Authors: C. J. Cherryh
He hung up. He sat waiting, wondering if he should call Antonio, if he dared call Antonio.
The phone beeped.
“Sir.”
It was Ernst.
“The Chairman’s courier.”
He jabbed a button. “Send her in.”
Ernst let Jewel into the office.
“Are we safe here?” he asked, incongruous question, and she looked about her, seemed to take the local temperature.
“At the moment, sir. Sir, I’m in contact.”
“Antonio,” Reaux said. “Antonio. What news?”
“Moderately good,”
Brazis said.
“I can report your daughter is in a
safe place. But you’ve heard that. The young woman is well reputed. A
positive influence.”
“Is she safe there, from retaliation?”
“I have a close watch on her vicinity. There may be a few survivors still
crawling the corridors, but I think their real desire now is to lie low and
wait for a ship bound for Orb or anywhere else in the universe. We’re
going to watch such ships very closely.”
“My full cooperation,” Reaux said earnestly. “But my daughter—forgive me: forgive me, sir. Is there any indication—of her health?”
“If there should be anything untoward, she’s with someone who can
get her expert help. The boy who was with her, likewise. An innocent. Relatively speaking, if stupidity counts.”
“Thank God. Thank God for that.”
“Algol is dead: he was a known problem. Typhon, likewise dead—an
import from Orb, capable of handling exotics, I’m told. Not now. He’s
done, and every trace of biologicals with him.”
“You’re sure.”
“I hesitate to claim the pieces have all gone into recycling. I think
Kekellen’s taken them for his own investigations.”
“Even the—” He hesitated at the question. “The remains.”
“That first. Cleaner-bots have fairly well demolished the place, and police aren’t going in there, not yours and not mine.”
Bots, for God’s sake.
Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 3 8 9
“Kekellen is involved to the hilt,”
Brazis said through Jewel’s lips.
“The fact the local street moved to reject this illicit cell—I think that may
have communicated to him. A demonstration of honesty. Kekellen’s extremely keen on honesty.”
It was the theory—that Kekellen had settled on Marak for that reason. “The honest man,” Reaux said.
“Kekellen’s seemed to have picked out a
locally
honest man, too—if the
notion holds up.”
Astonishing that he couldn’t think of an honest man. Not offhand. He certainly didn’t think it was Brazis. Or himself. “Who?”
“Our young fugitive.”
“Procyon?” He was a little stunned. In their interview, he could say he’d been impressed, at least, of a certain character.
But he
didn’t
like the
ondat
’s honest man being an Outsider.
“He’s not the only one.”
Brazis said further.
“If we can count Mr. Gide.”
“Mr. Gide? Oh, I doubt that.”
“But there is a tap. A nanocele tap. Hospital could tell that in two seconds. The question is, whose. But I think it’s much the same as Procyon’s
situation, however delivered.”
Reaux’s heart sullenly doubled its beats. “But why?”
“My young gentleman, Mr. Stafford, hasn’t gotten to the office yet,
and I don’t think he’ll have any clearer idea than I have. I’ve been a little careful about contacting him by tap, speaking quite frankly, because
we very surely have an intruder in our system, including the one I’m
using now.”
“An—”
“Listen to me all the way on this one, Setha, and take it for what it is.
Cleaner-bots. The bot system comes and goes, does it not? Our friend
Kekellen has inserted his own robots through his own system of accesses,
bots to mix with ours. Young Mr. Stafford is wearing a mark that we may
not be able to purge, and he’s attended particularly by a repair bot that
won’t leave his vicinity. I had the tap system completely shut down for a
significant period of time, and we’re still getting information on a rogue
tap somewhere in the system. I’m convinced he’s part of it. And I’m suspecting fairly soon we’ll have a second one.”
“Mr. Gide.”
“He’s not savvy of it, not yet. He won’t be, for a while. Procyon’s fairly
expert at handling complex taps, and he’s bringing sensible communica-
3 9 0 • C . J . C h e r r y h
tion through with far less trouble. But that’s not the whole point. Kekellen
himself seems to be communicating through those two taps—having one
internal to himself.”
