Oh, yes, count on it: each and every one of the lords of the west would have a grand plan how to avoid chaos in the south. Each and every plan would favor their own interests—altruism did not run strong outside man’chi—but atevi also had their ways of coming to a workable arrangement, pragmatic in the extreme, and faster-moving than the Mospheiran legislature on its best behavior.
The lords already knew what had to be done to establish a lasting order: put power back in the hands of a non-regional authority, a clan with no particular regional axe to grind, which was exactly the position the Ragi atevi had satisifed, in the person of Tabini-aiji, wherever he was—or in the person of his heir or a regent for that heir. It was Tabini’s line that had been able to build the aishidi’tat. It was only Tabini’s line that could hold its neutrality in regional disputes—or at least, convince the participants of that neutrality.
He felt better, thinking of that. Tabini, for one thing, would not have had every hand against him, only a critical few. He would have had support. He likely still had.
He called Banichi and Jago, with Tano and Algini, into proximity, to trade what they had gotten from Cenedi for what he had gotten from the dowager, and thereby to point up certain lords as likely and certain others as dubious in their usefulness.
“Most of all,” he said, “and key to the situation in the central provinces, we need to ascertain what position the Atageini have taken.”
“Not forgetting we must also arrange something to protect Atageini interests, and Lord Geigi’s province in the west, nandi,” Banichi said. “They will have been under attack already.”
“And to ascertain the position of the aiji-dowager’s neighbors to the east,” Jago added.
Ilisidi’s neighbors, to the far east, were a band of hidebound conservatives who had been dubious enough they had any reasonable place in the aishidi’tat in the first place, and who had acquiesced to it because Ilisidi had dragged them into it and linked their interests to her influence in the government.
“They may have grown doubtful and restive in her absence, nadiin-ji,” he said. “But she is back, now. They may need to be informed of that fact. Perhaps convinced of it.”
“One thinks,” Tano began to say. But the steward had just appeared from the cockpit.
“Nandiin,” that person said, “we are entering the rough part of our trip. Kindly secure all items and take safety measures.”
Belt in, that meant, and get the computer safely into the under-seat locker. They were going in.
Their conference broke up. Jago came to sit by him, a comfort in a landing process he truly, truly dreaded.
And one he only wished had become routine.
They were about to come in over the western sea, which meant driving through the coastal weather systems, over a very worrisome central mountain range, itself a breeder of weather, to a landing at a short municipal airport on the opposite coast of Mospheira, an airport the crew had never seen before except in maps. Which was twenty feet shorter than it was supposed to be.
“Jago-ji, a message for the pilots. Remind them courteously that the runway is shorter than at Shejidan.” He gave her the precise measurement in atevi reckoning, and watched as she sailed forward and delivered the warning.
“They have the chart, Bren-ji,” Jago said, settling back in beside him. “The numbers agree.”
“Very good, very good, nadi-ji.” He briefly touched her hand, swore he was not going to grip it, white-knuckling the whole way down. He was going to relax.
Engines kicked.
God, God, God, he hated descent.
5
Tires squealed. Bren thought about that unapproved twenty feet of runway and clung, white-knuckled, to the armrest, Jago beside him. He did not grip her arm. He refused to. They’d made it over the mountains. They couldn’t crack up now.
Big reverse thrust. Was that planned? Bren held his breath. Even Jago had put a hand to the seat in front of her, and imposed an arm between his face and the next row.
“The short runway,” he breathed, feeling their speed considerably slowed, seeing, on the monitor above the baji-naji emblem, that unlikeliest of sights, the skyline of Jackson beyond the end of the runway.
That skyline. His family. Obligations unsatisfied. Old enemies. The Heritage Party. Gaylord Hanks. Deana.
His mother. His brother, Toby. He hadn’t transmitted the letters. He had them both on his computer.
They reached a stop, still on the runway, but he couldn’t see pavement. He dared draw a whole breath.
“We have arrived,” the pilot said from the cockpit. “Nand’ paidhi, we have need of translation.”
