Ganwold's Child

by Diann Read

  He paused. Eyed Tristan again. “Aren’t you a little curious, Tristan, as to how you fit into all of this?”

  “How I fit into it?” Tristan stopped tracing the Tutor’s embossing and stared at him, suddenly angry. “I don’t want to fit into it! My mother is sick!”

  “I know that.” The governor sat back, looking thoughtful. “It will be most interesting to see how your father responds to our message.”

  * *

  Tristan paused before the holoscreen when he came into his room. He gazed out on its meadow as he peeled off his jacket and shirt and dropped them on the bed. He settled to the floor to tug off the boots and flung them after the jacket.

  Sitting cross-legged, he smoothed a patch of carpet with his hand and closed his eyes. The map of lines and lights from the monitor room glowed in his remembered vision. He traced it in the carpet’s nap with his finger and studied it for a few moments, then shook his head in abrupt frustration and erased the sketch with a sweep of his hand.

  Watching him, Pulou asked, “You do what, little brother?”

  “I think how we go away from here.” Tristan leaned forward, elbows on knees. “There are stairs and lift. We make lift go down so they chase it, and we go up stairs to shuttles.”

  “Too easy to hunt us,” said Pulou.

  Tristan cocked his head, questioning him.

  “Think of lomos in burrows.”

  “Lomos?” Tristan wrinkled his nose. “But they’re stupid!”

  “Maybe,” said Pulou. “Maybe not. Lomos do what when children pour water into burrows?”

  “Go out other burrow.”

  Pulou nodded, watching him.

  Tristan grinned. He began tracing the map in the carpet again. But then he stopped and looked at Pulou. “But governor says you can’t go out of caves another way.”

  “Not right,” the gan said. “You can.”

  “You find what?”

  “Green cave goes on and on for long way,” Pulou said. “It has places to hide and water to drink and burrows that go up to gray cave we walk in. Small caves go out like tree branches from big cave, and I find flat-tooth footprints that come out of one but not that go in.”

  “That come out?” Tristan held Pulou’s amber gaze for a long moment, considering that, before he returned to the map etched in the carpet. He finished the drawing. “We go down stairs here,” he said, pointing, “and hide in caves if they hunt us, and,” he drew a finger along one mark, “come out over here, or here, or here.” He looked at Pulou. “Like lomos from burrows.”

  “Good.” The gan gave him a fanged smile. “You learn to think like hunter, not like flat-tooth.” He evaded Tristan’s playful cuff and said, “At night, little brother?”

  “Yes,” said Tristan.

  * *

  Sleepless night paled too slowly to an angry dawn.

  When the stars over the screen’s projected meadow began to fade, Tristan reached up to turn it off, letting the blanket slide from his shoulders. He stood slowly. His thighs ached from hours of sitting cross-legged. He limped into the latrine.

  The face that stared back at him from the reflector as he washed seemed older than it had the day before, he thought. He pushed dripping hair away from his eyes, unsure of what caused the illusion. Except that he couldn’t meet his own gaze.

  When he’d come into his room after dinner the previous evening, he’d dismissed Rajak and held the door for Pulou. Held it until he heard the valet’s door close down the corridor. Then he fished in his jacket pocket for the clasp he’d pulled from it, placed it in the door’s track, switched off the automation, and held his breath as the door slid to the blockage and stopped. It had cost him an afternoon of studying the electronic latches, and pinched fingers from testing the door’s recoil mechanism, to figure it out.

  He had smiled as he’d tossed his jacket onto the bed. Took a moment to lock the door between Rajak’s room and the connecting latrine before he crouched to sketch the tunnel map in the carpet again. Pulou squatted beside him, following as he traced one of the longer lines. He tapped the spot at its end and nodded.

  “He says cargo shuttles are there,” Tristan said. “We hide in one and ride away in it.”

  “To where?” asked Pulou.

  “To—orbital station.” Tristan found himself having to intersperse his gan with Standard words for which the gan language had no equivalents. “Think about round picture of stars in white room.” He pantomimed the shape of the holotank in Operations Planning. “He says big ships are at stations. Maybe one goes to my father’s world.”

