Ancient Light

by Mary Gentle

  As I crossed the courtyard to the Wellhouse outbuildings, my mind ran half on the necessity for setting up the WEBcasters’ conference, half on what this comlink message might be – Douggie calling in? Carrick’s Star shone down through ziku, and chirith-goyen hung in brightness, suspended in spirals of flight. Voices came clearly through the warm air, from the temporary camp outside the wall. Slanting beams of sunlight fell on the trodden earth, on red spore cases fallen in the dust, and I thought of autumn: of the seasons Stathern and Torvern. Strange to think of that in high summer …

  In a moment of perception, I felt how I stood here: flat heathland stretching out to the east; the sea a few miles south, invisible in haze; the interlocking pattern of telestres. Ales-Kadareth far to the east, Tathcaer to the west … and, high above, invisible among white daystars, the orbital station and its daisy chain of observing satellites. Carrick V a Protected world? The inferior is protected from the superior, surely; but here’s a world not hi-tech but not inferior either. Orthe has outlived our kind of civilization. How can we aid them?

  And thinking that, I thought also: to the south, there is the Coast, the siirans, hunger and disease … We created the conditions for this civil war, but how could we not interfere with poverty? Ah, but that’s not the whole story. If Calil has rediscovered that ancient weapon, it’s only because we came here.

  If she can synthesize Earth and Golden science to create that, then we must synthesize our cultures, Carrick V and Earth; survive a little changed, maybe, but survive.

  ‘Christie,’ a voice said, as I was about to enter the round-roofed outbuilding that housed the makeshift comlinks. It was Blaize Meduenin. Still in mercenary’s gear, nothing to mark him out as T’An Rimon.

  ‘Your t’an Commander Mendez was just taken up in one of the ‘thopters.’ His Sino-Anglic was accented, heavy with the inflections of the Peace Force. He grinned, scarred flesh twisting. ‘Travelling west. She’s had word. So have we – on the heliograph-relay. There are jath-rai sighted off Morvren Freeport.’

  The third hour past noon, Merrum Firstweek Sixday; and all I could think was, We’re not going to get away with this as easily as I hoped.

  ‘Blaize, there’s always shipping off the Freeport, what makes you sure these are hiyek ships?’

  He scratched at his blond mane. At last identifiable: the smile was not pleasure, but relief at being able to take action; any kind of action. He said, ‘We’re not sure. That’s why I’m going down there. A jath could do it in a day, but I don’t have a day in hand. I want one of your ships on Kumiel to fly me there.’

  He stood with his chin slightly raised, daring me to challenge that; and I looked at the alien face. Jaw too narrow, forehead too wide; membraned eyes bright in ruined flesh. Old scars. The silver-blond mane definitely needed cutting, and he had braided a twist of it back into the shaggy mass. As he shifted his stance, harur-blade harness jingled softly.

  ‘On condition that you report directly back to me, as well as to the takshiriye here. I could get word from Hal – but as you say, I don’t have the time in hand.’

  Blaize laughed. ‘I’ll do it. If you tell me what your T’An Mendez does.’

  Ochmir is not the only game Ortheans play to perfection.

  I agreed, and went on into the outhouse. Two or three Peace Force officers were dividing their time between banks of consoles and field-holotanks, in a round room ill lit by sunlight. Dried mossgrass crackled on the floor as I walked over to a ‘tank, wincing at the stench of rashaku that still lingered.

  I keyed in for Secure communication, and Cory Mendez’s face appeared. Backdraught from the ’thopter whipped her short white hair across her face, and she had to shout to be heard above the engine: ‘… images. Satellites are showing ship-movement in –’ she gave a string of co-ordinates, and then added, ‘– the northern Archipelago islands. I’m ordering an overflight. Four F90s will leave Kumiel Island shortly.’

  ‘I want a report half-hourly,’ I said. ‘When your people are in the area, I want a report every fifteen minutes.’

  The older woman’s expression was odd. I sensed how she wanted to handle this herself, on grounds of experience. What restrained her – and would have done more so, had I been Molly Rachel, or officially had Molly’s position – is that her people are only, to be blunt about it, the strong arm of the Company’s commercial division. How long can I count on that restraint? I wondered.

  ‘Have someone monitor my transmissions continuously.’ She signed off.

