Visitor: A Foreigner Novel (33 page)

The ramp led into a level below the airlock, a darker, slightly cooler, dryer place, another hallway, but barren. And a chair where another kyo sat. That one extended legs and rose, with a little flutter of booms.

“Stay,” Prakuyo said, and that person gave a little bob and sank back again, crosslegged, in the curious bowl-like seat.

“Bren,” Prakuyo said, and paused. “Not aishid. Safe. You come.”

Safe? And asking his aishid to stand back? Not reassuring.

But Prakuyo advanced only a little distance, then stopped near a recessed area in the wall.

“Wait, nadiin-ji,” he said to his aishid, and joined Prakuyo.

In that slight recess beside Prakuyo was a clear door with ventilation slits, and beyond, a huddled gray shape on a bowl-shaped bench.

He was looking into a cell.

“Up,” Prakuyo said sharply, from where they stood, and the dim shape moved, turned a shoulder, achieved ragged hair and a glimpse of glaring dark eyes in a bearded, shaggy human face.

Reunioner, Bren thought. Some survivor who hadn’t come to the exit, who hadn’t been willing to be evacuated.

Who might, all this time, have been questioned by the kyo and might have told them God knew what . . . granted they had gotten past the language barrier. He’d always suspected Prakuyo understood more ship-speak than he had admitted to. Could Prakuyo have questioned this man, gotten information that made him doubt the truth of what they’d told him? Perhaps that accounted for the hint of distrust that lay beneath his affability.

Or was the problem that they’d gotten
nothing
out of this man?

Was
this
the purpose of the kyo’s visit? That
he
should lend his skill to—whatever they wanted with this man? Who on Reunion could be worth so much effort, to bring him all this distance?

“Who are you?” Bren asked in ship-speak, the safest, most obvious question. And: “Are you all right?”

The man got up—he was dressed kyo-style, in thin robes. Hair and beard, a great deal of both, were matted and snarled. But the stare . . .

The stare was that of a man seeing a ghost. A step forward in the dim light. And another. A hand lifted . . . and those staring eyes looked past him, widened—

The man recoiled against the back wall so fast his aishid reacted, weapons out. Prakuyo flung out an arm between them
and the door, forbidding, and Guild weapons went to safe position.

“We are safe,” Bren said in Ragi, on a half breath. And in kyo: “Prakuyo-nandi. Safe. Safe.” His heart was pounding. The man in the cell sat tucked up in the bowl-like bench at the back of the cell, staring at them from under that matted mane . . . could one grow that much hair in two years?

“Who are you?” Bren asked again, in ship-speak.

No response. Maybe it was his bodyguard, armed and quick on the trigger, that alarmed the man. “Nadiin-ji,” he said quietly, “stand back somewhat. I am in no danger. This man is a prisoner and unarmed. The door may be transparent, but it is not slight.”

“Nandi,” Banichi said, and drew everybody back a little. Their dark skin and black clothing faded into the shadows of the dim hallway, but golden eyes flickered as they caught a little reflection—the light came at that sort of angle, and that sight would not reassure the man.

“More light?” Bren asked and Prakuyo waved a hand over a nearby wall control. The ambient brightened. The man in the cell tucked up, pulling knees to chest, squinting as if his eyes were unaccustomed to bright light.

“Safe,” Bren said in kyo. “Come. Come to the door.”

Not a move. Not a twitch.

He said, then in ship-speak. “You’re safe. Come. Get up. Come here and talk to me.”

The look stayed much the same. There was no clue as to whether the shaggy prisoner understood kyo or ship-speak. One began to fear the man might not be altogether sane.

“What’s your name?” he asked again in ship-speak, sharply this time, and got a response at last.

“Who the hell are you?” The voice came out strained, little more than a whisper. But coherent. “Are you even real? God . . . am I that far gone?”

At least he
could
talk. Arms stayed around knees. Features, expression, were all obscured by dark, tangled hair.

“I’m quite real. They brought me here to talk to you.” That much had to be obvious. “Will you talk?”

Eyes flickered, from him to Prakuyo to his aishid, then:

“What
are
you?”

“A negotiator. A translator. I can do neither if you don’t talk to me. Can we try again? What’s your name?”

