Downtime (18 page)

Calla
shrugged. “It’s probably considered as uncivilized as it is for human children
to pick their noses.”

Jason
chuckled. “I’m never quite sure how you feel about the danae, Calla. One minute
you’re picking my hypothesis apart and the next you’re contributing ideas.”

“I’m
too old and set in my ways to accept anything new without questioning it. On
the other hand, I can’t sit and watch what almost looks like human behavior
without recognizing it as such. Of course, that only makes me question it more.
It’s utterly preposterous that other sentient beings would resemble humans in
any way, very self-centered for us even to consider that they would.”

“It
may be that we’ll only recognize the ones that do resemble us in some fashion.”

“You
should get back to Arria,” Calla said thoughtfully. “She might be able to give
you more information.”

“I
know, but there hasn’t been time.”

“When
are
you going to finish that tunnel?
You must be getting close now.”

“Not
close enough to satisfy me. But even if we were finished, there’s the tower to
do, not to mention all the data collection we have to catch up on.” He felt her
stiffen under his arm, bristling a little, Jason thought, because she was to
blame for the rangers’ being so far behind in their work. But he was wrong.

“I
thought you were keeping them too busy to hunt,” she said. Faint moonbeams
shone on her face as she looked up at him. Her eyes were radiant as she smiled.
He could keep no secrets from her. She knew his deepest thoughts, and he loved
her with an awful intensity.

“It
may have crossed my mind,” he said, lightly kissing her upturned mouth. She
kissed him back, then stared out at the beach. Tonto was wading again and they
both watched.

The
scream of a waterfowl turned Jason’s attention from the danae to the sea. A
night diver was flapping its wings, a sea creature impaled by razor-sharp
talons. As it neared the shore, another bird swooped down, grabbing at the
prize. The night diver screamed again and dodged, but the other had hold of the
victim, too. They flew in tandem toward the shore where the struggle continued,
but now on the ground, close enough for Jason to recognize the guttural squeak
of the would-be thief as that of a surface diver’s. The wings of both water
birds were outspread, feathers ruffled as they danced around their prey. First
the night diver seemed in control, its flat serrated beak ripping a bit of
flesh, only to have the surface diver grab the tidbit right from its mouth. For
just a second that scrap of flesh was more important to the two water birds
than the whole of the prize, and in that second there was a rainbow of color,
like meters of gauze trailing through the midst of the fighting water birds.
For a while the water birds fought on, completely unaware that their prize was
gone, stolen by one of the danae.

Farther
upshore, Builder had stopped poking around the rocks and Tonto had come away
from his sulking stance at the water’s edge, both accepting a share of the
prize while the water birds, feathers still ruffled, stared at each other
stupidly.

Simultaneously,
Jason and Calla laughed, startling the birds to flight.

“It’s
one of the oldest military strategies in history, Jason. I swear to the
Timekeeper that it’s so old they didn’t even have to teach it to us at the
Academy. You better get busy with danae studies. I think you’re going to find
something very interesting, like maybe a Japanese fisherman in their ancestry.”

She
wasn’t serious, of course, though the scene had reminded him of the very same
Japanese proverb that likened some battles to the fisherman who stole the water
birds’ catch while they were fighting over it.

“Whole
wars have been won that way by the right fisherman,” Calla said, still
laughing.

“And
the late evening snack by one quick-witted danae,” Jason added.

The
danae were finished eating, for there had not been much to divide among so
many. Jason thought they were ready to go home to the Amber Forest; they did
not usually stay out so long after dark. But none took wing. Each stood stock
still, oddly postured. It took Jason a moment to realize they were staring at
the sky, some with their front belly-eyes, some with the compound one behind.
Suddenly feeling chilled, Jason looked up to see what had enraptured them so
thoroughly.

“More
birds?” Calla asked, also looking up. “The moon?”

“No,”
he said. “I’ve seen this behavior before.”

“What?”

“Shh.
Let me look.” He saw it only after minutes of intense concentration, what would
appear to the untrained eye to be a star in retrograde. A new star. One that
had not been there last night, nor any night before. “There,” he said, pointing
to it for Calla. “Company.”

