Forever Shores (35 page)

In the four hours Tom lay in the after fall-fugue, recovering, rallying,
Sycorax
kept up its run towards the Air, towards the quiet salt and sand beaches where
Rynosseros
waited with the ships of the other Coloured Captains.

With Tom barely conscious, drifting in and out of the fugue, Sallander lofted the final gift from Tamas Hamm—a blue rhino head on ochre—and now that kite sat point beyond the break, beyond Sallander's own faded pinwheel hawk on green.

Twice smaller tribal fleets tried to intercept, were sent to do so; twice Sallander radioed warning that this was a de facto State of Nation
and
tribal Colour ship on mission. Both times those tribal fleet captains moved in regardless, ready to test everything in these uncertain times, only to receive warnings from a
Tosi-Go
comsat. ‘Watching and listening, noble captains. We will strike you down for the breach.'

It shocked those captains, more so their listening principals, to know that non-tribal interests were so actively engaged, so intently mindful of tribal law. It reminded them that the world
was
watching something this momentous, that a greater status quo may indeed be at risk.

The Air had always been the official way. The tribes had made it so. It was to be the way still.

So poor battered
Sycorax
plunged on, and Tom rallied in the lazaret as he heard every broadcast and tried not to think of ID-5982-J.
Rynemonn.
Messages came from Cleven Nos Peray to him there. The Clever Man demanded to see him, asked to see him, begged to see him when he was able. Finally sent something worthy of the trade, a few words on a scrap of foil.

I can tell you what it is about your incept that worries us so.

Tom lay in his bunk in the lazaret and knew he would risk it, would expect Cleven to hold back most of the details. Even try to take him again. Who could blame him? The Clever Man was guarding his world, so much that defined him. Cleven hadn't tried to take Tom while he slept. Line of sight was always best, but Cleven could easily have come for him while he drowsed, rested. Or perhaps had only recently recovered himself. The Clever Man would deal with after-fall fugue quickly, but the effects of stunning from a parrot-gun were something else.

More than ever Tom knew he would have to piece everything together himself, as much as he could. Join the parts, stitch the fragments into a whole. Perhaps Tartalen would help, had summoned him to
Azira
for precisely that, it seemed, and so had triggered these desperate measures from others in the Order. Alarming the Princes. It made sense.

Tom believed he knew much of it already—the only thing it could be. The jacobi had reached out, sent a greeting, but it had also found a point of connection, something it could use as one,
could
connect with. Again, it made sense. In trying out its life, in reaching out to more scribed DNA, it had activated something present in that scribing, something dormant, latent, perhaps already accelerating.

The capacity to participate in mind-war. To reach the Heroes, yes, and use a name of power left there long ago.
Rynemonn.

For that name
had
been there too, it seemed, not just tagged to a Borrowed Jess or a scrap of information casually brought to his attention. A code word left, laden, freighted with purpose, just as Ship and Star had been, but
meant
to remain dormant. Yet when brought out, synonymous with him, something with a natural connection. Something innocently coaxed into life by the jacobi, triggered by the neuraesthenic properties of Seren's poison or her kiss, or something in the fairground sim prepared by
Anoki
; it went on and on. He couldn't know.

But he had fought on the Air as a mind-fighter when he'd first met Sen-Mati, had used mind-war then, some wild form of it, had just now fought the fleet and Clever Men from the Order, had found Cleven Nos Peray and faced him in line of sight and survived.

And, earlier, unknowing, had given that name to ID-5982-J, who must then have acted as that, triggered more things than Tom could possibly know. The death of Traven for one, directly or indirectly! The raising of a thousand ships. Where did it begin and end?

Tom could no longer rest. He swung off the bunk and dressed, then crossed the ship's modest commons to the main cabin. Sackritter and Marcham were both at the door this time, weapons drawn, and this time the door remained open when Tom entered. Once again Cleven was seated before the aft windows, the ship's tail boiling beyond. He stood this time, respectfully, sat only when Tom was seated.

