A Passage of Stars Page 9

  “… clear evidence,” finished the male voice. All three straightened.

  “Have you any reason to suspect that the young Ridani you call Paisley has been at any time or is currently linked with the Jehanish insurrection?”

  “I have never heard of any Jehanish anything, but I’m beginning to think that—” She broke off, remembering, for once, prudence.

  “Would you like to complete that statement?”

  “No.”

  Static arced in a high, faint pattern above her. She circled the room four times before the intercom crackled back to life. The three questioners drew apart and rose.

  “We have no further questions.”

  “But I have!” The wall already dulled and, as the lights came up, it reverted to its original obsidian sheen. “I have!” She slammed the side of her fist into the black surface. It hurt

  Behind her six guards filed in. She went without a word. She could not even imagine where she might be going now. But it was, of course, to a lock, and then into a ship—of course. Having presumably condemned Paisley, lost Heredes and Bach, and been, in the bargain, erased from existence at the order of Central Intelligence, she was to be sent back to the truly empty House of her family. She went meekly to her room or, better phrased, cell. They had left food and drink. There was a washing cubicle. She ate and drank and washed.

  She was not aware of any ungrappling. When the first window came, it took her entirely unaware.

  Fire. A tracery half-broken. The wind fanned it. The building collapsed—roaring; weight. Trapped in darkness.

  And came out.

  She was crying.

  After a bit she recalled the futility of such occupation, so she dried her tears and washed her face. She did kata, basics, simply stood for long periods in her deepest stances. In such a stance, kiba-dachi, centered physically at least, she felt the ship go through.

  Night. Utterly dark. The sightless must find a path. Wrists crossed. Long sweeps, half-moon, forge the ground. Light begins to rise.

  And came out.

  She still held deep in the stance. And as her final test, might as well stay in it as the ship came in to Unruli Station. It gave her something to concentrate on while she waited.

  Because of it, she was, while completely surprised, not entirely unprepared when they went through again.

  The angle of the left knee. Tendons. A slight shift. Vector. Each angle presupposes the next. Each prepares the other.

  And came out.

  She was so amazed by her sudden understanding of how to correct her straddle stance that she sat down. It was so simple, so obvious.

  It was two windows to Unruli. Where, by the Void, were they going? It seemed suddenly absurd to Lily that after all that had happened to her, they—whoever they were, the government, presumably—would simply return her to Unruli and deposit her by Ransome House’s outside lift. Her last ship had gotten to Remote on one impossible jump. She could be anywhere. She felt immensely heartened.

  A bed stood platformed into one wall. She lay down on it and slept. It had been told to her on one occasion that no human could sleep through a window. On other occasions, she had been told one merely had strange dreams. It seemed to her, when she woke, that she had had strange dreams, but how many, and how strange, she could not remember. She stretched, did a few exercises, ate and drank and washed. This ship could be going anywhere—even as far as Central. And she thought of Bach’s star map, and smiled.

  The ship went through.

  The guardian of the south: the spirit of power released. But to the west: the spirit of power in reserve.

  And came out

  She was still smiling—of course, because it was an instant’s vision, an instant’s realization, an instant, going through. For the first time, she understood that here she would have to wait out events until she could see the pattern they were taking, and find her own part in it.

  A subtle change in the floor and in the air signaled docking. In time, the door of her room slid open and six black-and-gray-uniformed officers escorted her out. They put her directly from the lock into a prison car. Her disorientation at locks told her they were, as she had expected, on a station. When the door swung open she emerged with as much dignity as she could muster. They walked sedately down a blank hallway. No one spoke. The corridor dead-ended in a double door that opened from inside. She had to step back to avoid its yawning. None of her guards followed her in.

  She was alone in a small chamber. A hollow pop alerted her, and in the far wall a seam appeared, stripping away in a single layer to create an opening. She went obediently through it, and it closed behind her. In the next room, one chair of hard, molded plastine faced eight chairs padded with soft fabric. She allowed herself the barest of sighs and sat in the single hard one. A few minutes passed. The hollow pop sounded again, and a second door materialized. She rose, but before she could take her first step, four people walked into the room and the doorway vanished behind them.

