Ordinarily it would have been a good fight, with Wade, Shearer, Dolphin, and the others who had been rounded up nothing more than unlucky victims to be written off if that was what the game called for. And over the years Callen had seen plenty of splattered limbs and entrails from collateral damage who had been a lot more unfortunate than these particular victims. Such had always been one of the things to be accepted about life. The world was a harsh place. But now he found it strangely troubling for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on. That was why he told himself that he must be going soft.
His attitude toward academics and intellectuals had always been contemptuous. They waffled and talked, safe within protective borders that others defended. He had watched them projecting themselves into fantasized alpha roles with affected verbal aggressiveness, but never incurring any real physical risk. But there was something about the way the people on Cyrene had quit and vanished that stirred a grudging admiration in him. Instead of fawning, groveling, and falling over themselves to pander to the whims of the institutions that succored them, like all the ones he had known, they had turned their backs on all of it and struck out into the completely unknown. Even on an alien world light-years from home, where the security symbolized by the one link to Earth should have been the overriding consideration, they had opted for independence to follow what they believed in. That took guts and conviction. And Callen thought he had glimpsed why they did it. Once again he was unable to pin down the specifics, but there was something about Cyrene, something vibrant and fresh in the culture emerging there that made Earth feel diseased and degenerate by comparison. And others who had sensed it had gone out to help build what could have been, and to become a part of it.... Yet he was a part of the powers that would destroy all that — just as they were equally prepared to destroy him. Why? Because it was what he had always been.
He thought ahead to the confrontation that awaited when he arrived on Earth. Even if he recruited enough pull on his side, made the right moves, and came out of it with all the tokens to establish himself as having “won,” the thought had little appeal. What would it all be for, really? To impress and gain the favor of worthless people who didn’t interest him? The phoniness and cowardice behind it all repelled him. He felt like a pit pony that had been allowed to see sunshine and know the freshness of open air, being taken back down to the gloom and stifle of the mine. It made no sense. He had hardly been out or seen anything beyond Revo base in the brief time he was there. But already, in some strange way that he didn’t understand, he was beginning to miss Cyrene.
The whine of the cabin door sounded, and a moment later Krieg appeared. He had been up in the communications room behind the bridge, checking on the latest to come in. Krieg was being recalled to Earth too, officially for “reassignment,” since he no longer had a role on Cyrene as Callen’s associate. Callen had little doubt that the real reason was to be pumped for incriminating information that could be used in the forthcoming bloodletting.
“From Cyrene,” Krieg announced. “The last of the natives who were being held at the base have been let go.” Callen nodded. That was to be expected. There were no grounds for holding them. Preferred policy was to induce them into dependence, not start a war. “The Terran property at Linzava has been recovered. No information on the progress of inquiries concerning Uberg and the others.”
“Anything new from Earth?” Callen asked.
“Just routine stuff.”
Callen motioned him down into the fold-out seat between the hinged surface that served as a desk and table below the com screen, and the washbasin. This was definitely not E Section accommodation in the Tacoma. “We need to talk about the reception party when we arrive. Something we have to be prepared for is that Borland could bounce the wrong way.” In a situation like this it was a legitimate consideration. The top management at Milicorp wouldn’t hesitate to dump Borland if it meant placating a client like Interworld, which meant that Borland would try to disassociate himself. In fact, Callen had already learned from a sympathetic quarter on Earth that a story was circulating to the effect that Borland had opposed the choice of Callen for the Cyrene mission and been overruled. Who but Borland was likely to have originated it?
“Fishes swim. Bosses do whatever it takes to save their necks,” Krieg agreed.
At times, Callen envied him. He personified the ultimate in reductionist materialism, viewing the world in its simplest mechanical terms, which he accepted pragmatically without moral scruple or value judgment. If he had been affected by Cyrene, he had neither mentioned it nor shown any indication.
