He raised himself up, looked again at the cabin; bare metal walls, two bunks, one small stool Beychae was sitting on. "This the brig?"
Beychae nodded. "Yes; the prison."
He lay back. He noticed he was wearing a disposable crew jumpsuit. The terminal bead had gone from his ear, and the lobe was raw and sore enough to make him suspect the transceiver hadn't relinquished its grip there without a struggle. "You too, or just me?" he asked.
"Just you."
"What about the ship?"
"I believe we are heading for the nearest stellar system, on the vessel's back-up drive."
"What's the nearest system?"
"Well, the one inhabited planet is called Murssay. There's a war going on in part of it; one of those brush-fire conflicts you mentioned. Apparently the ship may not be allowed to land."
"Land?" He grunted, feeling the back of his head. Largish bruise. "This ship can't land; it's not built for in-atmosphere stuff."
"Oh," Tsoldrin said. "Well, perhaps they meant we wouldn't be able to go down to the surface."
"Hmm. Must have some sort of orbiter; a space station, yes?"
Beychae shrugged. "I suppose so."
He looked round the cabin, making it obvious he was looking for something, "What do they know about you?" He gestured round the cabin with his eyes.
Beychae smiled. "They know who I am; I've talked to the captain, Cheradenine. They did receive an order from the shipping company to turn back, though they didn't know why. Now they know why. The captain had the choice of waiting for Humanist naval units to pick us up, or heading for Murssay, and he chose the latter — despite some pressure, I believe — from Governance, via the shipping company. Apparently he insisted that the distress channel was used when he informed the shipping line of both what had happened to the ship, and who I was."
"So now everybody knows?"
"Yes. I imagine by now the whole Cluster knows exactly who both of us are. But the point is that I think the captain might not be entirely unsympathetic to our cause."
"Yeah, but what happens when we get to Murssay?"
"Looks like we get rid of you, Mr Zakalwe." said a voice from a speaker overhead.
He looked at Beychae. "I hope you heard that too."
"I believe that might be the captain," Beychae said.
"It is," said the man's voice, "And we just got informed that we part company before we even get to Murssay station." The man sounded peeved.
"Really, captain?"
"Yes, really, Mr Zakalwe; I have just received a military communication from the Balzeit Hegemonarchy of Murssay. They want to uplift you and Mr Beychae before we connect with the Station. As they're threatening to attack us if we don't comply, I intend to do as they ask; technically under protest, but frankly it will be a relief to be rid of you. I may add that the vessel they intend to take you off with must be a couple of centuries old, and was not thought to be space-worthy until now. If it survives to make the rendezvous in a couple of hours, you ought to have an eventful journey through Murssay's atmosphere. Mr Beychae; I believe if you reasoned with the Balzeit people they might let you continue with us to Murssay Station. Whatever you decide, sir, let me wish you a safe trip."
Beychae sat back on the small stool. "Balzeit," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "I wonder why they want us?"
"They want you, Tsoldrin," he said, swinging his feet off the bed. He looked uncertain. "They on the good-guys's side? There's so damn many of these little wars…"
"Well, in theory they are," Beychae said. "I think they believe planets and machines can have souls."
"Yeah, I thought they were," he said, getting slowly to his feet. He flexed his arms, moved his shoulders. "If this Murssay Station is neutral territory, you'd be better going there, though I'd guess this Balzeit gang want you, not me."
He rubbed the back of his head again, trying to remember what the situation was on Murssay. Murssay was just the sort of place that could start a full-scale war. There was, in effect, a Consolidationist-Humanist war taking place between relatively archaic military forces on Murssay; Balzeit was on the consolidationist side, even though the high command was some sort of priesthood. Why they wanted Beychae, he wasn't sure, though he vaguely recalled that the priests were into hero-worship in a fairly serious way. Though, having heard that Beychae was nearby, maybe they just wanted to hold him to ransom.
Six hours later they rendezvoused with the ancient Balzeit spacecraft.
"They want me?" he said.
They stood by the airlock; him, Beychae, the Osom Emananish's captain, and four suited figures with guns. The suited men wore visored helmets, their pale brown faces visible inside, foreheads marked with a blue circle. The circles actually seemed to glow, he thought, and he wondered if they were there because of some generous religious principle, to help snipers.
"Yes, Mr Zakalwe," the captain said. He was a rotund little man with a shaved head. He smiled. "They want you, not Mr Beychae."
He looked at the four armed men. "What are they up to?" he asked Beychae.
"I have no idea," Beychae admitted.
He waved his hands out, appealing to the four men. "Why do you want me?"
"Please come with us, sir," one of the suited men said, via a suit speaker, in what was obviously not his first language.
""Please"?" he said. "You mean I have a choice?"
The man looked uncomfortable in his suit. He talked for a while without any noise coming from the speaker, then said, "Sir Zakalwe, is very important you come. You must. Is very important."
He shook his head. "I must," he repeated seemingly to himself. He turned to the captain. "Captain, sir; could I have my earring back, please?"
"No," the captain said, with a beatific grin. "Now, get off my ship."
The craft was cramped and very low tech and the air was warm and smelled of electrics. They gave him an old suit to put on and he was shown to a couch, and belted in. It was a bad sign when they made you put a suit on inside a ship. The troopers who'd taken him from the clipper sat behind him. The three-man crew — also suited up — seemed suspiciously busy, and he had the disquieting impression that the manual controls in front of them were not just for emergencies.
The craft re-entered the atmosphere spectacularly; buffeted, creaking, surrounded by gas glowing bright (seen through, he realised with a gut-wrenching shock, windows; crystal or glass, not screens), and with a gradually increasing howl. The air got even warmer. Flashing lights, hurried chatter between the crew, and some hurried movements and more excited talk, did not make him feel any happier. The glow disappeared and the sky turned from violet to blue; the buffeting returned.
They swept into the night, and plunged into cloud. The flashing lights all over the control panels looked even more worrying in darkness.
It was a rolling landing on some sort of runway, in a thunderstorm. The four troopers who'd boarded the Osom Emananish cheered weakly from behind him as the landing gear — wheels, he supposed — touched down. The craft trundled on for a worryingly long time, slewing twice.
When they finally rolled to a stop, the three crewmen all sat back slumped in their seats, arms dangling over the edges, silent and staring out into the rain-filled night.
He undid the belts, took off the helmet. The troopers opened the interior airlock.
When they opened the outer door, it was to reveal rain and lights and trucks and tanks and some low buildings in the background, and a couple of hundred people, some in military uniforms, some in long robes, rain-slicked, some trying to hold umbrellas over others; all seemed to have the circular marks on their foreheads. A group of a dozen or so, all old, robed, white haired, faces spattered with rain, walked to the bottom of the steps that led from the craft to the ground.