Crossing the Line (37 page)

Aras couldn't form the words, but he didn't feel the urge to stop her. He still had more of Shan than anyone would ever touch. He had her memories, the very fabric of her, genetic material he had not even begun to see expressed yet.

Nevyan placed the bowl in the folds of her
dhren
and clutched it to her like a child. “She shaped me, Aras. She was my friend. She taught me that you can't withdraw from the world and you can't run from threats. You must engage them and not spend your life in dread of their coming. And this view will guide me now that I have succeeded Mestin.”

What will I do without her? How will I carry on?

“Aras, I know you can hear me,” said Nevyan. “I shall send Eddie to you. And then there are the other humans. There's the soldier, Bennett. He asks to talk to you.”

Bennett would never have harmed Shan. Whatever he claimed, he would never have killed her. Aras knew it. He needed to talk to him. But it would have to wait.

He sat back on his heels. It was the most effort he had managed to muster in days. It was a primeval survival reflex gone haywire, from the tunnel-dwelling past when keeping still when faced with an unseen threat might be the difference between living and dying for the proto-wess'har. Aras was always surprised when it caught him out like this. The last time had been when Askiniyas took her own life.

He now had two
isan've
who had been suicides in extreme circumstances. It was too much to ask of a wess'har male.

“Bring them here,” he said.

Bennett was a soldier. Eddie was a soldier too, except he could fight with words, and
gethes
were very vulnerable to those.

He would need them both if he was going to exact his own balance for the death of Shan Frankland.

“Come on,” said Eddie “You can patch me through to my News Desk, can't you?”

He had drilled down as far as the Defense Ministry comms control desk, and he suspected he'd only made it that far because he was on Minister Ual's private link. Ual was proving to be a reliable and valuable friend. Eddie was laboring under no illusions that it was his witty repartee ensuring the minister's cooperation.

“Mr. Michallat, this is a military communications channel,” said the woman on the other end of his precious and fragile life-line. She was very chic and dark, a little too exotic for the drab uniform of an army major. She reminded him of Marine Ismat Qureshi. “We don't feed into the entertainment networks from here.”

“You did all the time it suited you, though.”

“I appreciate your frustration.”

“I need to let my people know I'm alive. They think I was on—in—
Actaeon
when she was hit.”

“And it's clear you're still on Umeh.”

“It's clear to you, but not to them. Maybe you could
make
it clear.”

“Wait one.”

The screen flicked to the holding menu of warnings about confidentiality, federal security and dire penalties if any one of a thousand rules and regulations was breached.

Eddie didn't want to be polite at all. He wanted to scream that the news they were currently broadcasting was bollocks, less than half a story because it didn't mention why the wess'har had fired on
Actaeon
with three massive missiles that shattered her backbone and broke her into fragments in minutes.

He knew that because the wess'har had provided the information via Serrimissani. He also knew the Defense Ministry didn't have all the data because there were no survivors from
Actaeon
to file a sitrep or take part in a wash-up. All they had were the last transmissions from the ship and reports from the surface of Umeh about the magnificent fireworks display that meant all hands were lost.

That meant 106 out of nearly 500 men and women, civilians and service personnel. Everyone else had been evacuated to Umeh Station during what the military delicately called the
period of tension
, as if the threat of war was some sort of minor back pain.

Someone back at BBChan had to be asking why the wess'har attacked. He knew they wouldn't swallow whatever pat answer they had been fed. But one thing reassured him. The news about
Actaeon
had leaked fast, in hours rather than days or months. It was the price of ITX. Once the routine of instant messages and telemetry between remote stations and Earth had become established, a lot of people in dull support jobs noticed when they suddenly stopped. And those people talked, both to their contacts at Umeh Station and to their chums back on Earth.

Eddie had been afraid that ITX's exclusivity would mean all news would be suppressed. He should never have underestimated the power of the human mouth.

The warning menu dissolved and the glamorous but inflexible major was back in frame again.

“Mr. Michallat, I can certainly pass on a message to your employers. You'll appreciate that we have quite a bit on our hands at the moment.”

Eddie's brain started scrambling for a message that would let News Desk know that the information the Defense Ministry spokesweasels were pumping out was incomplete. Okay, they knew that anyway. It was part of the game. But they didn't know exactly what they were omitting and—unlike on Earth—the opposing forces' view from the Cavanagh system would be channeled through the Cerberuslike DM liaison desk. They couldn't just call the wess'har for a comment.

