The faceless guard was the only person Terson interacted with for the remainder of his captivity. Twice a day he came with food and never stayed longer than it took to collect the dishes from the previous meal. Terson tried talking to him on several occasions but the man would not respond, even in his native tongue. The closest thing to communication occurred one day when Terson set the empty tray well back from the slot and grabbed hold of the crewman’s wrist when he reached in for it.
Terson had regained most of his strength by that time and the ensuing struggle was entirely one-sided. Resistance ended abruptly, the arm going limp, and the sailor spoke to him for the first time: “Nekkyo gaijin!” The hatred in the two words stunned him. He relaxed his hold and the man wrenched his arm free. A mop handle poked through to retrieve the tray thereafter.
He didn’t know how long he’d been held when the routine finally ended. Although he thought of a day as two meals for the sake of convenience he had no means to keep track of them. One day, instead of a tray sliding across the floor, the dogs in the hatch groaned and one of the guards stepped in followed by the officer and the crewmen, Lineman and Boathook.
They led him back through the submarine to an egress ladder where the officer handed Terson a length of heavy black cloth, indicating he should blindfold himself with it. The man looked like he meant business, and Terson complied.
The air on deck was still and damp. It might have been an unusually calm night, but the faint echo of waves and the drip of water gave him the impression that they were inside. He felt a wooden gangplank beneath his feet, then a solid surface of concrete or stone. Metal hinges groaned after a few minutes; once across the threshold the humidity plummeted and the temperature grew more comfortable. Terson lost all sense of direction in a series of twists, turns, and doorways. Eventually they stopped, the hands leading him fell away, and a door closed behind him.
It took Terson several seconds to realize that he’d been left alone. He raised the blindfold to find himself in a windowless room hewn from living stone, filled with fine rugs, cushions and a couch. The floor was smooth-finished concrete; the walls worked with a skill that left them nearly as smooth as the floor. A tapestry woven to appear as individual panels stretched along two of them.
The first panel depicted a planet populated by dozens of symbols and mythological creatures. Terson recognized a few; most he did not. In the second panel hordes of demonic entities filled the heavens and by the third the beautiful planet was fully engulfed in a conflagration of war, death and destruction.
“This is the story of my people,” a reedy voice at his elbow explained, “and to some degree of yours as well, I imagine.” Terson spun to find the owner of the voice watching him solemnly. The tiny man was old, his hair white and patchy, face and hands wrinkled, and one eye was milky with blindness. He gestured to the tapestry. “Do you know this story?”
Terson nodded. “This is Earth; the demons represent the Qu’a’i harvester fleet. The third panel is the War—Armageddon Minor—and the fourth,” he hesitated, “I guess is the start of the Exodus.”
The old man nodded. “So my grandfather told me. The demons destroyed many. The wounded fled leaving only the strongest to fight: the Eagle, Maple, Bear, Dragon and a few others.” He pointed at the fifth panel, depicting two of the fleeing entities. “This is where the story of the Minzoku begins:
“The children of the Lion and the Rising Sun fled to the heavens,” he said, walking slowly along the tapestry. “As Fate decreed, both found Ardhi. Neither was strong. Each feared the other would destroy them to take what little they had. Soon their fear led to battle and many perished, the machines necessary to their survival destroyed. Winter came and more died. The children of the Lion froze to death while the children of the Rising Sun starved.”
A mountain crowned by a triple summit separated the adversaries. The area around the mountain and part of a coastline had been woven with incredibly detailed topographical features. Elsewhere, the map was featureless except for symbols Terson took to be the equivalent of “Here be dragons.” The old man’s narrative drew his eyes on to the next panel.
“One day a son of the Lion and a daughter of the Rising Sun met while foraging in the wilderness, both near death. The Lion shared his food and the Rising Sun shared her warmth. They found each other pleasing and lay together and conceived a robust son, stronger than either of the parents. When the others saw this they forswore their weapons. The children of the Lion and the Rising Sun lay together and became the Minzoku.”
