“Considering rank of these visitors—who do you think they are? What do they want?”
“I have asked myself that. I have wondered whether their statement they would come was ever more than a courtesy. I have asked myself what they would want if they did come. Sending even one ship such a long distance is a massive investment of resources. My thinking, one regrets to say, was only guesswork then, and it is no better now. But our last encounter left them with two questions which, in their place, I would wish to know. First—were we truthful in our representations to them that our two species really live at peace here? And second—do we pose any threat to them and have we deceived them to hide that? One does not know how to read their nature. We do know they used weapons against an unarmed station, but it seems, by all I can learn, that they were provoked by the ship’s intrusion into their space. We know that they crippled the station instead of destroying it. They then sat and waited for a response. I think they wanted to find out what we would do.”
“A very dark supposition indeed.”
“I put nothing off the chart where they are concerned, aiji-ma. And I do not conceal my worry. Understand that they could track the ship going and coming as clearly as a trail through meadow grass. There was no pretending our course to reach Reunion had been other than it was. Ship-folk knew there was a risk of being tracked, but their determination to remove records and find out what had happened there overrode their fear. I do not think they remotely expected a kyo presence after such a passage of time, nor did they detect it . . . and one suspects they were looking for it and taking precautions. One has learned from this, at least, to believe the kyo have abilities the ship-folk did not expect—but that places their actions beyond predictability. I cannot even say that the ship we now detect has not been there for this entire last year. The kyo lay hidden at Reunion for more than ten years. Is it curiosity and inquiry? Or is it a hunter’s patience? I do not understand the technology. I cannot swear to understand the character of those I met. They seemed reasonable individuals and they seemed to acknowledge personal indebtedness, in terms of the one we rescued from captivity on Reunion Station. On that very scant foundation, aiji-ma, I have laid everything. Certainly we did not invite them to come. We were presented the proposition they would visit us. Asking them not to come seemed more dangerous than agreeing.”
Tabini nodded somberly. “We do not encourage landing. One ship brought us humans, and changed the world. We scarcely manage with that association. We do not want another.”
“One understands. One entirely understands, aiji-ma, and I shall discourage that, but I think their physical discomfort in our environment is also a discouragement to any landing. If one can venture a guess about their purpose and their actions, I think they will look to see how we live down here, how advanced we are, how warlike we are, how we build and what we do. They have seen only one human ship. They have not seen its weaponry—which is more the use of tools the ship has for other purposes, tools which can be formidable as weapons. The kyo may have no sure knowledge that Phoenix is our only ship, and for various reasons I do not wish even now to make that clear to them. They may also wonder if we have any contact or association with their enemies.”
“We certainly do not wish to join their wars.”
“I shall make that clear, too.”
“And I forbid foolish risks up there—to my son, to my grandmother, or to you. If we lose you, paidhi, we lose our principle means of dealing with these strangers. Trust your aishid.”
“My aishid reminds me sternly of that requirement, aiji-ma.”
“If you can restrain my grandmother, it will be a wonder. My son, however, will follow orders this time. He must.”
“He will, aiji-ma.”
“I have the duty to inform my wife.”
That was not going to be a happy task.
“Assure her, aiji-ma, that we shall do everything to protect him and bring him home safely.”
“We shall support you. Whatever permissions or orders you need, we shall give.”
“I do need a document for the Port Director, nandi, giving me the power to order what I have already ordered. Dated an hour ago, if you would.”
Tabini nodded. “That you shall certainly have. Supplies, transport, any manner of thing.”
“Thank you, aiji-ma.”
“Do not stand on protocols hereafter. We have spoken. We have agreed. You have told me what you know and what hereafter you must guess. Leave informing me to your subordinates and concentrate on the details. We approve whatever things you need. Go bring us a solution, paidhi-ji.”
· · ·
Four days to do everything. Launch on the fifth.
“The word has gone to the dowager?” he asked Tano and Algini on the way next door, back to his own apartment.
“Yes,” Algini said. “We have it confirmed from Cenedi.”
Rare, in strictly normal operations, that he should get that sure a knowledge of how that information ran. But knowing Cenedi was on the case helped his stomach. If Cenedi was now engaged, the dowager was, and he was no longer running the operation solo.
The apartment doors opened. Narani and his valets waited to exchange his coat a second time, a ritual undertaken almost non-stop in his course across the foyer, and with no delay at all for courtesies or questions.
He went immediately to his office, and left the door open for emergencies. Tano and Algini lingered in that doorway, silent query. Narani arrived just behind them, present, but not intruding.
“Nadiin-ji,” Bren said to Tano and Algini, “we are settled in for a while. Do what you need to do. —Rani-ji,” he said to Narani. “Come in, please. I need to consult with you.”
There were staff decisions to make. For three and more years, he had had very good people stranded on the station, maintaining his residence there. They had Geigi’s staff and the dowager’s similarly stranded caretaker household for company. There was a large community of atevi workers.
But until recently there had been no room at all on the shuttle for any exchange of personnel even on an emergency basis, let alone small staff furloughs down to the world to visit their relatives. He had used personal privilege, gotten a few people down to the planet in answer to emergency situations, sent a few up, and he understood—Narani had reassured him of it—that the fifteen now left up there constituted a very tight association, a sort of family who did not want to be broken—nor should he reward their service by bringing staff in to take over their jobs.
Up there, he would be relying a great deal on those good people. He was sure he could rely on them. But there were a handful of personnel he was used to working with, and who were used to reading him—notably the ones who had been with them on the ship, the ones he had brought back down to the world as soon as it had become possible—and now needed back up there with him.
He sat down at his desk, and angled his chair toward Narani.
“Nandi.” Narani bowed. An old man, showing his age: Narani lately dyed his hair black—a little point of vanity—but his face had experience written deep on it, gained in some very hard places.
“Rani-ji. You may know the kyo are arriving, and I have to go up to the station.”
A little hesitation in the space he left—but not even the lift of an eyebrow. “One has understood so, nandi. And one also understands that there is a political difficulty among humans on the station.”