  I called one of the officers over, and as I got up from the ’tank, shadows darkened the door. Haltern Beth’ru-elen walked with the aid of a cane, pulling becamil blankets round his thin shoulders; and a pace behind him came Nelum Santhil Rimnith.

  ‘Good,’ I said, ‘I’d been thinking of inviting you to speak with the WEBcasters, and I’m about to hold a conference here.’

  ‘We have already spoken with them.’ Haltern eased himself down on to one of the console seats, and clasped six-fingered hands over the top of his cane. He smiled. ‘Most persistent, your young s’aranthi.’

  Long ago I learned that, though Orthean languages don’t have the word for it, you nevertheless don’t have to tell Haltern Beth’ru-elen anything about public relations.

  Nelum Santhil paced round the block of holotanks, peering with interest at aerial overviews of this part of Melkathi. He seemed preoccupied. His short dark mane was slicked up by the heat, and there was a thin line of white visible round his eyes. Pinned roughly to his slit-backed shirt was a crest badge, such as the Crown Guard wear; and this was all now that marked him out as T’An Suthai-Telestre. The telestres love ceremony, they also know when to abandon it.

  Tour t’an Clifford – no word?’

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  Nelum Santhil rested one stubby six-fingered hand on the edge of a holotank. ‘The hiyeks have means to far-speak, by use of your devices; and I hear also that they have groundcars, to travel. How many?’

  No point in concealment. ‘Eight, possibly nine,’ I said.

  ‘Then the hiyeks will know what is happening in the Freeport. Call your t’an Clifford,’ the T’An Suthai-Telestre said. ‘Warn him.’

  Haltern, who sat resting his chin on his clasped hands, shot me a glance of amusement. I could guess what he was thinking. This is the man whom I brought to the Citadel one night, eight years gone; not only a traitor, but a betrayer of other traitors – and now he is Crown. Perhaps the one qualifies him for the other?

  I asked another of the Peace Force officers to make the contact. As I did so, a group of seven or eight young men and women arrived outside the building; and began to come in, talking, and setting down the more bulky pieces of WEB equipment. Lutaya and Visconti were there. As well as Ariadne and Trismegistus, I recognized the sigils of four other WEBs: two of them Pacifican-based (so they would be funded by multicorporates), one offworld from the Heart Stars, and a homeworld crew who – after some thought – I realized must come from the USSA. With Ariadne from the European Enclaves, and Trismegistus based in the Home Worlds generally, that meant a fair spread of opinion.

  The Peace Force officer approached. He said quietly, ‘I can’t make contact with the envoy, Representative Christie. Shall I keep trying?’

  Ironic – that I know what’s happening eight hundred miles distant in Morvren Freeport, but nothing of what might be eight miles away, in what used to be Keverilde …

  Not conscious of a hiatus (but by the officer’s face there must have been one), I said, ‘Keep trying.’ Thinking, What’s the connection between here, and the hiyek-Ortheans sailing towards the Freeport? What’s happened here? Sethri – Doug –

  ‘Sorry, people,’ I said. ‘I’m going to have to put this off for a few hours. I could give you the usual keep-’em-quiet rubbish, but I don’t think there’s any need to mess you around. I will let you know as soon as I can authorize a news release for the WEBs.’

  One of the two Anansi WEBbers raised his
voice. ‘My colleague in the western coastal settlement says there’s a lot of new activity there. Is that connected with this?’

  Dissemination of news might hurt the Company, I thought. Can it hurt Orthe? And noted in passing, as one does, how I was now thinking: what order of priorities. It was Nelum Santhil whose eye I caught, where he stood unnoticed behind the group of WEBcasters. When Dalzielle Kerys-Andrethe was Crown, she would have dominated such a group without effort; he, with an equal lack of effort, faded into the background, waiting his moment to move. His black eyes were bright with humour. How can you? I thought. And then realized it was personally directed at me. Here I stand where Nelum Santhil stood before: on both sides of the fight …

  I glanced round the outhouse.

  ‘If you want to know what’s developing, I should stay around here,’ I said. ‘I’ll arrange a linkup to the orbiter, but I’ll want replay facilities for my staff. That applies also to what your colleagues in Morvren send. In return, you can have unrestricted access to Company transmissions.’