“Good God,” Reaux said, appalled. “What do we do, then?”
“Wait and see. That’s all I can recommend.”
“But Kekellen—”
“He’s had abundant reason to complain. We may have settled it. The
street may have settled it. And if that fails, Mr. Stafford may be a valuable asset in settling the difficulty. We’ve never had direct communication
with the
ondat
.”
“And Mr. Gide? He’s not qualified. He’s not prepared for this . . .”
“In a sense it’s what eight-year-old kids get done, in our society. Well,
excluding the alien intelligence aspect of it. Mr. Gide should find it an interesting experience.”
“If you can say so,” Reaux said with a shudder. In the life-globe, an anole had climbed the highest branch, lording it over the others.
“Intimate contact with Kekellen isn’t what I’d call an interesting experience.”
“Another tap system. We share one with pop culture. One with the
planet. One, it seems, we now share with the
ondat,
in the head of a Project tap. We’re in for a period of adjustment. I think Mr. Gide may be able
to communicate a new fact of existence to the authorities that backed this
venture.”
“If his sanity holds out.” He remembered a recent communication. “I’ve received an official protest over Mr. Gide’s transfer to your hospital. Shall I relay your advisement to his ship, about his condition, and its probable source?”
“Oh, by all means. I think it’s time to do that.”
It was going to be a tense moment, as that ship realized that, with all he knew, Mr. Gide had had a tap implanted, and not by Outsider choice, and not in contact with humans.
But there wasn’t a thing a political faction on distant Earth could do about the situation except keep quiet and study the damage a stranded Mr. Gide could do to their political secrets, in close communication with colonials, Outsiders, and
ondat
.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promised Brazis.
Jewel gave a little nod, indication the interview was over.
Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 3 9 1
“Thank you,” Reaux said to her, but he wasn’t sure she heard, on her way to the door.
He didn’t know what he was going to tell Judy. It wasn’t hair color they were talking about, now. It was a daughter down on Blunt—a daughter on Grozny, if they were lucky. A daughter who wasn’t going to go back into the best schools.
A daughter who was very soon going to be notorious in her former social circles.
But still his daughter. Kathy. Mignette. He didn’t know about Judy, but she was still—after all—his daughter.
R A I N S H E E T E D, poured down sandy washes, spattered off the rocks, soaked wherever the rain-skins failed to protect—a modern convenience against a modern nuisance, these brown plastic covers, and Marak, disdaining a good many of Ian’s conveniences, was glad to have warmth and dryness about them, glad to have the saddles under them kept dry, along with the girths, which took a deal of stress on their slow climb.
They moved, with occasional encouragement from the long quirts. They had moved all through the night, having the young fool ahead of them, driven upward by the wrath of the old bull Marak rode, and the disgruntled females following their laborious path up the cliffs . . . following, because beshti stuck together, give or take riders’ intentions, in a vast and otherwise empty land.
And gradually the rock and sand that had appeared only in lightning flashes began to be visible between flashes. It became a sullen sort of morning, gray, wet and noisy with the boom of thunder and the rush of the deluge. Water still poured in diminishing torrents from above, newborn streams rushing down channels in the sandstone toward the pans, which still were dry enough to drink them up. No bright beam of morning sunlight got through the clouds.
But they were alive, and they kept moving to keep warm and to keep safe, climbing up the way they had come down, or finding new ways, where rain had badly channeled the sand slips.
Up by the difficult series of three terraces, while the light grew, with a little rest, then, sheltered from the wind by an outcrop of basalt.
3 9 2 • C . J . C h e r r y h
Marak had no watcher at all this morning. Neither did Hati. But they had Ian, who inquired frequently and cautiously after their progress.
“As good as might be,” Marak said, informing Ian as little as possible. He was still angry, still asking himself what he would do in response.
