Convergence

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Do you suppose she saw something, Uncle? I know she did, when we moved to rejoin the herd.”

  “She might have,” Uncle said. “The wind was blowing from us to the orchard, so it was not scent. If it was one of my staff out there to pick a little fresh fruit, I will not be pleased.”

  “One understands,” Cajeiri said quietly, and took his tea in hands still grimy enough to leave a fingerprint, a scandal, upstairs, but here—in this place full of riding gear and competition mementoes, it was of no consequence.

  Two cups of tea.

  The senior of Uncle’s aishid came in. “We do have an intruder, nandi. He did surrender to a verbal request. He claims kinship with the young gentleman.”

  “With me? I have remote cousins in Taiben . . . and in Ajuri.”

  “Ajuri would be the case, young aiji. He identifies himself as Nomari, of Ajuri. He claims a relationship to you through your grandfather.”

  “That is no recommendation,” he said. He was embarrassed, upset—he was not sure what he felt, except that they had a problem that had upset a perfect day, upset Uncle Tatiseigi, upset the whole household, and scared him, which was a feeling that deeply embarrassed him—not, mani had pointed out, his finest point, because the next thing he became was angry. And stupid. “What does he want?”

  “He says he wants to talk about the nomination.”

  “I dare say,” Uncle said dryly. “Was he sent?”

  “He says no, nandi. He says that he is not one person, but represents others, that he wishes to talk to you, and that he is not here for any illicit purpose.”

  “That covers a broad front,” Uncle said. “And most every dealing we have had from Ajuri this year. We are tired, we have ridden a fair distance, we want a bath and we want a dinner, which cook has again prepared in the hope this time of serving our guest in proper style, unhurried and uninterrupted. Unless this visitor is bleeding to death this moment—is he in good health?”

  “One would say, perhaps in want of a meal or two, and he has been living rough.”

  “Then we should feed him and shelter him, but his mode of introduction does not warrant an immediate hearing, or we shall be inundated by visitors. I fear the gap in our hedge is at issue, and if this person has broken the saplings we have just planted in that gap I shall consider damages.”

  “We shall inspect it, nandi, and set a device there.”

  “Advise the Guild over at the Kadagidi estate, too. Tell them to look sharp, and advise them and Taiben that this person claims to have companions.”

  “We shall.”

  “As for this person, advise him, if politics has prompted him, that the nomination for Ajuri has been safely vetoed and that issue is done. If he still wishes to speak to us, tell him I will hear him sometime tomorrow, at my convenience, and he may use the time to put his thoughts in order. Whether the young gentleman will speak to him, the young gentleman and his aishid will judge. And I am sure the aiji will have some interest in our visitor’s actions and his provenance.”

  “Do you think he is Shadow Guild, Uncle?”

  “It will be a very long time before we can assume we are free of that plague. We have him, we shall not lose him, and I shall be entirely vexed if he has ruined those new plantings. Come, baths are in order. Then dinner. Without disturbance, let us hope.”

  • • •

  Would there, Bren mused, back in his own guest quarters, with his aishid about him—would there, once the Reunioner landing became public expectation, be a refocus of the Heritage argument, on Reunioners as the new villains in the world? The Heritage Party needed something to point at with alarm.

  Even if it was the origin of one’s ancestors, no matter the experiences that, in either population, lay between.

  The Heritage Party line was that the Reunioners were descended from the population that had deserted Alpha, left it to fend for itself, stripped of the means to do so—with half its population gone and no ship to assist them in mining the system for resources. The Heritage Party held that the desertion had forced their Mospheiran ancestors to desert Alpha and fall to Earth in petal sails, giving up space flight for the foreseeable future. In Heritage Party doctrine, the Reunioners had gone off to serve the ship, and the ship had either come to grief or deserted them, leaving them the sole bearers of the human legacy, possibly the only humans, with a tradition to uphold and a legacy to reclaim. Someday. That had been the line—until the ship had come back, two hundred years or so late . . . and Mospheirans and atevi had joined the ship to rescue the stranded survivors of Reunion Station, in a situation that had gone very wrong.