The old man stopped. “Here the original weavers ended their tale, or so we believe. Some say there was more once, but it was lost when the tapestry was cut into pieces to conceal it from our enemies. I have doubts, but true or not this is the last artifact that remains of our homeworld.”
He went on: “No one knows how many centuries passed before Fate again tested the children and disaster fell from the heavens once more. The gaijin came with weapons the Minzoku no longer possessed. They plundered and killed, and those they did not kill they took into slavery. The Minzoku toiled under a terrible burden and our numbers dwindled.
“The Onjin saw our distress and offered us succor in return for a covenant: the Onjin would protect the Minzoku, but in return we would serve them. The Minzoku accepted, and the Onjin brought us here, to our new home, where we grew prosperous once more.” The old man stopped at the end where a blank panel had been added. “This is our future. What it will be no one knows, but soon I believe it will be time to weave again.”
Terson studied the next to last woven panel carefully. It depicted a fairly accurate map of Nivia. On the Alpha continent lurked the cruel gaijin, while on the Beta continent the Minzoku prospered under the godlike countenance of the Onjin.
“One of your men called me that: ‘guy-gene.’” Terson said.
“My people dislike your kind,” he said. “Rest assured, mister Reilly, I do not share their bigotry.”
Terson went on guard instantly. “How do you know my name?”
The old man raised a placating hand. “We observed your battle with the gaijin,” he explained, “and raised the remains of your vessel. Your belongings identified you.” He gestured to the couch. “Sit, please. You have more questions, of course. You may ask them.”
“Tell me who you are,” Terson said, “and why you helped me. I doubt you typically rescue guy-gene on humanitarian grounds.”
“Your wisdom belies your youth,” he smiled. “My name is Den Tun. I am the kiongozi—prime minister—of the Minzoku, and I need your help.”
Terson chose his words cautiously. “I was transported by submarine to an underground facility in what is supposed to be an undeveloped outback inhabited by outlaws. I’m the one who needs help.”
“Our individual needs present an opportunity for mutual rewards,” the old man said.
“You haven’t explained how I’m supposed to help you,” Terson said, “or why I should.”
Den Tun looked surprised. “Did the Minzoku not rescue you from certain death? Does not honor demand repayment of that debt?”
“You saved me to suit yourselves,” Terson replied. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“You speak truly,” Den Tun agreed. “If the demands of honor do not move you, perhaps you consider revenge sufficient motivation.”
A sick, chilling premonition washed over him. Rage bubbled just below the surface, held in check by the hope that he was wrong. “What are you talking about?”
“You suffered a tragic loss recently,” Den Tun began. His words clipped off in a strangled “Urk!” as Terson seized him by the throat. The old man fought his grip futilely, face darkening with blood. His good eye rolled up and Terson loosened his hold enough to let air pass.
“You will not survive if I die!” Den Tun gasped. “Do not destroy your future with a rash act!”
“I had a future,” Terson said hoarsely. “Who killed my wife?”
“It was not the Minzoku
!” Den Tun cried.
“Then who?”
“I know only that the Onjin and gaijin each had reason to harm you! Help us and you can wound them both far worse than by killing an old man!”
Terson almost killed him anyway. The fire in his veins demanded blood, not promises, but guilty blood would quench the fire more thoroughly than innocent. He flung the old man against the backrest. “Talk!”
Den Tun held up a hand, imploring patience as he rubbed at his throat with the other, wheezing. “The Onjin have used us poorly,” he explained, voice gravely from his choking. “My people have extracted the natural resources of this continent for decades, surrendering the fruits of their toil to the Onjin in return for their so-called protection.”
“And the EPEA allows this?” Terson demanded.
“Not by choice,” Den Tun said. “Somehow the Onjin hold the gaijin at bay—their claim of protection is true, in this regard—but they permit the gaijin to destroy any endeavor of ours that does not further their interests.
