Moon Flower (21 page)

“Power, then,” Shearer tried. “So Vattorix has more things in life that others can’t take away.”

Sergelio needed to think about that for a while. “True, that will give him those things today, maybe tomorrow,” he agreed finally. “But over longer time, will make pain and anger with many other peoples. Long-sight will tell him that this way are more bad things than good things, and so he knows.”

“Long-sight?” Shearer repeated, frowning.

“That is what Terrans tell me is your word,” Sergelio said. “It means the wise choices that come when everything sleeps and world is quiet and listens. That is how Cyreneans find... know-ledge.” Shearer shook his head, not comprehending. Sergelio thought for a moment. “When you come out from bird-ship, you see the wall of bricks, and the wall has a door.”

Shearer remembered the sunken flower garden with its tiers of seats. “Yes. but not a door, a gate,” he replied.

“Okay, is gate. That is the place where Vattorix and the... what is people who talk with him to decide things?”

“Counselors. Advisors.”

“Yes, good. That is where they meet at night to talk questions and agree.”

“At night?”

“Yes. Is when the long-sight comes.” Sergelio looked at Shearer curiously. “Is not the time when Earth peoples think of the important things that will mean good lives or bad lives?”

Shearer shrugged. “No. Most people just sleep.”

“We say on Cyrene that the day deceives, but the night is true. Like the child that sees the nice things that it wants now.” Sergelio gestured to indicate some candylike delicacies on a nearby serving cart. “That is the day-sight. But the bad things that come from you eat too many,” he put a hand on his stomach and pulled a face of someone feeling sick, “he doesn’t see. The grown man, he sees. That is the night-sight.” Sergelio paused, eyeing Shearer dubiously for a response. Shearer didn’t know what to make of it. “But then I should know, I was told,” Sergelio said. “Terrans on Earth do not feel these things.”

Marion Hersie appeared at that point and began rounding her charges together and ushering them toward another arched opening on one side of the stairway. As the general tide of movement began around them, Jerri looked around for some clue as to what she was supposed to do with Nim. Uberg materialized next to them as if from nowhere.

“Any idea what we do with the dog while we’re having dinner?” Shearer asked him.

“Don’t worry about that,” Uberg answered. His eyes were moving rapidly and taking everything in, not looking at them directly. His voice was low and strangely tense. “Just stick close.”

Beyond the arch was an anteroom where Gloria Bufort and her immediate party were in the process of being shown through a door to a large room where tables with places laid for eating were visible. Evidently they were to be seated first. With them was a group of Cyreneans with nothing obvious to distinguish them from the general company, but who had to be the principals. Shearer picked out Callen from Milicorp and Captain Portney, the
Tacoma
’s commander, who they had been told would be coming down from the ship to attend the event. Close behind Callen was a tough-looking, craggy-faced man with short-cropped hair that Shearer had seen once or twice at functions in the course of the voyage, but couldn’t identify. He looked constrained and out of place in a formal suit. The broad, bearded figure walking beside Gloria, with a fierce mane of dark hair that could have belonged to a Corsair pirate, and wearing a dark blue coat over a white robe, Shearer recognized from shots shown at the briefing as Vattorix himself. As usual, Gloria was taking center stage.

“I’m not a head of state, but I live in a far bigger house than this,” Shearer caught as they moved on into the dining room. “How would you like one five times this size?”

“Why? What would I do with it?” Vattorix asked.

“We also own one of the largest collections of contemporary art works on the West Coast. I’m told it’s valued at a sum that would buy all the buildings in your city here.”

“Very nice,” Vattorix agreed, obviously wanting to be polite. “But what do you
do
?”

As the main group converged behind, slowing to allow a respectful interval before following, Uberg steered Shearer and Jerri away from them and toward a passageway at the rear and waved them through. It led to what looked like store rooms and a scullery off the kitchen. Two Cyreneans were waiting, one holding Shearer and Jerri’s bags from the flyer. Without a word, they turned and led the way quickly through more passages and out to a yard which, if Shearer’s sense of direction was accurate, lay beyond the wing that had flanked the sunken flower garden. An enclosed carriage harnessed to two Cyrenean horses was standing waiting, with a driver seated up front and a figure standing by the opened door, holding another bag. Shearer realized that his chest was pounding with a sudden adrenaline rush. This was it!

