A Night Without Stars (51 page)

Florian got to his feet, a nervous smile on his face. His arms came up, but he clearly didn't know what to do next—hug, kiss, shake hands…Paula saved him, giving him a swift hug and a quick kiss that could almost be classed as paternal. He was dressed in a simple dark-orange shirt and navy-blue trousers; she nearly missed the colorful shirts and extravagant, furry kaftan he'd worn in Letroy and the mod-stable. But he looked a lot smarter now, and quite respectable. Ironically, now that he'd cleaned up and shaved and had some decent sleep, he actually seemed to have lost several years while she went the other way. “How are you?” she asked.

“Uh, fine.”

Paula quashed her grin; it was clearly going to take him a while to get over the experience of being a father for ten days. She just hoped he wouldn't carry on feeling all protective of her.

Ry Evine was a lot easier. They shook hands briskly. He was easy to categorize—the epitome of alpha-class human. She'd met so many just like him back in the Commonwealth, the Forward Crews from CST's exploratory division, and latterly survey starship personnel. They all exuded that same self-confidence, coupled with wanderlust enchantment. Focused dreamers, all of them. She just hoped he wouldn't open with another barrage of questions about Commonwealth spaceflight. It seemed to be about his only topic of conversation.

“Thank you for helping out,” she said as she took a seat at the dining room's big polished walnut table.

“Pleasure,” Ry said as he sat to her right. “Though I'm not sure I'll be much use.”

“We're going to need as many viewpoints as we can get.”

“Good to know,” Kysandra said as she came in. She was wearing a leaf-green summer dress, with her Titian hair falling loosely down her back. Her beautiful face was heavily freckled, making her smile even more prominent.

Paula caught Florian's response to this girlish vision as she ran her hand lightly across his shoulders before sitting next to him—opposite Paula and Ry. Florian was clearly a man besotted, and—if she was any judge—hopelessly out of his depth. She wondered if she should warn him, repaying the kindness and devotion he'd shown her.
But he won't thank me, let alone believe me.

“I think we's reed—red—ready,” Marek said, sitting at the head of the table. Demitri and Fergus sat on either side of their batch brother.

“So what do we do?” Paula said.

“That's why you're here,” Kysandra said. “You tell us.”

A tad defensive, Paula thought. “It's not why I'm here at all. I am as unprepared for this as it's possible to be, frankly.”

“But you must have some idea what we can do?”

“I can offer advice based on the situation as I see it. As I understand it, our primary worry is now the reaction of the Faller nests to my arrival. Certainly that was Roxwolf's concern.”

“Are you sure the Commonwealth won't help us?” Ry asked.

“Very sure. When Nigel and I put our mission together, no one in the Commonwealth knew Bienvenido existed. And even if Nigel and the Raiel released the knowledge, they have no way of knowing where we are now.”

“If they knew, would they help?” Florian asked.

“They would help,” Paula said solemnly. “They would do whatever it takes to rescue us.”

“So we have to get a message to them,” Ry said. “Somehow.”

“We've examined this,” Kysandra said. “We can't build a starship, not with the facilities we have. And even if Democratic Unity agreed we could and helped, we're still twenty-three million light-years from the Commonwealth galaxy. An ultradrive would take almost fifty years to reach them. And then there's an equal return time. Whatever we do do, we have to do it ourselves.”

“That's what will be scaring the Fallers,” Demitri said. “They will assume you have brought weapons or knowledge that will allow us to wipe them out.”

“Which I have, of course,” Paula said. “But building sophisticated weapons on a scale that will eliminate them will take time.”

“We don't have time,” Kysandra said.

“Sensors,” Florian said. “That's what we need, not weapons.”

“What sort of sensors?” Paula asked.

“Ones that can pick out Fallers. We don't need new weapons; our carbines and Gatling guns can kill a Faller very effectively. What we need are verifiable targets.”

“Nice idea,” Paula said, mildly impressed with the way he'd analyzed the situation.

“Forget sensors,” Ry said. “People need biononics.”