They needed him. Someone needed him. The pilots spoke Mosphei’ enough for routine problems, and had gotten down by means of computers talking to computers, but he immediately had a critical job to do, and he ought to be in the cockpit, if he could get his shaking knees to bear his weight. It felt as if he’d eaten a very heavy meal, or suddenly gained twenty pounds—he probably had gained twenty pounds, being back on Earth. He saw that flat horizon on the screen, and it looked strange to him, after two years. Every horizon was going to go the other way to his eye, possibly disturbing his balance. That, he suddenly realized, was what had felt so strange about the Jackson skyline. It wasn’t a picture on his computer screen. It was real. His body knew it was.
He levered himself out of the seat, walked—walked down the aisle toward the baji-naji emblem, past his fellow passengers gathering their personal items, passed through the cockpit door.
Lofty windshields showed the whole flat earth in front of the shuttle’s nose. He shied from the sight, took an offered com plug from the copilot, stuck it in his ear—it both received, off the bones of his skull, and transmitted, and he heard the accents of his own homeland talking to them, advising them of routine details, the approach of a tow truck, the query whether they’d need any special assistance. They would have to sit still in a period of routine cool-down. Hazmat personnel would approach, going over them with instruments. Mospheira wished them a welcome in, the first shuttle landing in history.
He relayed. He answered. The shivers attacked him and slowly dissipated in the scurry of various agencies assisting and trying to get the Jackson main runway clear of their presence, because while they sat cooling down, planes were in a holding pattern over Bretano and Sutherland, maybe not even knowing the reason they’d been held up.
He settled down to wait with the crew, translated arrangements for the tow, and balanced on an armrest as the tow moved them off the runway onto a taxiway. Then there were arrangements for the ladder to move in, and advisement a bus would pick them up.
But Mospheiran military security cut in with their own arrangements, and an advisement that the President was waiting for them.
Shawn? Bren found his heart beating harder—anticipation, now, anticipation of a meeting he hadn’t had in years with a man he’d used to deal with, oh, three and four times a day when they’d both been in the State Department.
“I do understand,” he said to them. “Please understand I have the aiji-dowager with me, with her own security, and her grandchild of eight years, never mind he’s as tall as I am, who’s very tired and very stressed and should be given allowances. I’ll inform them as I’m informing you, weapons will be in evidence on both sides, but peaceful intent is understood and expected, in all good will. Please don’t anyone encroach on the dowager’s space, and particularly understand you are dealing with a young boy, no matter how tall he is, and with very protective security. Our security likewise will maintain watch over our baggage. Expect this.”
A hesitation. A slight hesitation.
A new voice. “This is Colonel Brown. We understand your situation. We’re instructed to accommodate atevi customs in all particulars. Come on out as soon as ground ops gives you clearance.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The shuttle ticked and popped and boomed, cooling down. Beside him, the crew were busy checking readouts,
making changes on the touch-screens and with the switches, setting everything, presumably, for the shuttle to be shut down and held. It would have to sit, under guard, and it had to remain accessible by the crew, a point he raised with Mospheiran security. It was their only way back to space until they could ascertain what might have happened to the other shuttles grounded on the mainland, with the very survival of equipment, maintenance staff and crew far from certain.
“No problem, sir,” the answer came back. “That’s understood.”
No problem, no problem, no problem. Shawn had given orders and obstacles fell down as soon as they came up. He felt he could draw a breath.
And pay courtesy where it was due.
“Excellent job, nadiin,” he said to the crew. “Thank you. One requests you will come with us wherever they assign us, share quarters with us, and maintain yourselves ready to return to space, as soon as we can clear up the difficulties. The Presidenta’s own men will put a constant watch on the shuttle. You need not worry. I say so in utmost confidence.”
There were respectful nods, quiet acceptance. “One request, nand’ paidhi,” the pilot said, “if it were possible to send regards to our households on the mainland when you cross over.”
