Emergence

by C. J. Cherryh

  • • •

  Lord Keimi had come in first, with Deiso and Janiri, and other Taibeni had taken the mecheiti back to the camp, to prevent problems—because the next guests were arriving on trucks and in small vehicles: the mayor of Diegi, who had lent his car to Lord Tatiseigi, who had ample storage, had received it back again last night, and had taken aboard the mayors of Heitisi and Hegian, and the wife and son of the mayor of Heitisi, and the sister of the mayor of Hegian, followed by a number of trucks and vans. Nomari had sent good wishes, and a very felicitous gift, a porcelain bowl for Uncle’s collection. Even two Kadagidi townships had sent gifts, a brass urn and a gazing-glass, a curious thing of blown glass with swirls inside, that sparkled in the light.

  There had been food, mostly sweets, and most all the glassware was pressed into service, even some old, fragile things from storage. There were too many people, counting spouses and cousins and various village and township officials, and kin, for them ever to hope to serve at table, so people milled and mixed, and stared with great misgiving at the Taibeni, who had never come to an Atageini festivity.

  But Uncle spoke with Lord Keimi and Antaro’s and Jegari’s parents, and introduced them to the mayors, who introduced them in turn to their spouses and cousins, and to the other notables, poets, and artisans of various sorts, who also had brought small gifts to the occasion—

  Not to Uncle, these little gifts, but such things as toys and ribbons, and several nice little jackets for Sister.

  Mother was not present, nor was she intended to be. Only after the party was well-advanced, and Uncle had told the story of the escaped mecheiti for at least the third time, and introduced everyone who could possibly be introduced—and after everybody had had a glass or mug of something a boy was not permitted to have.

  Which was all right. He had tried it once. It had not been that much fun, especially in the morning. Slipping about . . . that had been fun.

  Such moments were harder come by, now that he was obliged to be dignified. He stood by the potted orangelle mostly, and received felicitations.

  And questions: “Will you be happy with your sister as lord of Atageini?” and “Has your great-uncle mentioned anyone for Kadagidi?” On the latter one, he swore he would make up a courteous card saying, No, nandi. I do not think he wishes to become involved in that question.

  But he kept nodding and smiling, and he was very glad to have his aishid near him, simply because they were eight people not asking him questions.

  And because they were keeping in touch with information.

  “Jeri-ji,” Antaro said in a lull, leaning very close to him. “The shuttle has landed safely. Everybody is there, everybody is safe, and nand’ Bren is with them.”

  He heaved a great, deep sigh, and felt the tension that had gripped his chest unwind itself.

  “Good,” he said simply. “Good.”

  Then it was as if some great wind had risen and blown all the people instantly across the room, oblivious to him, all conversation stopped, everybody, including Uncle, looking up at the stairs.

  Mother was coming down the steps, and Beha-nadi behind her was carrying Sister in her arms.

  • • •

  The vehicles that had gotten them to the end of the runway and two that had been waiting took them aboard, and the lead driver knew where he was going—a good thing, Bren thought: he’d not been this famous on his arrivals, and there’d been no reviewing stand and crowd to navigate. The massive stands were not a permanent feature. They were all planks and pipe, like a sports stand, made nicer by the Mospheiran colors, but the backside was a confusion of supports, with only numbers on placards to advise them where to park.

  Their transportation would wait. They had to get out and climb. It was asking a bit to bring the kids and parents, fresh from zero gravity, up three flights of steps to reach the bunting-swathed box. He wished he’d considered that detail and had a scissor-lift for them or the like.

  But they made it. They emerged into sunlight, with that—to spacefarer eyes—horrifying expanse of flatness beyond, but a crowd of people to give them something close-range to ground them. Shawn was there, with his security, with his aides, with the Justices, and the head of Science, the head of the University—looking a little grim—and the head of the Space Service, all there to shake hands quite solemnly, children and parents alike, while media from the pool hovered at the rail with their cameras and microphones and a massive screen showed the images to all the people in the stands.

  Bren simply stood back a bit, as far out of camera range as he and his aishid could manage, and let it be Shawn’s show, all of it.

