Reign of Fire

by Marjorie B. Kellogg

  Hoping I’ll get overconfident… hoping I’ll show myself. Well, I may have to do just that.

  The Sleds were parked side by side, two triangular hulks draped in dusty silverfilm.

  Nearly ready, Susannah says. Both of them.

  He wished now that he had learned to fly the touchy, awkward craft. If he was going to steal a Sled, he would also have to kidnap a pilot.

  Can’t count on McPherson… Weng? She might do it willingly at this point.

  He pulled back into the shadow and slouched against the wall Liphar met his troubled scowl with concern of his own.

  “You go inside now, Ibi? No safe here.”

  “Yes, Lifa, we’ll go in for now.”

  For now, he decided, but not for long.

  35

  Megan stilled the nervous tapping of her foot against the plastic crate. “Too dark in here,” she muttered to Danforth. “Ought to let that damn sun pour in with all its fury, so we remember why we’re doing this.”

  Danforth nodded, intent on the computer screen.

  “The field uses less power than the coolers,” replied McPherson with unempathetic logic. She perched on the wheel of Danforth’s chair and leaned against his shoulder to study the screen.

  Weng appeared from the galley area with a tall Sawl jug filled with water. Susannah followed with a stack of white plastic ship’s mugs. Weng set the damp ceramic down on the first of a line of crates she had assembled into an impromptu conference table. She surveyed her arrangement like a society hostess, counting places.

  Megan watched with a small smile. “You know,” she confided to Danforth, “in China, they still serve tea to guests in little covered cups.”

  “Commander probably wishes she had some of those,” snorted McPherson. “This is stupid, all this fuss, like it was some kind of party.”

  “Her response to the damn anarchy of the situation,” said Megan reasonably. “Formalities impose structure. Structure promises to keep things from flying off in all directions.”

  “Rather a case of the barn door after the horse,” commented Danforth. “But what the hell? If it makes her feel better…”

  “You are remarkably tolerant these days, Taylor,” Megan observed.

  “I am remarkably tired of fighting wars that haven’t been declared. Got enough problem here with the one that has.”

  “Does that mean you won’t jump down Stav’s throat the minute he arrives? Do you have any idea how much maneuvering used to go on trying to keep you two apart?”

  Danforth raised his eyes from the screen. “I see things a little differently these days. And I’m willing to bet he does, too.” He offered her a knowing smile. “Counting sides, Meg?”

  Megan shrugged, refraining from glancing at McPherson, whose only clear commitment was her loyalty to Danforth. “I like to know these things.”

  Weng glided about in purposeful silence, bringing out a final folding chair, gathering up her notes. She circled the empty table once, checked the buttoning of her clean white uniform, then seated herself at the head and began laying out her papers in ordered piles. Susannah waited at the other end, watching both the entry cylinder and the ladder to the main hatch. Abstractedly, she traced the lettering on a crate top, over and over.

  Megan fidgeted. No one was late. The meeting wasn’t due to start for ten minutes. But the waiting had begun hours ago for all of them. What kind of weird hopes are we resting on this? she wondered. It’s just a meeting, not a solution.

  Danforth quietly voiced her worry. “You think he’ll show?”

  Megan’s nod was more positive than she felt.

  Clausen backed swiftly down the hatch ladder, swinging off halfway to land catlike on the balls of his feet. He had found freshly laundered khakis, crisply collared and cuffed. The laser in its neat holster seemed almost decorative on his belt. He stood pulling down his sleeves while he assessed the mood and marked out the positions of the players.

  “Mr. Clausen,” said Weng with the briefest of nods. “I am glad you could make it.”

  He dipped his head with a hint of satire. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Commander.”

  He approached the table, unsnapped his holster flap and with great ceremony laid the laser in the center of the table. Instead of relaxing, everyone tensed to the laser’s too visible presence.

  Clausen smiled, then sauntered toward the foot of the table, clearly enjoying the unease that greeted his every move. Susannah slid away as he neared, but he pretended to take this for courtesy. He pulled out a folding chair and lounged into it, tipping back to rest his boots on the crate top.