“One would be extremely pleased to convey such sentiments,” Bren said fervently. These several young men had been stuck in orbit, away from their own parents, wives, associations, since the trouble had stranded them, while the aishidi’tat underwent a violent upheaval, and, as the only shuttle crew likely current in operations, they would be handed the first mission back to the station once conditions permitted it, a shuttle prepped, what was just as scary, by inexperienced Mospheiran ground crews, unless they were fortunate enough to smuggle atevi maintenance over here. “With my personal regards and I am very sure, with the aiji’s, we will look to your households. One absolutely understands your situation, and I convey the extreme respects of all of us. We will by no means forget you.”
“Nandi.” There were bows, expressions of gratitude, that kurdi word, all around, and he left the cockpit with the sure determination to do something for these men—work some miracle to reward their devotion, their professionalism, their man’chi to the program.
“The Presidenta himself has come to meet us,” Bren reported to the dowager, who, amid the debarcation preparations of her staff, pursed her lips and looked satisfied as well as—dared one surmise what she would never admit—absolutely exhausted?
“Excellent,” she declared. Cajeiri, standing at his seat beside her, looked to be both frayed at the edges and brimming with questions, all of which were desperate, but he asked not a one of them, except, “Shall we go out soon, nand’ Bren?”
“As soon as the hull cools, young sir. We have two constraints: the need to be across the straits quickly, so that our enemies have little time to organize a reception, and the need to gather as much information as possible from sources on Mospheira, who have come here to meet us.” Not only Cajeiri, but the dowager was listening. Ilisidi was patient only because it was her question as much as Cajeiri’s. “One hopes the Presidenta will provide informational files we can take with us. But we must accept the Presidenta’s kind hospitality for the night, to recover our equilibrium on the earth. Walking is not as easy to deal with, as long as we have been in space.”
“An extreme inconvenience,” Ilisidi muttered, frustrated and doubtless feeling the change of gravity in all her arthritic joints, not to mention added labor for her heart. “Sit down to wait, great-grandson. Cease fidgeting.”
“Mani-ma.” Cajeiri sat.
Bren found his way aft, where staffs were in last-moment conference, where he could pass on his own immediate information to Jago, who turned up to gather it.
“The dowager is not in favor of long delay,” he said quietly, speaking frankly. “Nor am I. But we must acclimate to the world, if only for a few hours, and get some sleep, and I hope for a great deal of organized information that may be useful to us, from the local government. The Presidenta, Shawn Tyers, is meeting us. One would not be surprised to have Yolanda Mercheson pay us a visit, she being on this side of the strait, and likely very interested in a return flight.” He glanced anxiously toward Cenedi, who represented the dowager’s interests and rarely disputed her opinions or her wishes. “I very much fear for the dowager’s well-being if we attempt to ignore our physical limits and press ahead too fast. I know we risk losing the advantage of surprise, but if we risk her health—we risk everything.”
Jago nodded, leaning on the seat, eye to eye with him. “This is in his mind, too, Bren-ji, be assured. That, and we all entertain the hope you mention, of resources here.”
“We shall sleep in a secure place, I have no doubt of the Presidenta’s hospitality. They have had enough domestic stress that they are no strangers to security requirements.”
“I shall inform the others,” she said.
So that was handled. Bren went back up the aisle to gather up his small amount of luggage, his computer, his duffle with changes of clothes and other items Narani had packed for him. The rest of their luggage was back in the cargo compartment, and there was a fair amount of it, their staffs’ gear, not to mention the clothes and items the dowager had brought.
“Nandiin,” the pilot said, appearing in the doorway, “they are moving a scissor-lift to the hatch. One believes they intend us to debark.”
The language barrier persisted. But they were cooled down sufficiently, it seemed, and checked for hazardous leaks. He gathered up the baggage he would handle and piled it in his seat, then went forward to attend Ilisidi and allow her the proper precedence down the aisle to the hatch.