“Also a valid solution, but there's an even bigger problem introducing them. Biononic organelles do replicate in tandem with cellular mitosis, so the new cell also contains one. Which is fine for embryos; when the child reaches maturity they are embedded and ready to begin full functionality. However, to implant them into an adult requires time.”

“It took three years for our medical module to enrich my cells with them,” Kysandra said. “Admittedly I had to stagger the treatment sessions, we were so busy. But at best it would take eighteen months per adult.”

“And for those without functioning Advancer traits, it would take even longer,” Paula said. “The biononics would have to be manipulated to create a neural interface within the brain. I remember the upheaval it caused in the Commonwealth when the Sheldon Dynasty released the technology. There was a fundamental schism that to some degree still exists. In this case, I expect it will increase the divide between natural humans and Eliters. Besides, it doesn't solve the time-critical problem.”

“Plus, we don't have anything like the resources for that,” Kysandra said. “All we've got is a single medical module and three functioning semi-organic synthesizers—though
functioning
is pushing it for one of them. We can release the knowledge of how to build anything, but the actual construction process requires an industrial base that simply does not exist on Bienvenido.”

“Some kind of political agreement will have to be made,” Paula said. “The government must understand how severe the Faller threat is.”

“They do. That's why they fortified Byarn,” Kysandra said. “It's their refuge from which they'll reclaim Bienvenido. Uracus, they even call it Operation Reclaim.”

“Nuking this continent won't reclaim it,” Paula said, recalling the files the ANAdroids had prepared for her. “Surely they know that?”

“Operation Reclaim uses low-yield bombs. The thinking goes that the land will take a century or so to recover, and after that they'll spread out from Byarn to repopulate the planet.”

“That's crazy.”

“Yes,” Demitri said. “But like everything on the planet, it all goes back to Slvasta. The government has always known Fallers are prevalent on the other landmasses. His idea was that after the last Tree was blown up, the Air Force would use low-yield bombs on the islands and continents to wipe out the nests. And when the radiation decayed to safe levels, we could claim them for ourselves, and occupy the whole planet.”

“Didn't he understand what Macule was?” Paula asked in annoyance. “That planet is a perfect example of why you don't use nukes—period. Never mind for some ethnic-cleansing program.”

“You don't quite appreciate how much Slvasta feared the Fallers,” Kysandra said with a regretful sigh. “He wasn't rational on the subject. To him, widespread nuclear bombing was a risk worth taking if it resulted in eliminating Fallers from Bienvenido. This is how the government still thinks.”

“Then I should probably talk to them,” Paula said. “Come to an agreement over us accelerating the planet's technology base.”

“Good luck with that,” Kysandra muttered.

“Politicians will always talk.”

“Democratic Unity are crudding fanatics; the only thing they hate and fear more than Fallers is the Commonwealth. Nigel's legacy here is toxic like you wouldn't believe.”

“I have some experience in this field,” Paula told her, “and we have the entire knowledge of the human race to trade with. There will be something they want, at the most basic level they need to survive. That is ultimately the hope I can offer them.”

“But we have no time,” Kysandra said heatedly. “If we're going to defend this planet, we need all these advanced manufacturing facilities yesterday. It took Nigel years to build the solid rocket boosters to get
Skylady
back into space. And you're not Nigel.”

“Kysandra—” Florian said uneasily.

“No, I'm right. The whole reason Paula is here is because she's not Nigel.”

“Correct,” Paula said. “So we have to find a different solution. At the extreme, we might consider offering the Fallers an evacuation deal.”

“What do you mean?” Ry asked.

“They hold off any further attempts to take over Bienvenido while we build ark starships.”

“Crudding Uracus,” Florian exclaimed, “there's millions of humans! How long would that take?”

“A century, probably,” Paula said.

“The Fallers aren't going to agree to that. You heard Roxwolf. All we are to them is a mealtime on the road to their civilization dominating the planet.”

“Florian is possibly correct,” Valeri said. “Such an arrangement does not fit with Faller psychology.”

