“That’s it: blame it on me.”
“You’re handy. But why all the deep questions, Sir Charles?”
Now it was his turn to blush. “Oh, I was still just trying to figure out what you meant with that kiss—and the crack about being incentive to stay alive. So, it worked and I’m still alive, what gives?”
She pursed her lips, tugged on her hair braid and shrugged. “Don’t know. You seem like a nice enough guy, but I hardly know anything about you. I suppose the kiss was just some ancient instinct women get about preserving departing warriors for the gene pool.”
“I’m an engineer, not a warrior, and I didn’t realize you could transfer genetic materials just by kissing…”
“No, that is the flaw in the theory, isn’t it? But what about you? What does the big, engineer-not-a-warrior really want? Aside from his own construction firm, I mean.”
It was Crawford’s turn to shrug. “I like building things. Gates are my specialty, but it doesn’t really matter what I’m building. Creating something where there wasn’t anything before is just so… so satisfying.” He looked at Regina speculatively. “But that must all seem like pretty small stuff to a woman who creates whole new worlds.”
“I don’t create worlds, Charles, I just tinker with them a bit.”
“Still, it must be very satisfying to take some worthless rock and turn it into a place people can live. A lot more satisfying than… killing things.”
“It is satisfying, but I’m also a worse killer than… than any warrior. Life is incredibly persistent and even the nastiest worlds seem to have something living on them. When I create a new ecosystem suitable for humans, I inevitably destroy most, or all, of whatever was there before. It might just be bacteria or some alien slime mold, but it bothers me sometimes.”
“But you do it anyway.”
“Yes, I do. For the greater good and the glory of humanity and me, right? I guess you and I aren’t all that different after all, are we Charles?”
“Well, we have more in common than we do with some alien slime mold, I suppose.”
Regina laughed. For some reason that made him feel good. “That is the essence of it, isn’t it? You’ve hit on something profound, Charles: ‘Men and Women—more alike than slime mold’.”
Crawford laughed now and that made him feel good, too. “Well, in most cases, anyway. I’ve known a few who seemed more like slime mold.”
“Oh really? Men or women?”
“Not saying; it would only get me in trouble.”
“You do have a knack for that, it seems. But it also seems that both of us are avoiding the real issue.”
Crawford stared at the woman. She really was amazingly attractive. Her face had some odd angles to it, or seemed to; maybe it was the long braid hanging down on the side, but she was very pretty in an exotic sort of way. And her figure… whew. On a purely physical level he was very attracted to her; and she was smart and interesting and… But did he want to get involved with her? There was so damn much going on right now. On the other hand, if they were going to get blown to bits by the Venanci squadron in a few months then it didn’t really matter what they did right now, did it? She was staring at him again.
“Okay, so what do you…” He stopped short as a medical orderly popped into the room. Crawford guiltily realized he had been sitting in here, alone with Regina, for nearly fifteen minutes.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but you’ve got a call from the governor on the com. You can use the terminal here if you want, sir.”
“Very well.” He got up from the table, uncertain if he was irritated or relieved by the interruption, and stepped out of the exam room into Felicity’s small sick bay office. The orderly left the compartment. Regina offered to go, too, but he waved her to a chair outside the arc of the camera pickup. Now what did Shiffeld want? The trade agreement had been finalized with commendable speed once the duel was done and now Felicity was less than an hour from rendezvousing with the Rift Fleet. Shiffeld had been kept fully informed about events. Oh well, one way to find out. He hit the key to open the circuit and Shiffeld’s face appeared on the screen. The transmission delay was down to only about two seconds, so he began to speak almost immediately.
“Sir Charles! I’m so glad to see that you are well! You gave us quite a scare, but you did a superb job. We’re all proud of you. You’ve done a tremendous service to Andera and I just wanted to express my own profound gratitude.”
“Thank you, sir. I was lucky.”
“Not as lucky as we were to have someone with your courage and dedication in that spot. A lesser man would have turned down that challenge and left us all in the lurch.”
Crawford had no clue what to say, so he said nothing. Shiffeld paused for a moment as if waiting for a response, but when he did not get one he went on. “I’ve been thinking of the proper way to reward you, and in my experience, the usual reward for a job well done is a tougher job. So it shall be with you, Sir Charles. You might recall our last conversation? We were talking about leadership?”
“Yes…”
“Well, while you’ve been gone, I’ve been working with some of the surviving merchant captains to try and come up with a plan of action to get the warships back in action. Assuming that the locals can deliver the materials and products we require, we can divert most of the mining and manufacturing personnel to provide at least skeleton crews for most of the ships. We are hoping that will allow us to man the engines and weapons with the minimum needed for basic operations. However, that will still leave us very short handed in places like damage control. What we hope to do is to take some of your people—yes, yes, I know you have none to spare, but hear me out, please. I’m only talking about for a few weeks of basic training and then during the actual period of the Venanci attack. Surely you can make up that small amount of time out of a two-year construction schedule?”