“We are trapped in a precarious stalemate between the two, our mere existence evidence of heinous crimes perpetrated by both. Neither can afford to let us grow too strong, lest we bring the wrath of your Commonwealth down on them. Therefore, our bid for freedom must be undertaken in absolute secrecy, for if either suspects our intent to pursue self-determination, both will take measures to prevent it. If they even suspect that we may be successful, they will utterly destroy us to protect themselves.
“I gathered incontrovertible evidence to support my claims and spent years seeking a sympathetic gaijin willing to contact the Commonwealth and advocate on our behalf. A few months ago a fortuitous chain of events allowed me to send the evidence to my contact hidden within the Onjin’s own cargo.” He bowed his head. “One of my officers betrayed me. The shuttle was destroyed, and with it our last hope.”
Terson closed his eyes. “The shuttle you’re talking about,” he said, already knowing the answer, “was the wreck Bragg and I were looking at. The one my wife and I saw crash.”
“So it would seem,” Den Tun confirmed. “The Onjin were not pleased with your interest. Given the previous actions taken against you, I assume that they believe you were involved with my plot.
“For that, inadvertent as it was, I offer my apologies.”
Terson struggled to make sense of it all, but it came down to a single mistaken premise. “They thought we had the evidence you tried to smuggle off-world?”
“It was not among the wreckage,” Den Tun said. “It was almost certainly destroyed, but they felt it necessary to pursue any contrary possibility.”
“They thought the possibility was worth killing for?” Terson exclaimed in disbelief.
Den Tun’s face lengthened with sadness. “Every man decides for himself what is or is not worth killing for,” he said. “I cannot offer you reason, only the opportunity to strike back in the only way that will matter to them.”
Terson sat down and put his face in his hands. “What do you want?”
“I have duplicates of the evidence they do not suspect or, if they do, do not believe we can get off-world. I ask you to deliver it to my gaijin contact.”
Terson uttered a short, barking laugh. “What makes you think I’ll succeed if you failed after years of preparation?”
“We were betrayed from within,” Den Tun explained. “You will not betray us, because you stand to lose your own life. Less than a dozen people know that you are here. Fewer will know that you are our courier. If you succeed we owe you our lives and you will save your own in the bargain.”
“And if they intercept me, it exposes another traitor,” Terson said. “What happens if I decline?”
“Strongholds of gaijin outlaws dot the hemisphere,” Den Tun said. “You may make your way to them, if you wish.”
“Without your help.”
“We have already saved your life,” the old man reminded him. “We owe you nothing.”
“What happens to me if I help you?”
“I will attempt to facilitate whatever arrangement you wish,” Den Tun replied. His use of the word ‘attempt’ did not pass unnoticed, and meant that his resources were limited. At least it was honest; the old man could have agreed to anything and Terson wouldn’t find out that he failed to deliver on his promises until it was too late.
“I’ll do it,” Terson told him. “But I want off this planet.”
“The details must be worked out,” Den Tun nodded. “It will take a few days. You may ask for something else if it proves unfeasible.
Den Tun rose and clapped his hands. The door flew open revealing four anxious soldiers and the Minister of Defense, General Cha’Cain. “Take him to a cell,” Den Tun told them in Minzoku creole. “Find him suitable attire, and food.” He turned to Reilly, shifting to the gaijin’s tongue, “I apologize in advance for restricting your freedom. It is necessary for your protection as well as ours.”
“Not like I haven’t been there before,” Reilly muttered cryptically. Den Tun felt genuine sympathy for the boy as he was led away. A pawn’s lot was never an easy one.
“Shall I call the Healer?” Cha’Cain asked, eyes flicking over the bruises on his throat.
“I am well enough,” Den Tun replied with a slight shake of his head, “and doing so would require that I explain the injury. If it is necessary that I endure ill effects in silence, I shall.”
“You took a terrible risk,” Cha’Cain informed him sternly.
“And you demonstrated admirable restraint.”
