“I’ve studied Earth a great deal,” Adela said, “but you’re obviously much more than a simple tribesman.”
“Ah, that.” Again he laughed. There was a long, cushioned seating area that ran for ten meters on each side of the mess entrance and he indicated they should sit.
He seemed so at ease with himself, so satisfied with his life. Further, his pleasant manner was infectious, and she found herself finally letting go of the anger and frustration she had felt at the briefing.
“Many of my people are educated; many are not. It’s an individual decision. But understand something: Even those who go away from the tribe for very long periods of time return to the outback unchanged. After my graduation from the University at Canberra, I returned home and it was as if I’d never left. My belongin’s and city clothing put away, I was in the bush hunting turkey and roo with my brothers within an hour after my arrival. Even though my brothers could barely read and write, it was as if there were no differences among us in the outback. In our home.”
“I would love to see your home one day.”
He looked at her, his head cocked to one side, and nodded. “Yes. I think you’d like it.” He looked away suddenly, his features at once serious. “We have a legend that tells of those who protect us. It is said that they’re responsible for keepin’ my people whole, and that they’ll be with us in the Dream Time, to keep us as one in the time of fire. We called them the Sky Heroes.”
Adela was fascinated by his tale and motioned for him to continue.
“It is well known, even among many of my people, what will happen to the Sun—we have the broadcasts from the nets—but it is foretold that the Sky Heroes will protect our way of life.”
“Is this a…” She hesitated, not wanting to offend him. “Is this a religion, a matter of faith?”
He turned to her again, his face less serious. “For many Aborigine, yes. For others, it’s only legend and campfire stories for the young. For me?” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows where legend stops and fact begins, ay? But ask yourself somethin’: Who’s goin’ to stop the Sun from dying? Who’s goin’ to stop the great fire?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
He took one of her hands in his. The skin of his hands was rough and calloused, but his touch was warm, strong. “You are. Your scientists, your star captains, your mighty ships. Come to Earth to help us remain whole.”
Adela nodded in understanding. “We are the Sky Heroes,” she said softly, feeling not a little embarrassment. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
Again he shrugged, and released her hand. “To be honest, I needed to share it with someone. You see, many of those in my settlement—who believe the old legends—feel that I’ve gone to join the Sky Heroes, that I’ve become one of them. Most know I’m on a starship, that it’s nothin’ more than an extension of the same technology that gives us refrigerators, electric lights and communication. But the others—It’s a big responsibility for me.”
Yes, she thought. It is a very big responsibility.
Amasee Niles stood outside Kip Salera’s cabin, contemplating whether the course he was about to pursue would violate Dominion protocol. No, that wasn’t true, he reminded himself—he already knew that meeting Salera in an unofficial capacity in this manner was a breach of procedure.
Despite his best efforts, they had barely spoken since Thunder Child had left Pallatin, and on the rare occasion when they did talk directly to one another it was only with the most officious manner during meals or briefings where others were present. But with only days remaining before their rendezvous with the Imperial ship, Amasee felt the need to try to establish at least some small amount of personal rapport with the Eastland representative.
He cleared his throat, the sound echoing softly in the deserted passageways, and rapped on the door.
“It’s open, Niles,” came a muffled reply from inside. “Come in.”
The door slid open, revealing a comfortable stateroom that was—although oddly mirror-imaged—identical in both design and furnishings to his own quarters on the port side of the ship. Salera was at his desk on the far side of the room, his back to him, and made a point of ignoring Amasee as he shuffled several folders and data sticks into a zippered case. The desk was next to the bed, and Amasee could see more than a few identical folders scattered over the bedspread. The door closed behind him, and he waited patiently inside the doorway for the man to finish before speaking.
“Be with you in a moment, Niles,” he said, still without turning. Salera leaned the case against the side of the desk, then pivoted about in the chair and proceeded to gather the folders from the bed, stacking them one atop the other in a growing pile placed to one corner of the desk. He glanced up once as he reached for a folder on the side of the bed opposite him, meeting Amasee’s eyes for the first time since he’d entered. “Where are my manners? Please, be seated.” He nodded to a seating group on the other side of the stateroom and continued stacking, selecting each folder one by one in accordance with whatever order of importance he was assigning them.
“You knew it was me.” In spite of the heavy sarcasm obvious in Salera’s comment about manners—and in spite of the distrust and misgivings he felt for his Dominion counterpart—Amasee kept his own delivery light and noncommittal.
“I expected you, you know. You Westlanders are nothing if not predictable.” He finished his stacking and, picking up a tall glass from the desk, sat in the sofa across from Amasee. He took a long drink from the glass, rattling ice cubes as he lowered it, and made no offer of a similar refreshment to his guest. “Besides, you knocked on the door, instead of ringing. Your Westland farmer’s habits seem very hard to break.”
Amasee shrugged, ignoring the remark. Since becoming a Dominion representative, he had grown used to the ridicule often directed at Westland traditions. Even small customs like knocking, considered a simple act of politeness at home, seemed to delight Salera and his fellow representatives to the Joint Dominion.
“Anyway,” Salera went on, “I would have been disappointed had you not made an attempt to influence me before our meeting with the invaders.”
Amasee bristled at the word but, knowing that the Eastlander was making an obvious attempt to get under his skin, controlled his response. “I don’t like that term,” he said carefully, “any more than our respective Congresses do.”
“But then, we are not meeting in Joint Dominion, are we?” Salera finished his drink, never taking his eyes off him, and leaned back in the sofa. He hung his arm over the armrest, swirling the ice annoyingly around the bottom of the glass dangling loosely in his fingertips. “And if I prefer, in the privacy of my own room, to speak of these Imperial ‘diplomats’ as I feel they really are, then what difference does it make what words I use?” He paused a beat, then let all traces of amused sarcasm disappear as he added, “Unless, of course, you wish to declare an official inter-Congress meeting between us. If that is your intention, farmer, then our recorders should be summoned from their respective cabins, and remain present for as long as we have anything important to say to one another.” Salera sat motionless, head tilted questioningly, and waited. “Shall I call them?”
This is a waste of time, Amasee thought, and this man is a fool. The other man could read the anger on his face, he knew, and he opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and swallowed hard, forcing his anger down and carefully choosing his next words.