“Well… maybe…”
“Good! I knew I could count on you! But even that still leaves us terribly short in the leadership department, especially at the highest levels. I’m going to need men in place who our people will be willing to follow into battle. Lord Frichette will be in overall command, of course, but I need some people as squadron commanders. I want you to be one of those, Sir Charles.”
“What? I don’t know anything about stuff like that!” exclaimed Crawford, aghast.
“I know you don’t, but you’d be amazed at how many of Andera’s victorious fleets had leaders who were complete amateurs. It’s not your technical skills we need, Sir Charles—although you might want to study up on this a bit if you can—it is your leadership. When the crisis comes, there will be thousands of your people on those ships, people already used to following you. They’ll do for you what they might not for some stranger. Can I count on you, sir?”
Crawford was dumbstruck. Command a group of warships? How the hell could he do that?
“I might add,” continued Shiffeld, “that you are quite the hero among the people of the expedition. Men will be eager to follow you into battle, I think.”
“I…I suppose I could at least sit in the chair and pretend I know what I’m doing, if you think that would help…” stuttered Crawford, finding his voice.
“Excellent! You have my thanks. Oh, and if you don’t mind, would you be kind enough to pass a message on to Dame Regina that I’d like to see her when you get back on a different matter?” Crawford’s eyes darted to the woman close beside him. Her eyebrows were raised in speculation.
“Yes, sir, I’ll pass that along.”
“Good. Talk to you later. Shiffeld, out.” The screen went blank. Crawford swiveled to look at Regina.
“Well, that’s a bundle of news.”
Her speculative expression was still there. “Yes, I wonder what he’s up to now?”
* * * * *
“May the Lifegiver accept and cherish the soul of our departed brother as we cherished and loved him in life,” intoned Archpriest Brannon Gillard. “May his
spirit find new use and purpose in the Lifegiver’s service, just as his mortal remains will do in the service of his family and clan.” His fingers lightly brushed the head of Keelan Caspari. The young man looked peaceful enough, despite his broken nose, shattered teeth, and bruised lips. Far more peaceful than he looked during the last few minutes that life had remained in him. Brannon prayed that Keelan’s soul was at peace now, too.
At the touch of the dead flesh, a sadness passed through Brannon, but a strange thrill of faith tingled his brain as well. For all the standards he had spent bringing new life into the universe, somehow, the death of a person was also a stirring confirmation of his beliefs. The thing floating before him was not Keelan Caspari. It was just an inert lump of organic materials, soon to be recycled in the clan’s nutrient tanks. And the force that had animated this lump was far more than just an ordered series of chemical reactions. No, Keelan’s body was dead because the spark which had been Keelan had fled it, the sharp metal object that had pierced the heart was almost incidental. Almost.
He glanced at Herren Caspari, clutching a handhold and staring frozenly at the body of his son. The violent deaths of his only children, mere days apart, had shaken the clan leader to his core. Brannon had tried to console his old friend, but he had been no more responsive than the lump which had once been Keelan. Even his attempts to explain his fears that the Newcomers were, indeed, the ancient World Stealers had left Caspari unmoved. The man had withdrawn into himself, into an impervious shell. Brannon had seen him in such a state only once before, when it had seemed certain his first son would not survive the incubator. Herren had emerged joyfully from his shell that time; this time Brannon did not know when or how he might emerge—if he ever did.
“We ask for the Lifegiver’s blessings on Keelan Caspari and all those who knew and loved him.” Brannon raised his arms and all the assembled mourners gave the ritual response: “So be it.” They all bowed their heads for a long moment and then the people slowly drifted out of the compartment. Herren did not move. Brannon sighed quietly and pushed himself over next to him, but still the man made no sign that he was even aware of him. “Herren,” he said gently, “the ship is due to leave for home almost immediately. I want your permission to stay behind. You remember what I told you about the Newcomers yesterday? I have to stay and talk to the other priests. I need to try and convince them of the danger.” There was still no reaction. Brannon carefully reached out to touch his arm. “Herren, it is time to move on. We have work to do. This is finished.”
Caspari remained frozen for a few seconds longer and then suddenly jerked his arm away. His eyes, which had been fixed on his son, were now fixed on Brannon’s; a fierce intensity burned in them. “Do what you will, priest! Nothing is finished!” He turned away and launched himself out of the compartment.
Brannon stared after his friend for a long time, shocked and fearful at his parting words, but then the urgency of his mission forced him into motion. He went back to Keelan’s body and began sealing it in the container which would transport it home. It was a routine and mechanical duty, and his mind was already on what he needed to accomplish on Panmunaptra. As a priest, he was free to stay, despite the fact the law required all other Clorindans to leave following the duel. There would be many other priests from other clans here and he had already contacted one who was an old acquaintance. The woman would be receptive, but Brannon was still lacking any real proof of who and what the Newcomers were. Scripture was fine, but still purely circumstantial. He needed something more solid, but what? He cursed the fact that he had not thought to bring back something—anything—from the Newcomers’ ship when he was aboard for the duel. Surely, there must be something that could be used…
He stopped.