  Had the Reunioners ever regretted their leaving and longed to be back at Alpha? Had the mission to find the ship’s homeworld ever become a burden to them? The ship searched and observed. Reunion had mined and built and supplied the ship’s missions. As a purpose and a collective goal, that had served. But for the last decade, Reunioners sitting abandoned in the wreckage of the station, with no sign that Phoenix still existed, with no ship in their future but the kyo that had attacked them—the survivors at Reunion had been through their own War of the Landing, their own ten-year hell. They were not all virtuous. They were the same as the survivors when Phoenix had met its original catastrophe, the same as the Mospheirans who had gotten safely down to Earth. Every incident had sifted them down and down to individuals with the courage, luck, and sometimes the ruthlessness to stay alive.

  And while Mospheirans now enjoyed life, celebrating a past that had never quite existed, enjoying their television and their vacations at the beach—Reunioners were not merely the descendants of survivors, but the survivors themselves—not all of whom were nice.

  Some were. Like Artur’s parents. Like Gene’s mother. But like Gene’s mother, they were fragile. Braver than they looked. More fragile than one expected.

  Then there were those like Irene’s mother—who hadn’t even asked what had happened to her daughter. Nor seemed to care. Resilient . . . but very self-focused.

  “Is it a problem, Bren-ji?” Jago asked.

  Did he have a theory on things fairly vital that the Linguistics Department didn’t know and probably should?

  Oh, several. One thing was fairly certain—that the Heritage Party preaching fear of aliens and the special rights of humans might find fertile ground in the Reunioner experience . . . and in the ragged edges of the survivor psyche.

  Did he want to go over to the University now and explain the Reunioner experience, just as he was preparing to sell the proposed Reunioner landing to the Mospheiran legislature?

  No. The landing had to happen, for the sake of the station, which could not support them. There was no choice.

  “Is there a problem?” Jago asked him.

  “One was merely recalling a set of notes.”

  “That man . . .”

  “Woodenhouse.”

  “Woodenhouse. Will he have any power to trouble us?”

  “Not at present. He was a comparatively easy target. Internal Affairs is a committee of legislators more locally focused—and Mr. Woodenhouse is from a very, very small town, almost a village, and he likely gained his seniority through being the only candidate on the ballot. His seniority put him on the only committee for which he has any qualifications, and the Heritage Party, one is sure, was particularly glad to have a seat on Internal Affairs. Think of him as a human Lord Topari—willing to demand war with the continent, since there is absolutely no chance that atevi will ever descend on his village. His people live comfortably enough, absolutely certain that they are in constant danger from atevi, and Woodenhouse is their voice and their source of information, because he tells them what they already believe: that outsiders lie to them. I do not know him, but I know the sort. I know, from Gin, that the Heritage Party has nineteen legislative seats out of two hundred, but only one committee post, and Woodenhouse is in it. I
f all the Heritage Party were the same degree of threat as Woodenhouse, they would not worry us. What is worrisome is certain interests, including corporations, who want a far freer rein to run as they like, still fund the Heritage folk as the only check on the Presidenta, who has only once fallen behind in the popular vote. There is no opposition party except the Heritage folk, though attempts have been made to found one. It is not, in our culture, an entirely healthy situation, but unless the Presidenta forms a party to oppose himself, the only opposition the corporations can throw up is the Heritage Party, which is constantly looking for ways to gain membership.”

  “The Reunioners when they land—what side will they take?”