  “Maybe not,” said Pulou.

  Tristan ignored that and smoothed away the map with his hand. They settled on the floor to rest while they waited for the living level to grow quiet.

  Tristan didn’t sleep. He just lay there with his eyes closed, seeing the glow of the monitor room’s map in his mind.

  When they rose, what seemed half the night later, the door responded easily to his push. He signed at Pulou to wait while he knelt at the doorjamb to ease the door into its lock.

  He’d felt someone watching from behind even before Pulou nudged him. He turned slowly and looked up.

  Rajak leered down at him. “It isn’t very smart to go for a walk by yourself at night, Tristan.”

  He came to his feet in one motion. “What are you doing here? We don’t want your help!”

  “You may need it, though. The doors to the lifts and the emergency stairs aren’t as easy to sabotage as your bedroom’s.”

  Tristan glowered and said nothing.

  “Aw, come on, that’s what you had in mind, wasn’t it?” Rajak reached past him to punch the door’s open button. “Take out your doorstop.”

  Tristan studied him: about twice his own weight, a couple fingers’ width taller, but with sluggish reflexes. . . .

  “Hurry up,” said Rajak. “Take it out.”

  Without shifting his vision from the servant’s face, Tristan knelt, picked up the broken piece of clasp, and curled his fist around it. He locked his teeth.

  “Give it to me,” said Rajak, holding out his hand. “Would you rather tell Governor Renier about this yourself, or should I do it for you?”

  “If you say anything to anyone, Rajak, I’ll see that you won’t need first pick of the women prisoners anymore.”

  They both started at the quiet, menacing female voice.

  Rajak lurched around. Tristan and Pulou hunched lower still, hands moving to their foreheads.

  Larielle had come down the corridor, silent on bare feet and clad only in a dressing gown and her loosed hair.

  Rajak made a snorting sound. “You little vixen! You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Wouldn’t I?” The smile that flickered at her lips appeared almost evil. “I’d only have to tell Papa that you behaved improperly toward me and you’d be lucky to keep even your life!” She interposed herself between Tristan and the servant. “Get out of here, Rajak.”

  He hesitated.

  “Get out!” She swung at him, something needle-like flashing in her hand.

  He staggered back, flinging up an arm to shield his face, and retreated.

  She waited until Rajak entered his room, waited until they heard its door click shut before she returned her attention to Tristan. “Don’t do this,” she said, her voice quiet but urgent. “Be patient, Tristan. If you’re caught trying to run away again, your mother will suffer for it, too.”

  Nine

  A light on the keyboard blinked red; a persistent beep announced a priority message coming in on an out-system frequency. Encrypted, Nemec knew. He punched the ACCEPT key, overriding the material on his monitor, and entered his release code to unscramble the text.

  It bore a date stamp of 3/9/3307 SY—two days ago—and a classification of Confidential. Nemec’s vision narrowed on text spilling onto the screen and noted the imprecise translation from a non-human language. He kept his face impassive
, concealing both his interest and surprise as he read it.

  He touched the HARDCOPY key and glanced up. The officer in charge lingered across the room. Quick fingers set a directional transmission and hit SECURE DISSEMINATE. Relay’s communications receivers would have the message in its entirety before the printout finished in the Issel II Comms Center.

  Nemec hit DELETE as he rose, retrieved the printed page, and carried the message to the officer in charge. “This just came in, sir.”

  The other read it through quickly. “The governor will want to see this right away.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nemec enclosed it in a folder before crossing through the lift to the residence area, where a large man wearing the insignia of the governor’s personal security met him and motioned for him to wait in the office.

  Beyond lay a dining room; the governor and his household sat at dinner.

  The security man said, “Messenger from the Comms Center, sir.”

  “Thank you, Avuse. Show him in.” Renier rose from the dining table and entered the office. “Sergeant?”

