Destroyer

by C. J. Cherryh

  Everybody was not so easily rendered, when it came to fitting tall atevi into human-sized conveyances, along with their carefully-watched baggage and equipment. There was the bus for the airport crew, and that also went into service for baggage and shuttle crew transport, accompanied by two of Ilisidi’s young men.

  The rest of them eased into Shawn’s limosine—no great problem for himself and Ilisidi and Cajeiri, near human sized, but only Cenedi could get in besides, in the facing seats. He settled beside Shawn himself, leaving his aide to ride beside the driver. Banichi and Jago, Tano and Algini, together with the rest of Cenedi’s men, all parceled themselves out into other cars, having to duck their heads uncomfortably, and the vehicles whipped off at considerable speed down the frontage of airport buildings and onto a road leading outward.

  “Most happy to have you safe,” Shawn ventured, filling an awkward silence in the crowded vehicle.

  Bren translated, improving it to: “He expresses all possible felicitations on the dowager’s safe return.”

  Ilisidi frowned and muttered, “Has he any useful news?”

  “She asks news,” he rendered that surly utterance. “I fear she won’t consent to stay here more than the night. She wants transport to the mainland, and information that can set her on the other shore as well-prepared as possible. I have to concur. Our enemies won’t waste time setting up opposition to a landing.”

  Shawn absorbed that. More than the gray hair—he’d added a few lines in his face in the last two years.

  “Does she intend to confront Murini-aiji militarily?”

  “Not aiji,” Ilisidi said sharply.

  Shawn quickly inclined his head, a slight apology. “Pardon.”

  “She doesn’t acknowledge Murini’s claim,” Bren said quietly. “No offense on either side. The dowager will do what makes sense in atevi terms. I doubt she knows yet exactly what, though contacting allies figures somewhere in the plan. Crossing, preferably by boat. Quietly. Inserting our group onto the mainland. Quietly. Then all hell may break loose as we secure a foothold, or we may proceed more quietly. We don’t know. That’s where information would come in very handy. Have you possibly heard from Tabini-aiji?”

  “No. Unhappily, no. Ms. Mercheson made it here. I’m sure she’ll want to report, but I don’t think she knows any more than I do.”

  “What of the central provinces, the Atageini?”

  “We don’t know the details of who’s allied to whom,” Shawn said. “We only know who’s come out in public as supporting Murini—mostly southerners, and the Kadigidi in the central association. For the rest, we don’t know who’s fence-sitting and who’s biding their time.”

  “We have Lord Geigi’s information, which we’ll share with you, but it’s not current.”

  “I have a file for you,” Shawn said. “And our current codes.” Shawn hadn’t entrusted this item to an aide. He reached into his own inner coat pocket and handed him a small data reader. “I don’t trust your old accesses. Don’t use them. This is up to date. Accesses that can get that computer of yours into whatever it needs. Guard it with your life.”

  “Runs by itself?”

  “D-socket. If it can get a phone connection, it can get to Red Level. Your new codes are activated as of this hour. I trust you haven’t let the old ones loose in any unreliable places.”

  “No. I haven’t.” It was far better than he’d hoped for. A profound trust, when he’d technically stopped working for Shawn years ago. “And won’t. The file is in it?”

  “Yes. The information we have is thin, from a couple of north shore sources. For God’s sake, protect it. The recessed point on the back—that’s the security wipe. Punch that and everything’s gone.”

  “Just thank God it’s got one.” He put the small black unit into his pocket. Miniaturized to a marvel. “The Presidenta has given us a great courtesy, extreme access and all his best information, nand’ dowager, contained in this small item which will connect us to him through my computer.”

  That drew a deep inclination, a regal bow of the head. “Say to him that we shall remember this great courtesy, nand’ paidhi.”

  “She is—”” He began to say grateful, and, with a little coldness at heart, hesitated on that word. “Very favorably impressed.”

  The car braked outside the service entry to the airport hotel—the utilitarian service entry, pavement spotted with grease and a couple of trash bins brimming over, was not where he would have presented the aiji-dowager and the heir, but there they were, the human notion of security, and not that far off atevi requirements. He hastened to get out, wanting everyone under cover as quickly as possible.

