The D’neeran Factor

by Terry A. Adams

  Jameson waited, but Hanna, eyes unfocused, was silent; inwardly arguing a point, perhaps. He said encouragingly, “But they couldn’t make the colonists just disappear.”

  “Oh,” she said from her dream, “it took centuries with the others. And the People had the upper hand technologically, of course. But not at first. And that was how they got it. Or at least they believe that’s how they got it. By willing it.”

  “But it is objectively true?”

  “Starr,” she said with finality, “it is objectively true for them.”

  She had never used his first name before. It startled him. He said unwillingly, “Then I suppose it doesn’t make any difference,” and gave it up.

  He stood near her and stared into the fire. Soon he would have to decide what to do about this, the parts he understood and the parts he did not understand. If his decision, any longer, would prevail. His judgment still would make a difference, he thought, but it did not carry the weight it used to have. Hanna did not know that.

  She said suddenly, “It’s quiet here.” He looked around and saw that she had leaned back into her chair, eyes closed. She seemed to have drifted into sudden sleep. He had put her in that seat, which he did not use himself, deliberately. Its comfort came from more than seductive fabrics and soft cushions; it also emitted a subtle mélange of subliminal commands to relax and feel safe. He found it useful for semiofficial guests, especially adversaries. He had not used it the night of Hanna’s escape because there was a witness then. Now he looked at her curled and softened in it, trusting, vulnerable, and thought: I wish I had not done this. I wish her safety were real…

  She was so weary, and her bone-deep tiredness woke echoes in him. Better for both of them if he were to put off decision and take her gently to his bed, warm her in the cold dawn, watch over her and give her a space of peace. It was not sensible to think of her as fragile: not with the knife so near that bed, not with her tale of blood. But she declined to be sensible about him; she insisted on speaking to parts of him he had successfully forgotten, almost; he supposed it gave him the same right.

  She lifted her head and smiled at him as if in answer. He sighed and sat down on the arm of her chair. He said, “You haven’t told me everything.”

  She looked disappointed, then guarded. It was characteristically human, but it was not Hanna. “No?” she said.

  “No. You haven’t told me just how you propose to—to stop the dance, I think you said.”

  “I can’t explain it,” Hanna said. She looked away from him.

  “That is not easy to believe. After all you’ve managed to explain tonight.”

  “I mean I won’t. You won’t understand.”

  “If you won’t tell me,” he began, and stopped. He could not threaten her or press her one more time. He could not.

  But he had to.

  He said, “If you won’t tell me I can’t let you do it.”

  She stared into a corner. The room’s one clear concession to the present gleamed there, a pattern of abstractions that appeared and disappeared because in certain aspects it was not real, and was created anew on each appearance. He did not know if she saw it or not. She said, “If it doesn’t work, things won’t be worse than they are. I’ve already told them everything important that I can.”

  “So you think you might fail. They might try to get more from you. The same way they did before? You would risk that?”

  “I don’t know what they would do. I told you.”

  “I wish you would tell me what you think you can do.”

  After a minute she said, “Even if it does work, I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”

  He looked down at the top of her dark head and saw that a twist of wire salvaged from Heartworld II held back her hair. It seemed infinitely pathetic. He reached for it, and Hanna sat very still while he unwound it. Her hair drifted across her shoulders. He brushed it aside and thought of kissing the nape of her neck.

  He thought: If I coax her she will tell me. I could use the affection I have not earned.

  No. No.

  Hanna said suddenly, “It’s the hybridization. I’m him. You’ve talked to him. He is the…the…the key. To change them.”

  “All right. But how?”

  “I’m already one of them. The perspective is unique, something they’ve never had or even imagined. But I really can’t explain any better than that. You will just have to trust me,” she said with finality, and looked up at last into his eyes.

  “I suppose I must,” he said. But even as he said it he thought: She is lying. And then: But Hanna does not lie. She does not know how to lie. It is the truth.

  And then he could not put off decision any longer, because the implant in his ear erupted at such volume he clapped a hand to his head, cursing.

  “Come in,” said someone, not Rodrigues. “Jameson, are you there? Come in immediately.”

  Hanna looked at him as if he were a madman. He roared an order to his house that shut off the transmission in mid-word. “And find out who the hell that is and put them through in here,” he said, because he did not want to bother with the security module.

  “What is it?” Hanna said.

  “I think,” he began, but Stanislaw Morisz’s voice filled the room.

  “Jameson, are you there?”

  “I’m here. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Are you all right? Heartworld II’s down near your location—”

  “I know. I know. Lady Hanna is here. It’s all right, Stan. Everything’s under control.”

  Morisz said too casually, “Mind if I come see for myself?”

  “No. Come on, if you have to make sure. How many people know about this, Stan?”

  “Uh, a civil patrol that spotted it and went in for a closer look. Enforcement personnel. How long’s she been there?”

  “Not long.” Jameson glanced at Hanna. She looked frightened. He said, “This is most-stringent-restricted, Stan. As of now. Get Enforcement out of it.”

  There was a silence before Morisz said, “Who have you notified?”

  “Nobody, yet.”

