The Shadow and Night (60 page)

21

I
t is like being at the prow of a ship, thought Merral Stefan D'Avanos, as he gazed southward out of the rain-drenched windows of the Planetary Affairs building at the sodden houses, roads, and parks of Isterrane below. Beyond the high gray wall that protected the city from storm and earthquake waves, he could faintly make out the angry white breakers of the ocean's edge.
A storm. How appropriate. A storm has been unleashed on this planet—the Gate has been destroyed and Farholme is isolated from the rest of the Assembly. And we must face what it brings. Do the others feel this?
Merral turned around slowly to stare at the three figures who sat round the dark wood table, awaiting the arrival of Representative Corradon. Vero, dressed in a green jacket and trousers with a definite non-Farholme cut, sat at the far end of the table, staring abstractedly at the large mural of the woodlands of the High Varrend that filled the end wall. Merral sensed that the bland expression on his face barely concealed a profound dejection. Vero reminded him of a lost child. But then, wasn't that exactly what he was? It would take forty years for any message to reach them from the Assembly, fifty years for a ship to come. In what sense did a family continue to exist after half a century of total separation? To the right of Vero sat the slight but erect figure of Perena Lewitz. Dressed in a deep blue space pilot's uniform, she was staring out of the windows, her expression unreadable. Merral knew the uniform was unnecessary for this meeting and suspected that it was an act of defiance against events. The Gate might be gone and, consequently, her flying curtailed, but Perena would wear the uniform nonetheless. There was always something insubstantial and reserved about Perena, and here, amid the gathering storm, both qualities seemed emphasized.

Perena's sister, Anya, sat next to her, and Merral noted the contrasts between them. Anya, with a heavier build and longer, redder hair, wore a beige pullover and trousers that teetered on the edge of informality. She was staring at a pile of papers with a deep frown, and as she shuffled them in evident consternation, he felt a longing to put his hand on her shoulder to reassure her. Vero rose and joined Merral at the window.

“My friend,” he said lightly, the accent of Ancient Earth plain in his voice, “I have made a decision to keep some of my suspicions quiet.”

“Which?” Merral was aware of the others listening.

“Up there,” Vero said, gesturing skyward to where the hexagon of the Gate had hung, “I made guesses. I guessed that, despite everything that our history has told us, elements of Jannafy's rebellion somehow escaped destruction at Centauri in 2110. I guessed that they survived, fled, developed in ways we cannot imagine, and now, over eleven thousand years later, they have come back.”

“Where, on the very edge of the Assembly, we have encountered them.”

“Perhaps.”

Perena had joined them now, her face showing curiosity. “But why do you wish to keep these guesses silent?”

“I simply have no proof. It is all speculation.” Vero shook his head. “Our tale is extraordinary enough without my adding to it. I think we had best stick to facts. Theories can wait.”

Anya leaned back in her chair. “Makes sense, Vero. I barely believe it myself. But, Merral, reassure me—you will take the lead in any discussion? Please?”

Merral hesitated. “I think it is Vero who should speak. He has had suspicions longer than any of us that something was wrong. He is a sentinel.”

“No,” Anya replied, the ghost of a grin on her face. “Be realistic. The story of your meeting with the intruders is so incredible that they will only believe it if it's told by someone with as little imagination as a forester. This is
your
job, Tree Man.”

Vero turned to Merral, a faint smile trying—and failing—to break through his dejected expression. “Yes, you, Merral, should lead. I am both a stranger to Farholme and a sentinel.”

Merral noted a slight gesture of accord from Perena. “Very well,” he said.

There was the sound of echoing footsteps outside the room. The door slid open, and a tall man wearing a dark gray suit entered, paused, and looked around with alert blue eyes. Merral instantly recognized Anwar Corradon, representative for northeastern Menaya and the current Chairman of the Farholme Committee of Representatives. He had heard the representative speak at ceremonies and conferences, and along with all of Farholme, he had watched his short but momentous broadcast the previous night.

This close, Merral was suddenly struck by how much Corradon looked the part. In his midsixties, he had the sort of face that sculptors and painters liked: long and rather angular, dominated by a well-defined, almost aquiline nose, and thick, wavy black hair with silver streaks. With his looks and bearing, Corradon would have stood out in a room full of people. There was something about his calm, positive manner that seemed to reassure that, however bad things were, they could be sorted out.

“Good afternoon,” he announced in a precise and resonant voice as he looked around. He gave a rather sad smile, and for the first time Merral felt there was a hint of the strain he must be feeling. “In the last few hours, I have wished, for the first time in my life, that I was neither a representative nor chairman of the Farholme Committee. Yet this—” here he raised a hand skyward with a slightly theatrical gesture—“happened on my shift. And we must all do the tasks we are called to.”

Corradon smiled at Anya. “Now, Miss—sorry—
Doctor
Lewitz, I know. And I can guess this is your sister, Captain Perena Lewitz, but the others here . . .” He shook his head.

“Let me,” Anya said. “This is Sentinel Verofaza Laertes Enand of Ancient Earth.”

“Ah, our visiting sentinel,” Corradon said as they shook hands. “I'm sorry, Verofaza. It's hard to know what to say, I'm afraid.”