“I want you to give me an account of the Amaranth operation,” Callen said. “Names, places, everything that happened. It doesn’t have to identify you as the originator. Just facts I can throw at people, that they’ll be able to verify if they check.”
For once Krieg managed to look surprised. “What does Amaranth have to do with it?” he asked. That had been the operation where they installed a controlled prophet in the king’s court through the device of a manufactured plague, which Krieg had masterminded before being spirited away to Cyrene.
Callen had decided it was time to reveal a few things. “I met Borland in a room in the San Mateo Marriott when he gave me the orders for Amaranth. It was a room that a friend of mine in the state security police recommended. They arrange for foreign visitors that they’re interested in to stay there.” Which was another way of saying that it was bugged. “I’ve got it all, Jerry. Even a vid of Borland and the hooker who showed up after I left. It’ll nail the line down all the way back to the treetop at Interworld. A veep at Milicorp didn’t dream up something like Amaranth on his own.”
Krieg whistled silently. What Callen was saying was more than a landmine under the other side’s position. The Asian and South American interstellar outfits would run with it. The questions it would raise could have repercussions that would last for years. The simple answer was, it couldn’t be allowed to get out.
“That’s... interesting,” Krieg said. He gnawed at the edge of a thumbnail and then smoothed it with a finger. His expression was thoughtful and distant. “Very interesting.”
Callen’s price would be a ticket to comfortable obscurity, effectively at whatever figure he chose to name. Even so, he found himself able to summon up little enthusiasm for the prospect. And he didn’t have to be told that life in such circumstances, for people who knew things that made powerful interests decidedly uncomfortable, had a tendency to be inexplicably accident-prone.
There had been an incident once, when Lang was with a Marine unit attached to a force occupying a city in southern Asia. It was in one of the endless actions involving insurgents who were sabotaging oil pipelines that had been laid from somewhere inland to the coast. The unit was on a house-to-house search detail for weapons, explosives, and suspects — kick down the door, go in screaming, knock down anyone who gets in the way. They were trained to disorientate and intimidate any opposition by shock, speed, and violence. The trouble was it could go to your head, and you got carried away — especially if you drugged up before setting out, as a lot of guys did. A terrified boy came out of a doorway onto the street and ran straight at them. Kids had been known to be strapped with bombs — at least, so you were told — and the man working flank to Lang’s right blew him apart with a six-round burst on automatic. The boy wasn’t packing anything.
Later, Lang was standing guard over a teenage girl and her mother who had been brought outside while the squad trashed the house and everything they owned, and beat up the males who hadn’t been hauled off in a truck. The girl had just stood there, staring at him, her eyes unwavering. She didn’t show emotion or attempt to appeal to any sense of humanity in him — implying that there wasn’t anything there to appeal to. In the end she said, “Why are you doing this to us?” Lang had no answer. He’d felt like a reptile.
The incident itself wasn’t particularly exceptional. The reason Lang recalled it now was that the boy reminde
d him of Mutu, the ferryman’s son. Similar in build and looks, about the same age, impatient to begin the great adventure of learning to become an adult and go out to meet whatever life had to offer. Young people on Cyrene didn’t spend extended childhoods in artificially structured social environments or immersed in electronic make-believe realities that had little relation to the real world and seemed only to generate resentment at being alienated from it. Cyrenean children began learning the skills of the farm and workplace, and assimilating the rules for getting along with others at an early age. Adults were expert at the things they knew they would have to know, and so commanded a respect that came naturally. Lang had never been interested in marrying and starting a family back home. He’d seen too many of the walking wounded that came out of being trapped in years of wage and tax slavery, and then seeing the kids that it was all for taken away and turned into monsters by the state. But maybe, if the day ever came when somehow he could go back to Cyrene...
“Jeff. What are you looking so lost in thought about?”
Lang turned his head to find Wade standing by the bunk. “Hey, Evan. Aw, this and that. At least thinking is something there’s plenty of time for here, for a change.” He swung his legs off the side and sat up. “So what’s up?”