He hadn't been this cut off even during the Greek war. He had been able to buy the protection of a militia minder, complete with armored car, and drive the damn story over the nearest safe border.

Now that was a thought. He'd have to work on that as a backup plan.

“Thank you,” said Eddie. Inspiration suddenly struck him so hard that he had to squeeze his nails into his palm to stay dead-pan. “Can you tell them I have a Belgrano to file?”

“Spell that.”

“Bravo Echo Lima Golf Romeo Alpha November Oscar.” Eddie hoped his gambling wasn't visible. He was banking on nobody being familiar with three-hundred-year-old incidents during a war even the military had forgotten. But News Desk would look it up. Think.
Think.
“Bloody Expensive Living, Gratuities, Research And Nobbling Officials. I'm out of barter items, love. I want to file my expenses to replace them for when I get home.”

There was a pause. Major Gorgeous was making notes, lips moving slightly as she keyed in the acronym. Then she smiled coldly. “You journalists,” she said. “You really are callous bastards, aren't you?”

Eddie managed a convincingly guilty shrug. “Not the first war I've been in,” he said. “How about you?”

“I'll see this is relayed immediately and get back to you. Good day, Mr. Michallat.”

Eddie held his aw-don't-be-hard-on-me expression until he was sure the connection was cut. Then he punched the air in brief triumph. That was one fucking
amazing
God-given stroke of genius. He had no idea that he could bluff that well or lie that fast.
Belgrano
?
Jesus.
It was as if everything he had ever done, however minor, had been designed to lead up to that point in time.

Serrimissani was at his shoulder immediately. “We have to go.”

“One more hour.”

“We can return when the wess'har have finished with Umeh Station.”

“What if they don't attack?”

“Then we come back and find it intact.”

“I need to know if News Desk got the message.”

“What is
Belgrano
?”

“It was a ship, but I made up the acronym on the spot. Nothing to do with my expenses.” Oh, he was
pleased
with himself. “Provided the teenage morons running News Desk spot that I've sent a spoof message, they'll know something's wrong.”

“More wrong than one of their warships being destroyed?”

“Spare me the sarcasm. This is journalist maths. If they spot the problem, they'll look up
Belgrano
. I'm just hoping the Defense Ministry is sufficiently ignorant, badly educated, and European enough not to have any knowledge of an event in an obscure British war.”

“Which is?”

“An Argentine warship that was sunk by a British submarine, HMS
Conqueror
, and there was a big row over whether or not it represented a threat to the British forces. That's irrelevant. What matters is that it started a major bust-up between the military, the government and the media of the day about what really happened. If my colleagues make the connection, that ought to be enough to let them know there's an even bigger fucking story behind this one.”

He was going to wait until the walls came crashing down, even if that meant making Serrimissani leave without him. For foul-tempered ferrets, they had an unshakable sense of devotion. He liked them. Right then, he liked every species except
Homo sapiens.

Just like Shan.

The thought caught him unawares and his spirit sank briefly before he dragged it back up by its collar again, assuring it he was going to do right by her. He owed it to her to fight.

The Defense Ministry was cutting it fine.

Serrimissani had already started circling him like an impatient sheepdog when the FEU menu screen appeared and paged him. He waited three seconds and hit the control.

It was Major Gorgeous.

“Mr. Michallat,” she said, “I have a message from a Mr. Chetwynd at BBChan Foreign Desk. He says your expenses claim gives them some cause for concern and he wants to know if you're trying to claim for…” She looked down, apparently at a screen. “…more
Conqueror
brand whisky, given the argument you had over it last time. He'll be back in touch when he can, but in the meantime not to hand out too many more bribes.”

Eddie felt relief wash over him like a warm shower.

“What a tight-fisted bastard,” he said grimly, and convincingly.

“As are you all,” said the major, and the menu screen replaced her lovely but unlovable face.

Serrimissani was at eye-level with him. “We go now,” she said. “Do you have your answer?”

“Oh, I do,” he said, and began cramming his text pad and editing screen in his bag. “Thank God for BBChan researchers.”

Yes, they now knew damn well what he had meant.

Conqueror.

Round about now, fellow journalists he had neither known nor worked with would be calling contacts and harassing media spokespersons and challenging ministers.