  “This is the appointed stop,” he called out, as Banichi and Jago exited the car behind, with the other vehicles pulling up close. “We shall take a lift inside, among common folk of no likely ill intent. Above all, no deadly force, nadiin-ji.”

  Atevi security and ordinary airport hotel guests, many of whom might have had their flights cancelled by the unannounced shuttle landing. And security wasn’t his only worry. He turned his attention to the aiji-dowager getting out. She waved off his assistance, used her cane, anticipating Shawn’s exit from the other door, and by now his security, her security and Shawn’s security were all over the entry, taking possession of cars, service entry, and, just inside, the hotel kitchen, with startled staff. Shawn’s security held the door for them as atevi security entered. Somewhere a pan dropped, a horrid racket, and the perpetrator lived.

  “Service lift, sir,” one of Shawn’s people said, and they reached it, dispersing security, human and atevi, along their route, and then folding it in behind them, with the exhausted shuttle crew bringing up the rear with all the baggage.

  “That will all come with us,” Bren said sharply, when Shawn’s people tried to hold it at the lift in favor of people first. “Shawn.” Forgetting himself. “Mr. President, we need those bags with us at all times.”

  “Absolutely,” Shawn said, waving off his own men’s efforts. “Rely on them, Jim. They’ll manage.” Shawn’s men were doing a splendid job so far, not coming between Ilisidi’s security and Ilisidi, and managing to hold the door of the lift for them, so that even the dowager found no reason to scowl.

  Inside, with the dowager, Cajeiri, her security, Banichi and Jago, with baggage, plus Shawn and his aide and two of his men, the first load as the lift ascended, under key . . . up and up, to a destination which proved to be, indeed, the penthouses, not altogether unexplored territory to his eye. He’d been here for official meetings and the like, had stayed in more than one of the several suites, each with a formal room between. Comfortable rooms, large beds and a grand view, even by the dowager’s exacting standards. He’d had a relieved sense of where they were likely going when Shawn had said hotel, and the place had been, as Shawn had assured him, suitably arranged. There were flowers by the lift, flowers in the formal room, harmonious, even kabiu: suitable for high-ranking guests. Remarkable. University and the current paidhiin-designates had probably swung into action. And very, very welcome. The dowager drew an easier breath. Everyone did.

  “The southern suite, nandi,” Bren said, motioning to the right—he was able to recommend it, having lodged there before, himself—“has an extraordinary and pleasant view.”

  Ilisidi walked forward slowly, absorbing the environs, Cajeiri close beside her, Cenedi and Banichi to the fore. Bren opened the door of the suite.

  “Perfectly adequate,” Ilisidi said, on a mere glance inside. A note of exhaustion had thinned her voice. Cajeiri’s arm had became a constant support under her hand, like the cane on the other side, and one might suspect a haystack in a barn might have sufficed at the moment. The view was wasted. “We shall sit, nand’ paidhi. We wish to sit down.”

  “She is extremely tired,” Bren said.

  “Not surprisingly so,” Shawn said, and motioned toward the sitting room that ended the corridor in a half-circle of broad windows, blazing daylight. “The hotel h
as laid a buffet, tea, fruit, and sandwiches, if it can pass her security. Mine has watched it, start to finish. If it doesn’t suit, she can order any service she may wish.”

  “Nand’ dowager,” he said, extending an arm in that direction, “chairs, tea, fruit and sandwiches in the sitting room, provided as a courtesy by this establishment. The Presidenta’s security has passed it and swears to its safety.”

  “Excellent,” she said, and forged grimly ahead, her cane in one hand, Cajeiri’s arm under the other, Cenedi in close attendance, as they walked into that sunlit room. The window held a broad view of the mountains, snowy Mt. Adam Thomas framed in the lesser peaks, its flanks shaded with a skirt of cloud in an otherwise blue sky.

  Home, that mountain said to him, as nothing else on Mospheira. The buffet spread below, table upon table of elegantly offered food, tastes they had not enjoyed in a very long time. And even with hot tea and the longed-for chair at hand, Ilisidi lingered standing, gazing at that view . . . Ilisidi, who loved the world and its natural state.

