A fahrweg brought her trio to the ground transport terminal. Arren led the way on through it. “Don’t we want a train for Tychopolis?” Kyra asked. “Or, uh, Lunograd or Diana or—” whatever the Selenarchs used for a capital. Officially they didn’t have any. They neither sent nor received diplomats; ad hoc envoys from Earth went to sites they designated and spoke with such of them as chose to listen.
“Nay,” Isabu replied. “This day we travel by car.”
A thrill chased most of the foreboding out of her. She’d only been on the few tourist roads.
The car was bus-size. Except for the windows, an outer shell of hyalon enclosed its metal body. Fluid in between would change its patterns of light and dark, chameleonlike, to help regulate temperature. On struts above the roof, a radiation shield doubled as a solar energy collector, auxiliary to the fuel cells inside. A lovely piece of engineering. Then Kyra traversed the airlock and found herself in another world. Carpeting, opulent red and black, was like the pelt of a live animal; it undulated ever so slightly, as if something breathed. Paneling sheened above it, relieved by intertwined patterns of enamel and inlay. Where shadows from outside made dimness, she saw that draperies and upholsteries phosphoresced. Seats and a table were made for long-limbed folk who did not need to lean against backs. A partition separated off the rear half, which must hold sleeping quarters, tanks, tools, and whatever else was required. Abstract art played across it, akin to fire, smoke, clouds. The moving air bore changeable odors, sweet, sharp, spiced, sunny, icy. She could barely hear the background music, and did not understand it at all. If comets could sing—
Arren took the controls, spoke with the dispatcher, and eased the car across the garage floor. It cycled through into void and ran up a ramp to the surface. Soon it left pavement and went over raw regolith, smoothly absorbing the irregularities. Dust whirled up from the wheels and settled again with the speed of airlessness.
“Where are we bound?” Kyra asked.
“We can tell you now,” Isabu said. “Zamok Vysoki.” At her blank look: “It is the lord Rinndalir’s private stronghold, in the Cordillera.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “But that—why, that must be two or three thousand klicks from here.”
“Nearer three than two. Will you not be seated? Would you care for refreshments? We can offer a variety.”
“But how long will it take to get there?” she cried dismay.
“About twelve hours. Pray be patient, my lady. Everything is in proper orbit.”
It whirled through her: Rinndalir received Guthrie’s message forty-odd hours ago, minus whatever time went in bucking it to him from the reception point. The encrypted part had been minimal: “Rescue nonsched Bowen 22.” He’d have had a chance to think about it and confer with others. (How many? His kind generally presented a single mask to the outside universe, but everybody who had studied and observed knew that theirs was a government of cats.) His technicians could have informed him that a radar scan was in progress, and picked Maui out for themselves. He probably had his watchers, undercover agents, computer worms in places on Earth as well as in Fireball here. The arrival of the Sepo would tell him much and hint at more. A rocket flyer was conspicuous. Was that why he had sent his men by ground to retrieve her? How many men? Just these two? How had he coordinated with his colleagues? Had he? Unilateral action seemed crazily reckless. And yet—
Arren regarded his instrument board, entered an instruction, and joined the others. The car rolled on, self-operated, deftly weaving around the obstacles nature had strewn through the ages. Kyra wondered whether it followed navigation signals, perhaps from a satellite, or had a topographic map in its program and an inertial guidance system. Maybe both. She wondered how smart the most advanced Lunar robots were. Maybe more than any elsewhere. If you started with people selected for intelligence as well as physical fitness, and furnished them with the most sophisticated equipment of their era, technological development might later hit a steep curve even though the population was small and clannish.
She sank onto a seat. Arren took another facing her. He sat straight, impassive, yet somehow relaxed. Isabu drifted noiselessly to the rear. “You may identify yourself if you desire,” Arren said.
“I’m Kyra Davis, space pilot for Fireball,” she blurted, “and I—”
“Nay, nothing further of your mission,” he interrupted. The tone was mild but decisive. “That is for the lord Rinndalir.”