“Some of us in the next room are setting up a poker table. Do you play? Five stud.”
“You guys might not know what you’re taking on here. You’re talking to the man who cleaned out the Marine Corps.”
“I’ll risk it. So are you in?”
“Sure. What are we betting?”
“Anything you’ve got that’s Cyrenean — coins, trinkets, buttons, beads. Lou says it all fetches good prices back home.”
“I’ve still got the pouch I was wearing when they picked us up — full of coins and things. And I think I might have a few pins and a hat badge.”
“Perfect. There’s no rush. We won’t be starting for about half an hour.”
Lang slid down from the bunk without using the steps and moved to the end of the aisle, where the stand with the coffeepot was. “Coffee,” he said over his shoulder as he filled a mug. “Now, that’s something I did miss on Cyrene. Do you think it would grow there?” He saw that Wade had followed him to do likewise, and moved out of the way.
“I don’t see why not,” Wade said. “Life there seems remarkably compatible. You’d need to talk to somebody like Dominic Uberg about that.” He poured himself a mug, stirring in some creamer, and eyed Lang as he took a sip. “What made you ask that, Jeff? Been having thoughts about going back one day?”
Lang grinned faintly and didn’t try to deny it. “Hasn’t everybody?”
“Has Marc talked to you yet?” Wade asked.
“Marc? What about?”
“He’s sounding people out on how they feel about going back to Earth. He seems interested in the ones who don’t have strong ties there and liked what they saw on Cyrene — like you, Jeff.”
“What’s going on?” Lang tried his coffee. It tasted good.
Wade shrugged. “I dunno. He hasn’t said. Maybe he’s thinking of writing a book.”
***
Jerri sat out on the wooden deck at the rear of the house in Ulla, watching the boats on the broad sweep of the Woohosey river. Nim lay by her chair, sprawled alongside Sakari’s glok, Roo — named by Nick. The two animals had become inseparable and were sleeping off the exertion of an afternoon romping around the town on expeditions to shops, and visits for Jerri to be introduced to friends. The first evening nip was in the air as Cyrene moved toward the cooler part of its orbit, and Jerri had put a cloak around her shoulders, over her sweater and skirt.
The laboratory and workshops at Linzava, higher in valley behind the town, had looked bare and dilapidated after being cleaned out of their Terran equipment and then subjected to the none-too-gentle attentions of the Milicorp soldiers, but since then the soldiers hadn’t returned. All the same, everyone had agreed it would be a prudent for her and Nick to move down to stay with his Cyrenean girlfriend. Sakari framed pictures and dabbled in printing decorative patterns, pamphlets, and books. Jerri had experience in editing and desktop publishing, and it seemed that each of them would have something to learn from the other. Nick had his eye on some empty rooms in the building adjoining the house, with a view to maybe setting up a physician’s practice.
The raid had concentrated on bringing back Terrans, whom the authorities at the base evidently considered to be still under their jurisdiction, and repossessing the equipment that had been taken from the base. Although some justification for the latter couldn’t be denied, the Cyreneans were astounded by the means employed. Surely there were other ways in which the case might have been presented, they said. The significance of all the plants and the botanical experimental work in progress had apparently been missed completely. Since there had been no return visits to investigate further, it seemed safe to conclude that nobody had divulged the nature of Wade and Elena’s discoveries.
Although the disruption of the work at Linzava represented a setback from the expansive visions that Wade had entertained, it was far from a disaster. It meant, simply, that instead of taking a fast track to an infrastructure to support oil and electricity, the Cyreneans would fall back to the more sedate course already being explored by people like those ones they had met at Doriden, in their own way, and in their own time.