  At the table behind Renier, the youth named Tristan looked up and froze. Nemec could almost sense how his hand tightened on his knife. He felt the boy eyeing him as he opened the folder on the governor’s desk and handed over the sheet of paper. “This just came through, sir.”

  Renier scanned it. “Mi’ika. From the Bacal Belt,” he murmured. “This is much sooner than I had expected.” He read the message in its entirety, concentration deepening the lines around his eyes and pursed mouth. After long moments he said, “Return word to the Pasha of Mi’ika that I look forward to accepting his son and the other candidates from his world into the military colleges of Adriat, and that I’ll arrange my schedule to be in Aeire City when they arrive, in order to receive them personally.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nemec said, and saw from the corner of his eye how the youth’s attention jerked up at that. Saw how he glanced under the table at the alien squatting near his feet.

  “Please send notification to the Ministers of Internal Security and Alien Relations on Adriat,” the governor said, “regarding the date of our allies’ arrival there. Arrangements for their accommodation and entrance into the academies must begin at once.” He paused to study the message again. “Please inform my staff at Aeire City of this change of plans also. Order tripled security and assure them that I’ll arrive far enough in advance to oversee most of the preparations myself.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nemec said again. “Will that be all?” Relay’s analysts, he knew, would work double shifts over this.

  “Destroy this.” Renier returned the page. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Returning the message to the folder, Nemec gave a curt bow from the neck, and managed to meet the boy’s eyes before he faced about on his heel.

  * *

  Tristan watched the sergeant from Communications leave the room. Watched the governor return to the table and resume his seat.

  “I’ll conclude the mine inspections this afternoon,” Renier said, taking up his napkin, “so we can return tomorrow. We have another journey to make next week for which we must begin preparations at once.”

  “Papa?” Larielle said.

  “We’ll be taking our holiday on Adriat early this year,” the governor told her, and smiled. “I trust that won’t disappoint you, Lari.”

  She smiled. “Not at all, Papa.”

  “And what of you, Tristan? What do you know about your mother’s homeworld?”

  Tristan studied him, trying to read his shadowed eyes. “I know the name of where she lived,” he said. His knuckles had grown white, gripping his utensil.

  The governor smiled again. “I believe you’ll find it an interesting diversion from the histories you’ve been reading these last few days. You’ll have the opportunity to see history in its making.”

  * *

  The shuttle seemed almost familiar this time. Still, Tristan gripped the arms of the acceleration seat through the crushing thrust of launch, and closed his eyes against the sight of a spiraling horizon as the craft banked over the towered city of Sanabria.

  Hours later, with Issel a sunlit globe filling the shuttle’s rear view, Tristan spotted the glitter of the orbital station drifting ahead. He released his straps and pushed himself toward the pane, where he caught the rail, pulled himself into an upright position, and anchored his feet. Against the perpetual night, the spider’s web structure gradually became visible in the midst of its artificial constellation.

  As the shuttle circled around the station, Tristan observed the freight vessels at their loading docks and wondered at their destinations. He found his attention drawn to the bristled destroyers in the maintenance docks. One of the large warships, he noticed, had been replaced by two smaller but equally bristled ones.

  “We are now making final approach,” said the voice from the overhead. “Please take your seats and secure your harnesses until docking is complete.”

  Lying in his couch, Tristan sensed the shuttle’s change of direction mostly by the way the starfield swung around past the viewpanes. The docking berth slid up around the shuttle, an enclosure of girders and guide beacons like the reed spokes of a gan fishtrap, into which the craft seemed to be swimming. Tristan pushed himself back in his chair, willing the shuttle not to pass through the opening which allowed no escape. He felt a mild bump, and the structure outside the viewpanes stopped moving.

  He glanced over and found Pulou curled asleep in his seat. Tristan nudged him awake.

  They exited through a tunnel sealed over the hatch, corrugated so Tristan thought of a caterpillar turned inside out. The tunnel bent around and downward and emptied into a transparent corridor. Tristan held to a rail on the bulkhead, steadying himself in the buoyancy of low gravity after the shuttle’s complete lack of it, and looked back to see the craft floating at its moorings in a cage of girders.

