Touchdown. He ignored the field patterns; tower was dead, and there were no lights to relieve the evening haze. He used the moving gear to take the shuttle up to the rear of the star. ship, out of the track of its armament.
“They answer,” the azi at com told him quietly. “They’re Hald azi and they’re upset.”
“Time they responded,” Morn said. He began shutdown, closed off systems. “Standard procedures.” He looked back through the ship, to the dozen who were with him, armoured and armed. Chatter crackled in his left ear: no port control, but the Istra shuttle coming in with thirty more of his men, hard behind him. “Ask where Pol is.”
“They say,” the com-azi reported back slowly, “that he’s gone into the City some time ago, hunting the Meth-maren face to face. They weren’t told how he’s proceeding, or where.”
“Is Sam with him?” Morn asked, for that one of Pol’s azi was his most reliable.
“No. It’s Sam I’m talking to.”
“Tell him to open that ship” Morn rose, ducking the overhead, felt for his gun and gathered up his sun-kit and his rifle. One-unit readied itself to accompany him.
“Sam says,” the com-azi called after him, “that he doesn’t want to open. He says he’s not sure he should.”
Morn looked at the com-azi, his breath shortened by temper. “Tell Sam he has no choice,” he said, and opened the hatch.
There was a thunder of engines outside, the Istra shuttle coming in. “Have them form up beside this ship,” he directed two-unit leader, and rode the extending ladder down: one-unit was quickly at his heels.
He had a prickling at his nape, being in the open, near the terminal building. Betas might occupy that point, that flat roof, ITAK betas, who were likely hersto a man, and dangerous. He darted glances to all likely points for snipers, and half-ran the space to Pol’s sleek Moriah, careless of dignity. Sam was capitulating, lowering the ramp, having come to his senses.
He climbed it with half hid escort, stood inside, breathing the cold air of the hatchway. Pol’s whole staff gathered there, Sam prominent among them, a sandy-haired azi with a scar at his brow.
“Out of my way,” Morn said, and elbowed Sam aside; the others moved, pushed aside by his armoured escort. He walked into controls with Sam anxiously struggling his way through after—sat down and read through what there was to read.
There was nothing. He turned around, a frown gathered on his face. “Sam. What kind of operation has he out there? What force is with him?”
The azi ducked his head in distress. “Alone, ser. He went alone.”
Morn drew in his breath, eyes flicking over the staff of Moriah, finding them far too many: it was likely truth. Guard-azi. Dark-haired Hana, a female azi who was Pol’s eccentricity, not even particularly beautiful. Tim, like Sam, Pol’s accustomed shadow.
“Where,” Morn asked, “is the Meth-maren based? City? ITAK Central?”
“We don’t know.”
It was truth. Sam was distressed; the whole staff was distraught.
“Stay and hold this ship,” Morn directed his own men. “If Pol shows up, tell him to stay here.”
A stiffing feeling of things wrong assailed him. He thrust his way past them, out, down the ramp again where the other half of one-unit waited. The second shuttle had disgorged its occupants. Thirty more men waited orders.
A long partnership, his with Poclass="underline" forty years. They had shared much, had hunted together—and not only in sport. He tolerated Pol’s humour and Pol supported his grimmer amusements.
Pol’s humour. He looked about him, at dead buildings, at a sky void of traffic, the only sound that of the wind tugging at cloth and the popping of cooling metal. It was not a time or place for an exercise of whim, not even Pol’s.
He had sent Pol, in advance of the order which sent him: Pol’s humour, to ask this of him.
Pol…who avoided Cerdin of late; who avoided many old connections, and the hold at Ahlvillon—and, avowing her tedious… Moth.
He paused, hard-breathing, looking back at Moriah, Pol avowed he had no sense of humour. Pol contrived, finally, to disturb his self-possession.
He shouted an order to the azi, stalked off toward the buildings of the terminal. Azi hastened to cluster themselves about him, shielding him with their armour and their bodies; he took this for granted, it being their function, and himself conspicuous for the Colour that he wore.
Sun’s glare still reflected off windows, but there was more than one window missing, betokening more than a quiet power shutdown here. That drew him, promising some insight into what had happened in the City.
And in the terminal, scattered over the polished floors, there were dead, male and female, young and old.
With live majat.
“Don’t fire!” Morn snapped. One stepped lightly toward them, in the doorway. He saw the badges on it: it was a red, that had never been trouble for Hald.
“Kontrin,” it moaned, when he held up his fist. “Green-hive.”
“Held. Morn a Ren hant Hald.”
Palps swept forward. “Hhhhald. Friend. Giffftss.”
The tone of that chilled the flesh. But one took allies where one could, when family faded. “I’ll settle with the Meth-maren for you. I need to locate her base. Her-hive. Understand?”
“Yes. Understand.” It shifted forward, and the azi flinched, torn between terror and duty. It extended a forelimb, touched at his chest, and he suffered it, concealing his loathing, reckoning he might have to accept worse than this. “Red-hive knows Meth-maren hive, yes. Blues guard. This-unit will call othersss, many, many, many Warriors, reds, golds, greens, all move. Come kill, yess.”
“Yes,” he confirmed—did not touch it; that risk was one he did not choose to run, and the Warrior did not offer.
Others moved, to a shrilling command only partially in human hearing. They gathered, out of all the recesses of the terminal, a living sea of chitinous bodies.
“Tunnels,” the Warrior said. “Tunnels for beta-machines. Ssubwayss.”
iii
The house stirred and hummed with activity. One could hear it, even in the upper floors, the stir of many feet, the singing of majat voices. Jim sat still in the semi-dark beneath the dome, on the bed, hands loose over his crossed legs, watching the Kontrin who slumped angrily in the chair opposite. They were at a silence, and Jim found that profound relief, for Pol Hald reasoned well, and wounded accurately when he wanted to.
The power was gone, had been for hours; he believed now that it would not return.
There’s no more comp,Pol had advised him. Nothing. If you’d listened earlier, something might have been done. Something still might. Listen to me.
Jim gave no answers. He could not argue with such a fluency: he could only steadfastly refuse. Max, downstairs, gave him the means to refuse. Warrior, standing faithfully outside, was a guard against which even Pol Hald’s reasoning could not prevail.
Newhope’s dead,Pol had said. There’s nothing here for her. Only trouble. He’s here. Morn’s here. He’ll be coming, and she’ll know that.
He could not listen to such logic. It made sense.
Below, the majat swarmed and stirred and tugged at foundations.
And in the dome above, the stars began to show in a darkening sky, the majat song to swell louder.
“Does it never stop?” Pol demanded.
Jim shook his head. “Rarely.”
Pol hurled himself suddenly to his feet. Jim rose, alarmed. “Relax,” Pol said. “I’m tired of sitting.”
“Sit down,” Jim said, received of Pol a cold and sarcastic look. There was a certain incongruity in the situation.
And abruptly the song fragmented to a shrilling note.