Forever Shores (33 page)

‘What's happened?'

‘Fourteen ships coming in. The Madupan sat began random strikes into the zone we made. An extreme solution, but it shows how determined they are.'

‘Risking their own ships?'

‘Two gone already. But we're on our way. And now you must be as well.'

‘Tamas—'

‘Tom, there isn't time.'

Tom accepted that, knew that scattering was the only answer. He made himself stand, turned once to face the creop. ‘Serenya—'

‘What is ever enough, Tom? There is nothing else for it. You will simply have to return.'

‘Aye.' He touched the old brass cylinder once and followed Hamm out of the cabin.

Said more quick farewells, then rode the bosun's line—an expedient as old as ships—across to battered
Sycorax
, already running at 60 k's under borrowed kites, and stood with Sallander and Jell on the poop as
Almagest
swung away under its parafoils at last and left the Road again. Tom saw arms raised in farewell, the flash of jewel-heads, then that lean dark ship powering away to whatever far harbour waited to make it safe.

Cleven Nos Peray was below in Sallander's cabin. Soon, soon they would meet.

But now
Rynosseros
was waiting up ahead, Tartalen was at Azira, and ships were gathering at the Air. Perhaps all safe harbours would prove to be illusions now and it was endgame indeed. Perhaps there was only ever freedom in the choosing. But Sallander chose this, and Jell and the rest. And
Sycorax
ran hard under his hands being what any ship was—at the very least.

Tom grasped the old worn rail of the quarterdeck, gripped it so hard his hands hurt, and smiled. Not
Rynosseros
. Not now. Not yet. But the rest of it, aye. Sometimes you needed to recognise a homecoming when you'd made one.

Sewing Whole Cloth

Carlyr walked the last twenty k's, not just because the tree would sense him coming—no doubt it would, despite the dampeners on his harness—but more to frame the event. He knew the importance of what he was about to do. They had briefed him thoroughly at Cana, had brought in the Order to tell it all again. They had wanted to be sure he understood.

And Carlyr savoured the doing. He had accepted the importance of the mission, but had taken his time, deploying only six photonics on his Kesla skiff when he had fifteen to use, had stopped to talk to nomads and stonemen along the way, wanting to be like any other human out on the land.

The stonemen were mostly good company if you could get them talking—or, alternatively, if you could get a word in. Many were natural talkers if not always gifted storytellers. They walked their Roads, clearing away stones large enough to bother passing charvis, bending, snatching up the hard offending gibbers, fitting them into their slings and spinning them off into the hot terrain, keeping the way reasonably clear. Carlyr saw the satisfaction in that, the endless bending, fitting and slinging, or in using their long iron-tipped crackers to poleaxe the stones into shards. Some preferred the hard jarring necessity of that. Even the most practised, the most economical in their movements, did it with the larger stones.

One stoneman, Rocky Jim, had been a true natural when it came to slinging, bludgeoning, storytelling, and for a time Carlyr had walked and talked with him just to have the man's company, enjoying his stories, the Kesla following along behind on remote. Of course, Carlyr had his harness on active all the while, had maimed—possibly begun killing—some of the very roadtrees this Rocky Jim seemed to prize so much.

Carlyr had come to see himself as being like a stoneman in many ways. You took what came. You did your job as best you could. He even confessed to much of it.

‘I'm a new menage levitive,' he had said. ‘A trackmere. A new strain of taskers they're making for the ships.'

Rocky Jim was a storyteller. He had liked that unknown word. ‘A trackmere? Is that for “track mother” from
mère
or “track master” from the old words
meier
and
meister
?'

‘They never said,' Carlyr had answered, though he liked the master part, liking how names always seemed to go deeper than you first thought. ‘But we're for the ships.' No need to make the stoneman feel threatened. ‘Experts on the Roads in another way.'

‘Well, you're welcome here,' Rocky Jim had said in his rough, resonant voice. ‘Anything to bring in more life.'

And there it was. Where their missions were forever at odds.