  And whose species had owned this island once, before humans came.

  She settled slowly, painfully, into a chair which faced that view. She gazed on it, while her staff moved to bring her tea and offerings from the buffet.

  Shawn gave a little bow and settled in a chair and Bren sat, staff doing the serving—staff and Cajeiri, who sampled an item or two then contentedly served himself a heaping plateful of little sandwiches and sweets.

  Shawn cannily said not a word of business, nor did he. No one, in fact, spoke, or disturbed the dowager’s contemplation of that view for some minutes after tea and refreshments were served. The air they breathed here was unprocessed air, rich with moisture, with smells that had nothing of the machine about them. The food offering they had was simple, the world’s exquisite flavors, and Bren luxuriated in the tastes of smoked fish and cheese and fresh fruit, wonderful things, with hot tea. He found his hands shaking with fatigue, and he both wanted every detail of what Shawn had to say, and dreaded hearing it, most of all having to cope with it and make decisions. He already had a wealth of things packed into the back of his mind, an overstuffed baggage of personal and national emergencies and anxieties, things he hoped, in part, Shawn’s files covered without overmuch coming at him in conversation.

  The dowager finished. Definitively set down her teacup. “Thank the Presidenta,” she said, “nand’ paidhi, and ask how fast he can get us to the mainland.”

  “Nandi. Mr. President, the aiji-dowager very much appreciates the hospitality and asks for your assistance in reaching the mainland safely and as soon as possible.”

  “Tell her we’re honored by her sentiment, and we could try by air, but there are air and sea patrols out from time to time. There is no safe landing site for a plane except perhaps up in the north, or out on the southern peninsula, Lord Geigi’s territory.”

  He translated that.

  “A boat,” Ilisidi said, “and the central coast, south of Mogari-nai.”

  He translated. And added: “You could shadow us by sea.”

  “We could,” Shawn said, “and it has advantages. Murini’s people don’t have a firm grip on the coast and might have trouble positioning agents.”

  “He offers all assistance, aiji-ma, and offers the protection of patrol boats, with, no doubt, air, if we need it.”

  A wave of an aged hand. “More tea,” she said. “The details are for Cenedi to determine.”

  “She takes it under advisement,” Bren said. “She does favor the idea. Our security staff will consider our options.”

  “Then I won’t linger long,” Shawn said. “I can’t manage any lengthy visit without extensive noise, unfortunately, and I’ve got a press conference to manage. You have your contact numbers. Your access is active. Your phone installation on this floor is State Department, secure. If I stay much longer, the news is going to speculate outrageously, as if it hasn’t already.”

  “Hardly possible to stop air traffic at Jackson and stay unobtrusive, I know.” Unbridled news access was one great drawback of their landing site. But the drawbacks on the mainland were far worse. “The shuttle crew will continue to come and go to the spacecraft. They’ll need extremely good and determined security for it, or we’ll have the curious out there taking souvenirs.”

  Shawn’s mouth twitched. “Absolutely.” He rose, a slight breach of etiquette, but one Ilisidi passed with a nod. “My respects, nandi. Bren, I’ll be out of here before we have news cameras in the lobby; I’ll go do a media show over by the shuttle, answer questions—distract the mob and promise them more at my office. The story I’m giving out is that you’re all here in refuge, you plan to enter into extensive consultations and gather essential items before returning to the station—the shuttle will have a showy pre-launch checkover, under close security. That’ll keep them busy.”

  He could imagine the controversy in the legislature, motions proposed, resolutions offered, all the usual fears of atevi taking over the island they’d used to own, radical notions of appropriating the shuttle as human-owned, if they could. Most of all, Mospheirans feared getting dragged into an atevi conflict, with dark memories of the only war they’d ever fought.

  “You’re going to have your hands full,” he said to Shawn.

  “That’s what I do for a living,” Shawn said wryly, and offered a hand to him, a warm, old-times handclasp, before a parting bow to the dowager and the heir. “Good luck to you, nand’ dowager.”

  “Baji-naji,” Bren rendered it: the flex in the universe. Things possible. Things falling by chance and fortune. Without chaos and upheaval, the universe stagnated.