She gathered her wits, studied him a moment, and murmured, “Are you so firmly under his orders? I thought Lunarians were a free-wheeling breed.”
His answer was free of resentment, almost philosophical: “In some respects that is true, granting countless individual variations and complexities. But we cannot afford anarchism. As a spacer, you know how survival depends on discipline, the maintenance and protection of life support systems, instant cooperation in emergencies.”
“Oh, yes, obviously. Within those parameters, though— In Fireball we generally have our jobs to do.” Kyra paused. She hadn’t ever thought in quite these terms before. Had the chase jolted things she’d always taken for granted loose in her mind? “To a certain extent, I suppose you could say we are our careers. We’re free to change jobs, teams, whatever, any time there’s a demand for our services elsewhere and we want to go. But we seldom work entirely on our own. In the nature of things, we can’t. Pilots like me are among the few exceptions. It’s different for you. Apart from your survival obligations, isn’t the Lunarian ideal to do everything and, and be everything for yourself?”
And thus the declaration of independence half a century ago. Much more brought it on than a tax revolt. A civilization had grown up here—bewilderingly fast, its evolution driven not only by unearthly conditions but unearthly genes—that was incompatible with any on the mother planet.
“The attitude serves for much of creativity and many minor enterprises,” Arren replied. “For anything more ambitious, organization is required. Furthermore, questions of personal security, arbitration, justice, the rights of the community, are universal. Let me propose that different cultures find different instrumentalities to cope with them, and that these are viable no longer than they have the allegiance of the people. The typical Earthdweller gives his to his government; the World Federation derives its legitimacy indirectly. You give yours to Fireball Enterprises. I give mine to the lord Rinndalir. Should he perish, I would think who else of his rank pleases me best and would accept me.”
Abruptly Kyra must laugh aloud. Arren regarded her. “Pardon,” she gasped. “It just exploded on me what a weird conversation this is.”
Snatched from captivity, bowling across the Moon, here she sat talking sociology! It wasn’t even new to her. She’d read, seen, heard enough stories, commentaries, analyses, travelogues, you name it. Maybe he’d given her a slightly different slant on things, she’d have to think about that, but she’d sure taken herself by surprise.
To him the exchange might be perfectly natural.
That idea of alienness shocked sobriety into her. She saw him smile and heard him say, “Yes, doubtless you would like to be more specific. Inquire as you will, Pilot Davis. Isabu and I will answer within the bounds of confidentiality.”
She rallied her wits. “You were pretty brash when you rescued me. Did you really have reinforcements?”
“In being, nay.” His candor set her equally aback. “It would have been inconvenient to assemble any on such short notice.” Why? Because the movement would have alerted other Selenarchs to the fact that something special was afoot? “The lord Rinndalir deemed the threat would suffice. Had it not, he would have set punitive measures in train.” To assert his authority, and never mind about Anson Guthrie’s appeal? Or was it merely that he felt his judgment was reliable? It had in fact paid off.
Let her be bold. “Bueno, you don’t want to hear what’s brought me to the Moon. But you’re bound to’ve seen it involves the current hooraw with Fireball and the North American
Union. For my information, would you tell me what you know about that?”
He was willing. Sometimes he veered from a topic, but in general she could lead him on. In his turn, he was interested in whatever observations she made, provided they didn’t bear too closely on her mission. She found that he had a good grasp of the situation, despised the Avantists, and like most Lunarians—he said; she believed—was rather skeptical of the alleged terrorist ring. As for what the truth might be, he reserved opinion pending further data. At more than a third of a million kilometers’ remove, Kyra thought, coolness came easy. Of course, Fireball was involved, and Luna depended on Fireball still more than Earth did; but there was also the cultural gap, the gulf between souls. He had said it himself, his loyalty was to the seigneur in the mountains—and after that, maybe, to his own not quite human race.
