Foreigner - Explorer. Part 8

Well, Bren wrote to Toby, in a letter that couldn't possibly be transmitted until they were within reach of docking at their home station, at mission end. Well, brother, the advis.e.m.e.nt from above claims they have seen some sign the s.h.i.+p is nearing exit, whatever they know up there Well, brother, the advis.e.m.e.nt from above claims they have seen some sign the s.h.i.+p is nearing exit, whatever they know up there.

If you're reading this, it worked. And it's about the um-teenth day, and I'm tired of this muzziness.

Tired and a lot scared at this point. I can't string two thoughts together. I tape them in place, laboriously, or they slide off and get confused.

I think about you a lot. I hope everything's going well for you. I think about you and Jill and the kids, with all kinds of regrets for chances not taken; and of course there aren't any answers, but I can't survive out here thinking about things that could go wrong back home. I have to hope that you're out on that boat of yours enjoying the suns.h.i.+ne. And that those kids of yours are getting along. And that Jill's all right.

He didn't write a great deal about Jill and the kids, not knowing what sort of sore spot that might be by the time he returned. He'd left Toby in a mess, their mother in hospital, Toby's wife Jill having walked out in despair of Toby's ever living his own life, the kids increasingly upset and acting out, in the way of distressed and confused young folk. He wasn't utterly to blame for Toby's situation-but he regretted it. He wished he'd seen it coming earlier. He wished, with all his diplomacy, he'd found a way years ago to talk Toby out of responding to every alarm their mother raised-or that he could have talked their mother, far less likely, out of her campaign to get him out of his job and Toby back from the end of the island he'd moved to.

Their mother was one of those women who defined herself by her children. And who consequently cannibalized their growing lives until, ultimately, the campaign drove the family apart.

He patched nations together. He made warlike lords of another species form sensible a.s.sociations and refrain from a.s.sa.s.sinating each other. And he hadn't been able to impose a sense of reality on his own mother. That failure grieved him, his grief made him angry, and his anger made him feel very guilty when he thought of how he'd left the world, without that last visit that might have paid for so much-that would have turned out so opportune in his mother's life.

No, dammit. There was was no final gesture with someone who was only interested in the next maneuver, the ultimate stra-tegem, the plan that would, against all logic, work, and get her sons home-no matter what her sons wanted or needed. If he'd gotten there, she'd have taken it for vindication. no final gesture with someone who was only interested in the next maneuver, the ultimate stra-tegem, the plan that would, against all logic, work, and get her sons home-no matter what her sons wanted or needed. If he'd gotten there, she'd have taken it for vindication.

Toby, unfortunately, was still in the middle of it all. Toby had still been trying to figure it all out. And even if their mother had pa.s.sed-as she might have-Toby would still be struggling to figure out all out.

Well, what are we up to! he wrote to Toby. A lot of things that I'll tell you when I get there, because I can't write them down, the usual reasons. And today I tell you I'd really like that fis.h.i.+ng trip. Jase would be absolutely delighted with an invitation from you. He's done so much. He's existing in a position he doesn't think he's able to hold. He even supervised this last s.h.i.+p-move. He does a thousand things Sabin would have to do if he wasn't here. I think he's why she's sane A lot of things that I'll tell you when I get there, because I can't write them down, the usual reasons. And today I tell you I'd really like that fis.h.i.+ng trip. Jase would be absolutely delighted with an invitation from you. He's done so much. He's existing in a position he doesn't think he's able to hold. He even supervised this last s.h.i.+p-move. He does a thousand things Sabin would have to do if he wasn't here. I think he's why she's sane.

But besides that, there remain some few questions we'd like Sabin to dig out of files, questions we've asked. I wonder sometimes if maybe she's putting more operations on Jase's back because she really is doing something-or thinking about those answers. Maybe she's found something she didn't expect in those records and she's considering her options. I hope. I don't know.

Remind me to tell you about exploding cars when I get back. For the future aiji's reputation I don't want that one in print either.

When we last folded s.p.a.ce I thought about Mt. Adams and the slope that winter-remember the race! Remember when I went off the ledge and through the thicket and lost my new cap and goggles!

