“Logistically—”
“A slow, slow process. I know.”
“Maybe not as slow as you think. We could use the petal sails. Not for passengers. But for cargo.”
Petal sails—like those that had brought the first Mospheirans down to Earth. Jase had made his first, terrifying trip down by parachute. Likely Jase still had nightmares. But the technology was so old, so primitive. Chutes had failed—lost people, lost supplies, landed in the sea and sunk. The hazard was legendary, a scar on the Mospheiran psyche.
But using landers to bring down cargo, and reserving the shuttles for people . . .
“We know weather now,” he said. “The old landers were tin cans dropping blind, but as I understand it, Geigi targeted his chutes, dropping his relay stations.”
“He crashed one,” Gin said, “what I hear, pretty spectacularly. The others landed soft enough.”
“Might not have lost that one, if he’d been able to work directly with the Mospheiran side of the station.”
Gin shrugged, a side-tip of her head, and took another sip. “I think we can do it.”
Geigi had had no paidhi to translate between him and humans, during their absence on the Reunion mission. When the coup that unseated Tabini and grounded the shuttles severed him from his own government, Geigi had immediately secured communication with Mospheira’s university linguistics department, which was, itself, tightly connected to the Mospheiran State Department, which talked directly to the Mospheiran President.
For two years, Geigi had told the University scholars what he wanted—from Tillington, ironically enough, on the other side of the station wall, then had to wait for an answer relayed down to the ground and up again. Geigi had traded materials he had stockpiled for the atevi starship to get cooperation from the station, and had set up, via satellites aloft and his petal-sail landers on Earth, a communications network that had kept data coming in from the mainland and from space.
Geigi’s landers weren’t the desperate, cobbled-together efforts of the early settlers. Geigi had had the benefit of advanced robotics design. His landers had had the ability to move and defend themselves on the ground, and to collect data in their immediate areas. They’d also scared hell out of the districts where they’d set up shop.
Use that tech for dropping Reunioner baggage? Cut the timeframe in half with no special construction? Hell, yes.
“Certainly sounds possible,” he said. Shipping and cargo were not, these days, his problem. He didn’t think about such things routinely. But, God—
“Absolutely possible. We can carry passenger modules on every flight, and carry fragile cargo down in baggage, our object being to take people down, just people, no heirloom china, no wardrobe.”
Relief hit, hard and welcome. Sometimes you had to shut down politics and talk to the engineers. Every flight reducing the political pressure up here. And Mospheira was about to bring another shuttle online, and start construction on a third. They might get to the long-promised flight a week. Currently, it was short of that. Considerably short, with mechanicals, and docking delays, and delays for inspection and maintenance.
But did they truly dare restrict the flow of cargo? Two years of Murini’s shutdown of the space program had left them continually running to catch up. Everything, every plan had been thrown off course. Of course, bleeding away the jobless population of the station, the need for cargo going up would ease proportionally.
How long would it take? The largest passenger module could handle fifty-one people in relative comfort. More, if packed tightly. Infants . . . God, babies. His felt the tension returning. Pregnant women. Infants. Women who had bred with abandon on the return flight, free at last, or so they believed, of the restrictions of the past ten years, and destined for peace and plenty. They’d extracted 4,043 individuals from Reunion. Released 4,149 to Alpha. How many were there now?
He shut that thought down, concentrating on the purity of numbers. Figuring forty-three hundred total by the time the last flight . . . round figure: eighty-five flights.
Eighty-five.
“We’ll need all the shuttles . . .” Gin’s voice provided welcome relief from a sudden wave of panic.
“The aiji has already agreed to allow the Reunioners to land on atevi shuttles.”
“But not to settle in atevi territory.”
“That, no.”
“Settlement is going to be a hot issue on Mospheira,” Gin said. “The damned Heritage Party is going to squawk. Loudly. Lot of history there.”
“Just what is the political temperature down there? I haven’t been able to ask the President his situation. Can he push this through?”
“Mixed. He’s already claiming, in principle, that the Reunioners come under Mospheiran law, which makes them a Mospheiran responsibility and subject to Mospheiran decisions. There’ll be those who don’t like it, on both sides of the shuttle run, but no one down there, no one, is remotely interested in the Pilots’ Guild gaining an independent foothold anywhere in the system.”
“No argument there . . . from anyone other than Braddock.”
“The President plans to start the relocation process by decree, an emergency declaration. He’ll make it soon, let it play second to the headlines of the kyo visit, which is going to dominate the news every step of the way. I suggested, in my last communication with him, that we land Cajeiri’s three young associates first, along with their parents and relations, and not just to satisfy Tabini-aiji. This business with Tillington and Braddock is going to go public, no way not. Those kids are innocents, pawns in the affairs of three governments. They’re bright, they’re charming, and they’ll play well to the cameras. Getting them down first puts their faces instead of Braddock’s on the Reunioner presence. It’ll remind Mospheirans they’re dealing with people needing a home, not Pilots’ Guild plotting a government takeover.” A slight smile. Another sip. “Even better for Mospheiran consumption would be an image of Braddock being carted off in cuffs. Tastefully, of course.”
