Rift (61 page)

The
Quo Vadis
was approaching, just a few days away.

And all was ready, or as ready as things were likely to get. Under the strict supervision of Roarke and Cody, the components were carried from the clean
room, some pieces requiring a half dozen strong crew to bear them to the shuttles. Though the carbon nanotube material of the moles was relatively lightweight, other pieces were steel and carbon matrix and brought the shuttles to their weight limits before they were full. Each shuttle load carried heavily armed crew, even though the only trouble they’d seen so far had been
inside
the dome. As Mitya watched, the first shuttle lifted off, hovering for a moment over the site as though reluctant to leave the brood nest unattended, then swept out over the valley.

Everyone was in high spirits. The
Quo Vadis
was heading in. Their ride home. Or their home itself, possibly. Some of the crew admitted they’d doubted the ship would actually come. The
Quo Vadis
crew were strangers with little reason to care for the Lithian colonists; anything might divert them from a rescue mission, and the lure of the uranium ore might, in the end, not be enough. Now the
Quo Vadis
was making good its promise, coming to take on ore and passengers.

After watching one of the shuttles take off, Oran wandered over to Mitya’s side. “Guess you won’t be Captain’s boy anymore once we’re on the big ship. Different captain.” He smirked. “Different rules.”

“OK by me.” Mitya didn’t want to think about living on the big ship. From what he’d seen, it was going to be a rude surprise to most.

Oran looked up at the clear sky. “Too bad we got the sun out today. The mist gave us some cover. Now we really got to watch for the thongs.” He patted the gun in his belt webbing.

The plateau where they stood stretched to the east as far as Mitya could see. In the opposite direction behind the dome, the valley lay in perfect focus, an amazing expanse of land bisected by the distant Gandhi River. It was overwhelming—both the size of it all, and the plans to destroy it. Mitya kept thinking of
Reeve Calder and the claims he’d made for the silent girl named Loon. And whether it was true or not, whether it was possible or not, Mitya would have cast aside these shuttles and their cargo in an instant for just the chance to make it true.

The image kept sliding into his mind, of how he might wander away when no one was looking. He wouldn’t live long once the moles hit home, so there was no escape. But he also knew he couldn’t go to that ship. Sometime in the last few days, he had come to that conclusion without even thinking about it. He just realized, in the middle of doing other things, that he wasn’t going.

“Do you ever wonder if we should look into … what Reeve Calder said?” he asked Oran.

Oran looked surprised. “What did Reeve say?”

“You know. About that girl. About how we could learn to breathe here.”

“You’re crazy.” Oran snorted. “Reeve’s gone native. I hope he enjoys the fireworks.”

There wasn’t any point in talking to Oran. He went along with things. They all did. Maybe he and Oran had been halfway to being friends once, but that was a long time ago, when Mitya was a child. Now, he figured, if he was going to die—and decide about it—maybe that made him a man. He almost blurted out the truth about the
Quo Vadis
. Almost told Oran he’d be one of those ragged, barefooted grunts that passed for crew. Oran would be sleeping in the corridors and grubbing for food, and jostling side by side with hundreds of other gunk-heads. And if he thought he’d wear a black uniform with gold buttons, then he was more of a child than Mitya was.

Tenzin Tsamchoe walked by. Mitya wanted to grab him by the arm. Wanted to say,
Look at what we’re giving up. A chance to live a real life. Blue sky. Solid ground beneath our feet. That ship up there—it’s dark
,
cramped and ugly. It’s a lousy trade. Doesn’t anybody care?

But he said nothing.

The second shuttle rose from the clearing in a blast of fire and dust. Soon the first one would be back, and they’d stuff it full of equipment and crew. The whole thing was a clockwork machine, oiled and running, unstoppable.

Mitya began to think about how he would slip away, when the time came.

4

For two days Nerys lay in her bed fighting with herself to stay calm. To
become
calm. But as she lay immobile, her anger grew against Hamirinan, and her resentment against Salidifor, who was still absent. To save her pregnancy, she knew she must try to relax—the one thing she did miserably.

To her surprise, the women were bringing her food. Haval told her that an orthong—
not
Salidifor—brought packs of food twice a day for Nerys, but would not enter the berm, a gesture the women took for concern over the unborn pup, and also a reflection of Nerys’ ostracism. Haval, Mave, and Odel were her rotating attendants, and other women came in to visit, as though her loss of face had made her finally acceptable. Nerys chafed against this conditional regard, but was also grateful for the company and the relief from the boredom.

At times she gazed out her window into the yellow polyp thicket, and beyond to patches of sky, a mere blue lace when viewed from the bottom of the outfold. Perhaps Vikal would find her. Through the square of her window she watched for flashes of white, but she saw no orthong, young or grown.

After two days, her womb quieted, the pup settling back in. With relief Nerys rose from her bed, dressed
in clothes borrowed from Odel, and emerged into the tea room. A dozen faces looked up in astonishment.

“Not dead yet, am I?” Nerys asked.

Haval rose. “If you want something, I’ll fetch it.”

“Thanks, no. You’ve all done enough for me. I have some business to take care of.”