  At least, I thought, as the group broke into excited discussions, you can while I’m acting Representative. Cory Mendez will create hell, but by then it’ll be too late. And things are moving too fast now. If I can hang on and get us through this crisis – that’s all I ask.

  Reports came back from the F90s at thirty- and then at fifteen-minute intervals. I stayed in the comlink-centre. Once during the afternoon, two ashiren brought in food for those of us there – the WEBcasters, Nelum Santhil, Haltern, Cassirur; and Geren T’An Ymir who’d ridden in from Tathcaer. The small room was full. I became aware that the Ortheans outside had begun to drift into the Wellhouse yard. The hum of their talk was a constant background to the hiss and crackle of comlink transmissions, blurred by Morvren’s closeness to the Glittering Plain.

  All through those hours, with the jath-rai drawing nearer to Morvren Freeport, satellite-images showed no movement at all on the heathland of Keverilde. At one point I took over from the Peace Force officer and tried contacting Douggie myself. It made no difference. There was no answer. I left it, contacted the orbiter: checked on the condition of David Osaka and Rashid Akida, now on Thierry’s World; and had words with the acting heads of PanOceania’s commercial and research divisions evacuated from Kel Harantish. And then I left the comlink officer to continue trying to contact Doug Clifford, and slept briefly, and woke to find nothing changed.

  Dawn was a white blaze in the east: Merrum Firstweek Sevenday. The population of the comlink-centre changed, some of the WEBcasters now (I saw) going off to snatch sleep; Cassirur and another Earthspeaker being joined by Tethmet Fenborn. I pushed the chair back from the’ tank and walked over towards him, thinking, Word could have come from Kasabaarde, but the youngest Peace Force officer intercepted me.

  ‘I’ve got something here,’ she said. ‘Commander Mendez told me to notify her too. It’s a sat-pic of a body down on the heath; it shows evidence of CAS weaponry being used.’

  I bent over the holotank beside her. ‘What evidence – visual? That’s not usual –’

  I stopped, breath cut off short.

  The image was small and clear. He lay with the side of his face pushed into the earth, black blood run and congealed from his ears and eyes. CAS weaponry, yes; but it wasn’t that that made my heartbeat stutter. The meshabi-robe marked him out for a hiyek-Orthean; and I knew him. As still as if he slept, Sethri-safere of hiyek-Anzhadi lay in a hollow of the earth, dew wet on his skin.

  ‘Get me a heat-sensor reading.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ the Pacifican woman said. ‘Been dead for six or seven hours, by medicomputer estimate. Do you want it picked up?’

  ‘Yes – have whoever goes in be extremely careful.’

  For a long moment I stood looking at that image, made of clear light. Wild becamil had woven thin webs between mane and shoulder and the earth. No movement of ribcage, no flicker of that eye half shut by membrane … And once he sat down beside me in the heat and glare of Maherwa and said, I will be a friend to you, Lynne Christie. Jesus Christ! I raged internally, senselessly; some friend, how could you let this happen now? And my eyes stung.

  ‘S’aranth,’ Haltern Beth’ru-elen said urgently, at the same moment as the Peace Force officer began to hurry back through the crowd towards me.

  ‘Hal, take a look at this … What?’

  ‘There is someone down on Keverilde –’ The old male stopped short, recognizing the image of the dead Orthean.

  ‘Sensors are picking up movement,’ the officer said. ‘A small number of people, at 908-657-867. Estimate two or three, no more; they’re not making much progress, but they’re heading for this place.’

  ‘Can you identify?’

  She said cautiously, ‘One of them might be the government envoy. It’s difficult to get a visual fix; there’s a fog rising.’

  ‘If you – never mind,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it. Find me a driver, armed. What’s the distance involved?’

  ‘Six miles. Representative –’

  I pushed through the crowd, ignoring urgent questions from the WEBcasters, sidestepped Lutaya; and as I left the outhouse, found the Earthspeaker Cassirur beside me. Cold air hit me, made me shiver. Dawn was drowned in mist that the sun would burn away; that hid the onion-domes of the Wellhouse.

  ‘They may be my people, and if one is hurt, you’ll need me,’ the red-maned woman said. She signalled to an ashiren, who ran into the Wellhouse, and returned almost instantly with a satchel of marhaz-hide.