The engineer wasn’t damned bad at politics. She never had been.
“So,” she said, “the first Reunioner landings will be a minor issue. Kyo will be the big news, and you get to explain that.”
“Happily. By comparison. I hope.”
“I’m asking the question—just for my personal consumption, mind: I promise I’ll never quote you— Are you that confident we’re going to come out of this encounter all right?”
“Hell, no,” Bren said, on a humorless laugh.
“How are you reading this approach?”
“I can’t. It’s exactly what the kyo did at Reunion—but slower, at greater distance, with more communication. I’ll tell you frankly what worries me more than any question of whether or not the kyo want real estate. We both know the kyo are at war, which is a fact we’ve deliberately kept need-to-know. The last thing we want to do is get entangled in the kyo’s military problems. We don’t know for certain where their enemies lie—or who’s winning, or even why they’re at war. It’s possible they’re looking for an outpost or even a refuge, and we don’t want either in this solar system.”
“Understood. Agreed. But your estimate is that they’re here to talk? That that’s Prakuyo out there? Are you optimistic?”
They’d used to share a brandy on occasion, aboard the ship, when Gin had had her quarters down the corridor from the dowager’s door, and his; and in dealing with Gin on that voyage, he’d been able maintain a sense of what was human. At least, Mospheiran human. They had been able to share jokes, share frustrations and worries, of which there had been no shortage, in two years of voyaging, half of it in eerie isolation, in the depths of the ship; and half of it in a ship overflowing with unscreened passengers.
Gin had been there, waiting for word, when they’d dealt with the kyo the first time. She’d shared those hours with the rest of the ship, the fear of the kyo changing
their minds and attacking, the fear they’d have to choose who to save and who to leave to die. If they hadn’t raided station stores and gotten those supplies aboard, there’d have been no way to save the majority of the people. They could have saved a few hundred . . . at most.
Dark hours, those.
Gin wasn’t asking for reassurance, or promises now. She was asking, Bren, what’s your best guess? and he answered with a frankness he wouldn’t give to many.
“My optimism,” he said, “centers on the fact they chose to talk at Reunion, that they initiated communication from the moment we came into range. They chose to talk. Why they chose to attack the station that first time remains a mystery, one I’d very much like to solve before meeting with them, but when Ramirez left a damaged but still inhabited station behind, completely at their mercy, the kyo chose to leave it alone. I believe they chose to sit and watch, waiting to see whether the ship would return, and with what reinforcements. I’m encouraged that, after four years of silence, they chose to send over a shuttle rather than blow the place to hell. I’m not totally clear on what they were doing or what prompted it: an attempt at communication, maybe; or a team trying to investigate. And when the station blew up that shuttle, after another retaliatory strike—if in fact it was their action—they still chose to leave the station operational, and sit back and wait for six more years, until we showed up. Then they still chose one more try at communication before attacking. It doesn’t explain the waiting. It doesn’t explain a lot of things. My experience says not to imagine I know the answer. My experience says we’re not dealing with our language, our concepts, our culture, our laws, or our instincts. But the little history we have with them shows an inclination to talk. That’s what they seem to be doing in their approach. I take that as encouraging. I hope for it—since there’s damn-all we can do if they start shooting. —And that’s about the total of the wisdom I have.”
Gin just looked at him for a moment, then: “You can do this,” she said quietly. “I have every confidence, Bren. Just trust me for the human situation and don’t worry about it.”
“I do.”
“You’re frowning.”
“God, Gin . . .”
“Trust me.”
“Just—I’m sorry for what I’m handing over to you. I had no desire to lay hands on the Reunioner question at all when I came up here. Now I have a tall stack of china, as my atevi associates would say, on a very weak table. And I’m afraid I set it all up for you to sort out, for good or ill, with no great amount of forethought.”
“I at least recognize the serving pieces,” Gin said. “And you acted when and as you had to act, with nobody getting hurt. Your getting Tillington out of Central and getting Braddock contained solved a huge problem. I’m truly grateful for that little assist. I also have the Central log, and while I’m sure Tillington’s spun the record seven ways from Sunday, he couldn’t doctor what happened when he shut the section doors on fifteen minutes’ notice. We had injuries, we had people seriously affected in one way and another, while people with serious and valid fears regarding that incoming ship were locked in place like fish in a net, waiting for slaughter. It’s no wonder there were riots. And thanks to his extremely vocal campaign to settle the Reunioners at Maudit, we have a situation with the Captains’ Council and the terms of the atevi treaty that we’re not even going to mention until a proper moment. Overall, it’s not going to look good for Mr. Tillington’s management skills. Whether or not he’s actually done anything illegal is another matter. But the President will have more than enough cause to put him under wraps and keep him there for a long time to come.”
“I hope so.”
“I have another question for you.”
“Ask.”
“I’m wondering whether to tell the Reunioners about the prospect of landing at this point. I’m hoping you have a better sense of their temperature right now than I do.”