But they had walked on together for another three hours, most agreeably, sharing a meal, sharing the day, Carlyr's harness set on a never-detectable eight percent, shutting down the life in two more ailing roadposts. Two more of thousands upon thousands, true, but a beginning at least.

Carlyr had smiled, and Rocky Jim had smiled back, never suspecting. It was so good to be in the world.

Sycorax
made its hard run along the Quaeda Si towards the Air, keeping a steady 110 k's on that ancient Road under a canopy of thirty borrowed kites, finishing the crossing to Azira that the Gerias Kite had begun, but with this vital detour.

That already seemed an age ago, flying above the land. Now Tom was discovering that being back in the world of ships and kites, of heat and the constant drumming of wheels on desert Roads was far less real somehow.

That need to keep it real, to find something, anything he could cling to, made him decide it was time to question his unwilling guest. The battle was two hours behind them—part of the vivid unreality with Serenya and Tamas Hamm and the pirate fleet involved. Doing the Line there had been days, weeks, when nothing marked one day from another.

Now it was different. Things were happening, accelerating, and he had gone from too little to too much and needed to slough away what remained of the hallucinatory edge.

He had recovered from the effects of mind-fighting. And since the battle, this Cleven—such a name!—had been busy. Tom had felt the stirrings in the mindline, had steadied himself whenever he felt those rangings at the edge of consciousness, trying to lock words and namings, the precise form of the attempt. But there were no direct calls for aid, no giving of a focal surge that others could read and track, just a general ‘Are you there?' without focus. Cleven's crews and Clever Men had been released with their com tech destroyed. He wouldn't expect rescue yet. Nothing would be done without clarification and his fleet hadn't reported in. But that he hadn't called for aid also meant that he hoped to learn all he could about Tom and this whole enterprise.

And this Cleven Nos Peray was shrewd, so young for a fleet captain, Hamm had said, though probably kept young-looking as a strategy. He was a trickster like John Coyote.

Yes, now was the time. Too much would be happening in the larger world. Tom felt he had perspective enough, had made the hard decisions without benefit of counsel, without Serenya or Captain Ha-Ha or Starman Guy or John Coyote and the others.

He nodded to Pat Sallander and headed below. Sackritter unlocked the door to the main stateroom and locked it again after him.

The Haldanian officer sat before the large stern ports in the cabin's worn but still impressive conversation bay, gazing out at the tempest of
Sycorax
's rooster tail as the vessel made its run. Back when
Sycorax
was new, such windows had been meant as a luxury for quiet moorings and soft evenings, not for use in transit like this.

‘I wondered how long you'd leave it, Captain,' Cleven said, watching the dust boiling astern, twisting off in skeins and coils to make its peace with the land. He did indeed look young, with a good strong face and just the first touches of grey at the temples.

But Tom had seen his power. He took a seat opposite the Ab'O, taking care that the table was between them. ‘I have questions.'

‘You were far better organised than we expected.'

‘Not my doing.'

‘I doubt you will convince me of that.'

‘As you wish,' Tom said. ‘But it seems I have allies.'

‘That will now be factored in. We have not made our scheduled report. We had contingency plans.'

‘Like what?'

‘Oh, like a thousand ships at the Air instead of five hundred.'

‘You have that many?'

‘There is a levy on the Princes. We arranged to field that many. Plus support on the shores, and the sats, of course. All that went ahead automatically when you struck at us. You should not have touched our fleet.'

‘I'm pleased to say that Captain Ha-Ha has his own agenda. Given my situation, I'm grateful for it.'

‘But acting for you.'

‘I understand you touched
our
fleet first. Killed Traven.'

‘And you gave his ship to Anna Kemp. Hardly good sense.'

‘There was a quorum.'

‘Not yours to give.'

‘Not yours to kill.'

‘So now, Captain Tom? We are running for the Air no doubt. Trying for
Rynosseros
.'

‘I've made decisions.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. I need to contact the Order. It is in your interests to allow it.'

‘You haven't given your position. Called for aid.'