They would be asking what the hell they
hadn't
been told about how CSV
Actaeon
came to be blown to kingdom come while in apparently friendly space. And they wouldn't rest until they had heard from the BBChan man on the scene.
Him.

“Ready when you are, doll,” said Eddie.

 

Nevyan was settling comfortably into the role of senior matriarch. Mestin watched the expression on Eddie Michallat's face as he came into the large kitchen and looked expectantly at her, only to be waved towards Nevyan.

“Don't be embarrassed, Mr. Michallat,” said Mestin. “Political power here is not the same commodity as it is for
gethes.
My daughter has precedence now, and we're all content with that.”

“You really ought to invade Earth sometime,” said Eddie. She knew enough of humans now to realize he was being flip- pant. “It would make our life a hell of a lot simpler.”

Nevyan had Giyadas with her.
Isanket've
needed to learn how to conduct themselves, and there was no reason not to start early. The child sat patiently on the floor at Nevyan's side with her head against her legs, watching Eddie with unblinking eyes. He was trying not to watch the child, and not succeeding.

“You have asked for
asylum
here,” said Nevyan. “Is that the correct word?”

“Yes. I don't want to live among the human community, either here or on Umeh.”

“Are you going to find it difficult living among us and remaining on good terms with the isenj?”

“I'm a journalist. I'm professionally neutral. But if you're asking if I'm going to be a spy in your camp, try this for size.” He put his hand inside his garment and took out a small transparent container. He held it at the level of his ear and rattled it. “A quill. Ironically, from the seat of government.”

He held it out and Nevyan took it.

“It's too late for the bezeri,” she said.

“I know, and I'm sorry. But it's not too late for the rest of Bezer'ej. The vast majority of life will survive. This is for them.”

Right answer,
thought Mestin. Giyadas craned her neck to peer at the container as Nevyan turned it over in her hands.

“What is the bead?” she asked.

“Ruby,” he said. “Corundum. Valuable, where I come from. Keep it. It's not my color.”

Nevyan trilled to summon Lisik and handed the vial to him. “Take this to Sevaor,” she said. Then she concentrated on Eddie again. “If you stay here, I would appreciate it if you would provide company for Aras.”

“How is he?”

“Grieving.”

“Sorry. Stupid question. Is he going to want me around?”

“It will be easier for him to be with a human than with a family here that reminds him of his loss.”

“Suppose he wants to be alone?”

“He has spent too long alone. He needs friendship now, even if he doesn't see that.” She paused. “He has executed Joshua Garrod. I believe that is troubling him too.”

Mestin, keeping a silent watch on the exchange, couldn't interpret Eddie's mood until that point. He was too much of a jumble of emotions and agitation to detect any scent clearly. Then overwhelming panic roiled off him, pungent as human sweat. He swallowed hard and the knobbly lump at the front of his neck moved visibly.

He seemed to be chewing on unspoken words. His jaw moved. It was a few seconds before sound emerged.

“Oh,” he said.

“The soldier called Bennett is here too. He surrendered. He'll be useful.”

“I can't imagine him surrendering.”

“He claims to have caused Shan's death. He saw her die.”

“Ade? Never. He had a big crush on her. He might have screwed up, but—look, can I talk to him?”

“Ask Aras. You should go to him now. You know where his home is.”

“Thank you.” Eddie still seemed shaken. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“And we appreciate your willingness to help.”

“There's one more thing I want to ask of you. I need to send back reports. I can't let that garbage about
Actaeon
go unchallenged, and I reckon people back home are asking questions now about what really started the conflict. When they let me tell the story, I want to have the stuff ready to file. I owe it to Shan, especially if Ade will talk to me about it.”

“Professionally neutral,” said Nevyan. “Wasn't that your claim?”

“I was lying,” said Eddie. “Sometimes neutrality is just an excuse for being spineless.”

Eddie had clearly scored highly with Nevyan. She patted his arm. Mestin sent Serrimissani with Eddie, just to make sure he reached Aras's home in one piece. Humans had poor memories, and she couldn't rely on him to remember the way. She was also worried he might not cope with the steps and terraces with their sheer drops into nothing. Humans didn't have good balance, either.

Giyadas was trilling
spineless, spineless, spineless
under her breath, trying out the word with overtones and then trying to limit herself to one note. The weight of the last few days settled on the adults while the child delighted in the novelty of new alien words.