“About time,” she said. Cenedi had also gone forward, and attended her, offering his arm, but the notion that the dowager was about to meet human notions of hospitality . . . that was daunting. He was in charge of that, he feared. Every courtesy would necessarily come through translation.
The steward moved aft to open the outer hatch. Banichi and four of Ilisidi’s young men had stayed back there, two of the latter to see to the baggage, the rest to attend the door when it opened, Bren was sure.
Ilisidi walked down the aisle, with Cenedi, lips tight, and young Cajeiri came close behind, with two others of her bodyguard carrying her personal baggage.
So Bren fell in, carrying his own bags. Tano snatched them as he passed, and fell in behind him, with Jago and Algini.
The hatch opened. Air wafted in. The dowager and her party exited onto the quaking lift platform, and he followed, flinching at the flat world. A wave of malodorous heat from the shuttle walls warred with cool and fresh wind off the sea, air as moist as the shuttle’s atmosphere was dry and cold. The side nearest the shuttle felt like the breath of an oven, baking their backs.
And the blue and gray horizons dizzily went on forever, with Mt. Adam Thomas drifting like a vision above a haze in the distance, real, and solid, in flat perspective that warred with recent reality and yet quickly seemed right to memory, if not the inner ear. He stood near the dowager, as their security piled their baggage onto the lift. He gave one hand to the rail and offered one to her vicinity, if not touching her, just as the lift started into motion.
She stood fast, jaw set, stubbornly refusing assistance, even from Cenedi. Cajeiri caught her arm, clever lad. The platform shuddered and descended.
Vehicles came into their view, airport emergency vehicles, and with them was a gray limousine with the presidential seal, along with its own entourage of black security cars. Emergency crews waited near their vehicles, and a cluster of suits and uniforms stood to the fore. Bren spied Shawn’s familiar face, saw with a little shock that he’d gone gray, in so short a time in the presidency.
The lift bumped to the ground. Cenedi put himself at Ilisidi’s side as they walked off the edge, Ilisidi using the cane carefully but decisively, Cajeiri on her left, as they reached the tarmac. Bren followed, set himself decorously to the side, bowed.
“Aiji-ma, allo
w me to present Shawn Tyers, Presidenta of Mospheira.” Change of languages. “Mr. President, the aiji-dowager and her great-grandson Cajeiri, son of Tabini-aiji.”
Shawn gave a measured little nod of his head, a meeting of equals—Shawn had spent his days in the State Department and no one could have a firmer grasp of the protocols, the little dance of who was introduced to whom first and to what degree heads nodded or eyes lowered. Host nation for the island enclave, atevi took slight precedence in any encounter—few encounters as there had ever been on this soil, since the War of the Landing.
“Welcome, nandiin,” Shawn said, in Ragi—carefully, and fortunate in number. He had run State, and the paidhi’s office. Then in Mosphei’: “Tell the dowager that that’s the safe limit of my command of the language, but the delegation is most cordially welcome for as long as they choose to stay. We have safe and appropriate quarters at the airport hotel, should she wish, and cars to take them there.”
He rendered that: “The Presidenta most happily welcomes you and offers transport. Will the dowager, he asks, be pleased to accept his hospitality and refreshment in appropriately arranged quarters nearby, for however long his guests may please to advantage themselves of his hospitality?”
Ilisidi considered the offering—Ilisidi, whose aged bones were doubtless aching with earthly gravity. “Tell him this is our shuttle. Let him by no means mistake that fact.”
He bowed. And rendered it: “The dowager accepts with utmost gratitude, and requests Mospheira set a round-the-clock guard over the shuttle, which she regards as a vital atevi asset. Only crew should have access, at their pleasure, also round-the-clock. Crew will attend us to the hotel, along with our security. They will lodge there and come and go as they please, escorted by your security as far as the shuttle perimeter.”
Shawn understood exactly what the dowager meant. He smiled, graciously enough, and gave a slight nod. “Understood.” He swept a gesture at his own bodyguard, toward the waiting cars. “Everybody.”
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