  “Baji-naji,” she repeated, the only answer, and nodded graciously, even going so far as to rise, painful as it was, and with Cajeiri’s help, to respect the withdrawal of their host.

  “Ma’am.” Shawn was truly touched. He bowed very deeply, and took his security with him, except a pair of marines that stood by the lift.

  “We take the Presidenta for an ally,” Ilisidi murmured, “despite the opinion of certain in the legislature.”

  “He is that, nandi. As good a one as we could possibly ask. He has among other things established a cover for us, as if we were conferring here, and as if we plan to return to the station.”

  “Clever gentleman.” Ilisidi nodded approval, leaning on her stick. “Well, well, but we shall want quiet passage across the straits.”

  “As soon as we can arrange it, nand’ ’Sidi,” Cenedi said.

  “Do so.” She gazed past them, as she stood, looking toward the windows, toward the view of whitecapped mountains. “Tell me, nand’ paidhi.”

  “Aiji-ma?”

  “What mountain is that?”

  “Mount Adam Thomas, aiji-ma.”

  She stood staring outward a long, long moment at the mountain that he’d regarded as his, his, from his first childhood view of it.

  “A grand view,” she said. “A very grand view.”

  Curiously, Bren thought, he had never heard any ateva literature mention the loss of the island and its special places, places important to them. But atevi were not given to mourning the impossible and the unattainable.

  “Noburanjiru,” Ilisidi said. “Noburanjiru is its name.”

  Grandmother of Snows. Center of an entire atevi culture, now displaced to the mainland, lodging generally on the north coast, where they were fishermen. It was the mountain where he’d learned to ski, where he’d spent as much of his off-time as he could—and couldn’t, these days. Hadn’t been up there for years. He had a vision of his own, white, unbroken crust, above the snow-line, a view that went on for miles.

  “Well, well,” she said, “I have seen it. I shall rest. Perhaps I shall have a nap.”

  “Assuredly,” Cenedi said to her, in the surrounding hush, and offered his arm. “Assuredly, nandi.”

  Her chosen rooms would have that view, too. Bren was glad of that—glad, in a regretful sort of way—because atevi, lifetimes ago, ha
d ceded something precious and sacred, to stop the War that was killing both nations.

  Humans built lodges up there. Built restaurants and ski lifts that he increasingly suspected didn’t belong up there, when atevi of Ilisidi’s persuasion would have made pilgrimages.

  He was home, after a fashion—he was home, and had not, in the haste and the normalcy of these people around him, even thought of the view outward, Jackson, and what it held . . . the buildings, the traffic, as normal to him as breathing, and as alien as the face of the moon these days. Ilisidi would never see that side of human Mospheira. He remained a little stunned, thinking of that fact, her reality, and his: he felt dazed, as much of the voyage down had involved a strange mix of feelings, fear of falling and mortal longing for the earth; knowledge of the textures, the details of the place he’d lived, and seeing them—a sense of remote strangeness. He was home and he wasn’t. He wasn’t the same. He never could be. That mountain up there—he saw it through atevi eyes, and the memory of the ski resorts lodged in his heart with a certain guilt.

  Ilisidi left the sitting area, then. Everyone stood quietly as Ilisidi walked, leaning on her cane, and her great-grandson’s arm about her, toward her suite. Two of her young men went after her, to see to her needs. She looked at the end of her strength. It was the first time ever he’d seen her falter. And it scared him.

  Scared them all, he thought.

  He let go a slow breath, cast a glance at his own staff, asking himself whether tomorrow would be far too soon to move, and wondering how much strain the return to terrestrial gravity might have put on Ilisidi’s frame and on her heart. And every day they delayed—the danger of interception grew worse.

  Of all hazards he had taken into account—Ilisidi failing them was one he hadn’t reckoned on.

  But the aiji-dowager was also the one of them able to wave a hand, say, See to it, and repair to her bed to cope with the change in gravity. The paidhi and her staff had to plan the details, where to land, what to do next.

  He felt drained.

  He went and got a fruit juice, and indicated to staff that they should make free of the table.