  “I think the Heritage Party will confuse the Reunioners—though possibly it may divide them. Some of the Reunioners will greatly interest certain corporations, the very people who fund the Heritage Party—but the Heritage Party has always maintained that the people who went with the ship to found Reunion—had betrayed them. Meanwhile the Reunioners have yet another version of history, namely that the Reunioners are all descended from people who remained loyal to the ship and believed in its leadership, and that the station was left with people who gave up, too tired, too mistrustful or too afraid to go on and find another place in the heavens. Now, for practical reasons, the Heritage Party, which likes to think of itself as pro-space, may even decide to change its story, find virtue in the Reunioners, and find in the Reunioners a source of new recruits. Is it not the same with atevi? Politicians end up facing a direction opposite to their original position. Lord Topari now considers me an excellent creature.”

  Jago had not laughed when Topari had said it. She did manage a flash of humor now.

  “One does not believe, Bren-ji, that this Woodenhouse will ever become your ally, in any turn of politics.”

  “I much doubt it. I do not think Woodenhouse has greatly helped his party in that outburst, and very fortunately I did not say all that I thought at the moment. He was not entitled to speak, he violated committee rules of precedence, and while his partisans may feel he was unjustly silenced, many Mospheirans will be mortally embarrassed, even anxious, about the angry show he made, at a time when their prosperity is directly related to the resumption of good relations with the aishidi’tat. We were televised. And while it may please his town, it will not appeal to the cities, where the votes lie.”

  “Your aishid,” Banichi remarked, working at gun-cleaning in another substantial chair, “would be interested to hear the translation of the session.”

  He reached for the television remote. “Let us see what the news channel has of it. I truly wish it had not happened. But there was bound to be such sentiment in certain places in secret. I am glad it surfaced as it did. I am glad it was so ineloquently presented. And glad that the matter has been laid out before the Presidenta’s state dinner. If any opinion surfaces favoring Woodenhouse, or taking umbrage at my remarks, that may let me know it.”

  • • •

  Last night had been good, but tonight Uncle’s cooking staff had especially outdone themselves, making all his very favorite dishes. Uncle liked his food, and Cajeiri was glad that Uncle liked his food. Bindanda, nand’ Bren’s excellent chef who had made the teacakes which had convinced Prakuyo an Tep that they were civilized . . . had once been Uncle’s—and Uncle’s kitchen had coped with human guests, and mani . . . and they truly could turn out food of every sort. Uncle was adventurous, when it came to dinners—in a good way.

  Dinner for the mountain clan guests had been—well, an adventure, but not one he wanted to repeat. He had eaten things off a spit at a cookfire that were good. For Father’s fine kitchen to turn out something that tasted that way—

  But Father’s guests had liked it.

  He ladled on a generous amount of sauce and wondered if perhaps a few mountain cooks could learn to appreciate salt. And flavors. Savory things, and sharp things, and sweet and peppery hot. Nand’ Bren, who had to be careful, was not so averse to flavors as that lot.

  He did wonder how their guest was faring right now, and whether he had gotten this good dinner. Probably he had: staff was only waiting their turn, and Uncle was never stingy with good things for staff, be they house staff or stables, so there was always plenty, and always pastries left over for snacks at any hour.

  Uncle had scared him once, but that had been a long time ago. Uncle was conservative, but Uncle hadn’t stayed foolish and old-fashioned. Uncle did not quite understand traveling in space, but he had accepted it as a good thing if it led to better medicine and better management of the land, and kept the world safe. He did know about the old ways and the important events before he was born. Uncle was someone who had had no respect for nand’ Bren’s predecessor, but he had become quite happy with nand’ Bren, and happy, too, with Irene and Gene and Artur, who had been equally delighted by his collection of artifacts, even the old pots, who had admired his fine porcelains and been brave enough to ride.

  So Uncle and he got along very well. He trusted Uncle—who had been his father’s staunch supporter and his great-grandmother’s closest ally through everything, and who now treated him as a person in his own right, who talked to him, who saw him, and listened to him as if everything he said mattered.

  He had come to help Uncle, because Uncle deserved help.

  He had met a welcome for his own sake, not for mani’s, not for father’s, not for mother’s. And that mattered. Uncle might not be right about everything, but Uncle cared to tell him, personally, the truth of things as Uncle saw them.

