Jenna Starborn

by Sharon Shinn

  “Now where?” she asked.

  “The mining compound,” I said, pointing away from the house. “I’ll find someone there who can help me.”

  It was another twenty minutes or so, however, before this goal was accomplished. I had never actually been inside the compound, so I was not certain how it was laid out, and we maneuvered our little vehicle past several very dreary and abandoned-looking buildings before we found any sign of human occupation. Then we spied a cluster of workers who greeted our arrival with some surprise but who willingly offered to go fetch Mr. Soshone, “being as Mr. Cartell is not on the premises this afternoon, miss.”

  “Yes, Mr. Soshone, I will be happy to meet with him,” I said, feeling a great sense of relief that I would now finally be able to speak with someone who could give me some concrete information. I turned back to my driver—whom I had been reluctant to release until I had some assurance that the park was indeed inhabited—asked what I owed her, and paid her. She drove away while I stood there, two small suitcases at my feet, and awaited the arrival of the assistant mine supervisor.

  When he came on the run a few minutes later, I could read the astonishment on his face. The last time he had seen me had been under conditions of such excruciating humiliation that I could not wonder that he had never expected to see me on Fieldstar again.

  “Miss Starborn!” he exclaimed, a little winded, as he pulled up beside me. I remembered his plain-featured, good-natured face and the awkward courtesy that made him hold out his hand as though I might not be willing to accept it. But I was.

  “Mr. Soshone,” I said warmly, shaking his hand as though he had been a dear friend instead of a virtual stranger. “I know my appearance here must be an odd thing—let that go—but I must have information from you. I learned only recently of the horrors that occurred here, but I have no details at all. Tell me, please, what exactly happened—and who was killed in the disaster.”

  “How it happened is still not entirely clear,” he said, and a shadow fell across his face. “But all of us have our guess as to how the field was violated—and it was done by the same individual who died because of it.”

  I put my hand to my throat as if to block the exit of my leaping heart. “Beatrice Ravenbeck,” I whispered.

  Mr. Soshone nodded soberly. “I never even knew of the lady’s existence until—well, until that day. You know. But we had all heard tales about some strange woman who wandered the grounds at night. Some even claimed to have seen her, though I never did. I thought—some places have ghosts, even mostly fake places like Fieldstar. Who knows what kind of creatures they uprooted and destroyed when they came in to terraform? I thought she might be one of them, come back to make us all sorry. It never crossed my mind that she might be—what she was.”

  “And then one night, she escaped from her keeper,” I prompted, for that much of the story I could guess.

  “Yes, she slipped out while Gilda Parenon was sleeping, and she made her way to the manor house. And it seems she went to the basement, where all the equipment’s kept, and she fiddled with the controls till she shut down the forcefield around the house and grounds.”

  “But the mining compound was still intact?” I asked, for I knew it was protected by a secondary failsafe.

  “Mostly,” he said. “We lost some air, but it was a slow process, and Mr. Cartell was able to get everyone in an oxygen mask before anything went too wrong.”

  “But at the manor—”

  “At the manor, it went quick,” he said. “All the windows shattered at once. The alarms must have gone off right before the glass broke, because everyone had time to get an oxygen mask—Mr. Ravenbeck, Mrs. Farraday, and those women who worked there. The only one who wasn’t protected when the house blew was the lady crouching down in the basement.”

  He had omitted a name. “What about Ameletta—the little girl—Mr. Ravenbeck’s ward?” I asked urgently. “Was she safe too?”

  “Oh, Miss Starborn, she’s been gone for months now. Shortly after your—after you left, Mr. Ravenbeck sent her off to school on Salvie Major. She wasn’t in any danger at all.”

  I filed that information away for future examination, but continued to press for details about this most critical night. “So once the windows broke—what then?”

