Defender

  The shower beeped: even the paidhi had a water-limit… one he’d insisted on having, and there it was, a one-minute warning, just time enough to get the soap off in decent order.

  He rinsed, cut the water off and stepped out. The junior servant was right at hand to help him into his warmed, soft robe and equally warmed slippers.

  After that, he sat on a bench, had his hair dried and braided in formal order, and afterward got up and dressed for dinner, not in the full court attire, this time, but atevi-style, all the same, for a dinner at home, among intimates: the lace-cuffed shirt, close-fitting trousers, a white ribbon for his braid. When he asked himself, he didn’t know why he didn’t call for human-style clothing for a dinner with Jase: certainly it would have been appropriate, maybe more appropriate, and in most regards more comfortable. But somewhere in the hindbrain he was still on the world.

  “Nandi.” Bindanda brought him a small envelope—no question it was human, no question it was Mospheiran, at first sight. It had a little residue of dirt. From the plants, it seemed.

  A letter from Sandra Johnson. With photos of Sandra and smiling near-teens. Good God, he thought. Who are these kids?

  Dear Bren, I was repotting today and thought of you. I checked and these plant slips aren’t contraband where you are.

  The picture? This is my oldest, Brent, and this is Jay.

  Was she married? Had she told him she was married?

  I’m working in Brentano now, for a law firm, well, you probably know, Meacham, Brown & Wilson. John and I are happy here. But when I thought about you up there in all that plain plastic, I couldn’t just toss the cuttings. I hope they’re no trouble and if they are, throw them out. I told Brent and Jay I once visited the aiji in Shejidan and that I know you, and I’m not sure they believe me, but I don’t forget those days. I think of you fondly and thank you for all you’ve done up there.

  Sincerely,

  Sandra Johnson

  John who, for God’s sake?

  But she was certainly due a letter, and he opened the computer that had magically arrived in his room, and wrote an answer.

  Dear Sandra, absolutely I’ll treasure them. Growing things are pretty scarce aboard.

  I’m so glad for you. Fine-looking kids. Congratulations.

  Bren.

  Due two letters, in fact:

  Dear Brent and Jay, believe your mother. She saved the whole world, once, and the aiji himself still owes her a personal favor.

  Sincerely,

  Bren Cameron

  Paidhi-aiji

  Just occasionally there were entirely delicious satisfactions to the job. And he did treasure… what were the plants’ names? Hell, he couldn’t remember. Seymor and Fredricka, he decided—granted they lived.

  Tough specimens. Survivors. Coming home to the realm of their ancestors.

  That letter, however, had led him to think about his mail queue, and he connected.

  A letter from the tax authority on Mospheira. He needed to file a paper, the same paper he filed every year. No, they couldn’t possibly accept his secretary’s signature. It regarded the immense amount of pay he’d accumulated and not spent, and which he used to pay his mother’s bills and buy birthday presents for Toby’s kids.

  A letter from a charity wanted an endorsement, Society for Beachside Preservation, something of the sort. He wasn’t sure how that had gotten through Mogari-nai and C1. He wasn’t out of sympathy for the cause. It sounded like something Toby might favor. But he doubted Toby had sent it.

  The letter from the State Department turned out to regard his personal identification card, which had expired. He could bring the requisite cash and his expired card to any courthouse he could reach.

  Well, that was a fair hike.

  And a letter—God, a short note from Barb.

  He hadn’t heard from Barb at all for two years, not since her divorce. She’d said then she was getting her life together— adjusting to life as it was—life, as, dammit, she’d chosen it to be. She’d said she didn’t expect an answer, and gratefully enough he hadn’t sent one—

  But he heard about Barb often enough. Barb and his mother got along, consoled each other—they had a frightening lot in common and every time he thought of it, he told himself his instincts had been right. Run like hell. The Bren Cameron that Barb and his mother both hoped would exist didn’t exist, couldn’t exist, not since he’d taken on the job—and thank God he hadn’t run back after Barb’s accident, hadn’t gotten involved in her life again. He’d only have provided the chance to let Barb lock on and mess up the rest of her life.

