“Mind,” Cenedi said as they went, “these doors are likely the same as on the station: they close without mercy, in the blink of an eye, to keep all the air from rushing out into the ether of the heavens, young sir. If you see red flashing lights, stand where you are. If yellow, run breakneck for the next section and hope not to be cut in half.”
“Where do they steer the ship, nadi?” Cajeiri asked.
“Elsewhere,” Ilisidi interposed. “Where boys don’t need to be.”
“But I want to see,” Cajeiri said as they glided along.
“There may be supper,” Ilisidi said, “and who knows, Imay not wish supper tonight.”
Thatwas a threat. Cajeiri was immediately nothappy. He still stared about him, head turning at every new door, every corridor they passed, youthful jaw set and the dowager’s own glint in his eye.
Bet, too, if there was any similarity in the species, that every inquisitive bone in that young body longed for all of those emergency measures to go into effect at once—just the once, of course, just to find out.
Cajeiri had behaved admirably this far. One remembered, seeing the occasional look, that set of the jaw, that this was, in fact, Tabini’s son, and Damiri’s.
One well remembered, too, what it was like to be that young, that active, that under-informed. And on this excursion one was damned glad that no one less than the Assassin’s Guild was in charge of the boy.
They reached a new section under their official guidance: three crewmen turned out to meet them—with a small presentation of cut flowers, no less, to the lady they called Gran ‘Sidi.
“Welcome aboard,” the head of the little delegation said in passable Ragi, all solemnity.
Ilisidi took the flowers like a queen, lacking a free hand, what with the cane—drifting slightly sideways at the moment. But she snagged the ubiquitous ladder-rungs with the head of the cane and managed a little nod, which greatly gratified the delegation.
“We are here to occupy our quarters,” she said, of course in Ragi, complete cipher to the crew.
“She is pleased,” Bren translated—it was not dishonest of a translator to meet reasonable social expectations on either side, in his practical and practiced opinion. “And she expects the atevi section is close—with Captain Graham, to be sure.”
“On ahead, sir,” their escort said, “and the baggage is ahead, too, and Captain Graham’s on his way this very moment. Through here, sir, ma’am.”
Very good news. Their escort opened a side door, where Bindanda had stationed himself—welcome sight. Cenedi quietly appropriated the flowers, incongruous but not unaccustomed accouterment for security, and they continued through, into a place not only populated by their own staff, but better lit and much warmer. The ship immediately had a more auspicious feeling, despite the mud-colored walls.
Cenedi had had staff aboard for hours, going over every minute detail of their accommodations, checking for bugs as well as inconveniences, one could be sure.
And Ilisidi’s security had a camera live. As they passed the door, Bren caught the shine of an uncapped lens clipped to a uniformed, leather shoulder.
And what was thatfor? Bren asked himself in dismay. The lens certainly wasn’t uncommon, but he was sure the lens had been capped during their trip up the lifts, possibly protectively so, during the intense cold—he had no idea of its limitations. He was sure he’d have noticed otherwise.
But if they’d uncapped it, bet that lens was live and they were transmitting. Was that for security review, privately, something relayed ahead to their staff, in the new quarters?
Something sent farther away, back through the hull, to lord Geigi? He wasn’t sure they could do that. Surely not. So there was a security set-up already active within their section—someone receiving.
He was not unhappy to know they had record of the route and the button-pushes that brought them here.
But for all he knew, Cenedi’s men were making a video record for quite different reasons, a record perhaps to go out to Geigi, then to Tabini, who would be interested, to say the least.
Or—knowing Tabini—was it to go out to every household that owned a television?
Confirmation for the dowager’s political allies that she was well and alive and in charge of her own armed security, on this ship, in this mission?
Atevi couldn’t like the structure they saw—though atevi had gotten used to the concept of twos on the station. Everything in the corridors—doors, and window panels in offices, was configured by ship-culture, convenient sets of two, pairs, that anathema to the ‘counters, more than vexation to the atevi sense of design: an arrangement of space that hit the atevi nervous system with the same painful reaction nails on a chalkboard caused for humans, and worse, he understood, if one were standing in it, experiencing it in three dimensions.
But some enterprising soul had painted two pastel stripes wandering the corridor, two, branching into five, then felicitous seven, right across the green tile.
Someone had arranged a spray of brightly colored plastic balls—seven—on strands of wire, from wall to wall, like planets and moons against the mud brown of the wall paneling.
The effect was less than elegant… the sort of thing that turned up in crew lounges. But seven. It was a valiant attempt at kabiu.
And colored paint. Where had paintturned up in their baggage? It had been at a low priority in station-building, wasn’t manufactured on-station even yet: it had to be freighted up.
Had Jase had that stripe done? Had the dowager’s staff prepared for the spartan environment? Atevi couldn’thave done something as garish as the orange planets.
Staff drifted out from the offices, the dowager’s, welcome sight on both sides, and the staff who’d brought their baggage turned up from further on.
“Thank you,” Bren said to their escort, with a little bow as automatic as breathing and quite impossible in null-G. “We’ll be very comfortable here.”
“I’m to show you temperature and emergency controls, sir.”
Therewas a potentially explosive foul-up. “I’m sure you’ve shown the staff,” Bren said, drifting slightly askew—difficult to maintain formality at odd angles—“and deputized themto show security personnel, who will show me and the dowager what’s needful for us personally to do. That’s our protocol, sir. Believeme, Captain Graham will confirm it.”
Trust them, that the ship would not explode from thisdeck.
“Then is there any need of me further?” their escort asked.
“With thanks, sir,—one trusts Captain Graham is here.”
“He’s in the section, sir. He’s on his way.”
The door behind them opened at that very moment. He heard it, and when he turned, drifting, to look back, Jase wasthere.
Thank God.
“We’re just fine, then. We’ll all be fine. Thank you, yes, that’s all we need.”
“There will be nowalking about,” Ilisidi was telling Cajeiri quite firmly, in this place where, at the moment, walkingwas a euphemism, “no leaving your quarters without security escort, nadi.”
“But this is all like a house, mani-ji. Surely—”
“Nothing is sure here!” This under her breath, with a hard jerk at Cajeiri’s hand. “Hear me!” Bren tried not to notice the preface, as Ilisidi, disgusted, turned a sweetly benevolent glance toward him, and toward Jase, as Jase sailed to their side, and stopped.
Jase, in a blue uniform jacket, with the Phoenixinsignia, the closest to captain’s estate he’d yet come. The emblem looked like one of the wi’itikiin, the flying creatures of Malguri cliffs, rising from solar fires—atevi, having heard the legend, thought it very well-omened.