Harvest of Stars (34 page)

The Sepo listening in.

“I see.” Tamura spoke without tone and stood like a statue, expressionless. But he was defeated, Eiko knew. And she, she must not embrace him, she must not cry out, before these enemy strangers.

“I suppose you haven’t had dinner yet,” Pedraza said. “We’ll give you a nice one. Now, por favor, gather your things and we’ll go.”

Tamura nodded. A guard followed him out.

Pedraza addressed Eiko: “I promise you, señorita, no harm will come to the senor if we can possibly prevent it.”

A bitterness that she could taste burst from her. “Yes, hostages work better alive than dead.”

“I know you’re unhappy.” With studied emphasis: “The situation is critical. That’s why we’re acting. My superiors don’t want the resentment, the agitation, this can bring on. Protective custody is still custody. But it’s
protective
. Por
favor, understand—tell your friends—if anything untoward happens, we may no longer be able to guarantee the safety of the persons in our care.”

Hostages in truth. She had better not say that again. “I understand.”

They waited mute. Tamura soon came back, a bag in his hand.
“Sayonara
, Eiko,” he breathed. In English, lest the Sepo think the two conspired: “Remember what I told you. Wait this out quietly.”

“It’s not adiós,” Pedraza said. “Only for a few days, I’m sure, and you can phone each other whenever you like. I’ll try to get permission for visits in person.”

“Thank you,” Eiko said automatically. It angered her that she did, until the thought passed through her that this officer most likely was sincere, a basically decent man who obeyed orders because he was pledged to and he trusted his superiors, but who might be as puzzled and apprehensive as she was.

Or more so. Resolution surged.

She bowed to her father. He returned the gesture. They would give nothing else to the eyes of these men. He left with them.

T
HE
M
OON, BELOVED
old scarface, neared and swelled till it was no longer ahead but below, no longer a heavenly body but a wastescape of mountains and maria, craters and boulders, shadow-limned by an early afternoon. Using her opticals to filter out the glare and magnify, Kyra glimpsed some of the jewelwork her race had laid across it, silver threads that were monorails, Tychopolis agleam in the south and lesser communities elsewhere, scattered star-points across the land already nighted that marked other habitations. Then
Maui Maru
swung about and blasted, backing down on her goal. Pressed into her couch, Kyra looked up at an Earth waxing toward the half. Its own
night blocked off a part of the sky. There she saw a few glints, megalopolises. Its blue-and-white day revealed to unaided vision no mark or trace of humanity.

Silence clapped upon her. After a final shiver through the hull, she weighed barely more than ten kilos. She did not seem to float from her harness and down to the crew lock as erstwhile. She went heavily, heart-sluggingly, toward whatever waited beyond.

She wasn’t afraid of death, she told herself. She didn’t like at all the idea of leaving a generally wonderful universe, but she had long since come to terms with it. The assurance was thin. Sweat lay rank in her armpits. There were other things that she did fear.

Yet when she touched the exit button, it was like a declaration. Guthrie wouldn’t send her on a hopeless mission. Dread dissolved in movement. The valves swung aside. She passed through, into the gang tube that had reached to osculate and down its ladder, a few leaps to the underground reception room for this berth.

The console that would ordinarily have taken her report and admitted her onward into Port Bowen stood silent. Six men crowded the chamber, uniformed Sepo.

She had more than half expected them. “What in MacCannon’s name is this about?” she blustered.

“I think you know,” replied the leader. He was a big man, afro, his name badge reading Trask. In spite of discipline, his voice held strain. “You’re under arrest, Pilot Davis. The charges are public endangerment, hijacking, and conspiracy—among others. Come along.”

“You can’t arrest me. You’re thirty Earth diameters out of your jurisdiction.”

“We’re here at the request of your employers, and they have police powers in this enclave. Come. Reilly, with me. The rest of you, secure the ship and commence your search.” Kyra spied an instrument among them, yes, a circuit resonator, a Guthrie detector.

Trask gestured raggedly. “Don’t make us use force,” he said. They were in a hurry, she knew, only half informed about their job, nerves drawn taut by these foreign surroundings. What that might lead them to do to her, once
they reached whatever rooms they were based in, was not pleasant to think about.