“Best not to disturb them too much, in my opinion, though you’ll soon be in a better position to judge. They’ve had so much bad they won’t believe good. In their view, they’ve been lied to by just about everyone. Trust, in anyone, in any promises, is nonexistent.”
“And the section doors? Senior Captain Ogun insists we keep them shut.”
“Much as I regret what Tillington did, both to feed the resentment and to trigger the explosion, I tend to agree. The Reunioners have been pushed to the limit. Support for Braddock is grounded in their lack of options, not respect. We need to get information flowing—their com’s been shut down even for news—and rumors are our greatest enemy. Let them know what’s actually happening. Open up the private channels, at least a certain number of hours a day. Let them contact their friends and relatives. Assure them those four kids and their families are all right—the kids are available if you need to talk to them. Which leads to another issue of distrust, this one of our own doing. We interrupted all the door locks inside those sections to get in there to get the kids . . . we called it a malfunction. It kept masses of people out of the corridors. Kept people from getting hurt. Injuries were minor. And the system is fixed now. All the locks are back to normal. But the amount of unease it left in people’s minds, even with the malfunction story—I worry about that. A part of me thinks we need to explain it in full. The other part wonders how people will react, knowing they can so easily become prisoners in their own homes.”
“My problem, Bren. Good to know, but let me deal with it. —What’s the kyo time frame? How much time before they get here?”
“Unchanged in their approach,” Bren said. “Their messaging began with pings. Then, right after we came aboard, they shifted to voice and began requesting the dowager and the young gentleman and myself. We advised them we’re here and kept that message cycling. Yesterday a voice that sounded like Prakuyo indicated they want to talk. I told them come in, and that invitation and their response, Prakuyo come, have been cycling back and forth ever since. That’s the limit of the exchange. We’re expecting them to arrive in three days, last calculation at their current rate of approach. But that’s subject to change and the kyo’s intention. And we don’t know whether they’ll dock or expect to link with Phoenix, which is currently standing off from the station under Captain Riggins’ command. He’s a new man. I don’t know him, but Ogun appointed him and I assume he’ll take Ogun’s orders.”
“The shuttle picked up the kyo transmission and played it for me. Scary feeling, being out there in that speck of a shuttle, knowing that ship was bearing down on us. Gives you a whole new sense of perspective in the universe. And makes you sympathize with the Reunioners. You say sounded like Prakuyo. Straight answer again, Bren. Are we sure it’s the same kyo?”
“Straight answer, I’m not wholly sure. We don’t know even if Prakuyo is a name, or a title. Whoever’s in charge, they know our names, they know enough to communicate as if they are the ship we dealt with. Prakuyo an Tep, or someone claiming to be him, requested a meeting. I invited him to come aboard. And the Prakuyo voice accepted it.”
She cast him a wry glance. “Let’s hope it is him, then.”
He winced. “Gut instinct said it was, and gut instinct extended the invitation.”
“So far, your gut’s been pretty smart. I trust it. Final question: what’s your sense of what they’ll be looking for? What’s their interest in being here—if it’s not warlike?”
“If they aren’t here to establish a base, I can only speculate. They’ll wonder what sort of resources we have, whether we have a large presence in space—which we don’t—whether we’re armed—which we aren’t—and whether we pose a threat to them, which we also don’t. We hope we live too far apart to be a threat or even a relevant fact to each other, even in trade—but what they call too far may differ from our concept. All I can say is, so far, so good. I am encouraged. Let me stress that. But I have to be careful of the other possibilities, and I can’t say they
won’t exist.”
“Fair enough.”
“There’s something else, something I’m going to try and clarify before this meeting, and not just because it’s important to understanding the kyo. It’s also one of the keys to the unrest between the Mospheirans and Reunioners. Tillington has led the Mospheirans to blame the Reunioners for attracting the kyo’s attention and getting blown up.”
“Blowing up the kyo envoy’s ship will do that.”
“True, but that was four years after the first attack. Among the ship’s crew, which you know as well as I do, there’s a suspicion that Braddock himself did something to touch off the kyo the first time. They believe he must have done something to bring an attack down on Reunion. To this day there’s no substantiation for that. Braddock being Pilots’ Guild doesn’t make him popular with the ship, but we still don’t know, as an issue of pure fact, what the trigger was.”
“Ramirez was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He got caught snooping, and tried to run away. He tried to run a diversionary route, but the kyo didn’t bite. Instead, they traced Phoenix’s backtrail and took a shot at what they found. When the station failed to respond in kind, they backed off to watch what might happen next.”
“That’s certainly what we’ve pieced together from the few records Ramirez left accessible, but the question remains: did the kyo know about Reunion before Ramirez triggered that response? Had they been watching, possibly for decades, until he intruded just a bit too close for comfort? Did they follow the ship’s backtrail? Or did they already know where Reunion was and just decide to go in? Did they truly attack without warning, or did they signal first? It’d be useful to have that information out of Braddock, but there’s no way we can trust anything he’d tell us. We know now that those flashing lights are their way of initiating contact. We know from his log that they flashed lights at Ramirez, and he ignored them and ran. We know that four years later, at Reunion, they flashed first and Braddock blew up their envoy’s ship.”