Meanwhile Isabu brought coffee, a tart brandy, and cakes of an intriguing vinegary flavor. Later he made dinner. It was a stir-fry of fish, vegetables, and fruits, crisp herbal-seasoned bread on the side, a subtly sweet-sour white wine. Kyra enjoyed it in spite of recognizing little, though she’d explored her share of Lunarian restaurants. How much did the masters reserve for themselves?
The car got onto a road and picked up speed. For most of its length the road was simply graded regolith. Here and there a way had been blasted out of uplands, a viaduct overleaped crevasse or crater. Nothing better was needed where the sole weather was blazing day, bitter night, millennial infall of dust and stones. Moonscape fled by, ashen plains and time-blurred heights, intricately pocked, now and then a radome or a beamcasting mast or the upper works of a buried habitation. Eventually Kyra’s eyelids drooped. Isabu showed her to a bath cubicle with a recycling shower and, adjoining, a curtained bunk in which she could take off her clothes. She slept better than expected, though lightly, tumbling about in dreams.
Momentarily loudened music quavered her awake. Isabu said from outside the curtains, “We approach Zamok Vysoki, my lady.” She wriggled herself clad, hastily used the bath, and joined the men forward. Excitement pulsed. She did not know of any outsider who had betrod a Selenarch’s palace. If ever it happened, it was in secret, Earthside journalists were chronically indignant about that.
Rearing ahead of her, the place seemed more castle than mansion. The tiered walls were like upthrusts of the mountain that they topped, the steep roofs their slopes, the lean towers crags. Westering to north, the sun set windows and metal cupolas ablaze against black heaven. Their brightness drowned out most stars. From the eastern horizon Earth’s thick crescent cast a glimmer across south-facing masonry, surrounding peaks, the higher jumbles of the valley out of which road and car climbed.
Signals piped from speakers. Kyra thought of bugles blown by warders at the parapets. Banners should have flown above them. Bat here went never a wind save for the thin breaths of sun and cosmos. Arren spoke. He received an acknowledgment. As he drove near, a valve opened in the wall ahead. It was machined alloy, Kyra saw. The masonry was dark native rock. She didn’t know what kind, but recalled accounts of robots mining the Lunar depths.
Air hissed into the lock chamber beyond and the car proceeded down a ramp to a garage. The hewn-out pillars and vaulting that supported its roofs were of a strangeness that soared, as if—she thought, knowing it was ridiculous—Shwe Dagon had bred with Chartres. The car stopped, its own valves turned, the travelers emerged. She breathed a perfume like roses, and that was perhaps the strangest of all.
An attendant genuflected. He was dressed somewhat like Isabu, in the understatedly sumptuous style of Lunarian formality. She would learn that, while there was no prescribed livery, this was usual for the staff, except when some task made it inappropriate. No special insignia identified them. They knew whose they were, and so did their optimates.
Arren offered her his arm. She remembered what was proper and held her arm just above, fingertips touching his hand. The position was easy to maintain in this gravity. It would have been the same were their sexes reversed, a graceful way of denoting that she was his social superior. Isabu came behind. They crossed the floor, ascended a curving staircase, and went down a passage. It was lined with hydroponic tanks in which rioted the hues of curiously petalled flowers.
It gave on a large room. Furnishings were sparse, spindly-framed, shaped to suggest vines and serpents. Kyra scarcely noticed, because floor, walls, ceiling were a single abstract mosaic. The softly multicolored patterns seduced her gaze; she could easily have lost herself in them. A picture window, its view of the gorge below and the peaks beyond under stars, did not interrupt; it was a culmination.
Two persons waited. They stood, as Lunarians did more often than sit— tall, slim, ornamental iridescent cloaks of spider-silk thinness falling from their shoulders. Kyra recognized Rinndalir, whom she had last seen on the multi in the Launch Pad ... a hundred years ago? His tunic and hose were black, trimmed with silver. She remembered, also, the friezelike gold headband across the argent hair. The woman at his side wore a full-length aquamarine gown over which diode lights played. In features she might have been his twin sister, but the great slant eyes were green and the waist-length mane shone blue-black.
