Forge of Heaven

  "Sir," Auguste protested.

  "Do you wonder the same, Ian? Or do you by any chance know what Brazis is up to?"

  "This is a major event at Halfmoon. A great many people have been distracted from routine. A great many people have changed shift."

  "Give me no excuses. I have every confidence in Drusus and Auguste and Procyon. But less now in Brazis, who seems to believe earthquake and flood will not happen once the sun goes down. Tell him what I say, Ian. Ask him why the heavens were sleeping when the quake came. Five seconds' warning would have averted this. Heaven has eyes and ears to see an event as it happens, anywhere in the world. The beshti foreknew it. Where were the watchers? Why were we caught by surprise?"

  "Because they have no ground sensors at Halfmoon. They relied on us to get them there."

  That stung. It was even possibly right. But he was not willing to back off his argument. "They have their lasers. They measure the earth. They keep their watch. I want better information."

  "They will have better information soon. Our warning margin has greatly improved with the new relay. It will become much better with the next."

  "Granted your rocket survives."

  "I have a greater concern for your survival, Marak. You and Hati are far too valuable to risk. Give up this folly. The beasts may come up to the camp on their own once they see the water advance."

  "The forecast, have you heard, is fog and rain. The terraces are a maze. The water is coming, the cliffs are apt to give way, and if the beshti have any sense, they will take out running, away from the flood and away from us, across the pans. They may even make it, but we may not, without them. I do not choose to go up to camp without trying and hope for the cliffs not to fall down, Ian. I do not, to be honest, trust your planes. Sometimes they fail to take off, once they land in that much dust. And never suggest to me that we abandon those boys in camp and get ourselves to safety."

  "As a last resort, Marak. If you should be trapped. I shall send a plane out, when the flood comes nearer, as a last resort."

  "We are not that far from the beshti." This was not quite admitting that their fugitives were well down on the next series of terraces and out of sight. "Another day, Ian. No need of your airplane or the risk to the pilot. The water is coming, but it is not coming that fast."

  "Not coming that fast yet, Marak-omi."

  "Only give me heaven's undivided attention and all my watchers, Ian!"

  "I promise you, I promise you I shall talk to Brazis about the situation. Do what you can."

  "Do this. Call my camp. Advise the boys leave the other relay, pack up only essentials and short canvas, and move back down the ridge. Tell them move day and night, by what stages they can, and stay in touch by hand radio. If we have to overtake them well to the east, so much the better."

  "You agree you will not attempt to continue this mission to the Wall."

  "I admit it. I admit it, Ian. I know it pleases you greatly. I shall gather the boys and retreat to the Plateau."

  "I'll call them with that instruction. Meanwhile, Marak, in all good regard-take care. Don't take chances. And remember the airplane."

  "I hear." Broken sandstone from the edge rolled down the sandy face below him. But the footing looked solid, and led out onto unfissured rock. His temper improved, the ledge proving solid. He had made provision to get the boys to safety. He had admitted to himself and to Ian that they were not going on from here, no matter if he recovered the beshti in the next hour. "Keep me advised, Ian. And, mind, tell Brazis, in the strongest terms, better warning, and no more excuses."

  Hair, nails-Mignette wanted a makeup tattoo, but she couldn't make up her mind about the style or the shade, so she tried out a look instead, glowy green cat-eyes-she'd gotten cosmetic contacts-and a slinky black bareback blouse with fringe that sparkled. Soft boots that matched the blouse. Deep red hair with blazing coppery highlights.

  And she felt good. She felt good and alive for the first time in her whole life. Noble liked what he saw, no question, and they linked hands and walked down the Trend, part of the scene.

  They were quiet, compared to some. She studied the nodding plumes she saw, wondering how much, and where, and if she dared be that extravagant immediately. The Trend could be cruel. Though there was something to be said for daring.

  But they passed for Fashionables, now, she and Noble, and she was really, truly, classy Mignette, who didn't overdress, who, if anything, kept it understated and dark, except the dramatic eyes, the shagged hair with the V-cut bangs. She'd tentatively begun a Look of her own, and she was increasingly sure it would be black, with green eyes. Maybe she'd do the hair deepest black, then. She hadn't decided. She was Mignette, but when she became a Stylist she might become Minuit, midnight, with pale skin-she'd change her complexion-and deep black dress, because most of the Trend didn't have her looks, and simple was best. Her face was pretty enough not to need the shapers that turned so many people just too pretty and too regular to really carry a Style. Black was inexpensive, compared to matching colors. She'd learned that from the education she'd gotten. So she could have quality on not too extravagant a budget. She'd be Minuit. As for Noble, he was trying to afford a treatment to get rid of all his freckles. He'd be far different without them, and maybe not better. She couldn't imagine Noble without freckles, but that was what he wanted most, aside from fixing his nose and his chin and getting a fancy tap. He'd be creamy-pale, kind of an interesting face, if he got what he wanted, because his forehead was low, and his natural eyes were pale blue. That meant he could wear all kinds of contacts, down to dark, which he had on at the moment. He had on sexy black pants that showed off really good legs. A good silk shirt. He had nice, high cheekbones, from the start. If he went on, he wouldn't be just Noble. He'd become Somebody, if he could maintain a good, clear imagination of what the shapers could do, and stuck to it, with real quality, no matter how he had to piecemeal the work.