  “There are regulations. Enforcement is already in.”

  “You can hold them.” If you will, he added, but not out loud. “What about I&S?”

  “Some of my people are alerted. Naturally.”

  “Some of your people? What have you got, a task force around the house?”

  “I can’t discuss that. Under these conditions.”

  “Then come see me,” Jameson said, and waited for an answer. There was none.

  Hanna said, “What does this mean?”

  “It means we’re running out of time,” Jameson said. He leaned back, a hand on Hanna’s shoulder. He thought of the ripple the news must make as it spread in erratic circles; the play of action and reaction, responsibilities real and fancied, the stir among those for whom Hanna’s coming—or capture—might be turned into advantage. Morisz could control it for a while—if he would. Once Jameson could have counted on him to do it. Not now.

  Hanna said, “Why not?”

  “Are you reading my mind all the time?” He looked at her curiously.

  “Not all the time. A lot. I have to,” she said apologetically. “You don’t say what you think. Why won’t he help you?”

  Jameson said slowly, “I did something that—in the end made no difference anyway. Sentiment for Stanislaw’s resignation was rather strong after you…left us. He wouldn’t resign, but he is…temporarily acting in a subordinate capacity. Pending outcome of an investigation into the qualifications of operatives who joined I&S during his tenure as director. He is back where he was thirty years ago—regional duty officer on the nightside.”

  Hanna regarded him with utter lack of comprehension. She said, “Are they going to come get me?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not. But the truth is—” He thought of softening it; but Hanna would know if he tried. He said, “The truth is you are wanted more intensely tha
n any fugitive within my memory. From Enforcement’s vantage alone you have broken so many laws that local and Fleet jurisdictions might argue for years over who will try you first. And I&S wants you, and I want you, and all the commissioners. Morisz is a conscientious man. Under the best of circumstances he would not keep silent very long. And these are not the best. Don’t say anything when he comes, Hanna. Don’t mention that course program. You’d better give it to me.”

  She had put it back into her shirt when they came into the room. Now she gave it to him, still warm from its place against her skin. Her face was grave, but there was no hesitation; perhaps she saw the nightmare vision he had formed of Morisz taking her away over Jameson’s protests. He took it, hurrying, to the security module no one but he could enter. When he came back to Hanna she was on the hearthrug, hugging her knees. Soothing the doubting alien? He said, “You have not told me exactly what you want from me.”

  “I only need one thing,” she said without looking around.

  Jameson’s ears were pricked for the sound of Morisz’s arrival. He said, “What’s that?”

  “Authority to act on behalf of the Polity.”

  He stood behind her and looked down with bleak amusement. “You came to me for that?”

  She glanced up uncertainly, not understanding. She said, “I must be certain any promises I make them will be carried out. If I had gone there on my own, you see, they would have known. They would have known I spoke for no one but myself and they would not have understood or accepted it. I must have your word.”

  “Mine alone would not do in any case. You need formal authorization.”

  “Can you get it for me?” She looked anxious now; sensing, at last, that something was wrong.

  He said, “I don’t suppose you connected with a newsbeam on your way back.”

  “I had other things to think about,” she said stiffly.

  “I’m sure you did. If you had you might have heard—”

  “Mr. Morisz is here,” said the house, and Jameson said, “Let him in.”

  Now there was no time left at all. He had not exaggerated the passion with which so many people, so many agencies, wanted Hanna. If he waited for a meeting of the full Commission there would be nothing but trouble. The formal motion of which he had spoken would never be approved if the commissioners consulted their home worlds. al-Nimeury would be hopeless in any case, and the paranoid Petrov too. Endless time would be wasted in objections and obstacles, and Jameson’s own time was almost gone. He would have to get the Commission to move while he could, and to move on its own, as it could but rarely did; and how would it move? Feng, who was not a decisive man, might easily be swayed to side with Petrov and al-Nimeury. The longer it went on the more people would insist on having a hand in it. He could not keep Hanna to himself legally or for long.

  He said to the house, “Get me through to Andrella Murphy. Commission emergency, priority one override. As soon as I’m done with the call, do the same with Arthur Feng—hello, Stan. Satisfied I’m alive and well?”

  Morisz looked at them doubtfully from the doorway. “I’d feel better if I could see her hands,” he said.

  Hanna turned and lifted them silently, palms up. The wound on her arm had begun to ooze blood.

  Jameson said, “Stanislaw, it is essential to keep this quiet. Commissioners Murphy and Feng will be here within the hour—”

  Andrella Murphy’s voice said sleepily, “Starr? What’s wrong?”

  “Wait a minute, Andrella. Stan, keep your men where they’re at. Don’t let anybody in here except Murphy and Feng, don’t let anybody get near Heartworld II, and don’t report to anybody, anywhere, without checking with me.”

  Morisz said, “I can’t do that without proper authorization.” His hostility was so palpable that Hanna would not have to be a telepath to feel it. She sat upright, astonishment on her face.

  Jameson said coldly, “I am your authority. I am still a member of the Coordinating Commission. This is a commission emergency. My word is enough. Do as I told you. That is an order.”

