Ruler of Naught (9 page)

The vid shifted then to the ancient monochrome flatvid that
had occasioned that breakthrough, and Ivard cracked up at the manic antics of
the three men in the picture, poking and slapping at one another without
apparent damage.

When the vid ended, Ivard looked up, his face expectant. “Do
they ever do anything alone?”

Montrose shook his head. “They do everything in threes. If
you were to find one alone, it would indicate a grave emergency.”

Ivard ruffled Gray’s ears, as the dog leaned into his hand.
“So, what about the Kelly medtech?”

So much for distraction. “We’ll find out all we want to know
when we reach al-Ibran’s Chirurgicon at Rifthaven,” Montrose said. “Remember,
the Kelly are the best physicians in the Thousand Suns. Now sleep. You’ll heal
faster that way.”

“I don’t like sleeping here alone.” He blushed as Montrose
looked significantly at the dog. ”I want to be back in our cabin. Jaim said it
wasn’t the same without me.”

Montrose hid his amusement.
No, I don’t suppose it is.
The Serapisti was a wonderfully patient man, an ideal cabin mate for a boy in
the gawkiest phase of his adolescence—physically a young man, but emotionally
still so young.

Jaim was probably enjoying his solitude.

“I can’t send you back to your cabin until you heal more,
and that means sleep.”

He watched Ivard’s thin, drawn face relax incrementally as
he lowered himself onto the bed. Gray hopped down and trotted away, nose to the
deck plates as was usual with both dogs. Montrose pushed the bed back into the
berth and closed the door.

A shadow loomed; Vi’ya’s black eyes assessed Montrose
without giving away her own thoughts, then she said, “How is he?”

“He’ll hold, but for how long I can’t tell,” Montrose said.
“I’d like to move him back in with Jaim—more contact with the crew will do him
good—but don’t know if he’s stable enough.”

“Burn? Or the ribbon?”

“The burn isn’t that serious, but it isn’t healing as fast
as it should. It’s the Kelly ribbon. I think it’s trying to change his immune
system.”

“The Eya’a say he is afraid.”

Montrose expelled his breath in a sigh. “So am I.”

o0o

Eloatri smiled at the children seated in front of her in the
dusty courtyard. The day, past its peak and drawing toward evening, was hot but
not oppressive; the shade of the huge higari tree that shaded the way-hostel
was refreshingly cool, but its vinegar/vanilla scent made her nose itch. From
the hostel came the quiet hum of the conditioners, cooling the interior, and
the faint bleeping of a console.

The children were quiet. Some were standing, most seated.
Many of these had imitated her posture, assuming the ancient lotus position
with the effortless flexibility of youth. They ranged widely in age, some as
young as seven years, others nearing adulthood. In some the spirit glowed
white-hot, in others, like banked coals—and a few, she judged, would leave
Desrien when their majority came, unable to tolerate the soul-mirroring airs of
the planet.

She began to speak. “Desrien and all its beliefs and faiths
rest in the Hand of Telos, which has five fingers.” Her hands moved in the
pattern of the
mudras
, adapted from her own tradition, that were part of
the language of the Magisterium. “These principles enfold us all, but there are
many ways to speak and hear and live them. I will share mine with those of you
who wish.”

Some of the children leaned forward, eager to hear. Others
listened politely, with the respect they had been taught was due a Phanist, the
highest rank in the Magisterium. At the back of the group stood a small,
redheaded boy, with the pale, blotched skin of an atavism, his gaze hungry with
an indefinable longing. She smiled at him and continued.

“We all encounter the numinous, a message from something
that is beyond all measurement and knowledge.” Her left hand was poised beside
her at eye level, palm-up as if supporting a water jar; her right touched the
top of her head, the center of her forehead, and the center of her chest in a
fluid movement.

“We all possess some fragment of whatever sends these
messages, however we may conceive it.” Both her hands came together vertically
before her eyes, cupped around a space, and then descended to her chest.

“We all live a story which has no ending we can see or
understand.” Now she brought both her hands together before her, thumbs and
middle fingers touching in a circle parallel to the ground. She transformed the
circle into the ancient symbol of infinity by bringing the fingers and thumbs
together, then rotated her right hand until its palm faced outward, thumb to
finger and finger to thumb, and folded her hands together, circle to circle.
The symbol of the projective plane, true infinity.