  “Some of us from the mine came running over to see if we could help. Somebody even thought to get the airbus and fly it over there, which was a good thing, because oxygen or no oxygen, pretty soon Mr. Ravenbeck and all the others would have been exploding too. So somebody flies the bus over there, and they all climb aboard, and then somebody else notices that Mr. Ravenbeck’s wife—that is—the lady—”

  “His wife,” I said steadily.

  “That she’s not to be found. And Mr. Ravenbeck insists on climbing back out of the bus, though Mr. Cartell did convince him to put on an airsuit, and he goes on down into the house to try to find her. Down to the basement. I don’t know how he knew that’s right where she’d be. I thought she’d have been dead anyway, so why bother, but Mr. Cartell explained that she might not need oxygen the way the rest of us do, but that she might be hurt and someone really did need to go after her. And Mr. Ravenbeck found her, and he carried her upstairs and out the door, and we could see him taking puffs on his oxygen tube then holding it up to her mouth, so I guess she did need to breathe after all, and she was actually still alive. And then—it was so strange, Miss Star born, you should have seen it. She suddenly pulled herself from his arms and started this—this screaming. You never heard anything like it.”

  “I have,” I said.

  “And she started fighting with Mr. Ravenbeck—wrestling with him—and she was so strong, she knocked him to the ground when he reached for her again. And then she ran away from him, back into the house, panting like an animal, and I thought, ‘Well, that’s it, let her suffocate up there.’ But Mr. Ravenbeck, he went up after her. We could see them through the broken windows of the landings, running up the stairways. And then they disappeared, but we could still hear her shrieking. And then suddenly—horrible, it was horrible—we saw them at an upstairs window, fighting again and shouting. And then they—together they—just fell. Right through that broken glass, three stories down.”

  He shook his head, seeming as affected in the retelling as he had been at the actual event. “She was dead. Broke her neck. Mr. Ravenbeck, he got all cut up by the glass, his right hand especially. Tore a bunch of muscles and broke the bones. It’s still a terrible mess. And when he fell, he hit a rock or something with his head, or else something just got knocked around in there, maybe started pressing on an optic nerve, because he’s basically blind.”

  “But he survived?” I said urgently.

  “Oh—he’s alive, more or less. He doesn’t do much these days—doesn’t say much. Of course, it’s only been, let’s see, a little over three months since it all happened. My wife says it might take anybody a year or so to take an interest in life again after such a thing, but I don’t know. I think it’s more than the accident and losing the manor. I think—well, there isn’t much he wants to live for these days. And a man who doesn’t really want to live doesn’t usually live a long time.”

  I brushed aside the philosophy with a quick hand, though it struck me to the heart. “You speak as though you see him often,” I said. “Where is he? Can you take me to him? Or can one of the workers fly me to wherever he’s taken up residence?”

  “You don’t need to fly, miss,” Mr. Soshone said in a tone of surprise. “He’s right here. My wife and I have been caring for him since the accident. Mr. Cartell and I, as the mine supervisors, we have our own cottages,” he added in a confidential tone. “Now, Mr. Cartell’s house, it’s a bit bigger than mine, but he’s got the three kids, and Evelyn and I thought Mr. Ravenbeck might find it more restful at our place. It’s not like he hasn’t done a lot for us in the past—Evelyn was glad of a chance to do something for him in return, though she says it’s dreadful that he’d be in a situ
ation where he’d need our help. But we’ve got the room, and it’s not like he’s any trouble. He eats with us, and sometimes one of us flies him into town and takes him wherever he wants to go, and other than that he pretty much keeps to himself.”

  Alone—blind—wrapped in his own bitter thoughts! My heart, already sore, felt bruised by the immediate picture I conjured up. “I must see him,” I said. “Now. Where is your cottage?”

  He looked doubtful for a moment—and I wondered whose well-being he was thinking of, mine or Mr. Ravenbeck’s, that he considered our reunion ill-advised—and then he bent to pick up my suitcases. “This way, Miss Starborn,” he said.

