I'm so glad you haven't been dragged into any of it. The only thing that could spoil it all, from what I hear, is Prince Freskel-Gar, who has been jealous for his step-father's throne for years. He sounds nasty. I don't like him. It was his faction who made such a big thing of this centralization-command dogma and set Persamon on the road to a militarized confrontation in the first place. But here I go getting serious and political again, and I know you can only stand so much.
How is life at the base? It sounds as if you're making an interesting variety of friends, even if they could be in a nicer line of business. Congratulations on the promotion-although, to be honest, I still picture you more easily in furs and snow boots, laughing with Barkan and Quar, falling out of a rangat, or stealing cookies from Opril's kitchen than wearing a uniform, shouting at recruits, or carrying a gun.
When are you due for some leave back at home again? Say hello for me to your mother and father, and your brother when you do. Oh, and that Giant electrical gadget that your friend in Solnek sent did arrive just before I left to come here. Tell him thanks so much. It's in remarkably good condition. I didn't get a chance to look at it very closely, but will get around to it when we're back. It looks interesting.
And so, that's it for now, Kles. I'm rushing this off during a break and will have to go soon. Be careful. I do so much hope that these omens come true, and that everything will change for the better before you do end up in real danger. All my love as always (but you already knew that),
Forever, Laisha
Kles drained the last of the contents of his mug, returned the letter to his pocket, and sat thinking for a few minutes about the things he had read. Then he got up, dropped the mug on the tray provided for used dishes, and walked to the door. Outside, he stopped to take in the scene of squads doubling this way and that on the parade square, mechanics working on an engine inside the open doors of the truck depot, a sergeant counting boxes stacked in front of the quartermaster store. Cerian kids being trained to mindlessly kill and maim Lambian kids they had never met, and who had done them no harm. How had it all happened? The more he tried to read the histories and the political diatribes, the more he was able to follow the inescapable logic of the details, but lost sight of any underlying sense. How wonderful it would be if what Laisha was a part of turned out to be the beginnings of the whole idiocy unraveling and Minerva getting back onto the path that it should never have strayed from. But no… The thought was too momentous to get emotional about by hoping for too much if she were wrong.
And besides, he had less than half an hour to get his kit ready for supervisor shift at the main gate. He pulled his collar up around his chin and set off briskly back toward his hut.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
General Gudaf Irastes, second-in-command of the Prince's Own Regiment of the Lambian Royal Guard, didn't know who the foreigners were, where they had come from, or how they had made contact with the prince. They wore strange, outlandish garb that suggested some kind of air crew tunic, and their speech, though seemingly derived from Lambian, was barely recognizable. But Irastes took a simple, pragmatic view of life. When it was deemed his business to know more, he would know. In the meantime, he just followed orders. And his orders were to go with the leader of the deputation that had made the contact, who was called Wylott, back to a base they had established somewhere, and escort their chief back to meet with Freskel-Gar at Dorjon, his stronghold in Lambia.
Irastes had with him a detachment of two officers and eight troopers. Wylott and four of the deputation that had appeared with him would accompany them, while the other four remained at Dorjon with the samples of weapons that they had brought. It was understood that they were being kept as as hostages to ensure good behavior, although nobody had been so indelicate as to say so. Irastes was intrigued by what seemed to be communications accessories that the foreigners wore on their wrists and belts, and also their sidearms. They appeared to be of extremely advanced types, completely unfamiliar. He hoped this wasn't representative of Cerian work that had been going on, and which he had never heard of. If it were, the implications were alarming. Small wonder that Freskel-Gar had been very interested in the weapons. Irastes wondered if he was working some kind of deal with a renegade Cerian group who had access to developments that had been kept a secret.
Following directions from the foreigners, a Lambian personnel flyer carried the mixed group over the hills to the south of Dorjon and then across the plateau region to the wilderness of scarps and folds forming the eastern base of the Coastal Range. Irastes couldn't imagine where the foreigners could have come from in this direction. Presumably, they had traveled to Dorjon in a vehicle of their own that was also being held there somewhere with the hostages; but it wasn't his place to ask.
An incoming call sounded from the copilot's panel, speaking in the foreigners' peculiar tongue. Irastes was able to make out what sounded like "… identify…" but the rest was lost. The copilot looked around for direction. Wylott nodded to him, accepted a microphone, and went into a brief dialogue." Evidently the foreigners had been monitoring Lambian transmission frequencies. The aide of Wylott's who had been helping with the navigating tapped the pilots shoulder and made hand motions to indicate a large shoulder of rock buttress ahead, projecting from the side of a steep ridge. "There… Around, yes? Then down. You see where."
A tight turn around the shoulder brought them over a canyon that opened out below suddenly. Lying in it was an aircraft unlike anything Irastes had seen before-as seemed to be the case with just about everything else connected with these foreigners. It was dull gray in color, and curvy and bulbous, flaring at the tail into two stub wings that seemed impossibly small for its bulk, each tipped by a vertical stabilizer extending above and below. Irastes put it at about the size of a military staff carrier or a small commercial airliner. There were figures outside, watching as the Lambian flyer descended. The craft had insignia on its wings and sides, Irastes saw as they approached for touchdown. But they were not Cerian.
The flyer landed; a crewman opened the door and extended the steps. Wylott stepped out with two of the foreigners, indicating for Irastes and his party to follow, while the rest from the flyer closed up behind. The foreigners outside were armed but carrying their weapons slung. They turned to move with the arrivals back toward their waiting craft. Evidently, the journey was not over yet. Irastes halted. "How long is it likely to be before we get back here?" he asked Wylott.
"Iz wazza gi fadid zo say?"
Irastes motioned toward the aircraft. "How long?" He pushed his sleeve up to show his watch and pointed. Then waved a circle in the air and pointed at the ground. "Back here?"
"Oh…" Wylott held up a hand showing four fingers, then extended his thumb as well. "Hours." Irastes detailed one of his officers and two men to remain behind and guard the flyer they had arrived in. He nodded to Wylott, and they proceeded up the extended ramp of the foreigners' craft.
Its inside was even stranger. The structure and fittings seemed more in accord with the interior of a luxury yacht than anything economized by necessity in the manner of every flying machine Irastes had ever seen. And there were none of the panels, equipment racks, banks of cabling, and all the other paraphernalia of typical military interiors that he would have expected. Instead, there were screens flanked by arrays of what looked like luminous crystals, and areas of wall and ceiling that seemed to glow internally, illuminating the cabin. The seats seemed to mold themselves to any posture that was desired. He was still marveling at it all, when he realized the ramp had retracted beneath doors that closed from somewhere, and in moments they were moving. From the views on the screens, they were going straight up, but uncannily there was no feeling inside the cabin of lying back-or even of accelerating, though the rate at which the ground image was shrinking told that the rate was fearsome. The outline of Lambia was already visible in patches between clouds; then ocean, fringed by a brilliant line that had to mark the edge of the ice sheet. The horizon became distinctly curved. Above, the sky was darkening, showing stars. And still they were going up. Only then did the realization hit Irastes fully: This was more than just an aircraft; it was a space ship!