Worldcomp accepted it; it leaped to intercomp. Morn smiled, which he did rarely.
Officially dead, so far as Istra was concerned; universally dead in the eight to sixteen days it would take for the message to reach homeworld and fan out again in intercomp. She could not use her codes or her credit: they were wiped.
He pushed back from the console, rose, turned to the azi who waited. “Get the shuttle ready,” he said. “My own.”
One left. He turned to the ISPAK beta.
And suddenly the comp screens began to flash with alarm.
He was at the panel in an instant, keyed through a query.
No answer returned to him. He sat down and plied the keys, obtained only idiocy. Panic flashed into him. With all the speed he could manage he K-coded intercomp out-of link, separating it from the deadness that was Istra.
The cold reached his stomach. Worldbank was wiped. All records, all finance, null.
The Meth-maren’s death notice.
It was keyed to that, and he had done it.
“Kill the power!” he shouted, rounding on the ISPAK beta. “Kill all the power on Istra. Dead, you understand me?”
There was silence. Nothing of the sort had ever been done before, the threat never carried out, the withdrawal of station power from a world.
“Yes, Kontrin,” the beta stammered hoarsely. “But how long, how long are we talking about?”
“Until you hear from me to restore it. Shut it down.” He turned to the board, keyed a message to his ship, ordering more azi to the command centre. “I’m going down,” he said to the azi present, to Leo, who was chief of them. The azi looked troubled at that, no more. “There’s no more time to spend with this. You know procedures.”
Leo nodded. Twenty years Leo had been in his service, the last five as senior. Efficiency and intelligence. There was no beta would get past him, no one who would get near controls. Azi lined the room, thirty of them, armed and armoured, impersonal as the majat, and that resemblance was no chance. Beta psych-set was terrified by it. There was no one of them about to make a move under those guns.
He looked about him, saw the screens which monitored the collectors, saw the incredible sight of vanes turning, all at the same time, averting into shadow.
“ Wemust have power,” the ISPAK beta objected.
“Without dispute,” he said. The beta looked abjectly grateful.
Morn ignored him and, gathering two of the azi to accompany him, left the centre.
There was a Kontrin ship onworld, Pol’s; and Pol remained silent, leaving only azi to report.
It was the first law, in the Family, to trust no one.
vii
Figures rippled across the comp screen. Raen saw the sudden dissolution of information and sprang back from it with a curse.
Dead. They had gotten to that, then, to pull her privileges.
And all Kontrin onworld had to agree to it.
Pol, she thought. You bastard!
She swore volubly and kept working, fed in the Newhope call number. “Jim,” she said. “Jim. Any staff, punch five and answer.”
There was no answer.
JIM, she sent, BEWARE POL HALD.
She suddenly found chaos in the machine, nonsense, and finally only house-functions.
“Power’s down in the main banks,” she said, turning to look at one of the older azi, who attended her shadow wise, armed, wherever she went in the house. She cut the unit off and walked back into the doorway of the living room, where the Ny-Berdens and their family remained with the house-azi. “Worldcomp’s undone,” she said, and at their blankly incredulous stares: “Power’s going to go soon, I’d imagine. Very soon. You’ve some collectors here. Is that enough to keep your house running?”
They only stared.
“I hope for your sakes that such is the case,” she said, looking about her at the smallish rooms, the hand-done touches, the rough and unstylish furnishings. She turned again and raised her voice to them. “You understand, don’t you? Istra’s been cut off. Power will be cut. Worldcomp’s been dissolved—wiped. No records, no communications, nothing exists any longer.”
The ser and sera gathered their son and daughter-in-law and grandchild close about them and continued to stare at her. Your doing, their eyes said. She did not argue with them. It was so. Her azi sat still, waiting. The azi belonging to the estate sat outside, ranged in orderly rows in the shade of the azi-quarters, under the guns of her own. There had been need to feed them, to give them at least a little relief from the confinement. Silence prevailed everywhere about the house and grounds.
“Is your local power,” Raen asked yet again, “enough for you?”
“If nothing’s damaged,” ser Ny answered at last, and faintly.
“Confound it, I’m not proposing to harm you. I’d not do that. We’ll leave you your cells and your farm machinery. I’m worried about your survival. You understand that?”
They seemed perhaps a little reassured. The child whimpered. The young mother hugged and soothed her.
“Thank you,” ser Ny said tautly.
An azi came up beside her, offered a cup of juice, bowed . Blast, what triggered that impulse?she wondered, concerned for the azi’s stability, for she had not ordered it. She sipped it gratefully all the same. The air-conditioning might not last, not unless the farm collectors could carry it. More than likely it would have to be sacrificed for the farm’s more essential machinery, the pumps to irrigate, refrigeration for stored goods.
Distantly there was the sound of an engine.
“Sera!” an azi shouted from the porch. “The truck’s back!”
Everyone started to his feet, save the Ny-Berdens and their family: the azi guarding them did not let the guns turn aside. The truck groaned and rumbled its way to the porch. Raen put on her sun visor and took her rifle in hand, walked out to meet it.
It was a wretched sight, the covered vehicle laden with injured, with men bleeding through their bandages or, deep in shock, trying to protect unset bones. Warrior danced about anxiously, scenting life-fluids: “Go, out of the way,” Raen bade it. Merry climbed down, and the three he had taken to help him climbed out of the back, exhausted and staggering themselves from the heat. Raen ordered cold water for them, ordered the others to work while Merry and his companions slumped in the shade of the truck.
Willing hands off-loaded the injured into the air-conditioned house, to the bedrooms, the carpeted floors, everywhere there was room. They gave them water, and what medicines they could find in the house. Some were likely dying. All were in great pain, quiet as azi were always quiet, so long as they retained any consciousness of what they were doing. Some moaned, beyond that awareness.
Raen walked back into the living room, where her sunsuit lay over the back of a chair. She looked at the kitchen door, where Merry stood, shadow-eyed and bruised and bloody. “There’s no taking them farther,” she said hoarsely. “It’s too cruel. Some, maybe. Some.” She looked at Ny and Berden. “You tell me, seri. What would happen to those men here, in your care? I can terminate the worst or I can leave them—but not for you to do it. You tell me.”
“We can manage for them,” Ny said. “Want to.” He pressed Berden’s hand. “Never killed anybody. Don’t want anybody killed in this house.”
She believed that, by means having nothing to do with logic.
“Are you,” Berden asked, “leaving us our own azi?”
She had intended otherwise until that moment. She looked at the beta woman and nodded. “Keep them. Likely you’ll need their help yourselves, and probably they’re no use in a fight.”