‘You understand that I had to try,' he said, without further apology.

‘I expected it, Cleven. I expect you to keep trying.'

The Clever Man gave the ghost of a smile and nodded. ‘It is my world.'

‘And you are held to account, I suspect. But now the guns are set to kill.'

‘Partly why I tried what I did. Your anger. Your talk about your gun.'

‘I mean
their
guns this time, Cleven.' He gestured back at the open door, at the crewmen waiting there. ‘And there are cameras running. We have you on scan. Not how any of us wish it to be, but if you will not—cannot—bend …' Tom shrugged. ‘You have something to tell me about my incept.'

‘You have a sensor implanted in your forehead.'

‘A what?'

‘A bio-organic sensor mote near the pineal gland, highly sophisticated. No ferric components, no nano rejection factor. Integrated. It has been there from the time of your incept and we have no idea who put it there or, alternatively, why your DNA was scribed so it would be there.'

Don't believe you! You're lying! Who put it there? Who did?

Both strands of thought rushed through his mind, though Tom spoke none of it.

‘You're afraid the Order has been compromised. Infiltrated. You attacked me to provoke a response in extremis.'

Cleven seemed glad to have it said so bluntly, so openly. ‘Mostly that, yes. And haven't continued to strike you down because I am now inclined to accept that you have not been aware of it. You are more than a sensitive, more than a National Clever Man.'

The jacobi linked to it!

Tom's suspicions had been correct. ‘Med scans have never showed it.'

‘Which tells us something else. That your nano spread is tailored to shield its existence. We know about it because it was discovered in the Madhouse while your nano was still adapting to do that additional task. It flagged extraordinary functions, highlighted the modification. Tartalen knew.'

‘Then Seren could have—'

‘She did not. She knows nothing of it. We verified that—'

‘Cleven—!'

‘—long before you met her, Captain. She is safe at Tarpial. Despite Tartalen's demands, we persevere.'

‘I must speak with Tartalen. For all our sakes.'

‘I might agree, but many others do not. But you are on your way to do so, though it means your fellow Captains face the Air challenge without you.'

‘I could use com. Speak to him now. You have the connection.'

‘Captain, such a call would never get through. Too many interested parties would see to that.'

‘You relish this, don't you?'

‘For all sorts of reasons, yes, but not as much as I did. Most of all I want it ended. The Captains. This mystery. I want to know what
Rynemonn
is, why you named a rogue belltree that, why you shouted it as a mind-war integer when you struck at me.'

‘I don't know.'

‘I think I believe you. But you have had it all your days. While wearing surveillance tech for others, other motes and tech assists at other times, you have had that too. Reading all the while.'

‘Recording?'

‘Who knows? Perhaps not. Activated only when needed perhaps. Simply there.'

‘You aren't sure of any of this.'

‘Not at all.'

‘It's not …?' Tom hesitated.

‘A coterminous personality? No.'

‘You're so sure.'

‘One of the first things they checked in the Madhouse. This is wholly and solely you.'

‘Power readings?'

‘Bio-organic, as I said. It is indistinguishable from the power of the brain or central nervous system, the electromagnetic fields of the body's organs. You power it. It
is
you.'

Tom felt enormous relief. ‘You say. Not implanted?'

‘Seems not. Though that's how we're conditioned to see it. How many still see it.'

‘Then it's in your interests—the Order's best interests surely—to let me reach Tartalen.'

‘Again, I might agree. Many others do not. Tartalen has always had too much influence. Too much power. Too many secrets.'

‘Which is why the Air challenge eventuated.'

‘Partly. Most would say that the elevation of Anna caused that.'

‘Very convenient though, wouldn't you say? Cleven, what more can you tell me? What more can you do for all of us?'

The Ab'O watched the dust boiling beyond the port. ‘My concern now is what you will do with me. I would like to live.'

‘We will release you when we reach
Rynosseros
.'

‘Can I believe that?' It clearly surprised him.

