Contact Imminent (27 page)

She found Ghos eventually, monitoring instrumentation in one of the guard bunkers located at regular intervals along the embassy access road. He worked alongside nìaRauta Laur, but as soon as he realized Elon's presence, he ordered Laur to a task outside.

Elon waited until the suborn female departed before joining Ghos at the console, standing a half stride behind him, as was seemly. At that angle, she could see the dried mud that streaked the back of his coverall, the fragments of twig and leaf that once more sullied his braids, which he had again bound together with a length of cord. “I have met with nìaRauta Shai.” She leaned forward and plucked a leaf from his collar. “We are to load the pink into the defense array despite its imperfections. Shai would rather have disabled systems than dead humanish.”

“Then she is damned.” Ghos turned and looked Elon in the eye, as he had so often of late. “But we know this.”

“Yes.” Elon reached out again, this time to brush away
dirt that shadowed beneath Ghos's eye. When he took her hand and held it, she thought to pull back, but his fingers closed as a vise and she could not have freed herself if she wished to. Her skin burned where his touched, as the sense of weight returned to her limbs. The tension, as though as she had been filled past her ability to contain.

“I have fathered four,” Ghos said, first loosening then tightening his hold. “From the first, mothered by Sor nìaRauta Hesai, who maintained security for the hospital shrine at Nen Shèràa, to the fourth, mothered by Ailà nìaRauta Qar, who served as suborn to the Council security dominant.”

Elon gestured acceptance of the information with her free hand, even though Ghos's gradual ascension within the security skein was known before she accepted his petition to serve her. If she had approached a male of greater standing, as one of Cèel's security dominants, or one of those who guarded the inner rooms at Temple, she would have spoken of the three she had mothered, each fathered by a male of increasing status over the one before. “I take comfort in your declaration of order, Ghos. So much a haven is it from the chaos of Haárin, the contamination of human joinings.”

“This is not a time to think of such.” Ghos tilted his head to one side, as though he surprised even himself, for he seldom restrained his thought in deference to the proprieties. “I must complete these settings.” He released her abruptly and turned back to the console, examining systems readouts and recalibrating sensors.

Elon drew close behind, until she could sense Ghos's blessed warmth through the chill of the air. “Tsecha sought to petition nìaRauta Shai to forbid your challenge of Pascal.” She watched his hands move over the console, every flex and curve of his fingers. “Shai denied such. She wishes humanish blood to be shed within the circle.”

“Then she shall most certainly have it, and truly.” Ghos's voice emerged as gentle as ever it had. “As much as her satisfaction demands, and more besides.”

“We will not load the pink.”

“No, nìaRauta. Nor will we increase the patrols or release the robot monitors.”

“If the humanish invaders come, let them.”

“Yes.”

“If humanish blood is wanted, let it be shed.”

“And ours with it.”

“We are most in agreement, Ghos.”

“I have always known such, Elon, and truly.”

“Yes, as have I.” Elon reached out and placed a hand upon Ghos's shoulder, then pulled back when she sensed movement behind her. She turned to find Laur in the entry—the suborn held a disassembled monitor, her posture indicating that she had no sense of how to repair it. Elon left Ghos to aid her. Then she waited outside in the weak humanish sun until he rejoined her, and they returned to the embassy together.

 

They retired to Elon's rooms, since as dominant the right of place fell to her. First came release, rapid joinings that dispelled the tension that had grown between them as a solid thing. Once, then rest, then again, a meld of unclothed limbs that served to express the oneness of their thoughts, their beliefs. Their fears, and their hatreds. The Way that they planned together. Their mutual Path to their Star.

They lay afterward for some time, savoring the quiet of each other's presence, the serenity that came from two minds that thought as an ordered one. Ghos held Elon by the wrist with one hand as he stroked her arm with the other, from forearm to shoulder, then down, again and again, the rhythm of the motion taking them both to a state approaching trance.

“Ghos of the stones.” Elon reached to him and fingered his hair, then gestured in weak dismay as she came away with yet another piece of twig. “Ghos of the forests, who lives in the trees.” She took him by the hand and led him to her laving room. There, amid tiled scenes of Rauta Shèràa that one of Dathim Naré's suborns had applied two seasons
before, she unbraided his hair and laved it with soap that smelled of the sand and sun, then comb-dried it, running the nubs over and over Ghos's scalp until he bared his teeth in the pleasure of it. Finally, she rebraided the fine brown lengths, binding them at the ends with jewel-green ties that caught the light as night insects when Ghos shook his head, and clattered like beads.