Ian would make peace with Luz. Possibly they would become lovers again, possibly not. How both of them would regard the Ila for the next while was a matter of concern, until matters settled out. He was closely evaluating his opinion of Brazis.
“Procyon is safe and asleep,”
Ian told him finally.
“The ones responsible in the heavens are dead.”
“Is Brazis?” Marak asked harshly. He by no means exonerated Brazis, among others.
“Brazis is still directing matters. He asks me to relay his profound
apology, and his gratitude for your patience.”
“Patience.” He was very long on that virtue, where mountains were concerned. Human beings were another matter. “I will have the boy back, Ian, and I shall have Drusus, and Auguste.”
“That seems likely,”
Ian said,
“but, Marak-omi, the
ondat
seem to
have assisted in the fight. And, it seems, they have slipped a maker into
Procyon, with which they can contact him—and, through him, you—at
will. They have entered the downworld system through this boy. Brazis
counsels us all to be watchful, and patient.”
There was no answer to that situation. He was silent for a moment, simply trying to understand what was a very significant move. The
ondat
would touch the world. A change. Another change in the world as it had been.
“This boy is under my husband’s protection,” Hati said angrily, in his meditative silence.
“And continues to be, Hati-omi. The
ondat
have always shown the
greatest respect for your husband, above the rest of us. I am somewhat optimistic about this move. The
ondat
protected this boy.”
“It is worth seeing what will happen,” Marak said. He was disturbed, but not angry. The blood moved quicker in his veins. He was not accustomed to think beyond the sky. He might have to learn new thoughts, become adept in new horizons. “Where have they gotten this maker, Ian?”
Fo r g e o f H e a v e n • 3 9 3
“A very good question,”
Ian said.
“Indeed,” Marak said.
“I have other news,”
Ian said.
“Your man Fashti broke camp when he
heard you were coming up. He is proceeding down the ridge to intercept
you.”
“Meziq?”
“They are carrying him, as I understand. And the tent, the essential
poles, the tack, and considerable supplies. The going is very slow, and they
are dragging most of it, but they are making progress.”
They were going home. And they could ride up the spine to meet the retreat, load up the beshti, and send a party back to collect what they had had to abandon.
“I can send a plane,”
Ian said
, “to meet you at the edge of the
plateau.”
“You can send your plane to bring Meziq out,” Marak said. “If the weather settles. If you wish to take the trouble. If Meziq himself wishes it. He may not. We will tell you which.” He broke off the contact, determined to get under way now, the last climb up to the ridge, where the boys and a majority of their equipment would be a welcome sight.
A great deal of help Ian’s machines would be, bogged in mud or swept away by torrent in this shift in the weather. But he did not open that argument with Ian, not yet.
Had Luz, meanwhile, apologized for the situation her schism with Ian had created? He heard no hint of that from her.
Had the Ila admitted to her meddling in the heavens? He expected nothing at all from that quarter.
“Procyon will be back,” he said to Hati as they started their upward journey. “So will Auguste and Drusus. I shall have that clear with Brazis. For the meanwhile, we have Ian.”
Hati cast him a sidelong look in the gloom of morning. A lightning flash showed it clear, and a moment later thunder resounded across the pans.
“I shall have a talk with Luz when we get back,” Hati said.
“In moderation, wife.”
“Am I ever immoderate?”
A wise husband let that question pass unanswered. And in a moment more, Hati laughed.
3 9 4 • C . J . C h e r r y h
The light grew as thunder migrated across the pans. And as they made the last climb to the ridge, a glance down and back showed a strange leaden sheen across the western part of the basin, a sheen that made the air above it thick with fog.
“Water,” Marak said. “Cold water.”
They had seen their new sea. It was coming, with a rapidity that made them glad they were getting off the ridge soon. If some weakness in the rock began to fountain water through the ridge they stood on, which by then would have become a dam holding the sea from the hollow Needle Gorge, it would be wise to make no long camps on the spine.