I remember hot tea and honey in the cabin that night and us making castles out of the embers in the fireplace. And I'd turned my ankle going off the cliff and it swelled up but I wasn't telling Mum and I went on the slope the next day, too.

We tried to teach mum to ski, remember, but she said if she wanted to fall down on ice there was a patch in front of the cabin that didn't involve long cold hikes.

It was an exact quote, and one she'd stuck to. But she'd brought them to the cabin-well, brought them up to the snow lodge ever since the time he'd lost himself in the woods and scared everyone, so she'd changed vacation spots. And she hadn't liked the ski slopes, either, and had been sure he was going to fall into some ravine and die of a broken leg. Their mother was full of contradictions.

He was sure there was an essential key in that set of facts somewhere, a means to understand her, and consequently to understand himself and Toby, if he knew how to lay hands on it. But no thought during s.h.i.+p-transit was entirely reliable.

was thinking about you and the boat today. You know, in his office up on the bridge, Jase has just one personal item-that photo of him and the fish. Clearly he thinks about getting through this alive and getting that chance to come down- maybe for good, he says, though between you and me, I think he'd get to missing life on the s.h.i.+p, too. He has a place here. And there. I know he remembers you and the boat.

I have learned a few things in the last few days. I'll have to tell you when I get there. But then this letter and I will get there pretty much together, so you'll at least have a chance to ask me first hand.

Here's hoping, at least.

He had another running letter, this one to Tabini; and to that one, too, he appended a note: Aiji-ma, we have moved the s.h.i.+p on toward the station. Your grandmother has taken to her cabin as is her habit during these uncomfortable transitions. Your son is taking advantage of the opportunity to undertake new experiments, not all of which have predictable outcomes, but he is learning and growing in discretion. We fill our hours with plans and projections and take a certain pleasure in his inventions and discoveries.

Dared one think Tabini would understand? This was the boy who'd ridden a mechieta across wet cement.

One believes you will approve, aiji-ma.

Concerning Sabin, about the missing files, he withheld statement. If the letter ever got to Tabini, all their problems would have been solved-one way and another. He damaged no reputations, created no suspicions that might later have to be dealt with.

He held misgivings at arms' length. Viewed suspicion with suspicion, in the curiously muzzy way of this place. He waited.

Besides his letter writing, he took daily walks, around and around the section. He worked out in their makes.h.i.+ft gymnasium. At times the suspension of result and the lack of outcome in their long voyage simply pa.s.sed endurance, and he pulled squats and sit-ups until he collapsed in a sweating, sweats.h.i.+rted heap.

He had nothing like Jago's strength, let alone Banichi's, but he'd certainly worked off all the rich desserts and sedentary evenings of the last ten years during this voyage. He no longer rated himself sharp enough to downhill Mt. Adams, but he figured if he fell in the attempt, he'd at least bounce several times before he broke something.

And, like the transcript-translation and the two letters which had now become individual volumes, exercise filled the hours, mindless and cathartic. Unlike the transcript and the letter-writing, it didn't force him to think of dire possibilities or to fret about records on which he could spend useful time, if he could only get them.

He resurrected old card games out of the Archive and translated those for his staff, with cards made of doc.u.ment folders. Whist became a favorite.

Cajeiri, deserted to his own young devices, built paper planes and flew them in the long main corridor, where they took unpredictible courses. Cajeiri said the strangeness of the journey made them fly in unpredictible ways. It seemed a fair experiment and a curious notion, so Bren made a few of his own, and greatly amused the dowager's staff.

Their designs were dubious in the flow of air from the vents. The properties of airplanes in hypers.p.a.ce remained an elusive question. They were at least soft-landing, and the walls were safe.

And there was the human Archive for entertainment, such of it as they still carried aboard. The servant staff a.s.sembled with simple refreshments and held group viewings in the servants' domain, occasionally of solemn atevi machimi, but often enough of old movies from the human Archive. Horses had long since become a sensation, in whatever era. Elephants and tigers were particularly popular, and evoked wonder. The Jungle Book The Jungle Book re-ran multiple times on its premiere evening. "Play it again," the staff requested Bindanda, who ran the machine, and on subsequent evenings, if the other selections seemed less favorable, they ran and reran the favorite. re-ran multiple times on its premiere evening. "Play it again," the staff requested Bindanda, who ran the machine, and on subsequent evenings, if the other selections seemed less favorable, they ran and reran the favorite.