“So quiet.” Ghos stood, his skin as gold beneath the inset illumination, an ordered contrast to the brown of his hair. “I have not known such for so long.”

“We have much to do.” Elon touched his shoulder one last time, and savored the warmth, the sense of flesh and bone beneath. “But we do not know how much time we have, which means we must act quickly.”

They dressed in silence born of shared purpose, then visited Elon's physician-priest, who took the sperm Ghos had deposited and preserved it for blending with one of the eggs that Elon had reserved for such interactions. The embryo would be blended there, then returned to Shèrá for growth and placement with a home-mother.

And in three seasons, a youngish
. Elon bared her teeth. A declaration of hers and Ghos's likeness of mind. Another step farther down their Way to the Star, one that would be taken no matter what happened to them.

“I must see to Laur,” Ghos said as they departed the physician-priest's workroom. “When she is left alone for too long, she begins to delve too deeply into that which is not her concern.” He left Elon without another look or touch, as was the way it was. Their declaration had been made, Ghos' ascension assured. Now came their task, which would serve to bind them as well as any joining, any birth.

Elon walked the corridors that led back to her rooms. The way also led past Shai's rooms—when the panel slid aside and Shai emerged into the passage, Elon wondered if it had been coincidence, or if she had awaited her.

“Elon!” Shai proceeded a half stride behind her. “I have
received word from your physician-priest, and rejoice with you. A most ordered pairing, you and Ghos. Such will assure the security of this place, of that I am most sure.”

“Yes, nìaRauta.” Elon turned and watched Shai return to her rooms, the hallway illuminations casting shadows across her back like spreading stains of blood.

“The second worst thing about waiting, besides the actual waiting itself, of course, is that you eventually reach a point where you feel the need to do something.” Brondt dragged a chair away from the table and spun it around, then sat astraddle. “This is the point that separates your run-of-the-mill poker player from your true gambler. The ability to sit out the lulls when you realize there's nothing you can do. No play to be made.”

Jani looked up from the document she and Torin had been examining. She had adjourned to the library after the walk down the beach with the rest of what Brondt called the “like minds,” and had spent the last hour or so showing Torin the workings of her scanpack and not—repeat, not—thinking about John, Tsecha, Feyó, Gisa, or Niall. “Dieter.” She regarded him as he did her, elbows on the table and chin cradled in hand. “Has anyone ever told you that you're a pain in the ass?”

Torin gasped, then doubled over, his high-pitched laugh bouncing off the walls. Brondt only smiled.

“It's just that I know a coiled spring when I see one.” He picked up the empty scanpack case and tipped it upside down, shaking out its nonexistent contents. “I don't think
I've ever seen anyone work harder at remaining nonchalant.”

Stop reading me
. Jani held up the old copy of the
Partisan
that she had used to demonstrate the differences between static and mutable inks, and rolled it into a tight tube. “John should be at Neoclona by now. Assuming Gisa didn't intercept him.”

“She wouldn't do that. She's still very idomeni in that regard—her conflict is with Feyó, not you, and not your lover.” Brondt continued to toy with the case, closing the fasteners, then opening them. Then he sighed, the shakiness of his breathing implying that his nerve had limits after all. “If the stories I've heard of ní Tsecha's resolve are true, he's digging himself in back in Chicago. I don't see him giving in without a battle, and you and Feyó are already rallying the strongest bloc of Haárin support that exists. An interesting time will be had by all, but I do believe that in the end, you will save ní Tsecha, and prevail.”

“Strong-arm diplomacy over ideology. That's a humanish argument.” Jani tossed the newssheet aside, then stood and walked to the window, drawn to the view of the bay, as she had been numerous times over the course of the day. “If Cèel caves in to it, he risks weakening himself in the eyes of his more traditionalist rivals, as we've said a hundred times. If he refrains, he risks losing the Haárin, as we've said a hundred and one. I don't think I'd like to be in his shoes right now, and it's a token flip as to which way he'll finally go.” Dusk neared, shading the sky in coral and indigo. Clouds grew, offering the possibility of evening rain. “It's the suicide option that bothers me, the sense that if it all gets too much, he'll just open his shirt and wait for someone to strike him. Who would come after him is anyone's guess. My fear is that they wouldn't wait for Tsecha to decide to return to the worldskein—they'd just send warriors to collect him.”

“That's never happened,” Torin piped as he made entries into his handheld. “I've read the histories—if Tsecha refuses to return, that alone could tie up the Council in knots. The
ideologues don't think on their feet very well—he could stall them just by saying no.”