In fact, there were many who were of the opinion that it would be better that way. After all, Wade’s prime motivation had been to forestall Earth’s economic imperialist schemes by setting the Cyreneans on a path to self-sufficiency before they could be lured into a condition of dependence. The reality of any real threat in that direction now seemed doubtful — certainly in the short term. As far as could be made out from the reports finding their way through from Revo, while the lock-in at the Terran base was still being enforced, the new administration that had replaced Callen seemed to have gone into some kind of a funk. Communications with Vattorix had been minimal, with little evidence of significant new activities. If Jerri’s understanding of how these things worked was anything to go by, the Tacoma had be at the limit of the maximum time it could be permitted to stay, and there didn’t seem to be enough going on to justify sending another ship to relieve it, let alone expand the traffic. It was as if they had no policy and didn’t know what to do. Nick had heard rumors from Terran sources scattered around that Interworld was contemplating chucking the whole thing and pulling out — which would have been a first. Others said they were reconnoitering elsewhere on Cyrene to see if what they had encountered in Yocala was typical. But nobody really knew.
Nim lifted his head suddenly and looked toward the house. Moments later Sakari came out carrying a wine flask and cups, set them down on the table in front of Jerri, and pulled up a chair. She was tall, long-legged, and sturdily built, with olive skin and long honey-blond hair hanging forward over her shoulders and fastened by clasps. Jerri thought she would raise a fine family if events ever went that way.
“Nick is back,” she said in Yocalan. “He will be out in a moment.” The NIDA pair that Jerri had brought with her had run down and there was no way to recharge it, so they were back to basics. It was probably a good thing, Jerry had decided. She was going to have to learn the language anyway. Sakari surveyed the animals. “Look at that lump of mine, not even stirring. Nim shames us.”
“Roo’s at home,” Jerri pointed out. She stood the cups and held them for Sakari to pour.
“Well, it’s supposed to be Nim’s home too now.”
“I like that... what do you call it?” Jerri indicated the thick, garment, like a cardigan, that Sakari was wearing. “The reddy leafy brown suits you. I haven’t seen it before.”
“It’s called a kishelin. Istany made it for me.”
“The woman in the place where we got the bread and cakes?”
“Yes. It was for some designs I did for the walls. And see how the collar gathers for when it gets cold.”
> “Those designs with the fish and the shells and the water plants? Did you do those? I thought they were wonderful.”
“Well, thank you.”
A clumping of feet on boards sounded from behind. Nim’s tail added a few thumps, and then Nick sat down looking jovial as always. “Hi Jerri,” he greeted. They made it a rule to speak in Yocalan when Sakari was present. It was all good practice anyway. “I hear you’ve had a busy day.”
“Just helping Sakari get some things. And learning to find my way around. Anyway, who told you?”
“Oh, I get around too, you know.” Nick looked at Sakari. “I talked to the man who owns those rooms. I think it might work out.”
“Very good.”
“It sounds is if you’re really getting settled in, Nick,” Jerri commented.
“Well, not just me Jerri. You’re one of the family too, now. Isn’t that right?” His eyes took on the faintest touch of a more serious light. It was a hint to her to be realistic. But Jerri just smiled and sat back to taste her wine.
“Well, for the duration, anyway,” she conceded.
Nick grinned and tilted his head in a way that said he wasn’t going to argue. “You really think he’ll come back, Jerri? But how could that happen?”
Jerri looked out at the river and up at the first stars of evening. The Tacoma’s orbit wouldn’t bring it overhead tonight, but she had seen it that morning. “I couldn’t tell you how, Nick,” she replied. “But it shouldn’t come as any surprise to you by now. On Cyrene, you just know these things.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The two troopers brought Shearer to the cabin that Callen used as his office during the day. One of them opened the door; the other motioned Shearer through. They withdrew, closing the door behind him.
Shearer sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the narrow metal desk. The routine was familiar by now. Callen made a play of scanning over the notes displayed on a flatpad lying in front of him. He looked weary. Shearer had formed the impression that he really didn’t care whether he won or lost the fight he would be going back to. Superficially he seemed a shadow of the man that Shearer had met before the voyage out. And yet, in another way, Shearer sensed a deeper, more profound man.
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