They were athletic and alert, but Earthsiders. She might get a chance to break free, escape, with the swiftness of low-
g
habituation. They’d take her through side passages which they’d made sure were clear of Fireball folk. However, if she could scream the truth aloud someplace along the way where somebody would hear—Her consortes wouldn’t stand for outsiders shockshooting their own—Kyra went between the two.

Beyond the safety lock they entered a corridor that should have bustled. Its length was quite hollow. A pair waited. Trask slammed to a halt. Kyra heard him curse under his breath. She knew, with upsoaring joy, that the Lunarians had not been there before.

They were both male, of tower-tall slenderness but wide in the shoulders. The features of one were like a Grecian sculpture for regularity and whiteness, within a frame of silvery tresses. He wore an incongruously ordinary unisuit. The other was hawk-nosed, amber-skinned, his hair blue-black, though on him the big, slanting eyes were also gray. His garb was more ethnic, if that meant anything, jerkin above wide-sleeved shirt, tight hose below puffed and slashed short trousers, curl-toed shoes, all in dark green and gold. On each one’s breast hung a medallion, a black circle ringed by irregular pearliness, the Eclipse of power.

“Greeting,” said the first. His English flowed with the singing Lunarian accent. “We will take charge now, if you please.”

Trask slapped hand to holstered weapon. “What do you mean?” he rasped. “Who are you?” His companion gripped Kyra’s arm painfully hard.

“You may address me as Arren, and my associate as Isabu.” The reply was dispassionate. “We are ancillaries of the lord Rinndalir, who has bidden us escort this person.”

“No! This is—is Fireball territory, and we’re deputized—”

Arren lifted a hand. Trask sputtered into silence. “The contract delegates authority in Port Bowen to Fireball
Enterprises but does not affect the sovereignty of the Selenarchy, which the lord Rinndalir hereby applies.”

“I’ve got my orders.” Trask raised his gun a few centimeters in its sheath. “Don’t interfere. Stand aside.”

Isabu smiled. “I advise you against drawing that,” he said levelly.

The Lunarians appeared unarmed, but Trask let go the butt and signed his fellow to stay put. He breathed hard. “We’ll find out who’s got what rights.”

“Yes, fine,” Kyra gibed. “Let’s go straight to the director’s office, hook into the net, and talk to as many people as possible.”

“That would not be in your best interests, would it?” Arren challenged Trask—how softly!

The Sepo looked right and left, as if praying for help to come out of the walls. He’d been commanded to utmost secrecy, Kyra knew. And enjoined to avoid trouble, scenes, anything that might bring on publicity. And doubtless raised on a diet of Earthside folklore about Lunarians, their cunning and ruthlessness and mysterious resources. She must admire how he mustered will and demanded, “Show me your warrant.”

“Such is not required of a Selenarch’s messengers,” Isabu told him.

“You have obstructed us long enough,” Arren added. He touched an informant on his wrist. “Shall I summon assistance? If so, you and yours will be brought to judgment.”

It might or might not be bluff. In the longer term, it absolutely was not. “You don’t claim the ship she came in, do you?” Trask yelled. “Bueno, go, then, go!”

Arren beckoned to Kyra, turned, and departed with the bounding gait of his kind. She followed, exultant, Isabu at her side. Oh, they were both stunningly handsome. Giddily, she cast a glance back over her shoulder. Trask stood staring after her. As she watched, he swung on his heel and made for the entry. Dutiful dog; he’d ransack
Maui
while he could, for all the good that would do the cause which he himself was ignorant of. His man shambled after him in dazed fashion.

“Mil gracias, señores,” Kyra caroled. “You’ve done more than save me from a bad time, do you know? Listen, what’s happened is—”

Isabu’s palm chopped air in front of her mouth. “Pray do not speak of it to us,” he said. “We will bring you to the lord Rinndalir.”

The glory chilled the least bit. She remembered Guthrie admitting he didn’t know what the Lunarian would do.

Yet she was out of Avantist control. She was free to cry the words that would blow their whole damned house of cards down around their ears. It could wait till she got to Rinndalir, since he so desired, and that ought to be one almighty interesting visit.

“Whatever you want,” she said. “Though we can make conversation, can’t we?”

Arren gave her a look and a smile. She couldn’t tell whether it was friendly or wolfish or what. “We can attempt small talk later, if you wish,” he said. “First we must seek our vehicle. Pray do not speak to anyone we meet along the way.”