“I've said it before.” Jani folded her arms and leaned against the window framing. “No one's gone this way before. We're all making it up as we go, including Cèel. And he was a warrior himself, if you recall. Bornsect battles never experienced the flip-flops that humanish have, but he still needed to possess some flexibility.” She looked to Brondt. “Aren't there any comlines here that you trust?”

Brondt shook his head. “No.”

“Who can I count on here?”

“To do what, take over the courtyard? Mount an attack on the basement clinic?” Brondt stood and swung a leg over his backward seat, then turned the chair around and shoved it under the table. “You can't do anything worthwhile until you hear from John or Feyó. Until then you'd just be standing on the roof flapping your arms. Might make you feel better, but you're not accomplishing much, are you?” He joined her by the window, his yellow-green eyes reflecting the light like fluorescence. “Rain tonight. We're nearing autumn, which means the storms will become more and more severe.” He glanced at her sidelong. “There's nothing you can do without more information, and you've sent out the runners to get it. So, you wait.”

“I'm not the most patient of people.”

“I'd never have guessed.”

The sound of the door opening silenced them. Jani noted that Brondt, for all his talk of calm, flinched at the noise. His hand moved to his trouser pocket as well, which saved her from asking whether he still carried his shooter.

“Ná Kièrshia.” Gisa stood in the doorway, less elegant than usual in the coverall and boots she wore when she plied her agronomist trade in the greenhouses and fields. “The time for early evening sacrament approaches and no one sits downstairs. Would you be willing, I wonder, to dine with me?”

Brondt looked to the wall clock. “Midweek in Karistos. End of summer. Outdoor concerts and such…” His voice trailed when his eyes met Gisa's, stares locking for a beat beyond casual. “Torin,” he said after a moment, “let's batten the hatches—I don't like the looks of those clouds.” He glanced at Jani, eyebrow cocked, then walked to the door, pausing at the desk to collect Torin, then departing without any further regard for his dominant.

“Brondt is strange,” Gisa said while the subject of her critique was still well within earshot. “Eamon says he looks for a leader as a bee looks for nectar, moving from flower to flower.” She bared her teeth, then gestured toward the hall. “Sacrament grows cold. Please.”

Jani patted her grumbling stomach, which as usual betrayed her when faced with the prospect of a good meal. “One moment.” She walked to the table and collected her scanpack, straightened the newssheets and pushed in the chairs.
So, I wait
. She shouldered her duffel and followed Gisa from the room.

 

Gisa hadn't been completely truthful concerning her lack of mealtime company. Jani arrived to find that both Bon and Eamon were already eating. Bon nodded to her with the mix of regard and uncertainty to which Jani had grown accustomed, while Eamon grunted in her general direction in between gulps of vodka.

“Another Acadian dish, Kièrshia.” Gisa handed Jani a casserole of chickpeas and corn. “Our cooks still seek to please you.”

“They must be tearing their hair out over the light turnout.” Jani looked around the empty dining area, taking in the neat place settings and filled tureens from which fragrant steam escaped. “How do you plan menus when you never know how many will show up?”

“We begin to adjust.” Bon shrugged. “Group meals were planned in the beginning to foster togetherness, and to allow some of those more shaken by change to feel not so dis
placed.” The dimmer evening lighting softened her appearance, shadowing the worst ravages of her skin. “As time goes on, Thalassa will meet as a whole for holidays only. Special occasions.”

“Fine with me,” Eamon muttered into his glass. “Feel like I'm at bloody day camp half the time.” He shoved a forkful of sauced kettle beef into his mouth, his bleary gaze sharpening as it fixed on Jani. “John's in town?”

“Yes.” Jani felt Bon's veiled stare, Gisa's more direct examination. “He needed to stop by the facility.”

“Better do it while he can.” Eamon glared down at his plate for a moment, then shook his head. “Damned fool—” He squinted toward the demirooms, then shielded his eyes with his hand. “Is that you, Niri? What is it?”

Jani turned to see one of the clinic staff hovering at the edge of the courtyard. A young female decked out in medwhites, face set, hands clenched.

“There is a call, sir. From the outbuildings. There has been an accident on the coast road from Karistos—you are needed.”

“Accident?” Jani pushed her chair back from the table, the screech of polywood against stone echoing throughout the space. “What sort? Equipment? Skimmer? Did the guards shoot someone? What?”

“Ná Kièrshia?” Bon's voice emerged calm. “We have accidents all the time at this place. The building that goes on. The work.”

“In the middle of the evening?” Jani strode toward Niri, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender and slowing when she realized the young female had backed away and stepped behind a planter. “What happened?
Please
.”