  “No sign of the Loyal Opposition, I take it?”

  Susannah paced to Weng’s end of the table. “He’ll be here.”

  But even when Ghirra appeared at the mouth of the cylinder, Megan was still unsure. She craned her neck to see if he had come alone. There were other shadows blocking the entry, but she could not tell if Stavros was among them.

  The Master Healer replayed Clausen’s scrutiny somewhat more deliberately. He nodded to Weng, then noted Clausen with his feet on the table, the others grouped around the terminal and Susannah caught in her anxious drift between. Megan was intrigued to notice that Ghirra seemed to have dressed formally for the occasion, in softly draped tunic and pants of layered white linen that set off his brown hands and face and lent the straight planes of his body the grace of dignity.

  When his caution was satisfied, he looked to Weng, his gaze skimming past the laser on the crate top without particular notice. Weng drew his attention back to it with an eloquent gesture of distaste.

  “Mr. Clausen has voluntarily divested himself of his weaponry, GuildMaster. I think it is safe to begin.”

  Ghirra’s eyes flashed to the laser and lingered. He moved to the table curiously. Clausen’s feet hit the ground instantly. Ghirra froze, then spread his palms.

  “I have not seen this before,” he explained, and Megan realized queasily that his curiosity was genuine.

  “Want to see what did the damage, is that it?” Clausen’s smile was mostly teeth as he relaxed back into his chair and returned his boots to the tabletop. “Go ahead. Pick it up. It’s not armed.” He looked around to the others. “What do you think I am,crazy?”

  Some errant hint of craft escaping from beneath the prospector’s easeful mask caught Megan’s wary eye.

  He’s lying.

  She knew it for certain, but could not decide if it was more to her advantage to expose him, or to know better and say nothing.

  Ghirra took another step but did not reach for the gun.

  “Go ahead,” urged Clausen. “I’ll give you a demonstration later, if you like.”

  “There is no use for this here,” said Ghirra.

  Clausen laughed indulgently. “But there will be, my good doctor, when every mining sod on the planet is packing one. You of course will be in great demand, having gotten your experience with laser burns so early…”

  “Ghirra.”

  The Master Healer did not turn at the sound of his name.

  Stavros stood in the entryway framed by a flash of sun across the cylinder’s mirrored arc. The rest of his Sawl entourage filed in on either side.

  Megan’s gasp was private but involuntary. He was thinner, yes, to be expected, but could he have grown taller? She told herself it was the unaccustomed straightness of his stance, the surprisingly authoritative lift of his sculptured chin. He was washed, shaved and combed, his black hair slicked back, perfectly manicured. The constant threat of temper had given way to clear-eyed determination. His dark eyes, riveting in his pale, angular face, demanded attention. Megan felt proud, and wondered how much pain he was in.

  No more adolescent skulking about for this one. Green, Emil? Not any more. At least he’s learned the value of putting on a good show.

  She looked for Clausen’s reaction to the well-staged entrance of this young lordling, who came flanked by white-clad Sawl advisors and backed up by a ha
tchet-face ranger bodyguard led by the Master Ranger herself. She was in time to see Clausen’s jaw sag fleetingly, then tighten in automatic rage. The easy drape of his body did not change, but his fingers twitched like the tail of an irritated cat.

  “Stavros, my boy,” he crowed softly.

  Will he see how hard it is for Stavros to look him so calmly in the eye? Megan tensed, then sighed. Clausen saw everything, every subtlety, but it did not matter. The show was for the others, not to fool Clausen, but to prove the depth of Stavros’ claim on the hearts of Sawl and Terran alike. Not Stavros alone, but the entire planet must be shown as Clausen’s adversary.

  Weng stood in welcome, her lips pressed tight against a glad smile.

  Stavros held Clausen’s eye, almost succeeding in matching the prospector’s throaty casual tone. “If it’s not armed, then it won’t matter if someone else holds it.”

  He turned his head so slightly that his next word seemed more an order than a request. “Commander?”