  The corridor joined a concourse where a dozen men waited, some in uniforms of the Isselan Space Force, others wearing the bandoliers of ambassadors and various ministries of the Isselan government. The officers drew themselves up as the governor strode into the passage, and their commander stepped forward and saluted. “This way, sir,” he said. “Your voyager is standing by for departure.”

  Another caterpillar tunnel led into a passenger lounge similar to the shuttle’s, but larger. The voyager had artificial gravity, but handholds lined the narrow passage between the cabins. “This one’s ours,” Rajak said, pushing open a door halfway along the passage. “You’re in the top berth.” He dumped their duffle bags in a corner.

  The cabin had only two berths, stacked one above the other. Tristan said, “Where will Pulou sleep?”

  “You’ll both fit up there,” Rajak said. “Or you can take turns, I don’t care. Right now you need to go back to the passenger lounge so we can launch.”

  * *

  Three days out of the Issel system, in the middle of the ship’s simulated night, they made their first lightskip. A sudden siren echoed from the bulkheads, on and on like a trapped banshee, wrenching Tristan from sleep. He stiffened, lying back-to-back with Pulou, and strained to see across the dark cabin. Nothing.

  Its blackness conjured undimmed images in his mind: A locker intended only for a pressure suit. Hot darkness. The fear in his mother’s whispers and touch as she tried to calm his own confusion.

  Beside him, Pulou shifted and tried to sit up despite the low overhead. “It’s what, little brother?”

  Rajak turned over below them, making his berth creak. “We’re gonna make lightskip,” he said, sounding half asleep. “Strap yourselves in and lie still up there!”

  Tristan reached for the safety netting rolled up on Pulou’s side of the berth, turned onto his back and pulled it over them both. His mouth had gone too dry even to whisper. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. His hands shook so badly he needed several tries to secure the safety net into its latches.

 
The warning horn changed pitch, rising into a shriek. Nearly choking on fear, Tristan closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.

  He felt as if he were melting, evaporating, being pushed through solid stone one molecule at a time. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. He had no breath for sound.

  Then he lay in the berth again, flat on his back, sweat-soaked and shaking.

  He tried to move. He had no strength, and only enough reflex left to retch. He heaved until he couldn’t anymore.

  Below him, Rajak swore, his voice sounding dim and distorted. Tristan heard Rajak’s foot hit the deck as he tumbled from the lower bunk, and unsteady movements before lights came on in the cabin. The heaving had ended by then. Tristan shifted a little and put his left hand in slippery vomit. Its odor made him gag again.

  Still muttering, Rajak staggered against the hatch and fumbled to open it. “I’ll get you stuff to clean it up, but you’re doing it yourself,” he growled as he disappeared into the dark passage.

  Tristan raised himself on his elbows and glanced at Pulou. The gan lay still, eyes closed, breath raking over bared fangs, sweat gleaming around his muzzle. Tristan nudged his shoulder with a curled hand. “You’re all right?”

  Pulou opened his eyes to slits, showing a veil of nictitating membrane. “Maybe,” he panted. “Maybe.”

  “Get down here,” Rajak said as he stomped back into the cabin.

  Tristan turned over and released the safety net. Reached for the deck with one foot. He lost his grip on the berth and his legs gave way. He caught himself on hands and knees on the deck, and Rajak shoved a self-contained cleaning unit at him. “If you’re smart, you’ll take a patch before the next ‘skip,” he said.

  “A patch?” Tristan asked, and grimaced. His mouth still tasted sour and gritty.

  “You stick it on your forehead and it knocks you out for a couple of hours.”

  Tristan remembered a legionnaire kneeling on his arms on the floor of a stone cell and a man with a pair of metallic discs in his hand leaning over him. All of that seemed surreal now, like part of a nightmare.

  There were no legionnaires this time, nor any patches—yet—but the queasiness in Tristan’s stomach warned that the nightmare hadn’t ended yet.