  ‘I – yes, I’m not thinking. I’ll take one of the Force medics with us.’

  It must have taken only minutes to walk down the hillslope to where the Company groundcars were, but time stretched out; the ground underfoot jolted me, the wet fog dampened hair and coverall, tension snarled into a knot in my gut. I noted that Cassirur now wore at her belt a harur-nilgiri blade. Using the comlink, I called a medic; he and the driver were ready to go when I reached the ’car. And then it seemed only seconds while the ’car crept down the dirt tracks below Ashiel, visibility nil, relying on heat-sensors to move at all. Six miles.

  ‘There.’

  Cassirur stood, gripping the edge of the groundcar seat. She pointed ahead. Faint light was beginning to leak through the mist. We moved in a shifting circle of visibility some ten yards across; and shadowy figures appeared now at the edge of it. The’ car rolled to a halt. Two people – It is Douggie, I thought; knowing him without even having to see his face.

  While the ’car driver stood guard, CAS-VIII at the alert, I got down; Cassirur and the medic with me. The fog muffled sound, but I heard one of the two men breathing harshly; and as I walked forward thought there was something familiar about the other – not human, but Orthean – and then I stopped.

  Doug Clifford’s arm was across the shoulders of the other male, who held him upright. His coverall was darkly stained. One foot was bare and bleeding. His head was hanging down, but as I stepped forward he raised it; cocking his head sideways as if listening. His lips moved soundlessly. A strip of rag was bound round his head, covering his eyes; rag that was soaked red.

  ‘Douggie –’

  The Company medic pushed past me, reaching for his kit; and the Orthean male released Doug Clifford’s arm with a grunt of pain. I could only stare, until the medic began to remove the blood-soaked rag; I saw a mess of blood and matted flesh –

  An Orthean male in black robes, muddy and ripped. Brown-skinned and black-maned. I fixed my eyes on him because I couldn’t look at Doug; spoke to cover the sound he was making. ‘Who –?’ And then recognized him.

  Pathrey Shanataru wiped his six-fingered hands on his torn robe. He glanced at the envoy.

  ‘Who did that to him?’ the Harantish male said. His voice shook; there was a line of white showing round his eyes. ‘It was Calil bel-Rioch. The Empress Calil.’

  30

  Turncoat

  ‘If you have any sense of survival,’ Pathrey Shanataru added, ‘leave here. S
han’tai, she may send people after us.’

  ‘“Us”?’

  ‘Take that for good faith,’ he said, with a nod of his head at the envoy; and then more urgently: ‘I must speak with you, with all s’aranthi. To come here, I’ve risked everything; I’ve lost everything; you must listen to me.’

  The medic looked up from where he knelt beside Doug Clifford, who was down on one knee in the dirt. ‘This man’s in shock. I need to get him to Kumiel, those are the nearest facilities.’

  ‘Drive back to Ashiel.’ I stepped forward and took Doug’s arm. His head turned towards me, blind behind plastiflesh bandages. My head was full of calculations: how long before the fog lifts? How long before a ’thopter can get him to Kumiel – or an F90 to the orbiter?

  ‘Sethri’s dead.’ Doug choked: I guessed at the effort of withstanding pain. His other hand came to grip my arm. He said again, ‘Sethri Anzhadi’s dead. I saw … saw Calil bel-Rioch have him killed.’

  ‘We know. The sats spotted it. Doug, come on; we’ll get you back – for God’s sake be careful – that’s it …’

  Doug Clifford stopped. The muscles of his back were hard under my hand. Empathy and revulsion tore me in different directions; I stifled both under professionalism. There will be time to take this in later.

  With a studied precision, Doug said, ‘You will need to be in reach of orbital communications, therefore Kumiel; take me to Kumiel and use the medic facilities there; on the trip, I’ll impart some extremely necessary information. Shan’tai Pathrey is correct, you must listen to him. What he has to say is important –’

  He sagged back against me. ‘Painkiller,’ the medic said, as he and I manoeuvred Doug into the groundcar, and I sat with him half-supported against me as the driver swung us round in a curve and back up the track towards Ashiel Wellhouse. Cassirur bent forward to speak to Pathrey Shanataru in the front seat, but the dark Harantish male only shook his head.