‘Unless you strike at me again, yes.'

‘What of your hard decisions? The killing of the tree?'

‘I try to tell myself that you are a patriot. I am ashamed of you. As a human you are lacking, but you think you are doing the right thing.'

‘You are ashamed of me!' Surprise and anger flashed in the dark eyes.

‘Of course. Something is missing. I am sorry for you.'

And Tom stood and left the cabin and went out to be in the day.

Charvolants still used this secondary Road, so Carlyr was only a little surprised to see a stoneman up ahead, tiny with distance but recognisable by the long cracker athwart his back. The distinctive walk-rhythm confirmed it, the bending, fitting and slinging.

Another time, another day, Carlyr would have quickened his pace to join him, but this wasn't something he wanted now—a travelling companion, a witness to what had to be done.

Carlyr slowed his pace. Then, bending to the exigencies of the situation, he finally moved to the side of the Road, found some rocks that gave a little shade and settled against them, pulling the wide brim of his traveller's hat low over his eyes against the harsh light. Even as he rested, he heard—probably imagined—the far-off strike of the stoneman's cracker against the gibbers, even the thrum and whoosh of the sling as a stone was flung aside. He found those things comforting. Reaffirming. It was good to know that the world went on in the little things people did. In what he did too. What he was doing now. He drowsed, knowing it would be soon.

It was ironic that Cleven's presence made possible the night-run, allowed
Sycorax
to reach the great fighting ground of the Air at dawn and without further incident. Ironic too that four tribal charvolants provided escort for the last thirty k's, so that
Sycorax
was allowed to use the old trail of the Gaenea—the McCubbin in old National naming—and so reached the salt beach at Toley with three hours to spare. There on the old salt and sand shore in the early light stood Afervarro's
Songwing
, Lucas's
Serventy
, Glaive's
Quicksilver
, Massen's
Evelyn
, with Doloroso's
Albatross
and Anna's recently inherited
Manticore
beyond them.
Rynosseros
stood further out still, closest to where the Gaenea rejoined the Quaeda Si and continued on to Azira.

Sallander had called ahead, and the long tables on the commons of
Songwing
were set up again and already crowded, the Captains and their crews waiting under awnings as
Sycorax
rolled in.

They made a splendid sight, the seven Coloured ships drawn up like this. In all likelihood, it was the last time they would be together this way, the last time their crews would share talk and time and braid their lives. In three scant hours, they would enter the vast salt lake, go out among the old wrecks left from centuries of tribal war, and face their destiny.

Now
Sycorax
was here, bringing their missing Captain at last, and such a reunion followed—as heartfelt, riotous and bittersweet as circumstances allowed—and it went in stages. Even as Cleven was sent on his way on an old four-kite skiff, with nothing more said than farewell, Tom crossed to
Rynosseros
.

They were all watching as he approached: Scarbo, Shannon, Strengi, Rimmon and Hammon, not yet at the long tables on
Songwing
, not when there was this to do.
The
homecoming.

Smiles first and the joking.

‘See what happens when you go off on your own!' Scarbo called when Tom finally reached the ladder.

‘Flying yet!' called Rim, when he was on the travel platform. ‘An aviator. You make it hard to keep up!'

And from Shannon, when Tom was on the rungs and climbing: ‘You came in for that Tarpial junket and didn't stop by!' Playing moody, miffed, disgruntled.

A Catalan blessing, curse or both from Strengi when Tom first reached the commons (always playing one of the Spanish Exiles), followed by: ‘Another fine mess!', key line from one of the ancient entertainments they plundered for their deck-spieks.

A simple ‘Welcome home, Tom!' from Hammon, youngest, still not easy with the ragging and jokes. Tom was his first captain ever. Possibly first and last with what was coming. All there in what didn't need to be said by any of them, not yet.

Easy words then, quick replies, treasured spieks to span the days and make it right. Embraces, longer than the usual, more edged on such a day, then the sitting around. But all measured with the deadline approaching.