“I'm outlining options,” Paula said, unperturbed. “Do you have any line of communication to Democratic Unity?”

“No.”

“Then I need to open one.”

Kysandra nodded reluctantly. “I know someone who has direct access to the head of section seven, and in turn he has the confidence of the prime minister. We've just heard he's coming to Port Chana. I'll ask him.”

It was a two-hour drive southwest from Opole. The Adleton collective farm was nestled in the saddle of a low valley, the first of eight farms stretching along its thirty-two-kilometer length. The valley floor was mathematically flat, potato fields alternating with sugar beets and broad beans. Up on the slopes, pines and bluewoods covered the rumpled ground all the way up to the stony crests, above which huge mantahawks soared on the thermals, their kitewings keeping them aloft for days at a time as they soundlessly stalked their prey below.

The farm compound was a big square area surrounded by a high wooden fence in bad repair. Twenty single-story log cabins formed a neat row on one side, where the families and farmworkers slept. Larger communal buildings formed another side, while opposite them were the barns and silos.

The ground was muddy, churned up by tractors and hooves. Chaing's crutch kept slipping about in the stuff, slowing his walk from the car to the administration building, where Shanagu, the farm manager, had his office.

Shanagu—a middle-aged man who spent most of his time behind a desk rather than working outside in the fields—greeted them with the same cautious enthusiasm that everyone affected when the PSR came knocking. Chaing and Jenifa warded off all his offers of drink and food.

“We're here to see Corilla,” Chaing said when he was sitting in a leather wingback chair. It must have been a prosperous collective, he thought; Shanagu's office had expensive furnishings and a heavy gold-and-blue rug on the floorboards—a décor that to Chaing spoke of a pre-Transition aristocrat's hunting lodge.

“I see,” Shanagu said guardedly.

“Problem?” Jenifa asked. She was wearing her PSR uniform, jacket and trousers perfectly pressed, peaked cap holding her short hair out of view, which made her look beguilingly young. That youthfulness—combined with her unsmiling, clearly humorless persona as she stood rigid-backed beside Chaing's chair—was guaranteed to make the most innocent citizen feel guilty about something.

“No more than usual for her kind,” Shanagu said.

“Her kind?”

“Eliters.” Shanagu went for the conciliatory angle. “Look, we're not a prison; we just do some correctional work for the county justice office.”

“I wasn't aware Corilla had been sentenced,” Chaing said.

“She's not a justice office case. It's like this: Nearly a third of our comrade workers have been assigned here by the department of labor—the usual layabouts and hotheads. It's our duty to the state to install a sense of worthiness, show them their place in society, make them understand they are valuable. Eliters are always such a pain. They consider themselves better than everyone else—the arrogant cruds. She's just the same, young and condescending; thinks she's an intellectual and shouldn't be working with her hands. But good honest physical labor will make her come around in the end, you'll see. We have a good record here handling recidivists.”

“I'm sure you do,” Chaing said. “If you could call her in now, please? And we'll need to talk to her alone.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“If she is, it's happened since she arrived here,” Jenifa said curtly.

It took twenty painfully long minutes before Corilla arrived. Chaing almost laughed as she stomped into the office. The feathers had vanished from her black hair, which was now gathered into a practical braid. She wore dungarees that were smeared in mud and grime; knee-high boots were thick with muck that wasn't 100 percent mud. Shanagu tried to keep his face composed as she trod the dirt into his fancy rug.

“You two,” she grunted, her hostile gaze sweeping from Jenifa to Chaing, lingering on his straight leg and crutch. “What happened to you?”

“The Warrior Angel happened.”

“Is that a slogan? I thought your people said she doesn't exist.”

“Thank you,” Chaing said to Shanagu. “We'll take it from here.”

Jenifa closed the door behind him and stood in front of it, arms folded over her chest.

Corilla ignored the belligerent stare she was being given and sat herself down in Shanagu's chair. She started opening the desk drawers. “He keeps the good booze in here somewhere, I know he does.”