  So when, after dinner, they had adjourned to the sitting room for Uncle’s brandy and his fruit juice, he asked:

  “Uncle, what would happen if Ajuri and Kadagidi were broken up?”

  “Have you heard such a plan?”

  “I have heard that could happen. But no one I know thinks it a good idea.”

  “What does your mother think?”

  Like that, Uncle had known who had said it. “Mother does not want that for Ajuri. Neither does Father. He says not. But he will not let Mother be lord of Ajuri, because everybody dies.”

  “That is an unfortunate truth.”

  “Did you think this person you nominated would die?”

  “I was sure your father would veto the nomination, or I would not have made it. I promised it to conclude a conversation, and I am certain the person to whom I promised it knew it would never be approved, but saw it as a way to keep the issue active before your father. He will be glad to be rejected—but with your father’s favor for it. Practicality. And paradox. Was it your father who sent you? Or was it your mother?”

  “Father said I should go. But I think Mother approved. She brought my sister out to see me off. She never did that when I went to deal with the kyo.”

  Uncle nodded slowly.

  “Your father arranged the news coverage,” Uncle said. “They are camped out in every hotel in Heigian and Diegi.” Those were two of the Atageini townships closest to Tirnamardi. “And I do send staff with small bits of gossip—selected bits of gossip, to be sure.” Uncle took a sip of brandy. “Your coming, nephew, was very welcome.”

  “I was glad to come. And I know mani would have.”

  “She could not. Changing her plans would have unsettled Malguri, and the proposal had been under her roof, so to speak. She could not then associate herself here, with a candidate our party forced, with the veto very surely coming. But my nephew could come to visit, and quite occupy the news.”

  “I tried,” he said.

  “You did very well, nephew.”

  If Uncle had heard it, it would have been on radio, likeliest. Television was not to Uncle’s liking. He was, in some ways, still extremely old-fashioned.

  But sharp. Very sharp.

  “I want to understand the succession, Uncle. I want really to understand. I want to know what can happen. I talk to Father. But Fat
her gives me short answers. And if I ask Mother—I never know how to make her happy. I sometimes think I upset her, just being there.”

  Uncle was silent a moment, turning the glass in his hand, slowly, slowly, and maybe not going to answer at all. Maybe he had upset Uncle, even asking.

  “I have asked myself the same question,” Uncle said then, “what could be done to make your mother happy, in Ajuri’s sad condition. Let me explain to you my situation.”

  “Uncle?” he asked in the ensuing silence.

  “I am well along in years, I govern a keystone in the structure that is the Padi Valley Association, which is the oldest association in the aishidi’tat—the center of the aishidi’tat. I have made peace with Taiben. That had to be. It was the time to do it. So that has bolstered the floor of our association, but the two wings—Kadagidi and Ajuri—have fallen down in ruin. Kadagidi was always a problem, from a hundred fifty years ago, when the Kadagidi lord took a wife out of the Dojisigin Marid—that began an association of ambition, a constant working at the fabric of the association that was never a great advantage to the Padi Valley Association. It harmed us. It more than once brought Marid unrest into our midst. We thought it had stopped with the death of certain individuals, but we did not know it had set roots into Ajuri. You know about Shishogi.”

  He did know. Shishogi was a relative in Ajuri. He had been an officer in the Assassins’ Guild, the officer in charge of Assignments, for years and years and years, as long as anybody could remember. And nand’ Bren and mani had had to take him down—they had meant to arrest him, because his moving people about here and there and completely controlling Guild assignments, had put the Shadow Guild in place to try to assassinate him and his father and mother and everybody. But Shishogi had blown himself up and completely disarranged Assignments in the explosion, so that they were still trying to reconstitute some of the records. That was what he had heard, in bits and pieces.

  “I know,” he said, “what Shishogi did. And that he was my grandfather’s cousin or uncle.”