voice regretful. “Not without risking damage we can’t repair.” He smiled. “But—perhaps she’ll choose, in time, to admit me. That’s one advantage of dealing with a woman pilot.”

  “Always a matter of sex with you, too, is it not?” Tereu returned his smile,
anger flaring behind the rigid mask of her control. “Or power. Aren’t they the same? You told me once . . . What else have you learned?”

  “The ship is larger than any we have, and will be faster in realspace. And—” He looked down at his whiskey. “Based on our examination, it is armed.”

  “Armed with what?” she demanded.

  “Missiles of some kind,” he said. “Well shielded, but—fission weapons, most likely. But small, smaller than any we can build. That ship could be formidable, in our hands.”

  “But what use is one ship?” she said. “They’re fighting the Cold Minds themselves. Their people clearly don’t intend to save us or reinforce us. We are alone. Facing the end, alone.”

  “We’ve always been alone, Perrin Tereu.” He caressed her shoulder. “Nothing has changed. We’ll survive as we always have. The way we’ve found for ourselves, that has saved us for centuries, is as right as it always has been.”

  She felt her fists clench, but she did not allow the deep, bitter anger to show in her face. “Yes. As right as it has always been.”

  Hiso drained the last of the whiskey and set down the bulb. “And beyond that—” He glanced at the image from the other room. “We can still profit from our guests. And from their ship. If I commanded such a ship, at the head of the Triton pilots—” He looked steadily into her eyes. “No one could anticipate me. No one could stop me. No one at all.”

  “Not even the deepsiders,” she said slowly. “Not even—” After all these years, she still could not keep the little break of bitterness from her voice. “Not even Esayeh.”

  “Not, at last, even Esayeh,” Hiso said, and smiled into her eyes. “Now, I fear, I have an appointment. And you must go back to your guests. Make them welcome. Make them happy.” He kissed her cheek. “That is your best gift, my love.”