Destroyer (12 page)

“The people were afraid we would never come home and that humans would take the second ship for their own. And humans didn’t pay their fair share, so we would not.”

“Was that wise?”

“No, mani-ma. They were squabbling like children.”

Ilisidi arched an eyebrow and looked at Geigi, who drew a deep breath.

“One would concur,” Geigi said. “We attempted to mediate, to give contracts to Talidi, to help them with their construction, but that was not to Cosadi’s liking. She raised the issue of regional funding to gain political advantage for her point of view.
No
budget reduction would satisfy them. Nor would any word granting us sole possession of an unfinished ship, since that would not get us supply of certain necessary components from Mospheira, which had just reduced their budget. Your father was at a difficult pass, young aiji, and was attempting to negotiate across the delicate division of interests. Clearly there was no good intent among the Talidi or the Kadigidi.”

“And the Atageini?” asked Ilisidi.

“One has no idea, from this remove, what Lord Tatiseigi is doing. We have no word out of the mainland, only what we gather from their broadcasts. Most of it is diatribe against Tabini-aiji and praise of Murini’s governance.”

“Disgusting,” Ilisidi said.

Cajeiri turned a burning look on his great-grandmother, close to emotional upset.

“What shall we do, mani-ma?” Cajeiri asked.

“What shall we do?” Ilisidi echoed his question. “What have we done, first? What resources have we, Lord Geigi?”

“At first,” Geigi said, “we concentrated on making our half-built starship mobile, as it is now, though extremely limited in flight. It is armed. If you should have failed to return, if enemies arrived, Ogun-aiji argued, we needed the ship for our defense. But with supply cut off, we had no choice but to turn all our efforts to food. We rationed and stockpiled at first, and now have produced yeasts, in the tanks we do have, while building others. With the ship’s tanks to increase that capacity, we shall not starve. But other tanks and other robots are still under construction, and things proceed slowly. The island, after the budget crisis, is now attempting to build its own shuttle and lengthen the runway at Jackson, which can be done. But done very expensively, and certain parties had rather give that up in favor of a missile defense system against the mainland.”

Distressing in the extreme. “Is Shawn Tyers still
presidenta
, Lord Geigi?”

“He is. And your return will strengthen his office immensely, nand’ paidhi.”

“Not enough and not soon enough, I fear, to move the legislature to act.”

“We have promised the
presidenta
if Mospheira puts the shuttle as priority, we shall assure their safety from attack, but there is still great fear. The dissident factions on Mospheira have, I hear, taken to the airwaves with vehement arguments, attacking the authority of the
presidenta
Tyers, and have gained some following, perhaps much as they had five years ago, so we understand.”

The Human Heritage Party. The snake they’d not quite beheaded.

“And Mercheson?” Yolanda Mercheson, the translator who had taken his place as go-between for Tabini and the station, Yolanda, whose part in these events he very much wanted to hear. “Will she be available to us? Did she even survive?”

“She was caught on the planet, on the mainland, which has been in some measure fortunate. She traveled as far as Mogari-nai and went from there by boat to the island. She has no knowledge, as far as Ogun-aiji has been able to ascertain, regarding the outcome of affairs at Mogari-nai. She was in transit when the Kadigidi forces reached it, and has never reestablished contact with the aiji or his party. She does contact certain resistence forces in the field, but these, regrettably, have diminished or gone into hiding in recent days.”

Not utterly a point of despair, that last.
If
Tabini had relied on the conviction the ship would return two years from its launch date, and had gone to ground to await that return, his forces would very logically have melted into the earth, to rise again only when he recalled them.

But the opposition would be hunting them in the meanwhile, and hunting them harder than ever now that any telescope on earth could testify that the ship was back.

“Doubtless,” Bren said, “the whole world knows we have returned, nandiin.”

“One has no doubt,” Ilisidi said, and set down her teacup. “Well. And this one shuttle we do have? Is it ready?”

“It is in excellent condition. But there is no landing site safe on the mainland, aiji-ma.”

“The island, then.”

“It may have its own hazards,” Geigi said. “There are large, armed boats out.”