“Only because of your orders,” the Minister admitted. “Another few seconds would not have earned me such praise.” His eyes filled with heartfelt concern. “We would be lost without your wisdom to guide us.”
“Then may Fate protect you when I die,” Den Tun muttered with a shake of his head. The continuity of his leadership over two average lifetimes had its drawbacks. Chief among them was the fawning devotion of his staff, most of whom had no memory of any other kiongozi than himself, or the base methods he employed to gain the title. Sometimes the weight of responsibility it placed on his shoulders threatened to crush him. “Forgive me, my friend.”
Cha’Cain waved a hand. “It is forgotten.” They walked in silence until they arrived at Den Tun’s office, where the reverence of the base’s personnel protected the pair from the danger of unannounced ears. “You told the gaijin too much,” Cha’Cain said.
“Nothing he heard is more damning than what he saw,” Den Tun replied, “and convincing lies require a foundation of fact.”
“I would be more comfortable assuring his silence,” Cha’Cain said with a flick of his thumbnail across his throat.
“I am not surprised,” Den Tun smiled. “Under other circumstances I would agree. However, the Onjin’s loss of interest in reacquiring the Tiger Opal constitutes a potentially greater threat. We must use this opportunity that Fate has seen fit to visit upon us.”
“I fear we tempt Fate with our recklessness,” Cha’Cain replied. “We were fortunate to recover the Tiger Opal and mislead the Onjin as we did. Do you truly think it wise to risk it again by placing it in the hands of one who may yet realize our part in his misfortune?”
“No,” Den Tun answered. “But Fortune favors the bold.”
“Yes, but—”
“Enough,” Den Tun declared firmly. “Forgive me yet again; I must hear no more of this. Seek to make arrangements with our contact—swiftly—for each moment this gaijin remains here is a knife in our side.”
The Minister bowed and withdrew. A nostalgic fantasy sprang to mind as Den Tun watched him go, one he often retreated to when the burden of leadership seemed too much: Den Tun, the aged farmer, warming himself before a winter fire, surrounded by his children and their children’s children, with no worry but when to cast the next branch on the fire.
His own decisions had cost him that dream three quarters of a century earlier.
NINETEEN
Beta Continent:
2709:09:17 Standard
“Someone in the village has information for us,” Hal-san told Dayuki.
The young woman spread a pinch of powdered spice over the contents of her wok. “Word came in the manner I prescribed?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I must go alone.”
“It could be a trap,” Hal-san said. “Even if it isn’t, your life isn’t worth a plugged nickel in the village. McKeon says Den Tun put a price on your head.”
“Is the blood-price higher than what we offered?”
“No.”
“Then it is not a trap set by my uncle.”
Hal-san took her gently by the shoulders, inviting her to turn. The motion of her kimono against her breasts sent sparks of pleasure through her body, but Dayuki declined despite the warmth his touch elicited in her belly. Her thoughts had been of sekkusu most of the day and she did not trust herself to keep the welfare of the Onjin and her lover ahead of her own desire. She kissed his hand quickly to quell the uncertainty she sensed in him at her resistance.
“I’ll send a few men in ahead of you,” he told her.
Dayuki dished dinner onto a pair of plates. “Their presence will discourage an attempt on my life,” she conceded. “It might also frighten away our informant.”
“Your show,” Hal-san said, “your call.”
He did not always take her advice, but did so often enough to let her know that he did listen. Hal-san evaluated her point of view as an issue separate from her gender instead of dismissing it instantly, as a Minzoku male was apt to do. It was this that attracted her to him as much as anything else.
After dinner Dayuki sifted through closets full of cast-off Onjin clothing. Hal-san was correct: walking among her own people was dangerous. She could not hide her stature, but could hide her face. More than a dozen half-breed prostitutes lived in Sin City and Dayuki could easily pass for one of them. She settled on a worn cloak of a quality a prostitute might accept as a gift or payment.
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