  She remained standing, out of astonishment. They wore the most outlandish clothing she had ever seen. There were three men and a woman, or at least one of the men she supposed was a man: he had a delicacy of face that was almost feminine, and she found the juxtaposition subtly attractive because it was so unusual; the oblong slant of his eyes resembled her own—although it might have been more cosmetics than biology—but his hair was blue.

  They studied her with equal intentness as they disposed themselves in four of the comfortable chairs. However strange they looked, at least they were human, and not the mysterious alien Kapellans, whose motives she could not hope to fathom.

  The blue-haired man lifted a hand to his mouth and coughed delicately behind it. It was, perhaps, a signal.

  The woman spoke. “You call yourself Lilyaka Hae Ransome. You claim residence at System Mark fifty-three point twenty-four oh eight, called Unruli. This is correct?”

  It was Standard, but strangely altered and heavily accented. “Both those statements are correct,” Lily said slowly. “Am I to be allowed to ask questions?”

  The woman looked at the blue-haired man. In her right ear four white stones stood out in bright contrast to her dusky complexion. She said words Lily could not understand, and turned back. “You may ask, in sequence, your questions.” Her tone was neutral.

  Lily folded her hands in her lap. “I would like to know where I am, first. And also, why I have been brought here, who you represent, what has been done with my companions, the robot and the Ridani girl, and when I will be allowed due legal process, which I do not need to remind you is my right as a citizen of the Reft.”

  “Some of these questions are not so difficult,” said the woman. “You yourself already know most of the answers. For the first, it is not unreasonable that you know your location. We are currently at System Mark fifty-one point seventy-two oh thirty-six, also called—” One hand lifted, paused beside her face as if to frame it; a single red circle, like a drop of blood, dotted her forehead. “Nevermore Station. We have not heard of any Ridani child. Now, of course, you will answer our questions.”

  “Nevermore!” It lay off the main routes at the edge of navigable space, populated by pygmies and the usual Ridani enclave. Given its name, Lily had once heard, from the number of ships lost leaving it, trying, perhaps, to go out on Paisley’s haunted way. “Why in the Void did you bring me to Nevermore?”

  “Can’t imagine,” muttered the second man, the ruddy rose of his complexion deepening with impatience.

  “As you must know, we want to know the extent of your involvement with Gwyn Himavant Simonides, also known as”—her voice took on the litany of the oft-repeated—“Elias Ram, Daniel Lance Fisher, Gwion, Blake Ne-Esthan Ash, Adam Trismegistus—” The blue-haired man chuckled. The woman, breaking off, frowned at him in annoyance. “You know well enough what we ask you,” she finished.

  “No, I don’t,” said Lily.

  “You deny involvement with him?” asked the woman.
<
br />   “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “And of course you have no knowledge of his past activities or his current plans?” This from the ruddy man, face openly skeptical. “Have no connection with this business whatsoever.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  They exchanged glances. The blue-haired man yawned and rubbed with painted fingernails at some imagined blight on one bronzed cheek. His hand moved with a kind of alluring grace that suggested sensuality more than any other characteristic.

  “And that, I suppose”—the woman’s voice sharpened with irritation—“is why you have a model sixteen eighty-five composer?”

  Lily blinked, shifting her attention quickly back to the woman. “A what?”

  Conversation in the foreign language was exchanged between the woman and the blue-haired man. With a final comment, the woman dispatched the third man. The door appeared; he went through it, returned holding a hand-sized box. Behind him, in a metal harness, floated Bach.

  Lily stood immediately, whistling his name.

  Bach responded in full chorus. Patroness, thou art unharmed?

  “That’s enough.” The ruddy man broke in on Lily’s whistled reply. “It’s proof enough for me,” he said to the woman. She frowned and spoke in the incomprehensible tongue to the blue-haired man.