“Guy.”

“Guy.”

A nod. Slight, within the mop of hair.

“Is that all of it?”

“Guy Cullen.
Who
are you?
What
are you?”

“My name is Bren Cameron.” And bearing in mind Prakuyo
was
beside him, and knew a little ship-speak, caution was in order, what he said about himself, what he said about his relation to this man. “I’m a representative for the atevi.”

“Atevi.”

“Behind me.”

Blink. Twice. As if the name meant nothing to him. A Reunioner—maybe a panicked holdout from the evacuation—wouldn’t know atevi. Wouldn’t know any of the things that had happened.

“You stayed on Reunion.”

“Don’t know Reunion.”

That was a poser.
“Phoenix,
then?”

Second shake of the head.

Ship and station names meant nothing to the man, and his speech was off, some syllables hardly voiced. It could be injury. It could be a speech impediment, or maybe an artifact of disuse. Maybe the man wasn’t understanding
him
that well; or maybe the man was just holding back information.

“Where
do
you come from, Mr. Cullen?”

“
Negotiate
me out of here. Get me out and I’ll tell you.”

So. Holding back.

He lifted an eyebrow. Controlled expression. Suspicions occurred to him—a kyo setup to get a reaction. A tame prisoner, working with them. There was a word for that, a word with origins lost in some obscure past, something he’d been accused of more than once in his career: Stockholm syndrome.

Was this man some ages-old offshoot of a
Phoenix
base pre-dating Reunion, perhaps, pretending ignorance? Second or even third generation prisoner, playing a part for—what? Freedom?

The prisoner’s initial reaction to seeing him had been intense, instant as reflex: a damned good act—or honest shock. Maybe it had been his aishid that provoked that reaction. But amid so much that was alien—the focus had been on
him.

Regroup. Give him the benefit of the doubt, for starters. “I understand. You don’t want to betray places. You don’t want to endanger those you care about. But I can’t get you out if I don’t know why you’re in. So let’s start with something the kyo already know, but I don’t. How did you come aboard this ship?”

“Loaded on with all the other cargo.”

“When? How long ago?”

“Hell if I know. Year? Two? Quit caring a long time ago.”

“Where?”

“Hell if I know.”

“You were somewhere before that.”

“Another cell. Another ship.”

“And before that?”

“I don’t
know
. I don’t remember. And even if I did, why would I tell somebody standing on
that
side of this door—dressed like that. Where’s
that
from?”

Things were not right, not right, not right. It was a puzzle Prakuyo had set him, a puzzle with sinister overtones, and he was miserably failing it, with his own credibility at stake. He was set this puzzle, he was expected to solve it, and his success or failure would affect a great deal more than this man’s outcome, or his own.

“Mr. Cullen, I’m in the employ of the atevi government; the
clothing comes with the job. The kyo asked me to come here. The kyo evidently wanted me to see you. You want to be a puzzle. That’s fine. But if you sincerely want my help, you’d do well to stop cowering over there and come up to the door and talk to me.”

Another sullen glare. “I’m not telling you a damned thing.”

Had
Phoenix
left a crew at the Gamma fuel station when they’d abandoned Reunion? Crew the kyo had gathered up from the fueling site and held for over a decade?

“Mr. Cullen. I don’t know how much time I’ll have with you. I don’t know how you got here or what you did to get yourself locked up. Species being species, I’d like to help you, but you’re not giving me any means to do that.”

Cullen made a tighter knot of himself. Head bowed against his knees. “Just go. Get out of here!”

“You were transferred from another ship. I take it this was a kyo ship?”

A tense pause, then a sharp nod.

“And before that?”

“My own ship.”

“Your ship. Not
Phoenix.
A mining craft, maybe?”

Cullen glared up at him under that shadowed mop of hair. “No damn miner. A
starship.
A ship
fighting
these bone-faced bastards.”

The floor just dropped out from under all reason. He hoped a career practicing atevi impassivity kept shock from being evident, but it felt as if all the blood had drained from his brain, his face, his hands. He folded his arms and tried to take in a reasonable breath.

“Where, Mr. Cullen? Where do you fight them?”