  Meanwhile they walked to the same music and watched the traffic where they walked, awed by the occasional Stylist, amused by those who tried to manage a Look, not that successfully.

  A gang of juvvie sessions-dodgers watched them pass, wide-eyed. "Look at that," one said. And, in awe: "Look at the eyes."

  They talked about her, not about Noble, who'd had far more practice down here, shaping a Look. Her first venture, and they talked about her, as if they might want to go buy the same item, even if it would be a disaster on their scrawny pale faces. They'd do better to buy mods to fix their blotchy complexions and give up greasy snacks.

  But she was born with good genes. She could get away with things. Her mother always said so.

  And people down here who didn't know she was her father's daughter and important for who she was born to be-they just liked what they saw of Mignette, who was all on her own, with Noble, who was looking for Random, who was Mark, who'd phoned that he'd dodged out again, Tink, who was Denny, still being with the youth authorities, Random supposed, though incorrectly-they'd had one contact with Denny, who was lying low.

  But at the moment Random was living up to his name, and they hadn't found him, constantly just missing him, so the phone calls indicated. They were afraid to stay on too long. She was sure her parents were having the phones traced, so they used Noble's card, but they didn't press their luck.

  They turned up Blunt Street, which they'd searched before on their intermittent quest. When they found Random, Noble said he would know him, being pretty sure at least what his Look would be, and Random could recognize Noble and probably even recognize her, expecting at least something different.

  So they just walked the street, still flush with finance. She had her card, and, just the way she'd figured her father, he'd gone all softhearted and extended credit bit by bit to his one and only daughter, worrying how she'd get along. He'd go on extending it. He'd hope she'd call. She would, tomorrow.

  Papa needn't worry. Noble said he had a friend who'd let them sleep over in a safe place, upstairs of M
ichaelangelo's.

  She was going to do it with Noble tonight, if they didn't find Random. With Noble, who was older than she was. She really was going to do it, if they turned up alone in a room in Michaelangelo's, and she thought maybe Noble wasn't that anxious to find Random, having ideas of his own. She knew just how it would play out. She'd made a few decisions for herself. Finally. And her mother couldn't stop her.

  8

  Bloody hell, was Brazis's opinion of the entire damnable situation. He sat at his desk and punched physical keys on one of two secure consoles that could direct and redirect the taps. He more than canceled the security hold on Procyon's tap code: he keyed through a general permission, any relay, any contact, anybody that could possibly get hold of him, all over the station, was open to Procyon's code.

  They had a complete blowup on the Gide affair. Gide was in hospital by now, and Procyon, who'd been an eyewitness, hadn't answered since the incident.

  In desperation he tapped in on Drusus, waking him from off-schedule sleep. "Drusus. Procyon's in trouble. I need someone who can physically recognize him to get out on the street right now, find him, and walk him home."

  "Yes, sir," Drusus answered muzzily. "But I'm supposed to go on at noon."

  "Don't quibble. Auguste can handle it. Just go. Fast. Procyon may be injured. Fifth level, sector 4, section 15, headed toward Blunt, for a start. He's not answering his tap. The finder works only intermittently. He's taken some sort of damage. There was apparently an explosion."

  "Explosion, sir?"

  "Don't ask. Just go."

  The whole Project stood on its ear. Interfering with Marak's taps wasn't what he'd like to do, especially now, and he knew Marak was outraged and they would have to calm that situation down, but Drusus knew Procyon socially: Auguste didn't. Drusus knew Procyon's body language-stood a chance of finding him on a crowded walk, which his other sources hadn't done in half an hour of trying. He had three reliable men out looking, now contacting Procyon's sister, Procyon's parents, Procyon's known friends, to advise them where to call if he needed help and contacted them-but Procyon didn't know any of those agents, and neither did the sister, who might deliberately misdirect them, thinking to protect her brother.

  His best hope now was that Procyon might not run from Drusus.

  "Sir."

  He read the incoming signal. Jewel. Tap-courier, assigned to tail Governor Reaux. He'd just asked her to approach Reaux, who'd gone to the hospital where they'd taken Gide.

  "I'm with Governor Reaux now, sir."

  Shift of mind. Fast. "Are you secure?"

  "Yes, sir. I'm at the hospital, in a secure area. He's anxious to talk to you."

  "Good. How is Gide?"

  "Alive." Jewel had amped, at the risk of a painful whiteout. Reaux's living voice came through at near ordinary volume. "Where's Stafford? Have you got him?"

  "I'm trying to find him at this very minute. He didn't have anything to do with this attack. We're afraid he's injured or worse, that he's been snatched."