  Can you understand? whistled Lily.

  Certainly, patroness. The lady hath stated that their party should have brought a composer model expert with them. The gentleman respondeth that one is unlikely to expect working models of such design in an area—His song cut off abruptly, and he drifted down to settle with a slight roll on the floor.

  “What have you done?” Lily started forward, but the man with the box stood in her way.

  “The model is unharmed,” said the woman in her neutral tone. “We were forced to switch off his melodic circuits. I’m sure you see the necessity.” She nodded, and the man pressed a button; Bach lifted about a meter from the floor, and together they left the room. “You will,” added the woman more forcefully, “receive the model back after you have cooperated with us.”

  The blue-haired man caught Lily’s eye and, like a conspirator forced for the moment to play the opposite side, winked at her. His eyes, startlingly, were as blue as his hair.

  “Has that convinced you,” continued the woman, “that we have seen through your imposture?”

  Lily returned to the single hard chair and sat down. “I don’t know what my imposture is supposed to be. I found the robot in my father’s garage.”

  The ruddy man laughed, scornful now. “And fish can fly,” he said. He reached for the com-screen he wore at his belt, coding into it, and stood up to hand it to Lily. “Next you’ll tell us you don’t recognize this man.”

  She took the screen. Stopped. Her hands congealed into immobility. It was Heredes. Obviously him, his picture on the screen. Looking, indeed, much the same as she knew him, but younger, with hair somewhat longer, and a single red crescent moon painted below one eye like a talisman. And there, on his chest, the medallion he had given her.

  She stared, confused, a little frightened, but not totally surprised. She realized finally that they were all examining her. She uncurled her fingers from the frame, and gave the screen back to the ruddy man.

  “You’re not going to deny it?” Spots reddened on his cheeks.

  Lily said nothing.

  “This is a waste of time,” said the blue-haired man suddenly in accented but perfectly understandable Standard. “These methods never work.”

  “You would know,” said the woman, her tone taking once again an edge. Her dark eyes fixed on Lily, unwavering. “I don’t care what methods I have to use to get the truth. That choice is yours. Do you understand?”

  “My House has already sent out a tracer on me,” replied Lily. Her voice stayed remarkably level. “They’ll catch up with you eventually.”

  The woman sighed, long, deep, and exasperated. She stood. The two men stood. “I see you don’t understand, or else you refuse to,” she said. Her dress, one-shouldered, draped like a single bolt of rich green cloth around her, rustled as she moved. “You don’t exist on your government’s computers any more. You can’t be traced.”

  She stepped forward with speed most startling for its abruptness and grasped the chain of Lily’s necklace, flicking it out with a finely tuned twist of the wrist. The medallion settled damningly on the black cloth of Lily’s tunic. “Don’t attempt denial,” said the woman. “We’ll leave you to think about its consequences.”

  She left, the two men following her through the door. The blue-haired man, last through the door, paused to look back, his gaze considering and, perhaps, amused. Lily could not help but stare back at him, caught at that moment by a fascination with his exotic attractiveness that caused her to forget briefly their circumstances. He began to smile.

  Then someone spoke beyond the door, impatient, and he too was gone.

  Lily simply sat, frowning. A time like this was no time to be admiring one’s enemies. Except that she could not imagine where these people had come from, or if they were truly a threat to her. She had felt an oddly undefinable character about them, as if her experience of life and theirs had no point of intersection. And Heredes—Hiro’s bounty hunters seemed, in retrospect, a mere quibble.

  Behind her there was movement. She twisted, quickly slipping the medallion back underneath her clothes. A door came into being, seeming to peel back from the wall. Through it an unintelligible voice and a series of tones and Bach appeared, unharnessed, coming through the door. Lily stood up, but the doorway was sealing back into place. Intercom traffic sounded beyond it: “Code red sector eleven Imp, all security assemble—” The door shut. Bach descended to one of the chairs.