Niri swallowed. “A skimmer—”

“Shit.”
Jani struggled to lower her voice when every cell in her body begged to scream. “Who was hurt.
Who?
”

“Doesn't matter who—I still need to get out there.” Eamon raised his glass, then swore under his breath and set it down with a clatter. “Ah hell.” He stood and stepped around the
table. “Get Maren and Caris,” he said, pointing to Niri. “Tell them to grab the ready bags and meet me in the garage.”

“I'm going with you.” Jani fell in beside him.

“You don't belong. You'll just get in the way.”

“I'm going.”

Eamon stopped and turned to her. They had moved under better lighting now—the brightness highlighted the damage that drink and exhaustion had inscribed on his face. “You've done more than enough already.” He stood with his hands clenched, his weight balanced, as though he'd strike her given any more provocation.

Then he took a step back, emitting a sigh like a moan of pain. “Fine. Let's see how much worse you can make it.” He started for the door, thumping his fist against every piece of furniture he encountered along the way.

Jani followed, pausing as she reached the door. She looked back to the courtyard to find Gisa still seated, Bon standing behind her like a hound guarding its mistress.

 

“Damn and blast it, stay on the road!” Eamon pounded the dashboard with the flat of his hand. “I should have know better than to let you drive.”

Jani steered down the banked path leading from the garage, backing off the accelerator until the up-and-down whine of a straining propulsion array softened to a high-pitched hum. “The shortest distance between two points.” She reentered the winding roadway until another scenic curve presented itself, then braced for the shudder as she again steered off-road and out of range of the skimtrack. “It's a straight line—remember?” She punched the accelerator again as a rock formation loomed ahead, coaxing the vehicle up and over as Eamon howled and curled into crash position, his head between his knees, hands locked behind.

“We're clear of the landscaping—you can look up now.” Jani sped up as they emerged onto the flat, the road uncurling before them. “It's a straight shot all the way around the horn.”

“Damn you to hell.” Eamon worked upright, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “In a thousand different ways.” He looked back over his shoulder just as a rapidly receding flare of red emergency lighting broke through the gloom, blooding his face. The ambulance, bringing up the rear. “I should have ridden with them.”

The rain had begun, fat drops that splattered across the windscreen with a hard pellet sound. Jani followed the lighted ribbon of pavement, eyes locked on the darkening distance, on the lookout for flames, flares, safety lighting, or any of a hundred accident signs. “I see something.” She banked off the road and veered wide, angling her approach to the distant glow in order to avoid anything that might still lie on the road.

Or anyone
. She deflected power to the skimmer headlamps, lighting the landscape for half a kilometer or more. Her heart skipped as the damage revealed itself—three skimmers, two with shattered windscreens. Bodies laid out beside them, sheltered from the rain by plastic sheeting, while humanish and idomeni both ran between them or looked on from a distance.

Then she saw a slender form rise from beside one of the bodies and turn into the glare, hair agleam like molten silver, and muttered choked thanks to her Lord Ganesh.

John loped over to the skimmer as soon as Jani slowed. “There was some kind of explosion, just off the roadway.” Jacketless in the rain, blood streaking his white shirt and the side of his face, he gave her the briefest glance before rounding the vehicle to Eamon's side. “Three hurt, all Haárin. Feyó—”

“
Feyó!
” Before Jani could say more, John held up his hand.

“—has a mild concussion, according to the Glasgow Scan. Some disorientation, but she's conscious and can obey commands. One of her suborns has a dislocated shoulder and a broken collarbone, if my human hand scanner can read them properly. The driver's the worst off. The steering array
impacted her abdomen…” He moved off toward the accident scene, Eamon following close behind, the two of them fixed on what needed to be done.

Jani followed until she came to the nearest prone form. Feyó lay with her eyes closed, head elevated, her body covered by plastic sheeting. John had rigged a barrier against the rain for her, a seat-of-the-pants assembly utilizing a strip of the same sheeting stretched between a tree branch and the skimmer door.

Jani crouched by her side. “Ná Feyó?”

Feyó opened her eyes and looked at her. “Ná Kièrshia.” An angry bruise had already bloomed above her right eye, centered by an egglike swelling. “You look as you did at the embassy, on the day we met. So angry, as though you could strike the gods themselves.” She tried to sit up, wincing as she shifted her weight to her elbows.

“Please don't move.” Jani placed a hand on Feyó's shoulder and eased her back as the surfaces around them altered to flashing red, signaling the arrival of the ambulance. “Forgive the ungodly color of the alarm.”