On a particular evening of the watch, Bren pa.s.sed the dining hall to hear loud cheers go up. He wondered whether there was a new sensation to surpa.s.s even The Jungle Book The Jungle Book.

He looked in. The a.s.sembled audience was, indeed, not just the servant staff. Banichi and Jago attended. He saw Cenedi and the dowager's staff, and Cajeiri, his young face transfigured by the silver light of the screen-of course, Cajeiri had inveigled his way in.

A black and white, the offering was-odd, in itself. Color was usually the preference. As he stood in the doorway, a scaled monster stepped on the ruin of a building. Humans darted this way and that in patterns that atevi would search in vain for signs of a.s.sociation.

Men in antique uniforms fired large guns at the beast, which slogged on, to atevi cheers and laughter.

Hamlet, atevi had appreciated and applauded, when he'd brought a modern tape to the mainland... appreciated it, but felt cheated by ambiguities in the ending. They'd been puzzled by Romeo and Juliet Romeo and Juliet, but were both horrified and gratified by Oedipus Oedipus, which they conceded had a fine ending, once he explained it.

Now...

A building went flat.

The great Archive. The unseen dramas, manifestation of the collected human wisdom, the possibility of every digital blip the storage had carried on its way to build an outpost of human civilization. And this fuzzy black and white delighted the audience.

Laughter. A light young voice among the rest, the future aiji.

He couldn't begin to explain this story. He considered going in, tucking himself in among the rest, trying to figure the nature of the tape-but he'd likely disturb the staff, who were obviously understanding the story quite well without him-or at least finding amus.e.m.e.nt in it. He drifted on to his own quarters and ran through the Archive indices for himself, looking for entertainment, for diversion, for edification-and finding absolutely nothing in the entire body of work of the human species that appealed to him this evening.

Which somehow told him it wasn't really a tape he wanted.

What he wanted wanted was to be absorbed and equal in the company out there, watching a mythical beast flatten buildings. was to be absorbed and equal in the company out there, watching a mythical beast flatten buildings.

What he most wanted wanted was to sit surrounded by congeniality and supplied with something munchable and something potable, having a good time-but the staff, even including Banichi and Jago, could only do that when they thought they had a moment off, and if he showed up, it could only make them ask themselves who was minding the things that had to be minded. was to sit surrounded by congeniality and supplied with something munchable and something potable, having a good time-but the staff, even including Banichi and Jago, could only do that when they thought they had a moment off, and if he showed up, it could only make them ask themselves who was minding the things that had to be minded.

And they would get up and go see if there was anything he needed.

He was feeling human this evening. He was feeling human, strange, and somewhat melancholy.

So let them relax, he said to himself. Staff worked hard enough to a.s.sure his relaxation: let them have their own enjoyment without his crises of ident.i.ty and visions of an uncertain outcome.

And if Cenedi included the aiji's heir in the security staff's dubious amus.e.m.e.nts, Cenedi judged it was probably good for the boy. He himself sat at his desk solo, and played computer solitaire, in complete confidence that if he should ask, tea would arrive. But he chose, again, not to disturb staff. He was human. He was Mospheiran. He could very easily go to the galley and make his own tea. He thought he could find a pan and the tea-caddy... but he hadn't the energy or the will to attend his own needs. He felt sorry for himself in the numb, dull-as-a-rock way the transition let anybody feel anything.

And he kept losing the games, which in itself was a good barometer of his mood and his muddle-headedness with the basic numbers of his situation.

Nearing the end of this long voyage, and no information, when he blackly suspected Sabin had by now seen it, formed a conclusion, and denied it to him.

He was nearing the point at which his ideas had to work-if he had any; which he wouldn't, until he got a view of the situation at their exit.

