Cuckoo's Egg

by C. J. Cherryh

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  There was another stirring in the seats.

  "Have you lied?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Have you killed anyone?"

  "No, master Tangan."

  "Have you used your skill in a wrong way?"

  He shut his eyes. And opened them. It was easy to count. "Three times, master Tangan. When I shouted at Sagot and when I hit another student and when I threatened him."

  "You're very fast on that answer. Aren't there more?"

  Thorn thought again. "I've quarreled with Duun."

  "So have I, visitor." A mild ripple of laughter went about the hall. Beside him Duun ducked his head. The master's face never changed. "We have a case in the guild. One member claims a knife another claims. How will you resolve it?"

  Thorn bit his lip. Panic rushed through him. (It's a wrong question. There's no answer. Dare I say that?) He found himself shivering in the chill.

  "Master Tangan, there aren't any such hatani in the guild, who would quarrel over property."

  "We have another case. Two sisters marry a man for a one-year each in succession. But no sooner has the first marriage been consummated than the man divorces that wife and marries a third for a three-year. How will you judge?"

  "Master Tangan, how do they make the question?"

  "The first sister says: Judge between me and my sister and that woman."

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  (Not the man.)

  "That's not a hatani matter, master Tangan. They ought to go to the magistrate."

  "They persist. They make the same request."

  "Where is their property?"

  "They have a house and shop from their father and mother. The man is living and working with the new wife in a property he owns. The new wife is tanun-guild."

  "Let them go live in their own house and find a new husband."

  "Explain."

  "The women want this man more than he wants them and they hate the new wife. They could never share with her."

  Master Tangan lifted a hand. Beckoned to someone. Thorn resisted the impulse to turn, but he heard someone walking up. More than one.

  "One more case," Master Tangan said. "Look at this woman."

  Thorn turned and his heart jolted.

  It was Betan. Betan, in a pale blue kilt, a dark blue cloak, with her hands folding before her and her ears laid flat. Her scent reached him on a waft of wind. It was still flowers.

  (O Betan.) Exhaustion battered at him. (Hatani after all?) Her face betrayed nothing.

  "Look at me," Master Tangan said. "This woman accuses you of assaulting her. Of using your persuasion to seduce her and when she saw you naked and knew your physical difference would harm her, she tried to 178

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  get away, and you used your skill to restrain her until Duun no Lughn intervened. She asks a hatani judgment of me."

  ( Was that what she thought? Was that what I did?)

  "What do you say?"

  "I— was in a room alone with her, Everything she says could be true."

  "Duun-hatani, you were a witness."

  "I came in and this woman ran out," Duun said. "I ordered her to leave. I witnessed an embrace in which the woman struggled and broke free."

  "As you came in."

  "Yes, master Tangan."

  "What else did you observe?"

  "Anger on my student's part, toward me. He said: 'I wish you had come later.' The woman said nothing. Later my student said. 'I wanted to love her.' I explained the differences would have harmed her."

  "He had no knowledge of this?"

  "It's possible he didn't understand."

  "Did you?"

  "No. Yes." Thorn struggled for his composure. "I pushed her back, master Tangan. She smelled afraid and I pushed her back."

  "Away from you."

  "He's lying," Betan said. "He's hatani and he's lying with a straight face."

  "What do you ask for him?"

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  "Send him back to Dsonan. Don't let him in the guild."

  "What do you ask for her, visitor?"

  "I think it's a trap," Thorn said. "I think this is another test and she's hatani."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "She moves like one."

  "You're wrong, young man. She's not hatani, free or guilded."

  "She's ghota," Duun said. "Or I'm blind. And she's a fool to come here."

  Betan stood there. (Ghota?) Thorn stared at her. He had expected men with guns. (Betan? Ghota?)

  "This is my judgment," Tangan said. "Leave this house. I'll not begin a guild war. You have half an hour to reach the airport. Take my warning seriously."

  Betan turned on her heel and walked, carefully, up the track past the hatani on the boulders, up the steps at the end of the hall. Thorn trembled, but it was cold; it was the burns. Where Betan had been, where part of his youth had been, was cold inside.

  "One more question." Tangan said.

  ' "Master?" Thorn turned and looked up at the old man on the rock.

  "What have you done today that you take the most pride in?"

  Thorn blinked. It betrayed him and he was chagrined, but his eyes stung and his knees wobbled under him. "Getting Duun's cloak here."

  There was laughter, all round the room, stinging laughter, hoarse and harsh.

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  "It's a novice's trick." master Tangan said. His face relaxed and kindness came through. "Novices who grow up in the guild house never get caught by that, except the first day they arrive. But you weren't told. And you honor your teacher. They laugh because you found four pebbles besides the water and the food, That's very rare. I do fault you on letting the water out. But you made it up the hard way Those burns will scar, young man. I think you should get them treated before we send you back."

  (I've lost, then.)

  "You're apprenticed to Duun no Lughn for as long as Duun sees fit.

  Beyond that point you'll do as you see fit. You have the wisdom to refrain from judgment where you have no knowledge. That's very important, Be gentle. Be merciful. Give true judgments. All other rules of the guild flow from these. A free-hatani judges and the guild will not involve itself.