From beyond the group of children, the redheaded boy
watched, but his hands were busy with something she couldn’t see, hidden behind
the heads of those seated in front of him.

“We all suffer because we are attached to things that really
don’t matter.” Here she used one of the most ancient of the mudras, Turning the
Wheel of the Law.

The red-haired boy began tossing the object in the air
rhythmically; it was a small silver ball. The setting sun sparked highlights
off of it, small splashes of glory dappling the deepening shade of the tree
overarching the courtyard. A wave of dizziness and disorientation overwhelmed
Eloatri and she fell out of the world into the Dreamtime.

o0o

The path was dull gray, wide and edgeless, suspended in an
infinite space. A golden light shone from behind her. She turned and beheld the
face of the Buddha at the beginning of the path, inhumanly calm and indwelling
with transhuman compassion, its lips curved in a smile terrible with
possibilities.

The Buddha’s eyes opened. She shriveled under his gaze. His
mouth opened on a soundless resonance as the Word resounded throughout the
Wheel of Time and a slow procession of figures came forth, all dressed in the
finery of the High Douloi. Among them she saw the tall figure of the High
Phanist, his face enshadowed in his cowl. There was the sound of weeping, and a
blow against her heart.

o0o

Eloatri opened her eyes, staring without comprehension for a
moment at the field of purple and yellow that slowly resolved into the dense
canopy of the higari tree. Through its branches glimmered a star.

An anxious face bent over her, an elderly man with a green
band around his forehead: a healer.

“Are you returned, bodhisattva?”

She levered herself up on one elbow, feeling light-headed,
and looked around. Most of the children were gone; a few still stood at some
distance, looking worried. A small group of adults stood to one side, less
worry in their faces than respectful waiting.

“Yes.” She sat up as the dizziness passed. The redheaded boy
was not among the remaining children. She felt his loss. His spirit had glowed
brighter than his hair.

“The redheaded boy,” she said. “With the pale skin. Where is
he?”

The healer hesitated, puzzlement lengthening his face.

“The one who was standing at the back of the group, playing
with a silver ball.”

The healer sighed, apparently considering his words, before
replying. ‘There is no redheaded boy in this village.”

From his seat at the senior table, Lieutenant Commander
Mdeino ban-Nilotis could see most of the junior officers bridge wardroom—not
surprising, given that he topped most on
Grozniy
by a head. That didn’t
help him see into the little alcoves that ensigns tended to hide in to avoid
catching extra duty. But right now, an hour before watch change, the
compartment zinged with nervous energy and he was sure those alcoves were
empty.

Nilotis was better than most of his rank at the peripheral
people-watching required of officers. He’d had to be, given that the heritage
of the
bomas
of Nyangathanka had given him not only a elongated
build but flaming red hair and night black skin. One did not overlook Mdeino
ban-Nilotis in most company, no matter how much he might wish you to.

He needed every bit of that talent right now. The next watch
would see the battlecruiser
Grozniy’s
emergence back into the Thousand
Suns after seven months out-octant. The most animated conversations in the
wardroom—those in which hands shaped air and lips shouted laughter—surely
involved boasts and speculations about the coming liberty in Wolakota System,
famous—or notorious—for its hospitality to Naval personnel.

Other colloquies were more sober, though no less intense, as
revealed by the set of shoulders here, and fingers stiffly tapping the table
over there. Beyond Wolakota, a few weeks further into Rouge Nord octant, lay
the end of their tour of duty and the further definition of career
trajectories: the summing up of rank points gained or lost, new assignments,
new ships, new captains.

And then there were the junior officers Captain Ng was
rotating into the alpha crew for the first time this next watch, the most
senior of whom sat across the table from Nilotis right now.

Nilotis grinned at Lieutenant Rom-Sanchez, who was picking
at his food. “Gee-flutters, Sergei?”

Rom-Sanchez dropped his fork on his plate and pushed his
food away. Like the rest of his body, his hands were lean and quick-moving.
Next to him Lieutenant Denil Methuen chuckled in a light baritone. “He’d rather
be back in the lock of that bubbloid.”