G.o.d, he hated hated improvisation. The older he got, the more he distrusted gut instinct and initial impressions-and he used his instincts, or he had used them, and they'd worked, but they'd worked with people he knew, and often on blind luck- improvisation. The older he got, the more he distrusted gut instinct and initial impressions-and he used his instincts, or he had used them, and they'd worked, but they'd worked with people he knew, and often on blind luck-baji-naji, atevi would insist: actions in good awareness of the transitory numbers of a situation flowed with with a situation, and luck and chance themselves flowed along discernable channels. One only had to understand the numbers to ride the current and improve one's luck in moments of change. a situation, and luck and chance themselves flowed along discernable channels. One only had to understand the numbers to ride the current and improve one's luck in moments of change.

But one had to know the numbers. And he didn't. The s.h.i.+p-folk were more alien to planet-bound humans than atevi were-while s.h.i.+p-folk had queasily found atevi easier to deal with than they found Mospheirans. And n.o.body, not even Jase, understood the Pilots' Guild-or the senior captain.

He wanted Jase to rush down to five-deck right about now with a handful of log records a.s.suring him there was a quick, even brilliant answer to what Ramirez had agreed to with the Guild, and it was all fine, but that scenario wasn't going to happen. By now, he understood the dowager locking herself in her cabin and refusing to come out.

Fragile, that was what he was feeling. Fragile and entirely in the dark.

Stupidity might help. The simple disinclination to ask what came next.

As it was, his mirror and his computer and his steadily lengthening letters home asked him that question, every morning and every evening of their arbitrary, diversion-filled days.

On a certain morning Bren opened his door, bound for breakfast, and a motorized car whizzed noisily past his foot, destination right, origin left.

He looked left, at the future lord of a planet on his knees, control unit in both hands, looking entirely sheepish.

"I'm testing new wheels," Cajeiri explained, and added in frustration: "They aren't working right. But one thinks it's the s.h.i.+p moving."

"It may well be," Bren said numbly. "Or not."

Cajeiri scrambled up and chased down the corridor after his car, where it had swerved and stalled against the inner wall.

"May one go ask Gin-aiji's staff, nandi, about the wheels?"

Oh, now one knew why the aiji-to-be raced his car past authority's door.

"If Cenedi agrees." One suspected Cenedi had just said no to the young wretch. And that diversion was in order. "My breakfast is likely waiting... a simple one, aiji-meni." One never, except through staff, invited invited a person of higher status to share a meal. One could, however, suggest that breakfast was available at a whim. "I'm sure Bindanda could manage another place." a person of higher status to share a meal. One could, however, suggest that breakfast was available at a whim. "I'm sure Bindanda could manage another place."

"I already had breakfast," Cajeiri said. And confessed the ultimate catastrophe. "And I'm bored bored, Bren-nandi."

"Well, there you have the dreadful truth about adventures, aiji-meni. A great deal of adventures is being bored, or scared, or cold, or wet, or not having breakfast or or information on schedule. But adventures often improve in the telling." information on schedule. But adventures often improve in the telling."

Cajeiri belatedly saw he was being joked with. And took it with an expression very much his father's when things didn't go well-not angry, more bewildered at the universe's temerity in trifling with his wishes. And next came, unmistakably, great-grandmother's tone.

"Well, I detest detest boredom, Bren-nandi. I boredom, Bren-nandi. I detest detest it. I brought my own player, and I want tapes, and nadi Cenedi says I have to have your permission to have them." it. I brought my own player, and I want tapes, and nadi Cenedi says I have to have your permission to have them."

"That's because it's the human Archive, nandi-meni, and what's human is very different, and some of it confuses even humans who aren't ten yet."

"I know. But I'm very very intelligent." intelligent."

"Well, one supposes one could go back to the computer and find something. If the young aiji were interested, he might watch." One didn't ask an aiji under one's roof, either. One suggested there might be something of interest under that roof and the great lord went, if he wished.

Cajeiri wished. He all but tumbled over himself in longing to be somewhere new and entertaining, in a generally off-limits cabin where he hadn't yet put a dent in something or scratched something or met local disapproval.

So, well, with Bindanda's forgiveness and given the staff's devious ways of knowing where he was, the lord of the province of the heavens decided breakfast could wait a few moments.