Odel blocked her way. “Think twice, Nerys. Where are you going?”

Nerys locked gazes with the older woman. “I’m going to find Salidifor.”

Odel sighed. “I don’t think he wants to see you.”

The pup stirred inside her, reflecting her anger. Nerys took a deep breath and said, “If he doesn’t, then I’ll leave. But I have to know.”

Gently brushing past Odel, Nerys descended the stairs and quickly crossed the courtyard before the others could gang up on her and counsel caution. She
would
be cautious; even Salidifor admitted that she could handle some things with discretion. Somewhere in the outfold a lone bird sang. Whatever the orthong had engineered into the growths, the terran birds loved it, making Nerys wonder if some of the seeds were edible by humans. But that, no doubt, was another taboo. As she made her way to Salidifor’s berm, a movement in the outfold caught her eye. She stopped to watch more carefully, and in the distance she could just make out an orthong—no, two orthong walking there. They were weavers, by their sleeveless tunics. As Nerys peered into the deep outfold, she saw that there were dozens of weavers making their way through the forest, all traveling in the same general direction. If they glimpsed her where she stood on the path, she likely registered in their minds like a squirrel in the woods, of minimal interest.

As she approached Salidifor’s berm, her chest constricted with excitement. This place had become a great pleasure to her, an oasis of the deepest satisfaction, a place of learning. She’d started to cross the
courtyard when an orthong she didn’t recognize emerged from the front entryway and bade her stop.

Through a brief exchange, she learned that Salidifor didn’t dwell here anymore. He didn’t know where Salidifor had gone. She started to back away in response to his orders to leave. Behind him, Nerys saw another orthong emerge from the entryway.

Hamirinan.

She stared at him as the other orthong continued to herd her away. So. Hamirinan had taken Salidifor’s place. For an instant she worried that
he
would become her lord. But of course, that would be too great an honor. And if such an offer was made, she would have to tell him where he could put it.

She plunged back down the path, a trickle of acid etching into her stomach walls. The pup struck out, and she patted her bulging middle. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “Don’t worry.” But she was talking more to herself at that moment, as her mind raced to imagine what had happened to Salidifor. She stopped on the path as a deep chill enveloped her. She wished she’d worn a warmer shirt.

Rubbing her bare arms, she was standing on the path trying to figure out her next move when she noticed a weaver watching her from the edge of the outfold. She was alone. Slowly, Nerys turned to face her. Nerys greeted her in the most gracious style she knew. The female regarded her stoically, and kept glancing at Nerys’ belly.

Then Nerys found herself dancing on the narrow path. She apologized for her boldness in speaking unbidden. She asked about Salidifor. She spun, executing a turn, and when she looked again, the female was gone.

Nerys signed, adding a tinge of irony to her movement.

It was too much to hope that the females would be any more trusting than the males. Or perhaps trust
was too fine a point. The female had simply disregarded her. It was tiresome in the extreme, that orthong tendency.

But soon another opportunity arose. The outfold was full of orthong females this morning. Nerys cast about for a better introduction, thinking it might be well to offer a gift, or more to the orthong point, a trade item. It struck her as odd that she had absolutely nothing to give—not even some small, worthless thing. Only the clothes on her back, and these the female orthong had given
her
, indirectly at least, as a product of the outfold. No, it must be something from Nerys herself. When she finally realized that she did have something, she raced back to the berm for the tool she’d need. She had no idea if the orthong would consider it a trade item of value—rather doubted it, in fact—but it was a chance.

Back on the path once more after raiding the tea room, Nerys used the small knife to cut off her single thick braid of hair. It took a few moments to saw through it using one of the dull blades the women used for cutting the yarn on their weaving projects. When she had finished, the two-foot rope of hair lay in her hands like a glistening snake. She tied a piece of yarn around the loose end to preserve the braid, and stepped just off the path.

At first nothing moved in the outfold, and Nerys worried that her opportunity was lost, but at last a couple of females emerged from a stand of yellow columnar growths. When they saw her, they altered their course to avoid her. But when a second group became visible in the distance, Nerys waved her arms, luring a group of three closer to inspect her.

They looked at her belly, but ignored her attempt to communicate. In another moment they turned to go, but one of them stayed behind. She was, as was evident from the amount of silver streaking, very old, and like the others, she wore a sleeveless tunic of shimmering
black. Salidifor had told her the black covering was a chemical wrap designed to conduct heat away from the skin, heat generated by the intense chemical processes of their metabolism. The weavers had less need than the males for dispersing body heat and thus went sleeveless, a convention both useful and culturally imbued.

When the orthong paused in front of her, Nerys swung into action. Laying the braid on the floor of the outfold, she danced her best, using subtle flourishes to describe her great need to speak with Salidifor, explaining that he was her lord, and would be waiting to hear from her. She had no hexagons to guide her, and hoped she didn’t mistake her directions. Then she picked up the braid and offered it to the female. When the orthong made no move to accept it, Nerys laid it on the ground and waited.

The old female raised her arms to speak.

Nerys tried to understand the question.

Nerys could not quite see the last word.

Nerys swallowed hard, trying to figure out what to say. she finally admitted.