  And Shawn was in his element, being the common man for the visitors, asking how they fared, complimenting their courage, wishing them well. Karl and Evan and Lyle likewise put themselves as far to the back as they could, modest fellows, doing, Bren realized, what he was doing, taking their cues from him—not quite with the children, but not putting themselves in the spotlight, either.

  It was all going according to program, until suddenly, from whatever direction, two, three nearby gunshots shocked the air and the world spun sideways amid deafening screams. Bren hit the carpet, lay there with one of his aishid pressing him to the ground, breath coming as best he could get it.

  He was not hit. He was relatively sure of that. He tried to move, and then—it was Algini who had flattened him—Algini and Tano briskly lifted him to his feet, and he could see not a thing past Banichi and Jago except a wall of human bodies. He could tell nothing, except Artur’s parents had him safe on the ground in a knot of security, Gene’s mother was the same, hugging Gene and Irene both. The kids were all right. Their parents were.

  “No, damn it, let me up!” Shawn’s voice, as people began, amid the din of voices, shouting “Mr. President! Mr. President!”

  “Give me a microphone!” Shawn ordered.

  “Mr. President, stay down.”

  “The hell!” Shawn shoved himself to his feet, his coat sleeve soaked with blood, an aide trying to tie a scarf around it. “Give me a damn microphone!”

  “He’s hurt.”

  “I’m not damned dying! Give it to me!” Shawn grabbed the microphone from the stand and said, “Is this thing live?”

  “Yes,” someone said, and Shawn said, his voice ringing over the stands, while his blood-spattered face loomed on the giant screen beyond:

  “Somebody doesn’t want me to talk, somebody doesn’t want us to be here today. Somebody doesn’t want three innocent kids to come down here, because it’s all a conspiracy launched two hundred years ago, when humankind had a difference of opinion about whether to go on with the ship or stay here and live under this sun. Well, somebody’s wrong in the head! Get over it! What happened back then is not these kids’ fault, it’s not these parents’ fault, it’s not my fault, and it sure wasn’t the atevi’s fault! I’m not giving the speech I’d planned, about bright futures and our traditions and our family holidays, because we obviously have some work to do! We have these people on our doorstep who came here for help, who’re being told by the ex-station director to go off to a barren moon and die, because somehow they’re going to change us if they come down here. Well, my fellow citizens, they’re not the ones bent on changing us. What will change us is not five thousand men, women, kids, and old people who’ve come to us for refuge. It’s the notion that we’re too fragile, too morally impoverished to give it. We can give it, we should give it, and by all we hold sacred, we’re going to give it! We’re not intimidated. We’re not stupid. And we’re not going to react in fear of each other. I’m done. I’m out of breath. Just think, for God’s sake. What way of life do we want to show our new citizens? Give a cheer for them. Give a cheer. Let these two families hear what the majority of good people think!”

  The uproar was massive, all about. Bren drew breath, went to the Reunioners, patted shoulders. “He means
it,” he said. “People here mean it. Tillington isn’t going to win down here. Neither is Braddock.” His aishid wasn’t leaving him for an instant: they wanted him out of here, he well knew. A side glance caught the massive vid screen, and a trio in tight focus. It was Anna Parker, tears running down her ashen face, locked in an embrace with her olive-skinned son and her dark-skinned daughter. That image was up there. It was going out to a nation of human beings, not a word said, none needed.

  “Sit down, Mr. President. An ambulance is trying to get through.”

  “My arm’s bleeding. I’m not dead.”

  “The assassin is,” one of the security team said. “Lone gunman, best we can figure.”

  “Random lunatic, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” another of the team said.

  “Get me up,” Shawn said. “I’ll walk down to the damn ambulance. I mean it.”

  “Let him,” an aide said.