All
of a sudden, the danae took flight, the whistle of their many wings drowning
out the ocean sounds until they cleared the beach. The nighttime air was
suddenly sweet smelling, as if a thousand flowers had bloomed at once.

“Dear
Timekeeper!” Calla said. “Do you suppose they actually notice a new light in
the sky among the thousands and thousands?”

“You
bet they do,” Jason said. “Every supply ship, every freetrader.” He stepped
down from the rock and held her arm tightly to help her. “You still want to
tell me there’s no ship hiding out behind the moon?”

“What
ship?” she said, flat, professional.

“Yeah,
right. What ship. Well, I guess there’s still one secret on Mutare, and where
there’s one there’s a nest of them. Let’s get back and get ready for company.”

“They
would have called us if a ship were approaching,” she said tapping her comm.

“Not
if they don’t know they’re coming. Our equipment is limited, Commander.”

“Yes,
of course, but they can tighten up enough to call us.”

“Can,
but whether they would or not depends on who they are, doesn’t it?”

She
nodded. “Let’s get back.”

Mahdi gave them less than an hour’s notice to prepare for
his arrival on the surface of Mutare. Then he kept them waiting at the shuttle
landing while he arranged a purple toga over his khakis and stellerator until
he was satisfied that the draping looked elegant and the golden suns on his
collar and shoulders were prominently displayed. When he was ready, he took a look
out the portal. There were a dozen rangers standing at parade rest and a few
officers, some wearing ranger-green sashes and others Praetorian crimson. Calla
was among them. Beside the officers were two civilians, both wearing blue togas
over simple white suits, both elderly to judge by their white hair.

“That
looks like Praetor D’Omaha,” Mahdi said with a sudden frown.

“You
seem surprised, sir,” Roma said. “Weren’t you expecting him to be here?”

“I
told Frennz to make certain the entire staff was experienced in elixir
production procedures so that nothing would go wrong, but I didn’t expect him
to assign a retired decemvir.”

“There
were limits to how much he could control,” Roma said. “Is that his wife beside
him?”

“If
it is, she’s aged,” Mahdi commented. He remembered Stairnon as a lovely
brown-haired woman who had a natural presence for the role of a decemvir’s wife.
“He used to be very devoted to her.”

“I
would say that he still is,” Roma said.

Mahdi
noted the protective arm around Stairnon, a gesture almost unheard of in a
group gathered to greet the Imperator General of the Legions. That she was here
at all suggested D’Omaha still cared for her a great deal. He could have come
to Mutare unaccompanied.

“Look
who’s wearing the gold,” Roma said. “Old Antiqua. Timekeeper! I thought she’d
died at Aquae Solis or something.”

So
had Mahdi. He knew the exact time of the Aquae Solis tragedy, for learning of
it had spoiled his appetite. For days he could think of almost nothing except
that the treasures of Aquae Solis were lost to him before he’d ever had a
chance to own them. Calla’s reassignment to Mutare must have been made
immediately after the fire.

Mahdi
stepped away from the portal. His officers looked at him expectantly. “Let’s go
meet the rest of them,” he said, and led them to the open hatch where a ramp
was already in place. Roma and the others waited until he stepped off the ramp
bottom before they came out.

“General,”
Calla said, saluting with a snap that belied her years. Beside her was Anwar
Jason D’Estelle, his nomenclator told him, the ranger-governor. He was
dark-haired and almost as tall as Mahdi himself, and there was something
familiar about him. Mahdi listened carefully to his nomenclator as he casually
returned the man’s salute. The ranger-governor’s military career was
uneventful, all downtime service, except for cadet years in the Praetorian
guard. He had been attached to Mahdi’s own cohort, and Mahdi smiled, not really
remembering him in detail but glad to know why the man looked familiar.

“You’ve
been down the time spiral for quite a while,” he said to him amiably.

“Yes,
sir.”

“A
lot of hunting experience with all this outback-world exposure, I imagine,”
Mahdi said, already knowing from his nomenclator that the man was highly rated
for his ability to fill specimen quotas, no matter how large and fierce the
quarry. “It’s probably served you well here on Mutare.”