  I followed him about a quarter of a mile through the drab mining buildings to a rather more pleasant cul-de-sac which consisted of a variety of buildings that appeared to be communal barracks interspersed with individual homes. They all looked onto a grassy common area that sported a few untended flowers and a couple of wrought-iron benches; three young children were chasing one another through the blooming bushes with great energy and complete disdain for our arrival. Mr. Soshone led me to the smallest of the houses, a two-story bungalow with lace curtains at the window and bright red flowers along the walk. It was a near-perfect facsimile of a country cottage, though if you looked closely, you could tell the brick was simulated and the roses were a strange hybrid with a rather hectic, unhealthy color.

  “Evelyn!” Mr. Soshone called, pushing open the door and setting down my bags. “Evelyn! There’s someone here to see you.”

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Soshone came bustling in, then stopped short at the sight of me. She was a small, fine-boned, dark-haired woman who appeared quite fragile, though her no-nonsense expression and intelligent eyes led me to suppose she had great strength of character.

  “Why, it’s Miss Starborn,” she said, quickly recovering from whatever astonishment she might feel and coming forward to shake my hand. “I expect you’ve heard of our recent troubles here and come to see how everyone is.”

  Trust a woman’s instinct! She knew that, to have planned to marry Mr. Ravenbeck, I must have loved him almost beyond sanity; and she knew that no revelation, no tragedy, could have mutated that love into anything approximating hatred. She knew why I was here the minute I walked through the door. And I knew that that knowledge, that sense of complicity, would help me through the next difficult hours and days.

  “Your husband has told me some of the tale,” I said, releasing her hand. “He told me that Mr. Ravenbeck is staying with you. I am grateful for whatever you have been able to do for him.”

  “Which has been very little,” she said. “I feed him and make sure he stays alive, but beyond that, he has very little interest in me or any of us. I suspect, however,” she said, giving me a long, considering look, “that he will respond with more energy to your arrival.”

  I smiled painfully. “Perhaps so. I would like to see him immediately, if I may. Where is he?”

  “Upstairs. There is a sitting room next to his bedroom, and he has taken that as his main retreat. It has windows on three walls, so it is filled with sun, and we have set it up with all his electronic equipment, so that he can listen to music or cruise along the StellarNet. The computer has voice-command activation and read-back, and he is often up there, talking to the monitor or having it talk back to him. I found it a little eerie the first few times I came upstairs and heard him, but now I rather like to catch some of the conversations. At least I know he is participating in something.”

  “Yes—that is good news—I rather thought he might be brooding in silence and darkness,” I said.

  “There are days he does that as well,” she said quietly.

  Mr. Soshone touched his wife on the arm. “I must get back to the mine,” he said. “You will take care of everything here? Make sure everything is all right?”

  He spoke rather elliptically, but with some seriousness, and I was certain now he was a little concerned for Mr. Ravenbeck’s reaction to my arrival. But Mrs. Soshone patted his arm and smiled, and in her expression I could read no such apprehension.

  “Everything will be fine,” she reassured him. “We will see you tonight at dinner.” And she kissed him on the cheek and gently pushed him toward the door.

  When he was gone, she turned and smiled at me. “Generally at about this time every day, I go up and bring Mr. Ravenbeck an afternoon snack,” she said. “He does not eat much at dinner, so I try to make sure he takes small meals all day. Would you like to carry the tray up to him?”

  “Yes, very much so,” I said. “But—first—I need a few moments to refresh myself—”

  “Of course. You can wash up down the hall, and I’ll fix a plate of food for Mr. Ravenbeck.”

  In fifteen minutes, we were both prepared. I had needed the interval, as much as anything, to calm my nerves, which felt skittish and strange under my skin, and to regularize my erratic pulse. To see Mr. Ravenbeck again! Under such circumstances! I must have been made of steel and synthetics to be able to face such a prospect with utter poise.

  But now I was ready—I was in control of myself—I was carrying the light tray up the wide stairway and breathing as naturally as I could. Mrs. Soshone had told me to turn into the second door on my left, but I could have found the room without directions. As she had warned me, words were emanating through the half-shut door, a stranger’s sentences engaged in a dialogue with a most well-known, and well-beloved, voice.