Rom-Sanchez was spared the necessity of a reply as
Lieutenant Tang dropped into the seat next to Nilotis. “I can never resist a
look of misery,” she said brightly, her straight black hair swinging about her
ears, a couple of centimeters past regulation. “Especially on the face of the
most junior lieutenant in the wardroom an hour before his appointment with
destiny.”

“Thanks, Mabel,” Rom-Sanchez muttered. “You’re such a
comfort.”

“Anytime, Sergei. Just remember, all those Rifters could
have done was kill you. Hero.”

Nilotis laughed. “That’s enough of that. Denil and I have
had sufficient time to get his head back to normal size since the Captain’s
momentary lapse in judgment.” He canted a look at the new lieutenant’s tabs
Rom-Sanchez was trying not to finger.

“It’s our duty.” Methuen nodded soberly. “We have the ship’s
reputation to think of.”

Everyone laughed, but Nilotis noted how forced Rom-Sanchez’s
was, and dropped the teasing. “Sergei. Look at it this way. Giving you tactical
on the alpha crew is the captain’s way of underscoring your success at Smyrna.
As your last station on this tour, it will look good on your record, especially
since it’s not for just any emergence, but our triumphant return to
civilization.”

Rom-Sanchez snorted at the mockery in the last phrase, but
shook his head doubtfully.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” said Methuen. “Wolakota’s
a liberty port, not an out-octant hellhole like Smyrna or Breakpoint.
Tactical’s a sinecure on an emergence like this: Captain’s actually going easy
on you.”

“Right.” Nilotis tipped his chin towards a short,
powerfully-built lieutenant watching two other officers playing L-4 Phalanx,
the Tenno version forbidden in tournament play but popular throughout the Navy
for both training and entertainment. “Mzinga, there, he’s on Nav—always
possible to screw up at that station, no matter where we come out.”

Rom-Sanchez glanced in that direction, and his brows
contracted in a quick frown. Nilotis realized that Rom-Sanchez wasn’t paying
any attention to Mzinga. His attention was on the console, specifically the
Tenno evolution one of the players was attempting.

Then Rom-Sanchez shook his head and turned back again.
“Yeah, but Mzinga’s been alpha before.”

“He had a first time, too. We all did, at least on
Grozniy
.
Lot of ships you can’t say that about.”

Rom-Sanchez grimaced but said nothing. As far as Nilotis knew,
the younger officer was largely apolitical, although it was hard to tell
whether that was innate or the regrettably necessary discretion practiced by
Highdwellers like him in a Navy increasingly dominated by the Aerenarch
Semion’s Downsider connections.
Well, we don’t have to worry about that with
Margot Ng at the helm, even if it does mean we spend most of our time
out-octant.

As if to belie his words, the wardroom hatch slid open, and
Nilotis didn’t need to look up to know who had just entered the compartment.
The sudden bubble of quiet and the wariness of the two young lieutenants told
him it had to be Lieutenant Commander Eisel ban-Tessler.

“Uh, oh,” said Tang under her breath. “Stuffcrotch has that
brass-polishing look of his, and I’m on my tween watch, which means ‘available
for scut work’ as far as he’s concerned.”

Accurate as the epithet was, Nilotis had to uphold the
respect for rank that made Naval hierarchy work smoothly, and he glanced Tang’s
way.

She flushed. “Tell you what, Sergei, why don’t you take
another shot at convincing me that Warrigal’s L-5 Phalanx doesn’t rot your
brain?” Her gaze flickered to Nilotis. “Lieutenant Commander Tessler won’t
bother us there.”

Nilotis suppressed a smile. He’d heard the faint emphasis on
Tessler’s rank and name. Tang was always trying for the lower orbit, trying to
keep ahead, which tended to cost her rank points that her ability would
otherwise garner.

“How about you, Denil?” Tang turned his way.

The other lieutenant shook his head theatrically. “Brrrr! No
way I’m letting that wire-dream blunge into my head—that would be all I need,
transposing her impossible Tenno into the middle of a real fire fight.”

“Who’s going to be looking at the screen?” replied Tang.
“Not me. I like watching the players sweat.”