And had he not promised Cajeiri one day to go sailing?
They’d made plans for that trip while they were in the intervals of folded space, on the ship. Cajeiri, his young eyes shining, had said that if he could learn to handle the yacht it would show him something about big ships.
He’d laughed, then, imagining the boy’s next outrageous ambition—in those innocent days before they’d gotten home and found the world in chaos.
But they’d set it right. They’d begun to, at least. And that promise ought to be kept.
Now, with Tabini back in power, and a flood of letters from returning loyalists reporting the slow restoration of order, he did look to keep that modest promise—to the boy, and to Jase, too, for the long-postponed fishing trip. It would be good for his soul to do that. He could combine Cajeiri’s trip, maybe, with the needed courtesy call on the estate. The staff would be thrilled to host the aiji’s son—and it would be some promise he could hold out to the boy when he left the premises.
“Nadi,” he wrote to the old man who cared for his estate, “please express my gratitude to the staff, and accept my most earnest sentimentsc”
He plowed through more messages, mostly from department heads, felicitations on his survival, reports on where the scattered directors of agencies had fled, measures they had taken for the security of their staffs, occasional, probably very sincere apologies for having worked with the new administration— assurances they had only been waiting for reversion back to legitimate authority, and preventing damage to equipment or records by remaining at their posts.
“The paidhi-aiji is extremely gratified by your message,” he wrote to each, with suitable variations for circumstance, and filed the details away in memory.
He had gotten through a small stack of such messages when one of the dowager’s servants, Pahien, appeared in the doorway, reporting that he had a phone call—the staff, she said, with just too lively a curiosity, believed it came from the island.
He leaped up, went out and took the call, in the dowager’s well-appointed library, hoping— Hoping it was Toby.
“Hello?”
“Bren. Delighted to hear your voice.”
“Mutual.” A disappointment, but not a deep one. Not Toby. An official call, and welcome. Shawn Tyers, his old boss. The President of Mospheira.
“I got your message. My staff’s been trying everything but rocket launches to get through to you. How are you?”
“All in one piece. All of us are.” Damn, he hadn’t known he was that worried over Toby. But he was. He tried to re-sort things in his head, bring up the things he needed to tell Shawn. There were details he wished he dared give, specifics on who was where and in what degree of stability, but giving them over the phone was roughly equivalent to shouting them in the public street.
More, if Shawn had been using unorthodox methods to get to him, the Messengers had not gotten them to him. And he took that mental note, intending to refer a complaint through channels—the Messengers’ Guild had roadblocks somewhere in its structure, purposeful slowdowns, he strongly suspected. And he did not trust themc nor, he thought, did Tabini.
He retained, within his computer, the means to reach into the island secure network—if he had been able get a stable and noise-free connection, but his line to Shawn was far from noise-free at the moment, and he wasn’t ready to risk too much verbal frankness, not yet. No details.
And Shawn seemed to observe equal caution. “Tell me all you can. Are you safe?”
“We’re certainly in far better shape than we expected—the people have backed the aiji, the dissidents have fled without too much fuss: comfortable and secure here. The shuttles—the pilots and techs have saved the manuals and hid out. They’re coming back—some in transit at the moment. It’s going to take a while to get the shuttles flying again, but we’re in good shape there, comparatively. The University is back in operation; we didn’t lose the books.” The Astronomer Emeritus, Grigiji, had come into the fray with a handful of his faithful students. Grigiji and his entourage were currently resident in the hotel below the hill, with a fierce group of the coastal folk of Dur around them for protectionc the hardiest Assassin would hesitate at that much trouble; and students who had carried away the precious books were filtering back to the University, with classes due to resume within days.
“We’ve been promised full service on the dish in another few daysc I’ll leave that to the Messengers’ Guild. But I’ve been trying to get through from my side.” He tried to sort his scrambled thoughts into order, trying to think what Shawn most needed to know, besides the restoration of Tabini’s regime and the good news about the space shuttles. The connection cracked and hissed, and might go down at any instant. “How is it aloft?”
“The station reports all the refugees are now aboard the station and the new tank is functioning—they’re holding for another few months with no problems at all, but they’re sending down an order for fruit candy as soon as we can deliver it.”
It was code for hurry-it-up, he understood that—four-plus-thousand new residents, refugees from the remote depths of space, dumped onto a station already short of supplies.
That was a worry—but the wording was worth a laugh. He could actually laugh, now, if shakily, hearing Shawn’s voice. So much suddenly seemed possible again, including getting ahead of the mess. But the hissing on the line had increased.
“Shawn, I’m afraid I’m about to lose you. Tell my brother, will you?” It went against years of discipline to give way to personal matters, but he couldn’t stand it. “Personal favor, Shawn. I haven’t heard from him. Can you find out if he’s all right?”
The faltering line went completely dead, then, on one personal item he desperately wished he could learn—and before he was sure Shawn had heard him.
But the phone had worked, and he’d gotten through to Shawn, at least, and Shawn had been aware of where they were. He was vastly relieved to have that, just to touch the island and to know things were well there, that the shuttle and crew that had brought them to the planet were still safe, that everything he relied on that wasn’t in his power was securec and that the informal network of coastal radio and spies was still operating.
He flashed the receiver, got the operator, and decided to press his luck on that personal matter, while the Messengers’ Guild was having a moment of efficiency. “This is the paidhi-aiji. Please restore the connection to the Mospheiran operators.”
“Nandi,” the reply was, deferentially. “We shall try. Please wait.”
He waited. And waited. And waited.
“This is the Port Jackson service operator,” a human voice said, through static. “How may I help you?”
“This is Bren Cameron, calling from the mainland. I need to reach Toby Cameron, either by ship-to-shore or residential phone.”
“Which do you wish, sir?”
“Try one and try the other. The boat name is Brighter Days.”
“You have a bad connection. I’m not hearing you. Please re-dial.”
“I’m calling from the mainland, for God’s sake! This is the best connection available. I need to reach Toby Cameron, ship-to-shore or residential. On the Brighter Days.”
“You’ll have to contact the marine operator for ship-to-shore,” the reply came back.
“Then call his residence, please.” On the verge of swearing, he gave the old number, the personal number that ought to stay valid for life, clenched and unclenched his fist the while. “This is an emergency.”
“Yes, sir.” Blandly, as if sleepwalking. The woman still didn’t know who he was, or where. Not the brightest light in the phone service, Bren was sure.
Clicks. Silence. More clicks. He bit his lip and waited, but the phone did ring. And ring. Toby’s voice came on, making his heart skip for the moment, but it was only the answering service, saying Toby was on his boat and could be reached via the Port Jackson operator.