A Passage of Stars (11 page)

“My screen is back there,” said Lily. Two more fell in behind her; one placed a hand on her back. “That’s my credit, my ID. How am I supposed to—”

“Come along.” She cast a desperate glance back. The two Security officers watched with interest, but without sympathy. The sta, behind his—or was it her—bars, had risen and now stared after Lily with a sta-ish, and therefore unreadable, expression on her—or was it his—strangely unfinished and contradictory face.

“Where are you taking me? What is this for? Where is my robot?” Outside, a small vehicle waited under the awning, one solid door propped open. “This is illegal.” She tried to sit down. They simply picked her up and shoved her into the back. The door shut.

Darkness shuttered her. She felt along the wall: two meters square, padded, one handhold. The handhold proved necessary when they negotiated locks. She did not bother to hammer on the walls. Eventually the vehicle halted. This time, prepared, she went with humility.

They led her through an empty warehouse into a small, bare room with one chair and left her there alone. white walls were on three sides, on the fourth, a surface black and smooth as obsidian. The lights of the room dimmed, and shapes took form behind the black wall: two women and a man seated on a higher level. Lily stood up immediately.

A chime sounded above. She heard the sputtering crackle of the intercom coming to life.

“Please sit.” The disembodied voice came across as almost inhuman, but distinctly female.

“First of all,” said Lily. “I intend to file a complaint as soon as I reach Unruli. Second, I will file a writ of action against Remote Station Security and their Technical division for the recovery of my personal property. Third, a protest to Central HOL protesting the treatment of a young Ridani who spent a brief time in my company. Do you understand?”

Behind the wall, the male figure leaned over to talk to one of the women. The intercom crackled.

“You are identified here as Lilyaka Hae Ransome, a female of twenty-five who has been reported missing from Unruli system. Let me inform you, first, that this report, along with all trace of your recent activities here on Remote Station, has been erased. Per the request of Intelligence. You no longer exist in government computers.”

The static died away.

There was a long pause.

“What do you want me for?” said Lily in a very quiet voice.

“Second. You claim ownership of a robot of unspecified and, in our records, nonexistent make. Have you any explanation for this?”

Lily said nothing.

A new voice, male, came in. “The Remote Technical division has none.”

One of the female shapes passed a com-screen to the man.

“I found it in the Ransome House garage.” Her voice echoed, falling back on itself, in the close room. “And that’s the truth, whether you choose to believe it or not.”

They conferred.

“Third.”

Lily halted, center again.

“The young Ridani.”

“Paisley!”

“Did she speak to you of Jehane?”

“Jehane?” Lily opened her hands out in exasperation. “This is ridiculous. Jehane is some fairy tale, some story her people tell.”

“She did mention Jehane?”

“She told me some old legend. I think that name was in it once or twice. Can I see her? I want to put on record that the weapon she was carrying was my property—that I gave her—” She faltered. Behind the wall, they leaned together. Static crackled then bled away.

“… clear evidence,” finished the male voice. All three straightened.

“Have you any reason to suspect that the young Ridani you call Paisley has been at any time or is currently linked with the Jehanish insurrection?”

“I have never heard of any Jehanish anything, but I’m beginning to think that—” She broke off, remembering, for once, prudence.

“Would you like to complete that statement?”

“No.”

Static arced in a high, faint pattern above her. She circled the room four times before the intercom crackled back to life. The three questioners drew apart and rose.

“We have no further questions.”

“But I have!” The wall already dulled and, as the lights came up, it reverted to its original obsidian sheen. “I have!” She slammed the side of her fist into the black surface. It hurt

Behind her six guards filed in. She went without a word. She could not even imagine where she might be going now. But it was, of course, to a lock, and then into a ship—of course. Having presumably condemned Paisley, lost Heredes and Bach, and been, in the bargain, erased from existence at the order of Central Intelligence, she was to be sent back to the truly empty House of her family. She went meekly to her room or, better phrased, cell. They had left food and drink. There was a washing cubicle. She ate and drank and washed.

