Oh, yes, count on it: each and every one of the lords of the west would have a grand plan how to avoid chaos in the south. Each and every plan would favor their own interests—altruism did not run strong outside man’chi—but atevi also had their ways of coming to a workable arrangement, pragmatic in the extreme, and faster-moving than the Mospheiran legislature on its best behavior.
The lords already knew what had to be done to establish a lasting order: put power back in the hands of a non-regional authority, a clan with no particular regional axe to grind, which was exactly the position the Ragi atevi had satisfied, in the person of Tabini-aiji, wherever he was—or in the person of his heir or a regent for that heir. It was Tabini’s line that had been able to build the aishidi’tat. It was only Tabini’s line that could hold its neutrality in regional disputes—or at least, convince the participants of that neutrality.
He felt better, thinking of that. Tabini, for one thing, would not have had every hand against him, only a critical few. He would have had support. He likely still had.
He called Banichi and Jago, with Tano and Algini, into proximity, to trade what they had gotten from Cenedi for what he had gotten from the dowager, and thereby to point up certain lords as likely and certain others as dubious in their usefulness.
“Most of all,” he said, “and key to the situation in the central provinces, we need to ascertain what position the Atageini have taken.”
“Not forgetting we must also arrange something to protect Atageini interests, and Lord Geigi’s province in the west, nandi,” Banichi said. “They will have been under attack already.”
“And to ascertain the position of the aiji-dowager’s neighbors to the east,” Jago added.
Ilisidi’s neighbors, to the far east, were a band of hidebound conservatives who had been dubious enough they had any reasonable place in the aishidi’tat in the first place, and who had acquiesced to it because Ilisidi had dragged them into it and linked their interests to her influence in the government.
“They may have grown doubtful and restive in her absence, nadiin-ji,” he said. “But she is back, now. They may need to be informed of that fact. Perhaps convinced of it.”
“One thinks,” Tano began to say. But the steward had just appeared from the cockpit.
“Nandiin,” that person said, “we are entering the rough part of our trip. Kindly secure all items and take safety measures.”
Belt in, that meant, and get the computer safely into the under-seat locker. They were going in.
Their conference broke up. Jago came to sit by him, a comfort in a landing process he truly, truly dreaded.
And one he only wished had become routine.
They were about to come in over the western sea, which meant driving through the coastal weather systems, over a very worrisome central mountain range, itself a breeder of weather, to a landing at a short municipal airport on the opposite coast of Mospheira, an airport the crew had never seen before except in maps. Which was twenty feet shorter than it was supposed to be.
“Jago-ji, a message for the pilots. Remind them courteously that the runway is shorter than at Shejidan.” He gave her the precise measurement in atevi reckoning, and watched as she sailed forward and delivered the warning.
“They have the chart, Bren-ji,” Jago said, settling back in beside him. “The numbers agree.”
“Very good, very good, nadi-ji.” He briefly touched her hand, swore he was not going to grip it, white-knuckling the whole way down. He was going to relax.
Engines kicked.
God, God, God, he hated descent.
Chapter 5
Tires squealed. Bren thought about that unapproved twenty feet of runway and clung, white-knuckled, to the armrest, Jago beside him. He did not grip her arm. He refused to. They’d made it over the mountains. They couldn’t crack up now.
Big reverse thrust. Was that planned? Bren held his breath. Even Jago had put a hand to the seat in front of her, and imposed an arm between his face and the next row.
“The short runway,” he breathed, feeling their speed considerably slowed, seeing, on the monitor above the baji-naji emblem, that unlikeliest of sights, the skyline of Jackson beyond the end of the runway.
That skyline. His family. Obligations unsatisfied. Old enemies. The Heritage Party. Gaylord Hanks. Deana.
His mother. His brother, Toby. He hadn’t transmitted the letters. He had them both on his computer.
They reached a stop, still on the runway, but he couldn’t see pavement. He dared draw a whole breath.
“We have arrived,” the pilot said from the cockpit. “Nand’ paidhi, we have need of translation.”
They needed him. Someone needed him. The pilots spoke Mosphei’ enough for routine problems, and had gotten down by means of computers talking to computers, but he immediately had a critical job to do, and he ought to be in the cockpit, if he could get his shaking knees to bear his weight. It felt as if he’d eaten a very heavy meal, or suddenly gained twenty pounds—he probably had gained twenty pounds, being back on Earth. He saw that flat horizon on the screen, and it looked strange to him, after two years. Every horizon was going to go the other way to his eye, possibly disturbing his balance. That, he suddenly realized, was what had felt so strange about the Jackson skyline. It wasn’t a picture on his computer screen. It was real. His body knew it was.
He levered himself out of the seat, walked—walked down the aisle toward the baji-naji emblem, past his fellow passengers gathering their personal items, passed through the cockpit door.
Lofty windshields showed the whole flat earth in front of the shuttle’s nose. He shied from the sight, took an offered com plug from the copilot, stuck it in his ear—it both received, off the bones of his skull, and transmitted, and he heard the accents of his own homeland talking to them, advising them of routine details, the approach of a tow truck, the query whether they’d need any special assistance. They would have to sit still in a period of routine cool-down. Hazmat personnel would approach, going over them with instruments. Mospheira wished them a welcome in, the first shuttle landing in history.
He relayed. He answered. The shivers attacked him and slowly dissipated in the scurry of various agencies assisting and trying to get the Jackson main runway clear of their presence, because while they sat cooling down, planes were in a holding pattern over Bretano and Sutherland, maybe not even knowing the reason they’d been held up.
He settled down to wait with the crew, translated arrangements for the tow, and balanced on an armrest as the tow moved them off the runway onto a taxiway. Then there were arrangements for the ladder to move in, and advisement a bus would pick them up.
But Mospheiran military security cut in with their own arrangements, and an advisement that the President was waiting for them.
Shawn? Bren found his heart beating harder—anticipation, now, anticipation of a meeting he hadn’t had in years with a man he’d used to deal with, oh, three and four times a day when they’d both been in the State Department.
“I do understand,” he said to them. “Please understand I have the aiji-dowager with me, with her own security, and her grandchild of eight years, never mind he’s as tall as I am, who’s very tired and very stressed and should be given allowances. I’ll inform them as I’m informing you, weapons will be in evidence on both sides, but peaceful intent is understood and expected, in all good will. Please don’t anyone encroach on the dowager’s space, and particularly understand you are dealing with a young boy, no matter how tall he is, and with very protective security. Our security likewise will maintain watch over our baggage. Expect this.”