On Philomen, Cheever McFarland blinked at the radio and then at his employer. "Relative of yours?"
Pat Rin yos'Phelium turned a bland face toward him, brown eyes depthless and unreadable. "yos'Phelium is kin to yos'Phelium, certainly. You will have this matter here corrected in how soon a time?"
Cheever thought strenuously. "If I do it right, she'll be ready to go round midnight. But I can cut a few corners and get us out sooner."
Pat Rin raised elegant eyebrows. "I anticipate no need for haste, Pilot. Continue with your work." At the exit hatch he turned and bowed, very slightly. "Please."
The hatch cycled and he was gone.
Half a quadrant away, Shadia Ne'Zame snapped upright in the pilot's chair, slapped the tracer into action, got a line on the ship—and lost it as she vanished into Jump.
"Master Class piloting there, Shadia," she told herself, "which you could well emulate. Now, what's to do?"
She tapped the log for the recording, frowning.
Nev'lorn's quarters absorbed the message, even as two of the Guard dropped out of formation and shot after the courier. Halfway across the Access, the interloper faded, along with one Guard ship. The other executed a showy tumble and headed back to her post.
"Lost him," a cheerful young voice reported to Master Com. "But Cha Lor had him dead on."
Clonak ter'Meulen logged the response and replayed the courier ship's message. He was still frowning when his shiftmate came to relieve him.
"Broadbeam just caught, Cap'n." Rusty handed over a sheet of hardcopy with a slight forward tilt of his portly body. "Thought you'd want to see it."
"Bowing, Rusty? Lina must be teaching you manners."
"She tries, off and on." The other man was watching him closely, concern evident in face and pattern. Shan rustled the sheet and looked down.
ATTENTION ATTENTION ATTENTION. ALL JUNTAVAS EMPLOYEES, SUPPORTERS, DEPENDENTS, ALLIES SHALL FROM RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE FORWARD RENDER ASSISTANCE, AID, AND COMFORT TO SERGEANT MIRI ROBERTSON, CITIZEN OF TERRA, AND SCOUT COMMANDER VAL CON YOS'PHELIUM, CITIZEN OF LIAD; REDIVERTING, WHERE NECESSARY, YOUR OWN ACTIVITIES. REPEAT: AID AND COMFORT TO MIRI ROBERTSON AND/OR VAL CON YOS'PHELIUM IMPERATIVE, PRIORITY HIGHEST.
MESSAGE REPEATS . . .
"How lovely to have a Clutch Turtle with one's interest at heart," Shan murmured around the cold feeling in his stomach. He looked up and smiled into Rusty's worried eyes. "Pin-beam a copy to my sister if you please, Rusty."
"Yessir." He hesitated, then blurted, "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's okay," Shan said, as if he were comforting a child. "The Juntavas have taken my brother and his lady under their wing—which you must admit is far superior to having them hunt you from one corner of the galaxy to the other."
"Sure . . ." Hesitancy was plain in the round, uncomplicated face.
Shan gripped Rusty's arm. "Old friend. My brother has gotten himself into a bit of a scrape." He rattled the paper. "This appears to balance the matter."
"So everything's fine," the other summed up, hope glittering bright.
"Everything is fine," Shan said, and wondered, as he watched Rusty walk away, if that was a lie or the truth.
"But that's—" Kem turned around in the passenger's seat and stared at him. "Hakan, Cory and Miri are
married.
How can she be staying with Zhena Trelu and letting Cory stay with you?"
Hakan shrugged. "Militia captain split us up that way and told us to stay available. I don't think he realized they were married—and Cory just muttered something about her being safe now." He cast his mind back with an effort. "Don't think Miri liked it too much myself."
"I should think not." Kem eyed her fiancé worriedly, decided that talking about something was better than allowing him to lapse into another un-Hakanish silence, and put forward the idea that they might make a detour and pick Miri up before going home. "They'll
have
to talk to each other then."
"I asked Cory if I should swing over and get Miri. He said it wasn't a good time." Peering through the thickening snow, Hakan carefully slowed the car to turn into Berner's Lane. "Leave it alone, Kemmy," he said hesitantly. "Cory's pretty tense and I—it does things to you, being in a battle. He'll know what he needs to do—and what he doesn't."
"All right," Kem said softly as Hakan pulled into the drive and cut the motor. He sat for a moment, hands curled around the wheel, staring out at the blur of snow and gray sky.