She was not aware of any ungrappling. When the first window came, it took her entirely unaware.

Fire. A tracery half-broken. The wind fanned it. The building collapsed—roaring; weight. Trapped in darkness.

And came out.

She was crying.

After a bit she recalled the futility of such occupation, so she dried her tears and washed her face. She did kata, basics, simply stood for long periods in her deepest stances. In such a stance, kiba-dachi, centered physically at least, she felt the ship go through.

Night. Utterly dark. The sightless must find a path. Wrists crossed. Long sweeps, half-moon, forge the ground. Light begins to rise.

And came out.

She still held deep in the stance. And as her final test, might as well stay in it as the ship came in to Unruli Station. It gave her something to concentrate on while she waited.

Because of it, she was, while completely surprised, not entirely unprepared when they went through again.

The angle of the left knee. Tendons. A slight shift. Vector. Each angle presupposes the next. Each prepares the other.

And came out.

She was so amazed by her sudden understanding of how to correct her straddle stance that she sat down. It was so simple, so obvious.

It was two windows to Unruli. Where, by the Void, were they going? It seemed suddenly absurd to Lily that after all that had happened to her, they—whoever they were, the government, presumably—would simply return her to Unruli and deposit her by Ransome House’s outside lift. Her last ship had gotten to Remote on one impossible jump. She could be anywhere. She felt immensely heartened.

A bed stood platformed into one wall. She lay down on it and slept. It had been told to her on one occasion that no human could sleep through a window. On other occasions, she had been told one merely had strange dreams. It seemed to her, when she woke, that she had had strange dreams, but how many, and how strange, she could not remember. She stretched, did a few exercises, ate and drank and washed. This ship could be going anywhere—even as far as Central. And she thought of Bach’s star map, and smiled.

The ship went through.

The guardian of the south: the spirit of power released. But to the west: the spirit of power in reserve.

And came out

She was still smiling—of course, because it was an instant’s vision, an instant’s realization, an instant, going through. For the first time, she understood that here she would have to wait out events until she could see the pattern they were taking, and find her own part in it.

A subtle change in the floor and in the air signaled docking. In time, the door of her room slid open and six black-and-gray-uniformed officers escorted her out. They put her directly from the lock into a prison car. Her disorientation at locks told her they were, as she had expected, on a station. When the door swung open she emerged with as much dignity as she could muster. They walked sedately down a blank hallway. No one spoke. The corridor dead-ended in a double door that opened from inside. She had to step back to avoid its yawning. None of her guards followed her in.

She was alone in a small chamber. A hollow pop alerted her, and in the far wall a seam appeared, stripping away in a single layer to create an opening. She went obediently through it, and it closed behind her. In the next room, one chair of hard, molded plastine faced eight chairs padded with soft fabric. She allowed herself the barest of sighs and sat in the single hard one. A few minutes passed. The hollow pop sounded again, and a second door materialized. She rose, but before she could take her first step, four people walked into the room and the doorway vanished behind them.

She remained standing, out of astonishment. They wore the most outlandish clothing she had ever seen. There were three men and a woman, or at least one of the men she supposed was a man: he had a delicacy of face that was almost feminine, and she found the juxtaposition subtly attractive because it was so unusual; the oblong slant of his eyes resembled her own—although it might have been more cosmetics than biology—but his hair was blue.

They studied her with equal intentness as they disposed themselves in four of the comfortable chairs. However strange they looked, at least they were human, and not the mysterious alien Kapellans, whose motives she could not hope to fathom.

The blue-haired man lifted a hand to his mouth and coughed delicately behind it. It was, perhaps, a signal.

The woman spoke. “You call yourself Lilyaka Hae Ransome. You claim residence at System Mark fifty-three point twenty-four oh eight, called Unruli. This is correct?”

It was Standard, but strangely altered and heavily accented. “Both those statements are correct,” Lily said slowly. “Am I to be allowed to ask questions?”