“Wherever we meet them.”

“How long have you been at war?”

“Eighty, ninety years, about that. What rock have you been living under?”

Ninety years?
Ninety?

Everything,
everything
began to make terrifying sense. He was standing still, trying to give no clue what he was thinking, but shaken to the core, and telling himself it had to be a trick, a trap, something other than a vast, star-spanning circle.
Coincidence
couldn’t stretch that far . . . that they had just met what
Phoenix
had been hunting for centuries.

Phoenix
’s own point of origin. Human space. A location lost from
Phoenix
records hundreds of years ago, when some trick of space and starship physics had thrown them off their course and into the radiation hell that had cost the ship so dearly.

Cullen had nothing to do with Braddock or
Phoenix
or Reunion . . . other than a distant common ancestor.

This was the Enemy. The kyo’s mysterious enemy.

Instantly pieces began falling—
crashing
—into place.

Reunion.
Phoenix.
The enemy. Similar ships. Similar architecture—similar—what had Gin called it? Electromagnetic signatures?

God . . . no wonder the kyo had attacked
Phoenix
’s base.

A part of him wished he had a recording of Cullen to analyze, because the degree of change between Cullen’s speech and his itself offered clues, a clock set on the time of separation, from the point of common origin, but figuring it out would only, he was quite sure, confirm what his gut already knew.

“Your ship, I take it, was lost.”

“Lost?
Lost?
They blew it to hell!” Cullen flung himself to his feet, came the handful of steps to the transparent door, rested a fist on it, leaned against it. “You said you wanted to help.
Can
you get me out of here?”

No. Promise nothing. Be careful. If he’s theirs—it’s one thing. If he’s not—it’s much, much worse.

“You’re a prisoner of war. I have no way to do that. However, I can at least try to better your situation, Mr. Cullen. Can you talk to them?”

Blink. “Talk to them?”

“Can you talk to them?
Have
you talked to them?”

“No.” Shake of the head. “No.”

“I can.”

“You can make sense of that—” A helpless wave of the hand. “How?”

“It’s what I do, Mr. Cullen. I mentioned—I’m a translator. And a negotiator.”

“How did
you
get here?”

“I was invited. —Bottom line, Mr. Cullen, the atevi I represent have absolutely no interest in your war with the kyo, but I
do
have a concern for your situation, and I’m sure the kyo suspected I
would
have. I’m here on their sufferance, and they might well decide to end this interview at any moment. Answer my questions. Give me some indication what I’m dealing with.
Why
are you at war, Mr. Cullen? What’s the issue?”

“Ask them. We don’t know.”

One could probably ask the kyo to exactly the same effect. But it wasn’t on him to judge. And it didn’t, in the long run, matter.

“When you encountered the kyo, Mr. Cullen, where were you? What was your ship doing?”

“Their territory,” Cullen said. “We were scouting.”

Scouting, with instruments at least as good as
Phoenix
had—didn’t mean going there before looking around. It meant going there
after
looking around, with the notion there was something there that needed a closer look. A contemporaneous look.

If some ship had deliberately encroached into atevi and Mospheiran territory and refused contact, atevi and Mospheirans alike would agree it was an ominous move, which argued that three species understood it was a wrong move.
Phoenix
had come into a kyo-held system exactly that way. Ramirez had
known
a viable planet existed where he was going—

But had he
known
a technological species was there? Was it that looking into the past problem?

He’d run, instantly, upon being discovered—a move which might have saved the ship, but which had doomed Reunion.

The kyo had apparently known about Reunion for years. Tolerated it—or watched it, to see what it would do.

Until
Phoenix
went somewhere it shouldn’t.

Did that mean Reunion had been outside what the kyo considered their space? That it wasn’t until the ship connected to Reunion had actually invaded kyo territory that Reunion had ticked over from anomaly to active threat?

One had to ask . . . where was that system
Phoenix
had penetrated, relative to Cullen’s part of the universe? Where was Reunion in that configuration?

As for coincidence—common belief held that
Phoenix
had spent centuries searching for their own origin point: and trying to find the right direction. They’d found nothing. The search centuries ago had led
Phoenix
first to atevi space, lately to kyo space, but not to human space.