"He was the central figure of the war. In a way, he was the Confederacy. They could not allow surrender, not while there was still a chance. So they stopped him. In the only way they could, short of killing him."
"Tarien," she said.
"Yes. He would have had to be part of it. And some of his senior staff officers. Maybe even Tanner."
"I don’t believe it!"
"Why not?"
"I don’t know. I just don’t think they’d have done that. I don’t think they could have."
"Well. Whatever. They faked the destruction of the Corsarius. Brought it out here. And marooned Sim and the crew. They must have intended to come back. But most of the conspirators died within a few weeks. They were probably all on board the Kudasai when it was destroyed. If there were any survivors, they might have had no stomach for facing their victims. Except Tanner, maybe. However it happened, she knew what they had done, and she knew about the Wheel. She saw it; or someone else did and described it to her."
I drifted in over the shelf.
"I wonder," said Chase, "if Maurina knew?"
"We know Tanner went to see her. It would be interesting to have a copy of that conversation."
Chase murmured something I couldn’t make out, and then: "Something’s wrong here. Look at the size of the dome." It was small, far smaller than I’d realized. "That thing would never support eight people."
No. And I understood with sudden, knife-cold certainty how terribly wrong I had been, and why the Seven had no names.
My God! They’d left him here alone!
Two centuries late, I floated down through the salt air.
The wind blew clean and cold across the escarpment. No green thing grew there, and no creature made its home on that grim pile. A few boulders were strewn about, and some loose rubble. Near the edge of the promontory, several slabs stood like broken teeth. The flat-sided peak towered overhead, its walls not quite sheer. The ocean was a long way down. Like at Ilyanda.
I landed directly in front of the dome.
Damage sustained in the fight with the sea animate—a bent undercarriage and a missing skid—gave the capsule a distinct lean to the pilot’s side. I set the cameras, one on the dome, the other to track me, and I climbed out.
"It’s a lot like the two-man survival unit we have on board the Centaur," said Chase. "If it were properly stocked, he could have survived a long time. If he wanted to."
A makeshift antenna was mounted on the roof, and curtains were drawn across the windows. The sea boomed relentlessly against the base of the mountain. Even at this altitude, I Imagined I could feel spray.
"Alex." Her tone had changed. "You’d better get back up here. We’re getting visitors."
I looked up, as though it might be possible to see something. "Who?"
"Looks like a mute warship. But I’m damned if I can understand what’s going on."
"Why?"
"It’s on a rendezvous course. But the damned thing’s coming in at relativistic speed. No way it can stop here."
XXIV.
For me, sex is second I’d rather catch an enemy in the cross hairs anytime.
"I NEED A few minutes here. How much time do we have?"
"About a half hour. You can’t make it back by then anyway. But I don’t see what difference it makes. Only thing he can do is wave as he goes by. It’s going to take him several days to get turned around and come back."
"Okay." I was more interested in the shelf just then. "Keep him on the scopes."
I had no extra boots, and the sun was heating up the rock. I pulled on a pair of socks, and advanced on the dome.
It was discolored by weather, streaked in some places, faded in others. Falling rock had creased it, and earth movements had pulled it askew.
Christopher Sim’s tomb.
The shelf was so very like the one on Ilyanda, where he had suffered a death of another kind. It was not a very elegant end, on this granite slab, under the white star of the ship that had carried him safely through so much.
The door was designed to function, if need be, as an airlock. It was closed, but not sealed, and I was able to lift the latch, and pull it open. Inside, the sun filtered through four windows and a skylight to illuminate living quarters that appeared surprisingly comfortable, in contrast to the sterility of the dome’s exterior. There were two padded chairs of starship design anchored to the floor, several tables, a desk, a computer, a stand-up lamp. One of the tables was inlaid for chess. But there was no sign of the pieces.
I wondered whether Tarien had come on this long flight out from Abonai, whether there had been a last desperate clash, perhaps in this room, between the brothers! Had Tarien pleaded with him to continue the struggle? It would have been a terrible dilemma; men had so few symbols, and the hour was so desperate.
They could not permit him to sit out the battle (as Achilles had done). In the end, just before Rigel, Tarien must have felt he had no choice but to seize his brother and dismiss the crew with some contrived story. (Or perhaps an angry Christopher Sim had done that himself, before confronting Tarien.) Then the conspirators had invented the legend of the Seven, concocted the destruction of Corsarius, and, when the engagement was over, they’d brought him and his ship here.
I stood in the doorway and wondered how many years that tiny space had been his home.
He would have understood, I thought. And if, in some way, he could have learned that he’d been wrong, that Rimway had come, and Toxicon, and even Earth, he might have been consoled.
There was nothing on the computer. I thought that strange; I’d expected a final message, perhaps to his wife, perhaps to the people he had defended. But the memory banks were empty. And in time I felt the walls begin to close, and I fled the place, out onto the shelf that had defined the limits of his existence.
Chilled, I walked the perimeter, skirting the slabs at the north end, striding in the shadow of the wall, and returning along the edge of the precipice. I tried to imagine myself (as I had on the island a couple of nights before) marooned in that place, alone on that world, a thousand light years from anyone with whom I could speak. The ocean must have seemed very tempting.
Overhead, Corsarius flew. He could have seen it moving among the stars, hurtling across the skies like an errant moon every few hours.
And then I saw the inscription. He had cut a single line of letters into the rock wall, just above eye level, at one end of the shelf. They were driven deep into the limestone, hard-edged characters whose fury was clear enough (I thought), though I could not understand the language in which they’d been written:
"Chase?"
She was slow to answer. "I’m watching."
"Can we get a translation?"
"Trying. I’m not sure how to enter a visual into the computer. Give me a minute."
Greek. Sim had remained a classicist to the end.
My heart hammered against my ribs, as I contemplated what his final days, or years, must have been. How long had he endured this shelf, beneath the ecliptic of the endlessly circling link with home?
It would have been a reflexive choice, when the Tenandrome flashed its news to Fishbowl and Rimway, to keep it quiet. I could imagine the hurried meetings of high-ranking officials, already burdened with a disintegrating government. Why not? What good could come of such a revelation? And the men on the Tenandrome, themselves shaken by what they’d seen, had readily agreed.
"Alex. The computer thinks it’s classical Greek."