"The nearest chair is comfortable," Bren said, sitting down at his desk, and opening up his computer. "Tapes, tapes, tapes."

"Cenedi doesn't have to know," the young rascal suggested. "I want the war war ones." ones."

"Oh, but Cenedi is extremely good at finding out, aiji-meni, and I am Bren-nandi Bren-nandi, and dare I say that the young aiji's latest statement held an unfortunate two?"

"Bren-nandi." Cajeiri was occasionally experimenting in the adult language. "And it was not two, Bren-nandi."

"Mode of offer, young aiji, was the implied infelicity of two, since though I trust you were speaking regarding my action, you nevertheless omitted my courtesy." He could be quite coldly didactic when his fingers were on his keyboard. But one didn't dwell on an aiji's failures. He called a list of film t.i.tles to his display. "Ha."

And sifted them for cla.s.sics as Cajeiri leaned forward, looking... as if Cajeiri could even read the list.

"Ahh," Bren said as enigmatically as possible.

"Where?" Cajeiri asked sharply, and immediately, under threat of no tapes, remembered the courtesy form: "What does one find in this list, nandi?"

Another sort through the list. Children's cla.s.sics. One owed the aiji a proper response for his newly-discovered courtesy. "The very best of stories, aiji-meni." He considered Tom Sawyer Tom Sawyer and and Connecticut Yankee Connecticut Yankee-no, problematic in approach to authority. And one had no wish to see Cajeiri discover practical jokes or or paintbrushes. paintbrushes. Robin Hood Robin Hood... no, not good: not only defying authority, but promoting theft.

"Ha." The Three Musketeers The Three Musketeers. Satisfying to most atevi principles: the support of an aiji's wife by loyal security personnel, the downfall of base conspirators.

The education of a young man with more ideas than experience.

He copied it and gave the lad the disk. "Your player will handle this, aiji-meni. One believes the piece is even in color. One is advised to set the switch to second position."

"Thank you, Bren-nandi!"

"A pleasure, young aiji." G.o.d, he'd forgotten the story himself. And remembered it, once his mind was on it. The whole notion of youthful derring-do came like a transfusion. Oxygen to the blood.

Dared he even think age came on with a little stiffening of the backbone, a little too much propriety, a few too many situations that numbed the nerves?

"Perhaps it would suit the young aiji for me to examine that racing car, after all," he said. "After breakfast, that is, which the young aiji might still attend."

Cajeiri happily changed his mind.

And handed the car to him under the table, in a hiatus of service. He had a look at the wheels. And in lieu of a consultation of Gin's engineers, he proposed an after-breakfast investigation of available possibilities, which ended up providing bits of plastic tubing to stand the wobbly wheels off from the sides.

Which was how, in this transit between places in the depths of s.p.a.ce, the dowager's security happened to find the lord of the heavens down on his knees at one end of the corridor with the future aiji similarly posed down by the galley.

And that was how the dowager's security ended up, with Banichi and Jago, designing a remote-controlled car whose wheels did not wobble. One understood there were secret bets with Gin's staff. And a proposed race date.

The staff's new pa.s.sion became Alexandre Dumas, books and tapes alike, even the dowager requesting a copy, via written message. Bren began reading the works himself, amid the growing tendrils of Sandra Johnson's plants, which now formed a green and white curtain from their hanging baskets, and writing daily to his brother.

Banichi and Jago have a chess match going, was one entry. The staff is laying bets The staff is laying bets.

And at the resolution: Jago is trying not to be pleased with herself; Banichi is trying not to notice. They've started another game Jago is trying not to be pleased with herself; Banichi is trying not to notice. They've started another game.

I think there was a car race. And I don't think we won. I haven't heard a thing, but Banichi is building a small remote control device of his own, and bets on that are secret, but not that secret.

Jase turned up at one lunch, Jase's midnight snack, and for an hour they sat and discussed nothing in particular-the merits of cork fis.h.i.+ng and the currents off Mospheira's south sh.o.r.e-whether or not Crescent Island development had ever taken off and whether a small yacht dared try the southern sea.