“But we at least approach the island over the western sea, not over the mainland,” Bren said.

“This fuel.” Ilisidi waggled her fingers, as over one of those inconsiderable inconveniences her subordinates might solve.

“There is fuel,” Geigi said. “The shuttle is ready. The crews here have stayed in training, particularly as your return date arrived.”

“Then we shall lose no time,” Ilisidi said.

Were any of them surprised, either at Geigi’s efficiency, the pilots’ dedication, or Ilisidi’s decision? No. Not in the least.

“We shall take the shuttle down,” Ilisidi said, “nand’ paidhi. Immediately. See to it.”

 

“Jase,” Bren said, on the line to station central via pocket com, while he walked, “the dowager wants to go down on the shuttle. Immediately, she says.”

“Not surprised,” Jase said. “Ogun wants
you
in his office
,
meanwhile, politely speaking. Senior captain’s coming aboard for the conference.”

He wasn’t surprised by that, either.

“One hour,” he said. “Can we do that?”

“Ten minutes,” Jase said.

“Faster we move, the better. All right.”

He hadn’t even gotten to his own apartment door yet. Banichi and Jago, beside him, had heard it. They all changed course, went over to the lift and punched in new directions. His staff welcome would have to wait. If it ever happened.

Events seemed to blur past, accelerating. He was by no means sure they were doing the right things.

“It would be well,” Banichi said, pushing the lift call button, “if we did hasten this, Bren-ji. Events will surely turn on our arrival, and the conspirators will know by now that the ship is here.”

“One has that idea,” he said. “But, nadiin-ji, we will need to clear our landing with the authorities on Mospheira, we shall need to keep it as quiet as possible, and we have lost Mogari-nai.”

“They are communicating,” Jago said, “by a new installation at Jackson, nandi. So we are told.”

The lift arrived. They stepped in. Pieces had shifted. He could not rely on things being exactly as he had left them, not in any small particular, not after two years, not after general upheaval.

“Can Tano establish contact with Shawn Tyers?” he asked. “I need to talk to him.”

“One will attempt it,” Jago said, and did exactly that, on her pocket com, while the lift set into motion, taking them toward a meeting in the operational center of the station. She spoke with Tano, and waited, and by the time the lift had reached its destination:

“The
Presidenta
of Mospheira, nandi,” Jago said, and handed him her pocket com, with not even the need to push a button.

“Shawn?”

“Bren?”
It was surreal to hear Shawn’s voice, after such incredible distances and events.
“Did you do it?”

“We did it, no question.” His own voice wanted to shake, from sheer pent-up tension. He wouldn’t let it. “A lot more to discuss when we have a moment, but right now I’m asking if you can get me urgent landing clearance if we can get down there?”

“No question we can, and I advise it be soon and fast,”
Shawn said.
“The mainland won’t be an option for your landing, not while this regime is in power. There’s a sort of a navy now. And the more advance warning, the worse and the riskier.”

“Understood.” Two deep breaths as he walked the corridor toward Admin, between Banichi and Jago. “We’ve only just docked. Listen, we’re in good shape, mostly. There
is
something to worry about out there in space, way deep and far, but I’ll let you work that out with the captains. I’m about to debrief with Ogun . . . I trust you’re talking to Ogun, no problems.”

“No problems at all in that regard,”
Shawn said.

“I’ve got to sign off. I’ll be there in short order, if we’re lucky.”

“Got it,”
Shawn said. Former boss in the State Department. Ally, in what had become the only team left standing.
“I’ll clear your way in all senses. You’ll have clear air space and a place for you and your party, all honors. Count on it.”

“Thanks,” he said. And to Banichi and Jago, handing back the phone—as if they couldn’t follow most that he said in Mosphei’. “He advises we move quickly, and promises us clearance to land and a place to stay. He gave no hint of trouble on the island, but seems anxious for us to hasten our moves. He says the opposition has ships.”

“Which may attempt to interfere in the landing, nandi,” Banichi said. “We agree.”