  “But first thing,” Shawn said, “I’m going to see these people get to their home. Excuse the left hand.” He grasped hands of each of the parents, touched each of the kids. “Excuse us. We’re going to fix this. You go with your security. They’ll get you home. They’ll keep you safe. —Mr. Cameron.” Shawn was perfectly aware mikes were live, cameras full on them. “You’ll be wanting to keep your schedule. Our regards to Tabini-aiji, and our firm promise that Mospheira is better than this. That we all are better than this. These families will be safe here. And welcome here. I’ll be contacting you soon.”

  “Mr. President.” Bren gave a little bow, and saw Shawn put a hand inside his coat, where there was disturbed thread in a pattern of beige brocade.

  Thank God, he thought. Shawn had worn the damned vest. Shawn had taken the threat seriously. But nobody had expected such an event here, with the kids present.

  That image, Anna Parker, the two kids, was going to haunt Mospheiran television over the next number of days. Maybe for years. Shawn had said it: Mospheirans weren’t like that. That image was going to be on every screen, in every town, in every bar and every place people gathered to discuss what went on in the world.

  “We shall go,” he said to his aishid, and had a glimpse of the University kids, the three of them, shaken, standing aside. But Karl put out a hand as he came toward the steps, not touching him, aware of custom. Just delaying him to say:

  “We’re here, sir. Just—we’ll do what we can.”

  “They’ve seen a lot worse. Very much worse. Just—help them see better in us. Be here. Do what I can’t.”

  “Sir.”

  He gave a bow, a little one, a nod. And took his way quietly down the steps, his aishid before and behind him. It was not the paidhi-aiji’s business now.

  It was Shawn’s. It was a Mospheiran matter, no matter how he wanted to sweep those kids up and get them to safety . . . on the continent, if he had his way.

  But that was not the best way, even for the kids and the parents. The kids had to grow up human, first, cope with their own instincts, find out, first, what those instincts were. They had to have that, before they could be what Cajeiri needed them to be.

  Down the stairs, behind Banichi and Jago, ahead of Tano and Algini. The ambulance had arrived, down below. Mospheirans had to sort this one out. He couldn’t.

  • • •

  Everybody wanted to see Seimiro. That was no surprise at all. They crowded about, and Seimiro, who was usually in a good mood, behaved very well for the most part, as Mother held Seimiro in her arms, and walked about the hall, letting each group, starting with the mayor of Diegi, see Seimiro up close. Seimei even blinked at him and smiled, which the mayor took personally.

  Group after group, however, was asking a lot of Seimiro, and especially she grimaced and fretted when people crowded close. It was the bodies shadowing the light, and then the lamps, Cajeiri thought.

  But it was a felicitous day. All the numbers said so. Seimei’s numbers and Uncle’s agreed, which was, of course, complete nonsense, but Heisi explained the details of it, and explained how Seimei, born in spring, was the Lily of Atageini.

  That was a bit much. Seimei screwed up her face and scowled as if she understood the notion, and Cajeiri simply kept an expressionless face and politely waited for the speeches.

  “Her father and her brother,” the mayor of Diegi said at one point, “will never fail her, and all her associations will benefit.”

  That was true, but it was a little excessive for a small bundle of pale silk and lace, who was starting to fret at the echoes in the hall.

  It was, finally, down to the point of the gathering, and Mother held Seimiro in her arms while Uncle, who could not hold her properly with one arm in a sling, simply laid a hand ever so gently on Seimiro’s head—and said the words:

  “This is Seimiro, daughter of Tabini-aiji and Damiri-daja, sister of Cajeiri-nandi; granddaughter of my sister Muriyo. This is Seimiro-nandi, my heir, someday to be lord of Tirnamardi, lord of Atageini, heir to its privileges and duties, heir to its associations and obligations, and heir to its future in the heart of the aishidi’tat. This is my heir, nandiin! The lordship and the line are secure, and you are witnesses! The table has the document itself, and the ribbons and cards. I shall sign them—this hand will manage it, I promise you—and you shall sign as witnesses and associates. Wax is ready, for those of you who have brought ribbons and seals, and Tabini-aiji will receive a document heavy with the good will of our neighbors.”

  A murmur of approval echoed in the hall.

  There would be one seal to come: that would be Father’s.

  Lord Keimi provided the ribbon of his own queue: the seal was his gold ring.