  Last he’d heard, she was all right. She’d come out of the accident alive and whole. A rough few years, one hell of a mistake, but she was doing all right these days.

  Being on a space station without a convenient way down seemed a safe distance.

  Bren,

  Your mother’s not doing well. The new medications aren’t what we hoped. I hope you’ll find time to come down as soon as you can.

  The bottom dropped out of his stomach… not hard, just a little twinge of guilt. His mother’s health hadn’t been good, but the majority of the crises had involved some scheme to get him to visit. What was the date on the letter?

  The day he’d left for the planet, dammit.

  And if he had visited—if he had, every damned time his mother would revert to the ordinary list of complaints and the tally of his failures to care enough, visit enough, do enough… no, no, no, he didn’t feel guilty.

  But he went for the message-bowl, then, opened the messages, and found, dammit, one from his brother, not with the usual header that would have tipped off the staff as to its origin and sent it straight to him no matter where he was: no, this one was from Community General, from the hospital nearest their mother’s neighborhood. Toby hadn’t known there was a reason to put an official stamp on it. Toby couldn’t have known he was actually on the planet and in reach, if he’d only put an official stamp on, to alert his staff.

  Dammit.

  Bren, Toby said,

  Mother’s in hospital, her blood pressure again. The apartment manager found her on the stairs and called the ambulance. The doctors aren’t certain…

  It went on. Toby’d gone to the capital immediately. There was a second letter with the same origin. Their mother was in the hospital. The medications had taken a toll of her other organs. The doctors were working on the problem.

  Toby had dropped everything, ignored all his advice, left Jill to go to the capital to be available.

  Well, when hadn’t he felt guilty… for leaving his mother on the island, for leaving Toby to deal with her, when what she wanted was him, the one of her two sons who didn’t come running?

  When hadn’t he felt like a scoundrel, ducking possible visits?

  Yes, his coming onto the island was a danger to his mother and to Toby and Toby’s family; but they just weren’t damned pleasant visits, either, and if he was honest, that was the real reason… and the source of enough guilt to turn his stomach. Toby, granted, had at least had the good sense early on to go live up on the coast, out of range—but when things had shifted and Toby had turned out to be the only one of them who could be there, Toby would come back—at the worst moments Toby would get on a plane at whatever hour, leave his promises to his wife and his kids hanging while he ran down there to deal with the fact some lunatic had phoned their mother’s apartment and set off her heart condition. They were real troubles, always real troubles, but they had a knack for happening on birthdays and holidays and other times brother Bren couldn’t show up to visit, and the coincidence was more than suspicious.

  Did other sons board a plane every time a parent had a medical incident? No. But did they? Toby did, because Bren couldn’t. He told Toby not to go… but Toby went; and once Toby got there, Toby got all the complaints—no thanks for his being there, just the complaints. Where was Bren? When would Bren come? Why couldn’t Bren come? Tell your brother this, tell your brother tha
t…

  And ask why. Ask why Toby ran off to try to be a better son to their mother than he could be, and oh, there was a dark spot in that answer. He and Toby weren’t rivals, never had wanted to be, but their mother could look right past Toby without a blip on her radar, and say her sons never cared for her— meaning him, Bren, the one of the two their mother couldn’t possibly have with her.

  Was that what was going on again?

  Or was this finally the real thing, a real life-and-death crisis?

  And even if they’d discussed it, he and Toby, and unmasked what was going on and shone light on the cold facts… the reality of that tactic hurt so much Toby went and did it again, trying for some better outcome, some moment when their mother would just once look at him and say to his face, “Thank you. You’re a good son.”

  He picked small details out of the second letter, something about Jill off on business.

  The hell. Separate vacations for the last three years, one separation, a new courtship. Now Jill was off on business at the moment and Toby wouldn’t admit to her he’d flown down to the capital. Toby was, in fact, actively concealing where he was, though Jill was due home tomorrow—to an empty house up on the coast. Surprise her with it—God, Toby… what are you thinking?