  Morisz’s eyes glittered. For a moment Jameson thought he would refuse. Then he said, “Yes. Sir,” and turned and left.

  Hanna said, “What’s happened to him? What haven’t you told me?”

  “Starr?” Murphy said. “Who’s that? What is it?”

  “Andrella, I need you at my home at once. Don’t waste time talking. Just come.”

  “Starr, it’s five o’clock in the morning!”

  “I know,” he said, although he had not known. “Just do it, Andrella. I don’t have time to argue.”

  “All right,” she said crossly, and was gone.

  Hanna scrambled to her feet, her eyes wide and doubting. She said, “What is it? Tell me!”

  He said evenly, “Your escape was too much for my council. I have perhaps a few hours left on the commission. There has been some disagreement about my successor, but it is nearly over. Murphy and Petrov and the rest will not have to deal with me in future. What I think no longer matters much to anyone. But I think you must go, and go quickly. If I am to get you what you need, there is only one thing left to try.”

  He stopped at the rush of sorrow he felt in her. She said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

  Perhaps he ought to be angry with her. She was, in fact, the cause of it all. But for too many days he had seen only triumph, open or suppressed, on the faces around him. He bore it, he hoped, gracefully. But he was not proof against the understanding he felt in Hanna of what it meant to him.

  He took her hands and said, “I’m not finished yet.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Something marginally legal. If that.”

  She said with grave approval, “That’s all right, then,” and let her hands rest in his with simple trust as Feng’s voice sounded in the room and Jameson began to talk very urgently.

  Chapter 17

  Not even Arthur Feng’s best friends counted intelligence among his virtues. His appointment to the Coordinating Commission was a compromise, a least-repugnant choice made to satisfy half a dozen Colony One political factions. Jameson had for two years made a conscious effort to avoid treating Feng with the tolerance he usually reserved for rather stupid dogs. Now he looked round his study, transformed to an emergency conference room, and thought perhaps he would have to think of something else after all. Feng still was trying to cope with the idea that Hanna ril-Koroth had returned to Earth of her own accord, and that the aliens she spoke of might be something more than a vast deadly mystery.

  “But what do they call themselves?” said Feng, returning to the beginning yet again. “They have to call themselves something. We can’t call them People. It’s too confusing. We’re people.”

  Hanna said, “But they don’t call themselves anything. Words are phonetic. They don’t use words.”

  “But they have to have a name.”

  Murphy said, “All right. All right, we’ll name them.” She was looking not at Feng but at Jameson, reading his worry from long practice. “Girritt was named after Captain Neil Girritt. Let’s call them after Lady Hanna.”

  “No,” Hanna said. “Please. Not after me. If you must give them a human name, call them after Charl Zeig and Anja Daru, who died contacting them. Call it Zeig-Daru, and talk of Zeigans.”

  “Zeigans,” said Feng, trying it out. “But they didn’t really discover it.”

  Jameson closed his eyes for a moment. “Suppose we use it as an interim term in an emergency situation,” he suggested. “A code name for unknown hostiles, applicable in situations calling for intelligence analysis.”

  The doubletalk satisfied Feng, but he had more ground to test, his bureaucratic instincts in full cry.

  “What section are we convening under?” he said. “Appointment of an envoy? Can’t you do that, as head of your committee?”

  There were no commission by-laws specifically applicable to this situation, but that
would be the wrong thing to tell Feng. Jameson said, “I can’t act alone in this prior to the establishment of friendly relations. We are talking about a peace mission. Majority approval is required.”

  “This is a majority. But look here,” Feng said warningly. “It’s not the full commission.”

  “You noticed,” Murphy murmured, and Jameson gave her a cold look.

  “I don’t think I can go along with this. Can I?” Feng said.

  Jameson said warmly, “Of course you can.”

  “Let me think,” Feng said, and Jameson thought there was some sort of contradiction in terms there.

  It was nearly dawn, and the drip-drip of prematurely melting snow fell into the sudden silence. Hanna had left this temperate coast in the deep grip of winter and returned with the promise of an early spring. Jameson wished he could think it was an omen, but he was not a man to count on omens. And hope lay now in speed, and Feng had decided not to be rushed.

  Hanna sat cross-legged before the fire, and Jameson was beginning to worry about her too. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, an unkempt tangle. Her face was drawn with fatigue, and he saw now that in the last few minutes she had torn off the end of one sleeve and was trying one-handed to wrap it around the gash in her arm. Murphy looked at her curiously. Andrella remembers her from the time of Goodhaven, he thought: poised, graceful, even elegant in her way. Now all her grace is gone, and she is a bleeding scarecrow. But Murphy herself looked entirely normal, fresh and decisive as if she were listening to an unusually interesting bit of testimony at some routine hearing.

  Jameson stirred, composing himself to go on patiently and soothingly with Feng, but he was interrupted. His house now was tied to Morisz’s communications system, and Morisz said into the room, “Commissioner Jameson? I think you’d better come out.”

  The voice was expressionless. It was more alarming than agitation could have been. Jameson said, “What is it?”

  “Some visitors would like to see you.”