"Kem?" he said. Then he turned rapidly, strong fingers closing lightly around her wrist. "Kemmy, I missed you."
"I missed you, too, Hakan." She hesitated, scandalized but certain that the time was right for telling truths. "I never want us to have to be apart again."
His face relaxed, his smile almost as bright as she remembered, and then he was serious again. "We've got a lot of things to talk about. But tonight—let's just be with each other tonight, all right?"
"All right. I'd like that." She smiled, and he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Well . . .Let's go in and see what kind of mess Cory's made out of dinner."
Cory had made a work of art out of dinner, transforming everyday meat and vegetables into exotic viands, subtly spiced and astounding. Hakan contributed a bottle of wine from his father's fall pressing, and matters progressed as well as they could for a young lady with two virtually silent gentlemen as dinner companions.
Cory accepted compliments on his cooking with a slight smile and a formal bow of the head; he was predictably evasive about where he had learned the skill and fell silent the moment Kem ran out of questions.
Hakan loosened up a bit with the wine, and by the time the after-dinner fruit was eaten and the dishes were stacked neatly in the sink, he was very nearly the Hakan she knew. The phone call from Zamir Meltz informing his son and guest that he would be staying in Gylles that evening, rather than brave the growing snowstorm, seemed to restore him completely. He grinned at Kem. "Looks like you're snowed in too, honey. If you want to be."
"Hakan!" She jerked her head toward Cory, but the smaller man seemed absorbed in rinsing off the soup bowls.
Hakan's grin widened. "Hey, Cory—leave that stuff for tomorrow, man; we'll all three pitch in after breakfast. We got some practicing to do now! Winterfair's coming fast."
Cory turned, and Kem saw the worry on his scarred face. "Hakan—"
But Hakan had grabbed her hand and was hustling her down the hall to the parlor, whistling as he went.
Cory drifted soundlessly into the room as Hakan was tuning his guitar.
"Pull up a stool, my man, and get that keyboard smokin'."
"Hakan—" Cory began again, but he was interrupted by a quick staccato riff and a wide grin.
"What's the matter? Forget how to play?"
"No . . ."
"Well then, what're you waiting for?" The guitar went into a complicated arabesque of chords, and after a moment Cory went to the piano, slid onto the bench, and put the cover up.
He sat with his hands poised over the keyboard for so long that Kem thought he would refuse to play after all. Then, very carefully, as if he expected an explosion instead of music, he touched the keys and ran a soft set of scales.
From the guitar came the unmistakable intro riff to "Bylee's Beat." There was the slightest of hesitations before the piano took up its line.
Kem leaned back in her chair, eyes on the side of Hakan's face, preparing to lean back into the music. Hakan's frown and the protest of her own ears were simultaneous.
Disbelieving, she turned to stare at Cory. Notes were issuing obediently forth from the piano, correct and in proper time. Technically, Kem realized, the piece was probably perfect; even the crazy zigzag of sound that always made Cory shake his head was fully accomplished, without flaw.
But it was not
Cory's
music. There was no joy, no impetuosity, no subtle undertones. It was as if a music box were playing, rather than the musician she knew Cory to be.
Kem shifted in her chair, thought of going to the piano and making him stop, then paused and tipped her head as she caught some other sound there, under the sounds of piano and guitar.
Carefully, seeing that Hakan's frown had deepened, Kem got up to answer the door.
A very small person stood in the pool of yellow porch light, hood pulled back and red hair frosted with snow.
"Miri, for wind's sake! You're half frozen!" Kem caught her friend's arm and pulled her inside, peering toward the driveway as she did. She saw no car, no tire tracks. "How did you get here?"
"I walked," Miri said matter-of-factly.
Kem stared at her. "From Brigsbee's? In this? Miri—"
Miri shrugged. "I come to see Cory."
"Yes, but, love, you could have called us! Hakan would have come to get you. Give me that jacket—you're soaked! What in wind possessed you?"
"I come to see Cory," Miri repeated, and leaned forward to hug her. "Don't fuss, Kem! The walk is not long. And where I come from, it snows like this—oh, often!" She winced suddenly, her head turning toward the open parlor door.
"Hakan and Cory are practicing," Kem began weakly, but the other woman had spun back, gray eyes huge.