  Uncle’s, the impress of a lily in a special green wax, went on.

  Reijiri’s, a blue and white ribbon, likewise from his queue, and the mark of a sun and star.

  And there was, which Mother affixed, a ribbon which had arrived by Guild courier at dawn, the gold and blue of Ajuri, the impress of a sword.

  The black and red of Father’s seal would go on. That would be for him.

  But now every witness would sign it, and for every attendee, even servants and Guild, there would be cards and ribbons, with Uncle’s seal and, and Mother’s, and his. Seimiro made her definitive progress about the room, in Beha-nadi’s arms. Then Beha took her upstairs to have a nap, and they all settled at the table to sign cards for all the witnesses, of whatever station, things to be kept as family treasures—a record older than writing, so his tutor said. A treaty of acceptance.

  An heir of Atageini. A lord of Ajuri. And his associates were down safely. Nand’ Bren had promised they would make a phone call as soon as they were settled in, maybe in another day; and they had to be a little careful what they said, and only speak Ragi, for political reasons. He was anxious to hear their voices. They would make plans. But they could not set a date—for security reasons.

  He was here—for family reasons. But he had no doubt when that call came through, the system would track him down.

  He signed a card for Antaro’s mother, and sealed and ribboned it himself. He had never quite felt the surrounds of family except with mani and nand’ Bren and his three associates. He had never expected to feel it in the same room as his mother.

  But he did.

  21

  Brighter Days moved briskly past the breakwater, where the waters of the strait began. Bren sat on the locker by the transom, watching the wake, watching Port Jackson become a geometry in the distance, the hill of Francis House, the tall buildings, the few scattered constructions that were part of the airport.

  Jeladi and Narani had gotten their luggage to the harbor, with the help of Shawn’s security, and Toby and Barb had not failed their summons. They had still been fueling when Bren had come aboard, with Banichi and Jago, with Tano and Algini, and they had sat there a brief while, saying not that much, beyond just what had happened, and tha
t the kids were safe.

  Once fueling was complete, Toby and Barb had just let them be a while and gotten Brighter Days free of the dock and out into the harbor, under her engines. Now, Jeladi and Narani were belowdecks arranging things in the two cabins they would share. Banichi and the others just sat. The radio was audible, barely, to Bren’s ears, and it was saying things like an outrage and an attack against decency. Shawn had released a copy of his intended speech, welcoming the children and their parents, and citing the Mospheiran traditions of family unity and family celebrations, while proposing a new holiday Shawn intended to call Reunion Day, a free day at all the nature reserves, reminding them all of the environment they had shared, and the fact that those who had come back from the long voyage had never felt natural gravity and never seen a tree. We have so much, he would have said, so very much it costs us nothing to share.

  Now at least one commentator had quoted that, and said the name of the holiday should be a solemn reminder to what lengths some people could carry hate, and that Reunion Day should come to be a day of real reunion, a day of national reconsideration and reconciliation—lest we repeat our mistakes, the commentator said. We have some sober thinking to do.

  If only they would, Bren thought.

  And wished he had handled things better, that he had arranged things differently, that he had advised Shawn to meet the Reunioners in Francis House, in his office. But Shawn had not wanted the closed doors, the restricted meeting, about which detractors were sure to complain. Everything above board.

  Thank God, he thought, Shawn had worn the vest.

  “Bren,” Barb said. She had picked up the phone, had it in hand, and spoke over the sound of the engine and rush of water. “Call from the President.”

  He got up immediately and went to take it, shielding the mouthpiece from the ambient. “This is Bren Cameron.” He expected one of Shawn’s aides, with, he hoped, a good report.

  “Bren. It’s me. Sore as hell, but grateful. Real grateful. Wanted you to know—just had a report from Kate: the kids are in, the families are real impressed with the arrangements, they’ve now seen a tree, at least from the window, they’re exhausted, but probably not going to sleep for hours. I’m back home, they are, and they tagged the gunman as an aide of John Woodenhouse, if that tells you anything. You remember him. Heritage Party, the legislative committee?”