They hurried across to the carriage. Jerri sent Nim bounding in and then followed. Shearer threw in his bag, climbed a step to the dark interior, and turned to say an appropriate word to Uberg. But to his surprise, he found that Uberg was waiting to follow him, while the man who had been waiting stood behind, holding the door.

“I told you there was something I had to remain at the base to do,” Uberg said. “It’s done. I’m not sure exactly what my future has in store, but I do know that it will be somewhere out on Cyrene. When you’ve been here a while, you’ll learn to feel these things.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Myles Callen was angry. It was not the rush of violent anger that might flare in the face of an insult or a display of stupidity that went beyond the bounds of tolerance, and would just as quickly abate again. That kind could be controlled and contained; a big part of surviving in a deceitful and treacherous world lay in cultivating the ability to do so. It was the slow, gnawing kind of anger that fed upon itself and smoldered and grew, demanding action. The dispatch had already gone back to Borland; there had been no choice. In any case, covering up from his superiors wasn’t Callen’s style. Less than two days after taking command, he’d had to report a major failure of the security provisions. He wasn’t accustomed to things like that.

He sat in the office that had been Emner’s until yesterday, glowering at the desktop with its tidily arranged assortment of papers and accessories waiting to take on the look of work in progress, and the panel of monitor screens to one side. As a first measure to get the message out that things had changed and the days of Emner’s ineffectiveness were over, he had given new orders to Delacey, who had replaced Yannis as security commander, for the gates to be closed to casual egress, and for rules to be drawn up governing the issue of passes to cover exceptions. The explanation of an unidentified sickness affecting Terrans who had left the base had been posted, and he would talk with the Chief Medical Officer later about spinning some plausible-sounding line to back it up.

Which left the problem of Shearer. Callen had left the cell door invitingly unlocked, and while he had been watching and waiting for Shearer to make a move, Shearer had been smuggled out through the window. The speed with which it had been effected, he had to admit, had taken him by surprise. Uberg, who was also missing, had obviously been a part of it. Yet Dolphin had followed Shearer’s every move, and Shearer hadn’t been near Uberg; neither had they communicated electronically. It seemed, then, that Shearer was a shrewder operator than Callen had given him credit for. They must have set it up via a third party, probably the girl. So maybe scientists could be as smart, every once in a while, as most of them thought they were all the time, Callen conceded.

There had to be Cyrenean involvement in what had been going on; or at the very least, from the sheer number of people who had gone missing, the Cyreneans couldn’t be unaware of it. A diplomatic approach to the ruling powers would normally be the first choice in such circumstances, but the diplomatic initiative in the case of this mission had been put in the hands of an airhead, and Callen wasn’t prepared to risk another fiasco. That left force, which was certainly something that Callen was more at home with — and in comparison with anything the Cyreneans were capable of mustering, the mission’s military contingent could pack a hefty punch. However, the conditions of overt native hostilities or militant rivalry that might lend themselves to exploitation, typically by giving some token support to one side and so forcing the other to seek a deal of some kind to redress the balance, didn’t appear to offer themselves on Cyrene. And besides that, heavy-handed intervention of that kind, within days of Gloria Bufort’s arrival in the role of ambassadress, had been ruled out by Earth.

Then it would have to be a compromise between the two — a representation to the Cyreneans, kept within the bounds of what was permissible, but with show of force to get the message across that the new management meant business and wanted answers. Yes, there would be an element of bluff in it; but the Cyreneans were smart — maybe too smart at times, Callen was beginning to think already. To get the message across clearly, the representation would need to be done with a military face, not the Gloria Bufort brand of bimbo diplomacy. But it would be unbecoming for him, as the new acting base Director, to make the first approach. Bigger guns were more properly held in reserve.

His mind made up, he leaned toward the desk touchpad and keyed in Krieg’s number. Krieg’s close-cropped head and craggy features appeared on the screen a few moments later. “I’ve got a job for you,” Callen said. “We need to get this business out in the open and talk to our friends face-to-face. It should have been done long ago. Can you get over here to talk about it?”