  The kids, at least—hardly kids now—were in school—likely staying with friends at the moment. While Jill—Jill had had all the crises she was willing to take. It wasn’t what happened. It wasn’t the bouts of illness, which were a real illness. None of those things were the issue. What was the issue was a battle between two women over a son and husband. Jill knew she was always going to lose, and that Toby couldn’t win.

  know there are good reasons,

  Toby finished his second letter.

  If I have to handle things here I will. But I think you’ll feel better if you can get down here.

  And who knows? She’s tougher than either of us. She’s beaten the odds before.

  You may get a letter from Barb. I know you don’t want to, but read it all the same. I think it’s time to make peace on all fronts.

  Time to make peace. That was certainly the truth.

  Would he have gone to the island, if he’d gotten that letter before he left the ground?

  Would he have thrown all his good reasons to the wind, missed his shuttle flight and caught the next air cargo hop to the island?

  He didn’t know. He honestly didn’t know that answer and it was too late now to know the truth.

  Turn around and catch the next shuttle flight down, next week?

  Maybe. He didn’t want to think about that answer. Not until the shock had settled.

  And it would settle, before the chance came.

  Meanwhile he owed his brother a letter. But he couldn’t write that until he honestly knew what he was going to do.

  Going down there when Tabini was in the midst of maneuvers as critical as any in his reign… risk all that that entailed? It wasn’t a good time for the paidhi-aiji to intrude his human presence into a rush trip onto the continent and on to Mospheira. Even going in at the other spaceport wouldn’t conceal the fact that he had landed—again. A furtive visit was even more apt to attract attention from the news than going down officially at Shejidan.

  The more dogged of the conspiracy theorists, atevi and human, wouldn’t believe for a moment that the family emergency existed.

  God, he just didn’t see how he was going to get there. He didn’t know if he wanted to get there.

  But leave Toby to deal with things solo, one more time… not to be there the one time their mother, who was the world’s best at crying wolf, really was on the brink…

  What he most needed to do was to grab Toby by the ears once and for all and say, Go home, brother, you have a right to your own life. But he’d done that and Toby didn’t listen. Toby was so damned smart, but in matters involving their mother, Toby didn’t listen, because somewhere in the tangled depths of family politics, Toby didn’t ever like the answers he got.

  A small commotion had reached the foyer. Narani came to the office door.

  “Your luggage has arrived, nandi. Crates have been set in the kitchen. Those without labels are in the foyer.”

  “Very fine, Rani-ji.” He rose from his desk and let the messages lie—decided against the coat, after all, and walked to the the foyer, where, amid dinner preparations, the smaller luggage sat, large, travel-worn lumps of diplomatic bags about which the servants gathered in shy anticipation.

  He personally opened the sealed tie and passed out the bundles and packages. He needed distraction. He enjoyed the gift-giving, like holiday.

  Letters. Abundant letters from happy, sensible, long-bonded families, whatever the baroque nature of atevi parentage and fosterage. He gave those into Narani’s care, and Narani ceremoniously handed them to junior servants to sort and distribute, all with fair despatch. There were special treat packets from various homes, small, brightly wrapped presents from relatives… those were the bulk of the bags—besides the requested video games, which regulations did not permit in the general uploads from Mogari-nai, and which therefore had to be freighted up. For Narani, a great-grandfather for the third time, there was a basket about which he had been curious: it was very light. It proved to be simply curls of fragrant bark, and that gift passed from one to the next, with appreciative sighs and second sniffs: smells of the world of their birth.

  Then his gifts: he had provided, gathered from the Bujavid gardens, a middle-sized box containing bits of natural wood and a few curious rocks and sprigs, which the servants prized for their own common quarters, for kabiu. That was his gift to them, which he had personally asked of the gardeners.

  For his senior staff, he had another box—a very fine two hundred-year-old bowl of southern work, for Narani and an antique book for Bindanda.