Arren and Isabu genuflected. Unsurely, Kyra gave a Fireball salute.
Rinndalir smiled. For that instant, his visage came aglow, and Kyra’s heart stumbled. “So this is Pilot Davis of the disputed ship.” His English purred. Clearly, the men had been in contact with him while they traveled. “Be welcome, my lady. Have you any immediate need that we may serve?”
“No. Nothing, gracias,” she stammered, and felt like a slewfooted fool.
Rinndalir made the least of gestures toward the other woman. “My lady Niolente,” he said. She inclined her head as slightly—courteous, condescending, or what?
“I, I’m happy to meet you,” Kyra said. Half angrily: Why was she letting them overawe her? She was Fireball. If ever they should be at odds, Fireball could smash them and theirs flat. Right now it needed their help. But that would be to their own advantage. She got control of her voice. “I’ve important news for you.”
“Manifestly,” said Niolente. She was a mezzo-soprano. She glanced at Arren and Isabu. “Hold yourselves in readiness for possible questions.” Doubtless she said it in English out of politeness to Kyra. They bent the knee again and departed.
“Make yourself comfortable, Pilot Davis,” invited Rinndalir. “Are you certain you will not have something to eat or drink before we speak?”
“No—no—” The tale rushed out of her. The Lunarians aided it with questions that struck to the bone, however softly put. She could not tell how much intensity was underneath.
At the end, Rinndalir paced to the window. He stood for a few seconds looking out at the galaxy before he asked, “What would you have us do, Pilot Davis?”
She shivered, and irrationally resented Niolente’s calm, and cried, “Tell the Solar System! Retrieve Guthrie! Get those muck-begotten ideos thrown out of space!”
“It is not quite that simple,” Niolente murmured. “This is a chaotic universe. The consequences of actions are seldom foreseeable.”
Rinndalir turned around. His glance locked on Kyra. “Yes,” he said as calmly, “we had best bide our time until we know more and have thought more.”
The knowledge pierced her: They would keep her waiting here.
* * * *
27
W
ang Zu was a modest man, but Thermopylae-loyal to Fireball. As a dispatcher, he had access to the computer net that directed and kept track of space activities around L-5; and he was generally alone when on duty. As a close friend, he heard the plea of Noboru Tamura’s daughter, did not press her to explain the purpose she dared not reveal, and agreed to do what she wished. Any suspicions he had, he kept to himself.
“I will co-opt the mechanician Lucia Visconti,” he said. “You know her somewhat, I believe. She is trustworthy. Still, all she will be told is to ignore the call to work that she will recei
ve tomorrow and stay at home for the next—ten hours, will that provide an ample margin? What one does not know, one cannot reveal.”
If arrested and quizzed. An ugly thrill went through Eiko. She herself didn’t even know what it was she sought. Derring-do was for people like Kyra Davis, not her . . . Kyra had gone to Earth on the most routine of missions, and vanished. Fireball had overnight made alliance with its decades-enduring antagonists and let them within its gates. They had imprisoned Eiko’s father and everyone else near to Anson Guthrie, seemingly with Guthrie’s agreement, perhaps at his command. Nothing made sense. Somebody had to make a start at unsnarling the nightmare.
Her preparations, however inconspicuously carried out, kept her too busy for much fear. And then the hour of action was upon her.
Reporting to the appropriate station, she logged in as Visconti, detailed to troubleshoot a minor problem with offloading from the Pallas. No human saw her. The Sepo hadn’t enough men to mount guard over every portal. Besides, watchers would have been worse than useless, ignorant about operations, irritatingly or perhaps disastrously in the way. Instead, they had the net monitor all activity for them and alert them to whatever might be unusual. Wang had simply entered a notation of this job. No living soul was aboard the sunjammer to give him the lie.
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