Cleven shrugged. ‘Part of my brief was to learn what I could. Now, that call?'

‘First I'd like to hear about my incept program.'

‘Captain, I do need to contact my Order.'

‘Or what? You'll field two thousand ships? Look where you are, Cleven.' Tom raised his hands to indicate the old cabin, the mismatched furniture, the sand-scoured glass of the ports.

‘You do not begin to understand.'

‘Then comments like that automatically become meaningless. So, again, who launched my incept program? Take your time. We are trading here. But consider your answers carefully. I have made hard decisions too.'

The
too
might have done it, taken the edge of melodrama, hinted at the desperation and determination involved.

Cleven hesitated, looked out at the boiling tail beyond the glass, watched it twist away for ten, fifteen seconds before meeting Tom's gaze again.

‘That's just it, Captain. We field officers do not know who launched that program.' The Clever Man gave a thin smile. ‘In case we are captured, you understand. Tartalen will know, but he belongs to the inner councils. The old biotect colleges.'

‘We are discussing the Order, Cleven. Their field officers do not expect to be taken. Your cooperation now will determine a great deal.' Tom pointedly left a few seconds too. ‘What of Seren Selie? She was part of the same program. A sister.'

‘Hardly, Captain. She was an appropriate strategic response to your inception.
Post initio.
We do not know who scribed your original DNA. The choice was to abort the incept or let it continue, then run tests, model equivalents and potentialities. Everyone suspected that you were created by secret factions, by their own fiercest opponents, whoever they might be, even foreign administrations trying to access the Heroes. No one is certain.'

‘I've heard they wanted a National Clever Man! As contingency planning!'

‘All after the fact, Captain. Useful disinformation. Always claim special planning behind what you
cannot
control. They sampled your DNA and fast-tracked it to have Seren well before you came to term. She was brilliant, precocious and—well—there were problems.'

‘Problems?'

‘Behavioural not genetic. She wasn't sufficiently tractable, let's say.'

‘But Seren is—'

‘One of many. More exotic than most. Tribal and female.'

‘Then—'

‘The only one left extant—only
other
one.'

Tom saw faces, selves, chances.

Kin.

All denied.

‘All killed?'

Cleven's face showed no emotion whatsoever. ‘Never lived really. Not really. You must understand. We had to know.'

‘But killed.'

‘Not my choice.'

‘So I was fortunate.'

‘No, Captain. You were the original.'

‘But I can't know that, can I?'

‘I suppose you can't. But then why bother with the pretence? Why not just tell you that you
are
a contingency copy?'

‘Because given the incentive, given my resources, I may be able to learn something you can't. A useful strategy either way.'

‘True. But far more likely that you were given those resources
because
you are that original.'

They sat looking out the windows, staring into the whirlwind. Tom thought of ID-5982-J then, as he often did, often had doing the Line, the great Iseult-Darrian who had given him Blue, had made
Rynosseros
possible.

‘There were machines in the darkness,' he said, remembering. ‘Talking to me.'

‘Many AIs, Captain. Monitoring, companion AIs. Your precious belltree learned of your existence there. It was already giving Hero Colours and ships, elevating Nationals. It convinced Tartalen.'

‘Tricked Tartalen.'

‘Possibly. Or came to an understanding. An agreement. Quid pro quo. Far more likely.'

‘Rynemonn will speak to me.'

‘Rynemonn?'

‘My name for ID-5982-J. An old Anglo-Saxon name. It means one skilled in mysteries.'

Cleven's eyes narrowed, the closest thing to emotion this man had so far shown. ‘Wait. Let me understand this. That is
your
name for the
tre
e
?'

‘I thought it was time the tree had a name.'

Tom tried to allow the silence that followed, but saw that something was seriously amiss. ‘What is it, Cleven?'

‘There has been a misunderstanding. Where did you get that name?'

‘Rynemonn? From searches. Some old text. It's a very old name, from before the Tribation. What's called a Borrowed Jess. Why?'