  “The population of the outer desert is scattered and thin, for the sere soil supports almost no plant life and the underground water tables have been severely depleted. Even scanning devices that can detect water several hundred feet below the surface crust find no promise of additional moisture in this sector of the planet, so that the native tribes face the grim prospect of relocation to a more habitable spot on Clobak or another world. Terminate or go on?”

  “Go on,” Everett said.

  I pushed the door open, then stood motionless on the threshold.

  “There are three possible venues on Clobak where location would appear to be an option, although each venue has its own drawbacks. The first, the western continent, offers a more moderate temperature and adequate water supplies, yet the terrain is almost nothing but solid rock and will not, without extensive terraforming, support human life. Terminate or go on?”

  “Go on,” Everett said, but there was a questioning, uncertain tone in his voice. He was facing away from me, as he sat in a high-backed chair that looked out toward the green common ground, but I could tell that he had cocked his head at my entrance and that he was straining to discern if there was a presence at the door.

  “The second is a string of islands located along the equatorial line of the planet, which offer both adequate water and arable land. However, each island is so small that it can only be expected to support a handful of families, and the islands are widely enough separated that easy congress between tribes would be difficult, if not impossible, to sustain. Terminate or go on?”

  “Go on,” said Everett, who had now half turned in his chair. The sunlight fell rather harshly on his harsh face, illuminating the prominent nose and strong cheekbones, but that was not what made me swallow a gasp. A long, narrow scar cut a furrow from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his jaw, and a smaller one crossed it from his ear to his mouth. His eyes looked my way, but blindly and helplessly; I thought I saw a shade of desperation in their impossible seeking.

  “The third option—”

  “No, terminate,” he said abruptly. “Evelyn, is that you?”

  I could not reply.

  “Evelyn?” he asked, a shade of impatience in his voice, but also a shade of uncertainty. “Have you brought my afternoon tray?”

  I made myself take a step into the room, and the simple motion freed me of my moment’s paralysis. “It is not Evelyn,” I said, “but, yes, I have brought your tray.”

  An indescribable expression crossed his face. He half started from his chair, gri
pping its arm with his one good hand and focusing what senses he had remaining on the apparition at the door.

  “Speak again!” he commanded, fear and excitement twining through his words. “I know that voice—surely I know that voice—”

  “Where would you like me to put the tray?” I said, coming closer but seeing no likely surface near his chair. I spoke with an almost superhuman calm, for I had resolved to make this reunion as quiet, as far from hysterical, as possible. I did not know how he would react to my appearance at his door—I did not want to presume. And so when I spoke again, my voice was still serene, though my heart was not. “Shall I set the tray on the table by the window or do you balance it upon your knee?”

  “Dear God,” he whispered. “Or dear Goddess, as she herself would say. Every accent is so familiar—” And then, falling back in his chair, he addressed me with most unexpected and sternly spoken syllables. “Begone, then! I have had enough of you for one week—indeed, for one lifetime!”

  My heart for a moment stopped beating, but his agitation was so great that I realized he was as wrought up as I was, though I was not sure why. So I said, as mildly as I could, “Why, sir, I have not been here to trouble you this twelve-month and more. I do not know with whom you have been speaking this past week, but it was not I. In fact, I just this instant arrived at your door.”

  He covered his face with his hand. “Dear God, dear God, it has got her very inflection perfectly,” he moaned into his palm. “Just so would she seem to give the most complete and reasonable answer, and just so would she tantalize by saying nothing at all—” He uncovered his face and glowered at me, rather impotently, from those sightless eyes. “Begone, I say! I want no more spirits haunting me and taunting me. I welcomed you once, twice, a thousand times, but each time you melted away into insubstantial air, leaving me more pitiable and alone than the time before. Begone, I say! Mock me no more. I prefer quiet, and solitude, and despair.”