Slowly, he reopened the container. Keelan Caspari’s body floated within just as he had seen it a moment before. But now his eyes strayed down from the young face to the hands folded on the chest. Those hands clutched his weapon. That weapon had not been able to kill the man who had instead killed its owner.
But it had wounded him.
There was still dried blood on the pointed end. The blood of one of the Newcomers. Was there a tale that blood could tell? With growing excitement, Brannon scraped at the blood until there was a collection under his fingernails. It was a terribly crude way to take a sample, but there was no time to go to the infirmary for a collection bottle; the ship would be leaving in minutes. And this would do.
He carefully resealed the container and then headed for the airlock.
Three hours later he sat fretting in the infirmary of Andra Roualet, aboard the vessel Edathil’s Gift. Roualet and the crew of the ship were all Methalines, methane tolerant people, but fortunately of a similar temperature requirement as Brannon. He wore his breathing helmet, but did not need other protective clothing. He stared at the priestess as she worked the genetic analyzer.
“Anything yet, Andra? It should not be taking this long.”
“Well, this wasn’t exactly the best sample you gave me,” she responded without looking up. “There were cells from both you and young Caspari mixed in, and a lot of the blood had been damaged by the chlorine in your air. It had been exposed for what, about three days?”
“About that, I suppose. But it should have all been dry before then.”
“Yes, but it still took me a while to find cells with undisturbed genetic strings. And now I’m having trouble finding a match with anything in my files.”
“Really?” said Brannon, not the least bit surprised. “It doesn’t match any of the clan genomes on record?”
“Not a one, not even the ones for the clans who did not stay here. Whoever these Newcomers are, they are none of the Lifegiver’s original children.”
“So what are you doing now?”
“Widening my search parameters. I’ve tied in with the Panmunaptra medical data base and I’m searching for any match at all. There could be mutations or other samples on file that could be a match.”
“That could take a while.”
“Yes, but you said that you wanted to find… oh, what do we have here?” Brannon sat up straighter, pressing against the strap holding him in his chair.
“You found something?”
“I think so. A match. Not perfect, but a ninty-nine point nine eight percent match.”
“With what?”
Roualet pushed herself away from her instruments and looked at Brannon. “Not with anything I ever considered real.” Her eyes were wide and her voice oddly hesitant. “The match is with a DNA sequence classified here as ‘baseline’. I-I had always thought of that as a sort of statistical averaging of all the clans, not for any real people.”
Brannon nodded and bowed his head slightly. “And the Lifegiver took the best of the Others and molded their seed into what He would need for His great purpose,” he intoned. Roualet jerked like she’d been stung.
“And from this seed He made the first of His Children,” whispered Roualet in awe. “Life, Brannon! It’s really true!”
“Did you ever doubt it?”
Roualet blushed fiercely, her clan did that far more evidently than most others. “Not many take the Book of Life as history anymore, Brannon,” she said defensively.
“Only a few zealots like me, you mean,” replied Brannon, but he smiled as he said it. The smile quickly faded. “But surely this is proof enough to convince you what the Newcomers are? These are the World Stealers come again as we were warned!”
Now Roualet looked uneasy. “Brannon, you cannot condemn these people just based on their genetic code. True, they are descendants of the Others and it was from the Others that the World Stealers sprang. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t recall the Book claiming that all of the Others were World Stealers.”
“No…”
“And that was so long ago. We know nothing of these people or what has happened across the Rift since our ancestors left. How can you ask me to believe this on such scant evidence? We need p
roof of their intentions now.”
“We certainly saw their intentions when they slaughtered my clan’s warriors!”
“True that they have different customs, Brannon. Customs we find abhorrent; but that is not proof.”
Brannon sighed. So close, he had been so close to convincing her. But if she was still in doubt, others would be, too. “Where can we find such proof?”
Roualet frowned. “It will not be easy. The Newcomers have gone back to their fleet so we cannot question them directly. That only leaves those of the Seyotah who have talked with them.”
“High ranking members of the clan,” said Brannon shaking his head. “They have clearly been blinded by greed. They will not have even tried to determine the Newcomers’ true intentions. We need someone with an undazzled eye.”
“Yes, you are probably right. But perhaps…” Roualet looked thoughtful.
“Perhaps what?”
“I’ve heard some stories about the Seyotah’s initial meeting with the Newcomers. Several prospectors were in close contact with them for some time. They may know more than anyone else. But I rather doubt we’ll be allowed to question them. The Seyotah are trying to maintain every advantage they can in the trade situation. And considering the… recent unpleasantness, I don’t think they’d let even a priest of the Clorindans have access to them.”
Brannon unhooked his seat belt and pushed himself up. He fixed his gaze on Roualet. “Then we must be prepared to act outside normal channels.”
* * * * *
“And here is to the hero of the hour: Tadsen Farsvar!” His uncle’s words brought on a loud cheer and Tad lowered his eyes and tried to turn his silly grin into an expression of adult dignity. He failed miserably. Dozens of people crowded around to slap him on the back or shake his hand or, in the case of the women and girls, kiss him on the cheek. Under this assault, the silly grin quickly gained full control.
Across the Great Rift Page 24