For his mission, Krieg used one of the twelve-man RS-17P “Scout” military Survey & Reconnaissance Vehicles provided as part of the standard equipment inventory for rapid response and emergency situations. It carried four nose cannon and a pair of waist laser turrets for ground suppression and Landing Zone defense, as well as various underwing munitions packages. Although the precise functions of these devices would no doubt be lost on the Cyreneans, the overall nature of the craft could hardly be mistaken. The intention was to signal the kind of resorts that the Terrans had at their disposal, and to impress that the matter was serious. To this same end, it was decided to forgo the formality of making advance arrangement with the Cyreneans for a meeting. Krieg’s force would simply drop in unannounced. And since it was close by, and one place that they knew for sure would give access to the local governing system, the place would be Vattorix’s residence across the lake, the same place where they had been received the night before. The choice also represented a mild testing of limits as to how far they could push Cyreneans. If it turned out they had gone too far, it could be written off with apologies and the excuse of newcomers being unfamiliar with native customs.

A group of curious Cyreneans had already gathered outside the main entrance of the house by the time the Scout touched down. Krieg emerged in one of his rare concessions to wearing uniform, flanked by a lieutenant and preceded by a ten-man guard detail carrying weapons but not wearing combat gear, who fanned out on either side with parade-ground precision to present arms. A Cyrenean who introduced himself as Afan-Essya greeted them and stated himself to be a close helper of Vattorix and organizer of day-to-day affairs, which sounded pretty close to “Secretary.” Krieg, assuming a due measure of propriety but at the same time injecting a no-nonsense note, conveyed that he was here representing the new Terran administration in connection with a matter they considered highly important and wanted to take up with the highest levels of Yocalan authority.

It would have satisfied Krieg to deal with Afan-Essya at this juncture; or any other comparably placed official with whom a preliminary discussion would be appropriate. He was therefore surprised and momentarily thrown off balance when Afan-Essya, after a brief consultation with the others around him, suggested that the best person to take it up with would probably be Vattorix himself. But Krieg was if anything a pragmatist, not much given to standing on form, and he certainly wasn’t about to miss an opportunity like this. Recovering quickly, he readily agreed. A messenger was dispatched into the house, and Krieg invited inside to wait. He followed, taking just the lieutenant with him — bringing a whole armed troop into Vattorix’s house would have been pushing things too far, even for Krieg. For a few minutes he was indulged in small talk that revolved around his first impressions of Cyrene and various details of the art and decor in the front entrance hall, where the reception had taken place the previous evening. To Krieg’s relief it turned out that Afan-Essya had acquired considerable proficiency as an interpreter. Then the messenger returned and announced that Vattorix could see the visitors at once.

Afan-Essya, with two others, conducted Krieg and the lieutenant up the central staircase and then via one of the secondary flights of stairs to a gallery lined by pointed windows and ledges of large flower vases along one side, and doors into a series of rooms on the other. They came to the last of these and entered a spacious, sunny room with walls of carved paneling and windows opening to a balcony overlooking the lawn and grounds falling away toward the lake. Vattorix was standing at an oval table near the windows, wearing what looked like casual dress — a plain tan tunic fastened by cord loops and metal clasps over Cyrenean Cossack-style trousers. He greeted the two Terrans affably, indicated two imposing chairs with high backs and wide arms, upholstered in a brown leathery material, on one side of the room, and seated himself on a matching couch facing them from the wall. Afan-Essya remained, while the other two Cyreneans who had accompanied them from below withdrew.

After a few minutes of opening pleasantries that Krieg managed to get through without giving vent to his rising impatience, Vattorix asked the reason for their visit. Despite his responsibilities, he had evidently devoted some effort to schooling in the language of the newcomers. His eyes were deep brown but with a strangely orange tint around the pupils. He regarded Krieg with a steady, penetrating gaze, his head tilted, causing his chin and beard to jut forward in a way that could have signified defiance or just simple curiosity. Never having had much need or bent for the fine art of reading subtleties in his fellow humans, let alone aliens that he had only met for the first time yesterday, Krieg decided that the best tack was simply to plunge in.