She realized that wasn’t a request. They might very well have means to silence her. Bueno, they were still her deliverers, and there could be excellent reasons for not immediately shouting forth her story. “If somebody I know hails me, it’d seem odd if I don’t respond,” she pointed out.

Isabu considered. Was such behavior foreign to him? “Correct,” he agreed. “You have an able mind, my lady.”

The corridor opened on a central space of screens, panels, baggage carriers, benches, shops. It was less busy than it should have been. The Lunarians hastened Kyra along. Stares trailed them.

“Hola, Davis! When did you get in?” The woman who drew alongside was an old acquaintance.

“Buenas días, Navarro. I’m sorry, got to run, awful rush, see you later—” and again anonymous faces separated them. Kyra was glad she heard no more greetings. That single encounter made her feel briefly, freezingly alone.

A fahrweg brought her trio to the ground transport terminal. Arren led the way on through it. “Don’t we want
a train for Tychopolis?” Kyra asked. “Or, uh, Lunograd or Diana or—” whatever the Selenarchs used for a capital. Officially they didn’t have any. They neither sent nor received diplomats;
ad hoc
envoys from Earth went to sites they designated and spoke with such of them as chose to listen.

“Nay,” Isabu replied. “This day we travel by car.”

A thrill chased most of the foreboding out of her. She’d only been on the few tourist roads.

The car was bus-size. Except for the windows, an outer shell of hyalon enclosed its metal body. Fluid in between would change its patterns of light and dark, chameleon-like, to help regulate temperature. On struts above the roof, a radiation shield doubled as a solar energy collector, auxiliary to the fuel cells inside. A lovely piece of engineering. Then Kyra traversed the airlock and found herself in another world. Carpeting, opulent red and black, was like the pelt of a live animal; it undulated ever so slightly, as if something breathed. Paneling sheened above it, relieved by intertwined patterns of enamel and inlay. Where shadows from outside made dimness, she saw that draperies and upholsteries phosphoresced. Seats and a table were made for long-limbed folk who did not need to lean against backs. A partition separated off the rear half, which must hold sleeping quarters, tanks, tools, and whatever else was required. Abstract art played across it, akin to fire, smoke, clouds. The moving air bore changeable odors, sweet, sharp, spiced, sunny, icy. She could barely hear the background music, and did not understand it at all. If comets could sing—

Arren took the controls, spoke with the dispatcher, and eased the car across the garage floor. It cycled through into void and ran up a ramp to the surface. Soon it left pavement and went over raw regolith, smoothly absorbing the irregularities. Dust whirled up from the wheels and settled again with the speed of airlessness.

“Where are we bound?” Kyra asked.

“We can tell you now,” Isabu said. “Zamok Vysoki.” At her blank look: “It is the lord Rinndalir’s private strong-hold, in the Cordillera.”

“What?” she exclaimed. “But that—why, that must be two or three thousand klicks from here.”

“Nearer three than two. Will you not be seated? Would you care for refreshments? We can offer a variety.”

“But how long will it take to get there?” she cried in dismay.

“About twelve hours. Pray be patient, my lady. Everything is in proper orbit.”

It whirled through her: Rinndalir received Guthrie’s message forty-odd hours ago, minus whatever time went in bucking it to him from the reception point. The encrypted part had been minimal: “Rescue nonsched Bowen 22.” He’d have had a chance to think about it and confer with others. (How many? His kind generally presented a single mask to the outside universe, but everybody who had studied and observed knew that theirs was a government of cats.) His technicians could have informed him that a radar scan was in progress, and picked
Maui
out for themselves. He probably had his watchers, undercover agents, computer worms in places on Earth as well as in Fireball here. The arrival of the Sepo would tell him much and hint at more. A rocket flyer was conspicuous. Was that why he had sent his men by ground to retrieve her? How many men? Just these two? How had he coordinated with his colleagues? Had he? Unilateral action seemed crazily reckless. And yet—

Arren regarded his instrument board, entered an instruction, and joined the others. The car rolled on, self-operated, deftly weaving around the obstacles nature had strewn through the ages. Kyra wondered whether it followed navigation signals, perhaps from a satellite, or had a topographic map in its program and an inertial guidance system. Maybe both. She wondered how smart the most advanced Lunar robots were. Maybe more than any elsewhere. If you started with people selected for intelligence as well as physical fitness, and furnished them with the most sophisticated equipment of their era, technological development might later hit a steep curve even though the population was small and clannish.