  When you judge, the guild will shed blood to back you. Always remember that, Haras-hatani."

  "Yes, master Tangan." And for a moment the master's face let him see past another barrier. (This is a worried man. The hatani up there see it now.

  They were startled into laughter. There is anger in this room.) He slid his glance toward Duun and saw the other half of that expression. (They know something. No. Duun knows and master Tangan discovers it.)

  "Take him and get those burns looked to. Duun-hatani."

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  XIII

  "Take care of him," Duun said in leaving him. These were hatani meds, who took Thorn's clothes and made him stand on a plastic grating and rest his hands on tables on either side for them to work on. Two more meds with soap and a small clear water hose started with his hair and washed him on down with sponges: gray water spattered down and swirled away into the white plastic grate, smoke and sand, and the knee stung and throbbed, but their touch was quick and gentle. The meds washed his hands too, but in a different way, with greater care. "This will be cold,"

  one said: something smelled pungent and likely to hurt; it hit his burned right hand with a shock that seemed for a moment to go to the bone, as the med sprayed a clear liquid on. But numbness followed, or the cessation of pain. It was so great a change Thorn knew then how much pain he had been in. The washing went on, and they did the other hand. The right they immersed in something gelatinous; and immersed again in something else, and that hardened to a shiny plasticity while one dried his hair and another saw to his knee and bandaged it. Their touch was kind. So was their manner. "Please, could I have a drink?" Thorn said, meaning from the hose when
they could spare a moment. He had wet his lips while they rinsed his hair and face, but was thirsty again. The one drying his hair left off and brought him a cup of water, holding it for him to drink because they were working on his hands. Thorn looked into this man's eyes and saw nothing but kindness.

  "You ought to go to bed," the med said who worked on his right hand,

  "but we understand otherwise. That's finished now. Carry the elbows bent as much as you can, don't close the hands or lift anything, hear, till the gel peels."

  But the one working on his left hand finished and drew him by the elbow over to ordinary ground. Another brought a flight suit and a helmet, his own. Thorn thought dizzily, because he had scarred one earpiece. They took it up and began to put it on him with as much efficiency as they had used on his wounds.

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  (So we're going back.) The meds in Dsonan would take him then and lay him on a table and mutter dark things while they poked and pried into what these meds had done, and they would hurt.

  There would be the tapes again. Nothing would have changed. Thorn shivered while they were seeing to the fastenings, and one stopped and felt of the pulse in his neck. "Go straight to bed when you get to Dsonan," the man said.

  "We can't give him anything," another said, and looked worried, not the way the meds at home looked, but gentle. "We don't dare. Hope to the gods he doesn't react to the gel." A pat on Thorn's shoulder. "Are you sick at your stomach?"

  "No, not very."

  They went on with their pulling and tugging. The suit grew tighter.

  "Damn. He can't manage the helmet."

  (Why this haste? What's wrong? Why were they worried? Ghotanin? They let Betan go. Did she get to the airport? Did she go?) The thought of Betan dying afflicted him with pain. (Even if she's my enemy. She was brave to come here.)

  "There." A last tug. "That's right. Hold the helmet in your arm, don't use your hands. Call Duun, someone."

  "He's outside."

  "Thank you," Thorn said, looking at them. He meant it. And one of them opened the door and called Duun in. Duun was in his flightsuit again and had a gray cloth bag with black straps slung over his shoulder, and his helmet in that arm.

  "He'll manage, will he?" Duun asked.

  "Take care of him," a med said. And to Thorn: "Keep the arms bent. All right? Good-bye."

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  That was all, then, Duun waited by the door, threw one look past him at the meds as if to thank them, and let Thorn out into the hall. Hatani came and went, none in their gray cloaks now. Most looked to have business on their minds and some looked to be in haste. Many looked at him and Duun as they passed.

  (They don't hate me.) Thorn was used to that special look people had when he walked in on them. Even Elanhen. Even Sphitti. Especially Cloen and especially the meds. And Betan in the hall just now. (Their faces don't show it, maybe.)

  (But they're hatani. They know me. They know me, inside, past the skin and the eyes and the way I look, that I'm like them. True judgment, master Tangan called it. Hatani judgment.) Thorn felt his throat swell and his eyes sting. (I want to know these people. I want to stay here— just a day or two, just that, I want to talk to them and be with them, and live here all my life.)

  There was one hall after another, and at last a stairs leading up to the roof.

  Duun stopped here and took him by the arms to make him look at him.

  "Betan made the port. She took off and they're tracking her. The radar net shows another pair of ghota aircraft just left the ground at Moghtan. The kosan guild is putting planes up from Dsonan."

  Thorn blinked, trying to take this in. (For me. For my being here. That's impossible.) He felt numb. "What's Betan up to?"

  "She won't get through to the guild. Missiles ring this place. Hatani are headed for Ellud and Sagot this moment, to protect them. And others whose lives might be in question."

  Colder and colder. The numbness reached Thorn's heart. "We've got to get there!"