  “No,” said Clausen, rising.

  “Lieutenant?” Weng parried quickly.

  Clausen acceded with a stiff nod and sat back. McPherson slipped out from behind Danforth and padded forward to take up the laser pistol. It was not swallowed by her smaller hand as it was by Clausen’s. She held it awkwardly a moment, then shoved it into the hip pocket of her uniform.

  “Sit, please, Lieutenant.” Weng lifted her arms in a gathering gesture. “Can we all be seated?”

  Stavros sat mid-table, Ghirra on one side, Liphar on the other. Aguidran fanned out the retinue behind him so that access to the cylinder was blocked by sturdy Sawl bodies. As the others moved toward the table, Clausen dropped his feet and leaned forward.

  “How’s the burn, boy? Nothing worse for pain, I know. I could show you scars…” He smiled at the memory. “Susannah giving you anything for it?”

  Stavros eased back into the hard plastic of his chair and stretched his legs, soaking up the refreshing cool of the air. “I see you got the power link working even without me, Emil.”

  “I assume CRI will be monitoring this meeting,” said Megan to the room in general.

  “Every word,” Danforth assured her. “Listening, CRI?”

  “Listening and recording, Dr. Danforth.”

  Danforth turned his chair away from the terminal and drew up to the table opposite Stavros. “Welcome to the Club, Ibiá,” he remarked cryptically. “You’re looking remarkably well, considering.”

  Megan and Susannah took seats between Danforth and Clausen. McPherson and the laser were isolated in the more neutral space between Danforth and Weng. The bustle settled into anticipation.

  Weng cleared her throat. “I have called this meeting to discuss the advisability of a Mission Abort.”

  Danforth jerked around. “What?”

  “But, Commander…” Susannah protested.

  Megan saw identical looks of wary surprise come and go in the faces of Clausen and Stavros. She almost laughed aloud. Well played, Weng! The Commander had hit on the single issue that could be counted on to unify her crew and put herself back into a position of authority over them.

  “That is not why we called this meeting,” Danforth began angrily.

  “Please remain calm, Dr. Danforth. I said we are here to discuss the possibility.”

  Ghirra murmured to Stavros, then frowned at his muttered reply. Stavros laid a reassuring hand on his arm. Recognizing Weng’s announcement for the power play it was, Clausen relaxed and returned his boots to the table, awaiting further development without comment.

  Megan decided to get the ball rolling. “Why should we want to abort the mission, Commander?”

  Weng referred to the pile of papers on her right. “I present the following concerns: first, the rapid shrinkage of food and water supplies available from local sources.”

  “We have enough supplies of our own to last at least another two months,” Megan countered.

  “God help us all,” Clausen groaned softly.

  Weng lifted the top sheet with delicate fingers and began to read. “Second, the consistent interruption of our vital main power source, due to apparently unpredictable local weather conditions. Without our power link, we are forced to rely on local generosity which…” She paused to offer her Sawl listeners a gracious glance. “… has been extreme but cannot help but be taxed by the worsening situation.

  “Third, there is the equally consistent damage being sustained by expedition equipment. Fourth, the increasing frequency of violent disagreement between expeditionary personnel.”

  When this last provoked a ripple of ironic laughter, Megan knew that Weng’s gambit had been marginally successful. The focus of everyone’s energies was shifting to her. She was the one they had to convince.

  It won’t hold. Weng. Better play it for all you’re worth.

  “Finally,” Weng continued, “all the above, together with the apparent progression toward increasingly life-threatening conditions, lead me to question this expedition’s ability to fulfill its scientific mandate.” She paused again, placed the paper to one side and folded her hands with the precision of a dancer. “And now, perhaps someone would care to venture a reason why we should not abort the mission.”

  Danforth pounced immediately. “Because we’re not done here, damnit!”

  “My point was precisely that circumstances may have rendered us incapable of getting done,” Weng replied mildly.