“I
haven’t hunted on Mutare, sir,” the ranger-governor said, his voice sounding
carefully respectful.

“Why
not?” Mahdi asked bluntly. The riches that crystal could bring were too great
for a common man to resist.

“My
charter is to survey and map the planet, and to collect data on cosmic
radiation. More recently, my cohort has been diverted from the original tasks
to construct facilities and perform support duty for Commander Calla’s group.”

“I
see,” Mahdi said abstractedly, his eyes already on the next officer in the
greeting line, for he had already dismissed the ranger-governor from his mind
as being either too dedicated to duty or at the extreme limit of his ability to
handle his assignment. Perfection Chief Marmion Andres Clavia, a man with a
perfect urban body, like Mahdi’s own, already seemed more interesting. Mahdi’s
nomenclator had already told him the man preferred his praenomen and that he
had a nickname, The Peddler, but left him wondering how he’d earned the name. “Chief
Marmion,” he said warmly.

“General!”
He snapped to attention.

“At
ease,” Mahdi said, “and tell me if I’ll find the processing plant absolutely
perfect.”

“Yes,
sir. The quality of the product is perfect. I would be proud to demonstrate to
you how I know that it is.”

“That’s
why I’m here,” Mahdi said. “Is the product so perfect that you, too, have had
no time for hunting?”

“I’ve
given up sleeping, sir,” he said with hard simplicity, “and manage both.”

Mahdi
nodded approvingly. “The inspection comes first, but afterwards . . .”

“It
will be my pleasure, sir.”

Mahdi
glanced at the other officers, clamped down on his nomenclator. They weren’t of
sufficient rank to bother meeting. He stepped past them to Praetor D’Omaha and
Stairnon. He shook hands with D’Omaha and kissed Stairnon’s hand. “It’s so good
to see you,” he said.

“It
has been years,” Stairnon said, “more than I care to remember. But you are
looking very well, Mahdi.”

“It’s
the downtime travel that my office requires of me,” Mahdi said, calmly.

“Surely
the imperator general does not go to downtime worlds,” Stairnon said, her eyes
intent and kind.

“I’m
here on Mutare, am I not?”

“Three
months . . . here and there. It must add up, for you simply haven’t changed.” She
smiled, and it was not the youthful smile Mahdi remembered.

“Your
presence here is reassuring,” Calla said behind him, quietly. “Things must be
quiet back in the Hub.”

“If
you’re referring to the Cassells strike force, it’s confined to Dvalerth and
Macow far-orbit.”

“Macow?
How did Macow become involved?”

“Cassells
chased a Dvalerthian squadron into Macowan space. The Macowans took offense.”

“Then
it’s already escalating,” Calla said, gravely. “Escalating?” Mahdi shrugged
indifferently. “Interplanetary power measurement by peaceful means has failed.
These local wars will continue until the Decemvirate makes a recommendation to
the council and council makes its decision on how to distribute elixir.”

“That
process could take years,” Praetor D’Omaha said, shaking his head. “Meanwhile
power will shuffle as various factors change the tide, but there’s nothing big
enough to do it decisively until the Decemvirate steps in.”

“Then,”
Mahdi said, “the legions will be the deciding factor, and peace will break out
because the balance of power will have been decided.”

“It’s
not that simple,” Calla said. “The old worlds perceive internal disunity among
the young worlds, which the allied Cassells strike force belies. And the young
worlds have misjudged the old worlds’ military strength and their willingness
to apply it in the theater of war, as witnessed by the Macowans. The ideology
is far apart. A series of wars on the local level can interlock and be fought
simultaneously.”

“General
war?” Mahdi pretended to be surprised. “General wars are always long wars. No
one could risk that. Too many worlds have first-hand knowledge of the realities
and sufferings of war, even though only on a local level.” He paused
impressively and said seriously, “The Decemvirate would not have sent me here
if they thought I might be needed back in the Hub.”

Calla
didn’t consider his remark for even a second. “The Decemvirate would not have
sent either of us here if they really believed peace will break out, not war.
Had they been certain, there would be no need for us.”