The woman looked at the blue-haired man. In her right ear four white stones stood out in bright contrast to her dusky complexion. She said words Lily could not understand, and turned back. “You may ask, in sequence, your questions.” Her tone was neutral.

Lily folded her hands in her lap. “I would like to know where I am, first. And also, why I have been brought here, who you represent, what has been done with my companions, the robot and the Ridani girl, and when I will be allowed due legal process, which I do not need to remind you is my right as a citizen of the Reft.”

“Some of these questions are not so difficult,” said the woman. “You yourself already know most of the answers. For the first, it is not unreasonable that you know your location. We are currently at System Mark fifty-one point seventy-two oh thirty-six, also called—” One hand lifted, paused beside her face as if to frame it; a single red circle, like a drop of blood, dotted her forehead. “Nevermore Station. We have not heard of any Ridani child. Now, of course, you will answer our questions.”

“Nevermore!” It lay off the main routes at the edge of navigable space, populated by pygmies and the usual Ridani enclave. Given its name, Lily had once heard, from the number of ships lost leaving it, trying, perhaps, to go out on Paisley’s haunted way. “Why in the Void did you bring me to Nevermore?”

“Can’t imagine,” muttered the second man, the ruddy rose of his complexion deepening with impatience.

“As you must know, we want to know the extent of your involvement with Gwyn Himavant Simonides, also known as”—her voice took on the litany of the oft-repeated—“Elias Ram, Daniel Lance Fisher, Gwion, Blake Ne-Esthan Ash, Adam Trismegistus—” The blue-haired man chuckled. The woman, breaking off, frowned at him in annoyance. “You know well enough what we ask you,” she finished.

“No, I don’t,” said Lily.

“You deny involvement with him?” asked the woman.

“I don’t know
who
you’re talking about.”

“And of course you have no knowledge of his past activities or his current plans?” This from the ruddy man, face openly skeptical. “Have no connection with this business whatsoever.”

“I don’t know
what
you’re talking about.”

They exchanged glances. The blue-haired man yawned and rubbed with painted fingernails at some imagined blight on one bronzed cheek. His hand moved with a kind of alluring grace that suggested sensuality more than any other characteristic.

“And that, I suppose”—the woman’s voice sharpened with irritation—“is why you have a model sixteen eighty-five composer?”

Lily blinked, shifting her attention quickly back to the woman. “A what?”

Conversation in the foreign language was exchanged between the woman and the blue-haired man. With a final comment, the woman dispatched the third man. The door appeared; he went through it, returned holding a hand-sized box. Behind him, in a metal harness, floated Bach.

Lily stood immediately, whistling his name.

Bach responded in full chorus.
Patroness, thou art unharmed?

“That’s enough.” The ruddy man broke in on Lily’s whistled reply. “It’s proof enough for me,” he said to the woman. She frowned and spoke in the incomprehensible tongue to the blue-haired man.

Can you understand?
whistled Lily.

Certainly, patroness. The lady hath stated that their party should have brought a composer model expert with them. The gentleman respondeth that one is unlikely to expect working models of such design in an area
—His song cut off abruptly, and he drifted down to settle with a slight roll on the floor.

“What have you done?” Lily started forward, but the man with the box stood in her way.

“The model is unharmed,” said the woman in her neutral tone. “We were forced to switch off his melodic circuits. I’m sure you see the necessity.” She nodded, and the man pressed a button; Bach lifted about a meter from the floor, and together they left the room. “You will,” added the woman more forcefully, “receive the model back
after
you have cooperated with us.”

The blue-haired man caught Lily’s eye and, like a conspirator forced for the moment to play the opposite side, winked at her. His eyes, startlingly, were as blue as his hair.

“Has that convinced you,” continued the woman, “that we have seen through your imposture?”

Lily returned to the single hard chair and sat down. “I don’t know what my imposture is supposed to be. I found the robot in my father’s garage.”