  Bach! Can you get us out of here?

  Negative. Screens present. I regret my inability, but thou certainly understandest that against such devices attuned to my circuits, I cannot resist.

  Who are these people? Are they from Central?

  Information insufficient on Central. Harness activated by recent technician-originated point of origin. New construct. Therefore, I deduce similar origins for latest interrogators.

  Do you mean that they came from the place you originally came from? She supported herself by gripping the back of a chair.

  Affirmative.

  The thick woven pattern of the chair’s fabric suddenly reminded her of the curtain in Heredes’s study. “Then Heredes must be …” She trailed off, unable to complete the thought. Bach drifted closer to her, singing softly. Why did they return you to me?

  His first response was more tone than answer. Unclear. Disturbance on Station. Some debate over my disposal, followed by a call over communications and an unbuckling of harness and swift preparations for departure. That is all I witnessed.

  Lily let go of the chair. “But they implied—”

  The lights went off. For three breaths, the room remained dark. They came back on with a flash of brilliance, but almost simultaneously, as if the two were connected, Lily felt surge in her stomach, a sharp lurch. She stumbled to one side, tripping over her own feet, grabbed for the chair back, missed; a second lurch yanked her back into the chair. Bach had rolled upside down. Surface lights blinking, he righted himself.

  “Hoy,” said Lily. She kept her hold on the chair’s back. The lights went off again, stayed off longer, long enough for Bach to sing through Brich an, o schönes Morgenlicht—“Break through, oh lovely light of morn.” They relit in slow stages, accompanied by a rhythmic pounding and a deep extended growl, like an engine heard through a tube.

  A doorway peeled open. Lily threw herself into a half-crouch behind the chair. A man strolled in, gun held easily in one hand. Not just any man, but a tattoo. Purple and yellow and orange swirled in a joyous riot over his skin. He wore ordinary brown overalls. His arms were bare. Stopping, he saw her. His gun still pointed steadily, but not at her.

  “H
ere you be,” he said. He had an open, cheerful face.

  “Who are you?” Lily asked, staying down.

  “I be called Calico.” He seemed to find this diverting, and smiled. “But I be here to release you.”

  Bach floated up behind her, attracting the man’s astute eye. “I don’t understand,” Lily countered. “Why are you releasing me?”

  His smile broadened. “But it be ya simple,” he said. “Jehane hae come. I mun take you to him.” Now Lily stood up. “Who is Jehane?” she demanded. A voice stuttered to life at his wrist. He lifted it to a colorful ear, listened, lowered it again. “Be you comin’?” he asked.

  She glanced once at Bach. The robot winked at her with a single azure light. “I think I be,” she said, half-resigned, and she followed Calico out of the room.

  8 Jehane Arrives

  HE LED HER PAST the double doors. The blank hallway beyond receded into a shallow curve, the arc of the station. The featureless walls’ subdued color, draining Calico’s tattoos to shades of gray. On his bare feet, a glow from the floor revealed curlicues chasing themselves in orange and yellow around his toes.

  “Where are we going?” she asked after they had gone about a kilometer.

  “To safety.” He flashed her a quick, bright smile.

  “Where are we?”

  He shook his head. A bit further, the curving expanse revealed a single doorway outlined on the wall. He went to it, laying a hand on the com-panel next to it, and it slid open soundlessly.

  Inside, a worker’s office and a living space combined into two small rooms: one with tools, the other a tiny cubicle just large enough for bed and terminal. The door shut behind them. Calico clipped off the gun and hid it under a plastic bucket. Waving Lily into the second room, he grandly offered her a seat on the bed.

  “I be ya janitor here,” he said as she disposed herself, Bach hovering above her. “So you be sure wondering why I be here instead o’ with ya rest o’ my people.”

  His mischievous look prompted her to smile. “I had wondered why you had the run of the place, after what I’ve seen of Security’s treatment of Ridanis.” Still bitter, she told him of Paisley.