  "Who did it? Who attacked the ambassador?"

  "It assuredly wasn't us, Governor."

  "It assuredly wasn't my office. And I'm sure Earth didn't try to assassinate its own representative."

  "Stranger things have happened, Governor, in recorded history. But let's assume mutual innocence. That leaves us dealing with radical groups, yours or mine. My office is scrambling to find out about the ones on our list. In the meantime, I have a physical search out after Mr. Stafford, in case he's gotten away on the street. He may be injured, and it's possible your police search is spooking him to run. Call off your dogs. Let me find him. I have various people searching."

  "I have an armed ship out there asking questions I can't answer. I have inquiries from Kekellen."

  "I have no doubt. Count this office a third alarmed source, equally perplexed. What's Mr. Gide's condition?"

  "A glancing wound to the ribs. Shock. Hysteria. Some inhalation damage. It's not the physical wound, understand. That's relatively minor. But his containment was breached. He can't go back to his ship. Ever. He insists Stafford set up the attack. The security guards are both dead-hit with neuronics, I'm told. They didn't have a chance."

  "Stafford has no weapon. Penetrating the mobile unit can't be a handheld proposition. Neuronics isn't a street weapon. We're climbing the ladder to more than the usual criminal element, Governor."

  "An armor-piercing shell. We found its launcher in the bushes, no prints, bioerase strong in the area, no trace left for the sniffers."

  "All professional skills. Well-financed skills."

  "How can I be sure they weren't yours?"

  "Not mine. Not Procyon's, I assure you. I have no interest at all in blowing up the ambassador. Procyon doesn't even know how to fire a gun, let alone a launcher. Any evidence within the mobile unit?"

  "Slagged. Slagged, completely, likely a command from the ship. If Gide hadn't gotten out of it-"

  "Kind of them, though I can understand it. So they'd have killed him if he were still lying there unconscious. Neat and tidy, isn't it?"

  "I don't like this. I don't like it at all."

  "I'm not fond of it either, let me assure you. His shell was breached, and they didn't give a damn whether he lived or died. Can my people get access to that unit, slagged as it is?"

  "I don't know. I don't know its status at the moment." Reaux sounded completely rattled. Likely he wasn't lying about his being out of touch with elements of the situation, not having the advantage of a tap, and had no idea what disposition his police had made of the unit. "I'll try to find out."

  "I'll try to find Stafford in the meanwhile."

  "While I have a ship out there questioning whether it can believe my office in any particular."

  "That ship has no choice but take your word for what happens here, since its precious occupants won't come on board station, will they? They can threaten. But they won't use the ship's guns on Concord with the ondat sitting here, assuming they're not stark raving crazy."

  "No, but they can use agents embedded in the population."

  Threatening Reaux's life. "So can we, if they try. We can defend ourselves, and we extend our protection to our governor. Breathe easy. They don't want that kind of trouble. We're not an easy target."

  "Antonio-" Quieter. Realizing, perhaps, the enormity of the promise he'd just extended. So law-abiding. So careful, this governor. Reaux would never think of defying assassins sent after him. not to the extent of having them shot on strong suspicion.

  His agents certainly would take care of such a problem, if he spotted it. "Is Mr. Gide conscious at the moment?"

  "I think he's under sedation."

  "Get to him. Wake him up. Talk to him. Convey my extreme sympathy for his situation and make him believe it. Suggest it was some underworld agency, hitherto unsuspected, which probably covers the situation entirely. I'll send a personal letter to him and another to the ship out there, expressing my outrage at this situation, my intent to cooperate with them through your office, my intention to preserve peace and tranquillity on the station, all the appropriate phrases. Which also happen to be the truth, if they're listening. Find out what the ambassador's really been tracking. Why he came here. Our key to what we're facing is very likely in that."

  A small silence. Then: "Antonio. Antonio, I confess I may already have your answer. Gide said-Gide told me he was tracking the possibility of banned information escaping the planet. Via the taps."

  Brazis drew a deep breath. The universe reconfigured itself. "Well, that's an old one. What makes him suspect so? What information does he have?"

  "Apparently something about First Movement tech and the Ila, something about nanoceles getting off the planet."

  "Not the case, I can tell you." He was disappointed. Frustrated. "You knew this was the nature of it? And didn't say? Setha, Setha, I'd hoped for more honesty."

  "I knew it only after I led Gide to his apartment. I didn't count on it becoming
critical information, at least. at least yet, and by no means after this fashion. I believed your young man could get through the interview if he was innocent. A misjudgment on my part. A complete misjudgment. I hope you can understand, Antonio. I thought we had time to work this out. At this point-I can only apologize for the situation."

  He could understand Reaux's holding back information at Gide's request. A man with a constituency to protect was honor-bound to protect those core interests against his allies as well as his enemies. Reaux had believed if he kept things quiet, he might find out something, and have a chance to sort this out.