  "Others are doing that job. We've got another one." Duun let go Thorn's left arm and pulled him up the stairs in haste. "The first part of it is getting you out of here."

  * * *

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  It was no easy matter getting into the plane. Duun shoved up from behind the way they had gotten into the copter and Thorn clambered over the rim and into the cockpit. The skin on his knee tore as he tumbled into the seat, wriggled in and groped as best he could for straps; Duun fell in beside him and snatched the buckle from him, jammed it together, took his connections and rammed those into the sockets before he saw to himself.

  The engines were roaring, pushing them into motion, and the canopy was sliding forward overhead. Pilot and copilot were ambiguous creatures of plastic and metal, moving thin arms to flip switches in the interval of the seats. The plane picked up speed, swung out onto the runway and straightened itself into a run that slammed them back into the seats.

  Wisps of clouds poured past; the sun chased reflections across the cockpit and the plane came about and kept on with the sun on its right wing.

  "We're going to pick up our escort in a few minutes," a thin voice came over the speaker in the helmet. The pilot or copilot was talking on their channel. "They'll meet us at Delga."

  Duun acknowledged that. The voice came again. "We've just got word.

  We've got ghota craft headed our way. Our escort's going to intercept.

  Planes are in the air at Homaan. Council's going into session now."

  Thorn leaned his head against the cushioned seat and stared ahead of him at the milky glare of light, the black, surreal figures of the pilots. There was no world but this, no past or future. He hung motionless above the earth while the sky rushed faster and faster at them and small voices from the ground spoke to the pilots (who themselves could do nothing) and told them that the world was in chaos. Duun spoke of missiles. Of intercepts.

  Of aircraft which would be lifting from one city and another around the world, across seas and continents. People down there were looking up in fear at planes they could not see, expecting missiles to fall on them.

  Children standing on that brown rock at Sheon, next the bent tree, would look up and wave at white trails in the sky. ("See us, here we are!

  Hello!")— while dreadful missiles roared off in fire and smoke.

  (This can't be happening.)

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  (There is no can't, minnow.)

  "Someone's on intercept with us." The pilot's voice again. "Bearing 45

  low."

  "From the sea," Duun said. "That's Betan. I figured. Hang on, minnow,"

  The plane turned in flight. Pressure dragged at them, pulled at jaws and eyes and bowels and Thorn's nose ran; there was a pounding in his ears.

  The plane rocked. They went into a steep bank. (We're going to crash. We were hit.) Thorn rolled his head against the seat as his heart went wild and the sun spun up again and over the right wing.

  "That's a miss on their side, a hit on ours. It's down."

  (What are they talking about? The other plane? Betan?) The milky light surrounded them again, implacable. On a screen a tiny point of light went out and Betan no longer existed, a plane scattered itself in shards and fragments, lives went out— ("That's a miss on their side, a hit on ours.") Their own plane had fired. That had been that shaking. And Betan was dead in a moment, with all her courage and her skill. ("It's down.")

  "Betan," Duun said. "headed out over the sea and came back again. Points to her. She might have won it right then."

  "She's dead."

  There was a silence for a moment. The sky was incredibly smooth. Surreal again.

  "There's a man named Shbit," Duun said. "A councillor. You know Dallen Oil? You remember your companies?"

  "Yes."

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  "Well, they're not only oil, they're a l
ot of things. Energy, trade, manufacture. They've got a lot of power in council. They saw it slipping.

  They got Shbit elected: one of their own. Shbit wanted you transferred out of Ellud's wing and into one where things are more accessible— where you'd be more— public. Where politics could benefit by controversy.

  Where I could be weakened. They can't overthrow a hatani judgment. But they can undermine it. They can come at you from so many sides you can't track them all. Shbit tried that. He had a few ghotanin in his employ.

  Personal guards. They're ordinary as rain in private service. He had a few free-hatani he knew where to reach back home. A few kosanin, gods help them. And the fool got Betan past a fool of a personnel supervisor, the security chief, the division chief. Ellud— gods, five years ago: while we were still at Sheon. Brightest young security officer Ellud had. She ought to have been."

  "Elanhen and Sphitti and Cloen—"

  "Security as well. Sphitti's a free-citizen, son of a woman I know. Elanhen and Cloen from the station: kosanin. Damn good kids. Betan: free-citizen, career security. So they said. They left out pertinent details in her case."

  The smoothness continued. The milky light never varied. To one side and the other cold terms like intercept flew on radios; ("It's down….") Lives ended. Beyond illusion-forests in city windows missile silos opened like flowers to the sun.

  "…Betan knew we were succeeding. That was what tipped the balance.

  She had help, gods know; all of Shbit's resources, forged records. She made a foul-up of it even so— a free-ghota might be that careless. But she wasn't working for Shbit. She meant to foul things up. Kill you if she could. Doublecross Shbit. I know it was a possibility. I took my time settling that affair and it was damn near too much time, while I was working on those tapes."

  "You—"

  "While you were out. Daily. Constantly. Never mind that. I'd spread myself too far; I'd hastened things, and my time was occupied; and I was 187