"He don't play like that!"
Kem moved her hands helplessly and noticed again the snow in her friend's hair. "Go in there by the fire," she ordered, glad of a problem she could solve. "I'll bring you some hot tea and whiskey. You'll be lucky not to get the very
brute
of a cold."
Miri smiled faintly and went toward the parlor, moving with a silent grace that rivaled Cory's own. Kem watched her for a moment, then headed down the hall to the kitchen.
Cory's hands went flat on the keys, ending soulless perfection in discord. Relieved, Hakan brought his palm against the strings and looked up.
His friend was staring at the door, with no particular expression on his face. Hakan turned to look.
Miri stood in the center of the double doorway, eyes only for the man at the piano. She stood there for a long moment; then she shifted, moved her eyes, and smiled warmly.
"Hakan." She came across to him with her small hands held out. "I don't get a chance to thank you for your help. Brave you were. Very a friend." She slid her hands into his and bent to kiss his cheek. "Thank you," she said again, straightening. Then she tipped her head, smile fading.
"Hakan, I come to see Cory. Talk, we must. It is your house, and I am sorry to—impose? This room, another room? With a door that closes? You can lend us that?"
"This room," he told her. "No imposition—that's what friends are for." He squinted at her to verify that the braid wrapped around her head
was
wet. "We better get you dry, though. You'll catch pneumonia or something."
"Kem brings tea, and the fire is good here. Soon I will dry. Thank you, Hakan, again. You are a good friend."
That was definitely a dismissal. Hakan rose and started for the door, guitar in hand. Grinning at Cory as he passed the piano, though the other did not seem to see, he almost bumped into Kem.
She set a large mug on the low table near the fire. "You drink every drop, now," she told Miri sternly. "We can't have you getting sick." She turned and went out, pulling the double doors firmly shut behind her.
Val Con had turned on the bench; he sat with his back to the piano. "Hello, Miri."
"Hi." She came to stand before him, noting with dread the blandness of his face and feeling stiff with more than cold.
"I ain't gonna keep you long," she said abruptly. "Just wanted to hear you say it, okay? So I
know."
He considered her warily. "Say it?"
"Yeah," she said harshly. "Say it. Figure it's pretty clear—you sending me off with the old ladies and then no word. Little surprised—didn't think that was your style. Thought you'd tell me straight. Something like 'Miri, go away.' She took a breath, eyes on his face. "That's what I came to hear."
Dismay was noted and overridden as the Loop flashed into existence, extrapolating a CMS of approximately .96, with the removal of the woman from the equation. His lips parted; they were dry, and he licked them.
Miri drifted a step closer, hands clearly in view, stance specifically nonthreatening.
"It's real simple," she said softly. "Like this: 'Miri, go away.'" There was a small silence before she leaned forward, her eyes holding his. "It ain't like I never heard it before."
Tension was building; he attended it briefly, found no specific source, and discounted it. He licked his lips again.
"Miri—" His voice choked out, tension increasing to a level that could not be ignored. He experienced a confusion of purpose; was unable to separate personal desire from the requirements of the mission.
The woman before him leaned closer. "That's a start. Two more to go."
"Why?" The word came out of the confusion, lashed with tension, so that it was nearly a shout.
"You want me to go away," she said. And then, very softly, she asked, "Don't you?"
Did he? What
did
he want? Surely nothing akin to what she supposed. Surely whatever he wanted was not a thing so deadly that the mere desiring of it should leave him sick and shaken. He cast his mind back, fighting the screaming tension. Once, certainly, he had wanted something . . .
"I want—" He heard his own voice from a singing distance. "I want to speak to my brother. Three years—four—and I sent him no word; never went home. Never dared go home—he would see! He would ask questions; he would probe and—endanger himself—Zerkam'ka . . .kinslayer . . ." His hands were cold, and he was shaking.
"Val Con."
She was holding his shoulders; he should not allow her to hold his shoulders. She was dangerous; she was Miri . . .
"Boss." Her fingers brushed the hair from his eyes and touched his cheek. "Your brother's safe, Val Con. You never went home."
"But I
wanted
to!" he cried. "Shan—" He reached out and cupped her face in icy, shaking hands. "You do the same—ask questions, put yourself in danger. Miri . . ." He took his hands away, seeing what must be done for her, as once he had done it for Shan. "Miri, run."