  They were far, far more than servants to him.

  For Tano and Algini, books. Tano had, besides, gotten a letter from his father. The two had begun to correspond, and did so quite frequently, now that Tano was out of reach.

  Banichi and Jago turned up, at the distribution of gifts, both fresh from showers and ready for dinner—they came to present Algini their own gift, a very, very florid shirt, to laughter and applause from the servants, because Algini had a penchant for his old black uniform tees, in his rare moments off-duty. Algini accepted it in good grace, shed his uniform jacket and put on the shirt over the black tee to general laughter.

  The door beeped. Algini shed the gift quickly.

  “What?” Banichi said. “Not wear it for Jase-ji?”

  Algini said not a word, only put on his jacket and looked quite proper before junior staff could open the door.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Jase turned up in station casuals, never, these days, his atevi finery. Bren was sure it was a political decision that led a Phoenix captain, however unwelcome the captaincy, not to dress as a foreigner to the ship. Jase kept his hair cut, too, and at his least formal, still wore ship-issue, plain blue that had as well be a uniform. He’d been given his captaincy for political reasons, after the juniormost captain Pratap Tamun—there were four captains running Phoenix, by ship’s custom—had led a failed mutiny. The ship had badly needed a reconciling symbol in the wake of that disturbance, and Jase had become that symbol—a captain not tainted by the divisive politics that had led to the mutiny. But beyond the immediate need for a figurehead and over Jase’s protests, circumstances and the senior captain’s insistence had kept him in the post. In self-defense, Jase had thrown himself into the requisite studies, and the requisite manners, and uniform—hell, he probably even knew the set of orders that could activate the ship engines. Please God they could put off that order for decades.

  “Hello there,” Bren said as Jase shed his jacket into the servants’ keeping.

  “Good trip?” Jase asked him.

  “Interesting,” Bren said. “Good, I suppose.” He decided, on the whole, it
had been a good trip, no matter what he learned once he got home. No matter what he’d not been able to do while he was there. “The whole business seemed to be a funeral.”

  “Funeral.”

  “Well, of sorts. Belated. A memorial service for Valasi. Tabini’s putting on a show, called in all the television people. Don’t ask me why. Days there and I still don’t know. I think we got the feed up here. I haven’t asked yet.”

  Jase gave him a look as they walked into the dining room. Jase had lived on the planet, knew Tabini, and well knew the rumors Tabini had assassinated his father.

  “Curious.”

  “Baji-naji,” Bren said. “Everyone who’s anyone was there, and for some reason, I was, and it was important that I be there. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

  But that was the last word of politics, dinner being the matter at hand, and he would not insult his staff by violating that very basic rule of a noble house. Banichi and Jago joined him and Jase on some more convivial nights, but this being a homecoming, and his security staff having, it seemed, given Narani their regrets, dinner had been construed a shade more formally this evening—it was clear in the careful arrangement of the table, in the number of forks laid out, seven, to be precise.

  Jase settled, and paid courteous attention as Narani supervised their juniormost servant setting out the appetizer, a pate of pickle, seafood and nuts that was improbably one of Jase’s favorites. The accompanying crackers were a Mospheiran brand, but kabiu, and plentiful in the station outlets.

  “And was Ilisidi there?” Jase asked. It was not quite a political question.

  “Oh, yes. I had supper with her. She sends her regards, nadi, most specifically. I gave her yours.” They spoke Ragi. Jase liked to keep up his skills and Bren thought in Ragi, dreamed in Ragi these days—refused to slip into Mospheiran or ship-accent unless he had to: it fuzzed his thought patterns in the work he had to do. “Ah. There is some additional news. The Astronomer Emeritus is coming up two months from now. He should keep Geigi entertained.”

  “There’s a treat,” Jase said cheerfully. Grigiji was a favorite and intermittent guest—a delightful and curious old man whose greatest joy was the observation station that was supposed to report to them if there was any signal out of the deep… and that incidentally gave Grigiji information on the wide universe. “I’ll arrange something for him.”