Then three kids wanted to come down to the planet for a birthday party, and three political systems exploded?
“Understand,” he said, “I have no standing with the Mospheiran government any longer. I haven’t been back there since before we left the planet.”
“The President is still an old friend of yours.”
“He is. And I can still talk to him, on that basis—and as what I am on the atevi side of the strait. I will try to talk to him. But, damn, Jase. I wasn’t paying attention up there. I let this one get past me.”
“You’ve been just a bit busy. Sabin knows that. It’s why we’ve said nothing until now. So Tillington doesn’t like Reunioners. His wanting to ship the Reunioners out to Maudit was understandable. Everything was understandable—down to the point where he decided he still wanted Ogun’s ear all to himself, everything the way it had been—and Sabin and me out of his way. That’s my theory. He doesn’t want Sabin back any more than he wants the Reunioners. In his head, it’s all one event that’s messed up his little world.”
“Damn, Jase.” He looked into the half-empty glass, as if it held an answer. Jase said he wasn’t as good at persuasion. But this was beyond persuasion. Massive changes had to be set in motion. “I hope the kids are safe going back up there.”
“They’ll be safe. I have no question of that. All the official craziness has been behind official doors. And best we keep it that way.”
“I hope so. I’ll get on this. I may need to fly over to the island, see if I can get a quiet meeting. Limit the number of outlets for this information, if you can. Last thing I want is Tillington’s theory of what happened debated in the legislature. One thing I will send up with you. Tabini-aiji wants those kids officially protected, by ship command. Wants them kept out of station politics. In any sense. He demands their free access to the planet, protection from political exploitation or political mention, and if that is threatened, he wants them on the atevi side of the wall up there. I have the wording. It’s that treaty clause—persons under protection of the aishidi’tat to be treated as citizens of the aishidi’tat.”
Jase drew in a breath. “I don’t think it was ever envisioned as three kids from Reunion.”
“The wording stands. As associates of the young gentleman, they have standing with the aiji. You don’t need to publicize the document. It’s just there if the Captains should need it. And it will be here if Tabini decides he needs to invoke it.”
Jase nodded. “Got it.”
“My personal seal as the aiji’s voice is no problem. I’ll have the document for you tomorrow, in case there’s any problem. I’ll get the aiji’s official seal on a more specific document to follow, shipped up to Geigi’s office by the next shuttle after yours. Keep them under lock and key, so to speak. But know they’re there.”
Jase stared into his own barely touched glass for a moment. Then:
“Come up there, Bren.”
“I’m up to my ears. Negotiations are at a make-or-break point . . . things we’ve been working on all year, that have to work. Things that can make the peace last.”
“Your help—would be invaluable.”
“I’m out of touch. I haven’t had time—”
“One shuttle cycle. You could make a difference.”
“Is this from Sabin?”
Jase shook his head. “From me. I’m asking you. None of the rest of the potential problems want a compromise. But trying to find a solution, convincing the Senior Captain to take it . . .”
“Down here, I know the issues. Down here, I have a role. Up there—I risk becoming one more issue. I’m not a Mospheiran official anymore.”
“You’ve been up there. You were part of it. I’m asking, Bren. Calling in a favor.”
Favor.
Gut-deep, he hated the ride up and down.
He needed to call the President—Shawn Tyers was an old friend, an old ally. He could be frank and honest with Shawn, make him understand, tell him the situation . . .
Shawn, who’d come up through the State Department, dealing with atevi—Shawn would understand it was serious. That something urgent had to be done, before atevi had to take notice of Tillington’s statements.
But what Jase said . . . what Jase described . . . was not one problem. Was not one man. There were problems up there. There were five thousand problems, outnumbering the Mospheirans on their own half of the station.
Five thousand problems and a situation that had gone unaddressed for the last year he’d been trying to pull the threads of the aishidi’tat together, and keep Tabini alive and the shuttles flying and the system functioning . . .
He’d left problems aloft to the four Phoenix captains and the two stationmasters—and knew they’d had troubles.
Geigi and he had been in close contact, and Geigi hadn’t complained—but Geigi’s priorities had been, the same as his, the survival of the aishidi’tat. Up on the station, Geigi held most of the robotics, and the construction stockpiles, controlled all but one of the shuttles that supplied the station, and kept order, presumably, on his side of the station.
On the Mospheiran side, however, there had been a year of stress, a year of overcrowding and some shortages and a stationmaster who wasn’t bearing up under the load—a year when there’d been planning to ship the Reunioners out to another construction, as yet only blueprints, even for the transport to get them there.
Nobody had committed money to the plan. Nobody had laid supplies on the table. A full year, now, and nothing had advanced except more blueprints, and Reunioners themselves were divided, some wanting to stay, some wanting to go. Braddock had inserted himself into the argument and pushed to go start the building, with himself in charge.
That had stalled things. Nobody outside the Reunioners wanted Braddock in charge. Most of the Reunioners didn’t want Braddock in charge, but there weren’t any others stepping forward.
Go up there?
Talk to people?
Get Tillington and Braddock out of the picture?
He was tired. He was exhausted. He had the tag ends of the year’s work lying on his foyer table back in the Bujavid, things that enabled the solution to the aishidi’tat’s problems. He’d taken a couple of weeks off to handle four kids and a birthday party.
“All right,” he said to Jase. “All right. I’ll come. I’ll get started on the Tillington matter as soon as I get to Shejidan. And when I do get up there, I’m not coming in on Sabin’s side, understand. I’m far more help that way.”
“Understood. I know how you work.”
“But I’ll get there. Soon as I can get the decks cleared down here. A few weeks.”
“You take care of yourself doing it. No more taking on the Guild bare-handed. None of that sort of thing.”
“No more,” Bren agreed fervently. Stitches notwithstanding, the back of his head still gave a phantom ache when he thought about it, and his valets feared he would have a lasting scar. “I’m confining my near-term activities to the legislature. Paper cuts will be my only hazard. And committee meetings. Not my favorite thing, but they’ll be the limit of my travels for the next few weeks.”
“Definite, however, that you’re coming?”
“I’ll be there. Don’t break the news yet. But tell Sabin I’ll get Tillington out of there, one way or the other. And in that matter—do me a personal favor, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Pay a visit to Lord Geigi for me, would you, among first priorities? Tell him I didn’t have time to get over to his estate, this trip, but I do have his staff reports. I could computerize them. Or you could hand-deliver them. And polish the contact. Just in case other routes get political.”