They reached the guarded door, and the guards on duty—one of them Jase’s man, Kaplan—wasted no time letting all of them in.

Jase was inside, standing with Jules Ogun, of
Phoenix,
who’d stayed in command of the station and maintained liaison with Shawn
and
Tabini while they were off in deep space.

“Good to see you,” Ogun said, leaning across the table corner with a solid handshake—certainly more warmth than when they’d parted. “Damned good to see you in one piece, sir.”

“I understand we have a problem downstairs,” Bren said directly, “and I hear we have a shuttle in reasonable readiness, and I have the dowager’s request to launch and Tyers’ clearance to land at Jackson, if we can get it fueled.”

“It
is
fueled, or will be within the next two hours. We started that process when you turned up in system. Crew’s kept up their sims throughout. We’re not altogether cut off from the planet, but this shuttle is our one chance, Mr. Cameron. Damned hard to replace. But no other use for it now but to get you down there.”

“The dowager and the heir are our best chance to stabilize the government. They’re absolutely irreplaceable. And I’m going with them.” He saw the frowns. “I have to be there. They’ll need me.”

“Dangerous,” Jase said. “Damned dangerous, Bren, your going down there. You’re the outsider. You’re in particular danger.”

“I wish we had another choice,” he said. He’d come in prepared to argue up one side and down the other for his position, but no one argued, beyond Ogun’s remark, such ready agreement he wished someone
would
argue, interpose objections that might make him think of critical omissions in his ideas.

But, point of fact, they had two choices—launch an information war from orbit, with the broadcast and cable in the hands of the new regime, and a lot of blood-shed likely—or get themselves down there as their supporters would expect, had almost certainly expected for months. People would commit their lives to the latter expectation, might already have swung into operations that would fail without them. In the atevi way of thinking, leaders had to show up, in person, take the risks, lay down the law, make the moves so there was no doubt of their commitment.

And the longer they waited, even by hours, the more time the opposition had to arrange something in response.

“A seat, Mr. Cameron.” Ogun sat down, and Jase did, and as they settled, the door opened and Sabin came in, her coat steaming with cold and frost, straight from the core and the airlock.

Ogun rose, extended a hand to her, gave her the vacant seat next to him—senior, these two, captains under senior captain Stani Ramirez so long as Ramirez lived, and privy to far and away more than they’d ever admitted to the crew at large or to anyone else until the proof came running up on them at Reunion. Now they all knew—or hoped they knew—what Ramirez had done to the human species, poking about in alien territory, keeping a potentially hostile alien contact secret even from his own crew . . . until it swept down and half destroyed Reunion Station. Candor had not been an attribute of the Pilots’ Guild, not even the benevolent part of it that managed
Phoenix
and sat guard over the station here. Not, possibly, to this hour.

“Brilliant job,” Ogun said to them.

“Adequate,” Sabin said. “We’re alive. We’ve got the ringleaders of our problems in close lockup aboard ship and plan to keep them that way indefinitely, under the circumstances. We’re going to be dribbling population aboard the station, asking resident crew to sponsor the Reunioners and keep close tabs on them, no demands at all from our Mospheiran cousins onstation. They have no reason to love these people.”

“Anything that slows a headlong rush to realize how short supply is, here.”

“How short is it?”

“We’ve had serious tank problems and cycling hasn’t quite kept up with the nutrient balance. We could use resupply. We could use it very urgently, or we absolutely go back on basics and short rations at that. We haven’t
got
some of the critical supplies when we do get the new tanks in operation, and we’re even, just among the few of us, worried about the long-range stability of the station air systems. But your people are telling me there’s a big cash-in of biomass as the ship is in for overhaul.”

The spider plants. The myriad spider plants, Bren thought. Bales of them. Not to mention the recycling of ship’s waste for all those people. Could they possibly have that much bound up in them, that they could make a dent in station requirements?

But the ship had been nutrient rich for a long time. They’d carried an abundant supply, and they hadn’t offloaded any of it. They’d taken on a good extra load from Reunion Station itself on the return flight, emergency supplies to expand their capacity to serve thousands of passengers. Was that enough?