  “A few bad moments,” he contested hotly, “do not invalidate the good work that is being done here!” His aggrieved tone said he felt personally betrayed. Megan wondered if Weng might have been wiser to warn Danforth beforehand of the tack she intended to take. His recent claims to the contrary, his habit of quick, arrogant rage was not completely discarded.

  But Weng made no effort to soothe his outrage. “Please be more constructive in your arguments, Dr. Danforth.”

  Megan felt a pang of sympathy for the angry planetologist. She’s really going to string him along, use him to make this abort threat sound more convincing. To whom? Clausen?

  “But we’re on the verge of a breakthrough here!” Danforth railed. “We can’t just walk away from Fiix with the story only half told. How can you even suggest it, Commander, with so many of the crucial insights being your own? It could be the discovery of the century!”

  Megan remembered CRI dutifully recording this puffed-up exchange, with Captain Newman and the Orbiter crew no doubt listening in.

  Ah. She quickly reassessed the situation: Weng and Danforth were already in league, building up the scientific profile of the mission within hearing of authorities potentially higher than Clausen. The prospector evidently reached the same conclusion, for he began immediate steps to undermine their claims.

  “A few scratches on the wall of some cave are the discovery of the century?” he drawled. “Would you care to lay that one out for us, Taylor?”

  Which is exactly what they want to do, but better to have it drawn out of them than to make it obvious they’re selling a line. Oh what a tangled web we weave…

  Danforth contrived to look hesitant. “I really hate to… the thesis is still unpolished but… well, it was Weng’s suggestion at first but it’s becoming clear to me as well that this world was once home to a high-tech civilization.”

  “Is that so?” Clausen sucked his teeth, bored already.

  “Well, look at the evidence,” Danforth pursued. “Those wall carvings you dismiss so easily chart the progressive encounter of the Coal Sack Nebula with Byrnham’s Cluster, past, present and future, with as much accuracy as our own observations are capable of.”

  “StarHall is a more appropriate translation than SkyHall anyway,” Stavros murmured.

  “Further evidence,” said Danforth. “The Toph-leta: ancient texts, preserved as guild treasures, that contain advanced mathematics and atomic theory, no longer recognized as such by the current inhabitants.”

  “A complete periodic table,” added Weng, “pres
erved in the Toph-leta of the Physicians’ Guild, that includes elements numbered beyond those in our own table.”

  Clausen flicked Megan an accusing eyebrow. “I don’t recall that one being mentioned in Ibiá’s little missive home.”

  “The tip of the iceberg,” gloated Megan. “What about the current sophisticated high-temperature ceramic and glass technology that is major levels beyond the rest of Sawl technology?”

  Clausen nodded as if this was old hat, but of minor technical interest nonetheless. “Magnesium and aluminum silicates, yes. I have been wondering how they produce the heat to work those high-temperature clays.”

  “Or the OldWords?” Stavros spoke up, and heads turned. “A lost language, preserved in ritual, that expresses these advanced technologies and much more that we can’t even conceive of.”

  Clausen laughed with all appearance of delight. “My, my, what a well-rehearsed presentation.” His voice heavy with irony, he looked to Susannah, who was staring at her folded hands. “Nothing to add, lovely one?”

  “Lord, maybe it’s actually possible…?” Susannah glanced around the table earnestly and spoke as if posing them a remarkable mystery. “My evidence suggests the genetic engineering of an entire ecosystem, within the planet’s existing natural structure.”

  Into the pause, Weng urged, “For instance, Dr. James?”

  “Well… three strains of dairy and draft animals, their DNA match nearly identical, the variation among individuals within a strain limited to aesthetic qualities, like color or hair quality, each strain so carefully profiled for specific use as to invite speculation that the ancestral stock were engineered or cloned.”

  Susannah’s enthusiasm built as she allowed herself to express her suspicions in public for the first time. “Or: food plants and animals designed to thrive in a dark cave environment. Domestic plant varieties that grow at nearly twice the rate of the wild flora. A Sawl food cycle, human to animal to plant to human, that functions in self-sufficient isolation and allows the Sawls to survive within a natural biosphere which is poisoned by accumulations of toxic trace metals.”