“I get abbreviated to Vero, sir.” Vero hesitated. “Yes, I'm afraid I will be a guest of Farholme for a long time.” He seemed to struggle with his emotions.

“Fifty years.” Corradon shook his head. “My deepest commiserations,” he said in a voice barely more than a murmur. “Another lamentable story. But if there's anything I can do, let me know.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The representative turned to Merral.

“And this,” said Anya, “is Forester Merral Stefan D'Avanos of Ynysmant.”

“A forester?” Bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “I think I have heard your name.” He offered Merral a firm handshake. “It's a small planet.” A rueful smile slipped across his face. “I was in agriculture once, before they decided that I was more gifted at management. Until this happened, I had not regretted the change.”

The door opened.

“Ah, here is Dr. Clemant.”

A younger man, also wearing a gray suit, entered the room, closing the door carefully behind him. He stood in front of the door, looking around with deep-set dark gray eyes as if he was trying to fully evaluate the situation before taking another step into the room. The newcomer was shorter than Corradon and had a pale, round face accentuated by neat, pitch black hair parted precisely down the middle.

Merral, who judged the newcomer to be in his forties, felt struck by his watchful and reserved expression.

“And may I introduce,” said the representative, “Dr. Lucian Clemant. Until yesterday, Dr. Clemant advised me on planetary social trends. He has now been given the role of crisis advisor.”

Doctor Clemant bowed formally and gave a stiff smile. “An unprecedented title for an unprecedented situation,” he said in a deep but rather unemotional voice.
He is a private man,
Merral decided.
You couldn't fail to notice Corradon, but you could easily overlook his advisor.

“I have no idea of the purpose of this meeting,” Corradon said. “Anya insisted it was vital. So I took the liberty of inviting Lucian. Please, everybody, introduce yourselves to him and then—without further ado—let's take our seats. As you can imagine, we are busy people at the moment.”

Clemant nodded and moved around rapidly, giving brief handshakes, repeating each name carefully as he heard it.

When all were seated, Corradon nodded to Anya.

“Representative, Advisor,” Anya began awkwardly, “thank you both for seeing us—”

“Oh, Anya, we can be on first-name terms.”

“Thank you, sir. But this is a serious matter. We seek you as Representative. Formality is appropriate.”

Corradon and Clemant exchanged glances, and Merral felt that the advisor's watchful gaze suddenly seemed to become sharper.

“Formal it is then, Dr. Lewitz,” Corradon said. “But before you begin, let me give you a status report, so you know where we stand. We have, by the grace of God, weathered the immediate crisis. Communications across Farholme, for example, will shortly be fully restored. The shock of the blast weakened the diary network, and the inevitable usage surge in the wake of the accident overloaded what was left. But it should be back up in an hour.”

He glanced at Clemant and got a nod of confirmation. “And, thankfully, the Admin-Net has stayed up.” Merral sensed relief in his voice. It was understandable; almost everything to do with running the planet, from the registration of births to the requisitioning of road repairs, went through the Admin-Net. If that had been wrecked, Farholme would have been incapacitated.

“May I ask, sir,” Vero said, “about the state of the Library?”

Merral remembered that Vero hoped to use the Assembly's vast store of information to try to obtain clues to the mystery of the intruders.

“Lucian?”

Clemant, who was sitting with his hands placed neatly before him on the table, gazed at his fingers for a moment before looking up at Vero. “The Library? Well, we hold copies of about 63 percent of the Assembly data stock here. Those files are, of course, intact. I have ordered an inventory of what is missing. I suspect the losses will mostly be specialist files to do with other worlds. It will not be back on line today, and tomorrow is, of course, the day of prayer and fasting. But it will—I am told—be back on line the day afterward. Does that help?” The advisor turned toward Corradon to indicate he had finished and then returned to staring at his fingers.

“Thank you,” Vero said.

Corradon looked around. “So, that is encouraging. Long term—well that's another matter. A whole new global set of priorities will have to be sorted out. There are endless meetings being arranged, and I can only hope that tomorrow will help clear all our minds. But there are grounds for optimism.”

Corradon paused and stared at the end wall. “I have to say that I sympathize with those who have found this event personally traumatic. Our youngest son . . .” He paused, struggling against some deep emotion. “His fiancée was on agricultural training on Pananaret. . . .” The public persona seemed to crumble slightly. “The wedding was to have been this autumn. It is almost unimaginable. Already you can see the problem that is emerging.” His voice was slow and strained. “Does he stay engaged to her for the next fifty years? Or does he treat it like a death?”

Corradon continued to stare out at the rain a moment longer and then turned back to them, his face once more the picture of assurance. “But such decisions
will
be made.” Then he looked sharply at Anya. “So, Dr. Lewitz, if, as you say, you and your friends can cast light on this calamitous accident, we will hear you out. But otherwise—if you will excuse me for saying so—other needs are pressing.”

“Sir, it was not an accident.”

Corradon's eyebrow shot upward. The advisor stiffened.

“Not
an accident?” The representative frowned. “I hope you can both clarify
and
justify that statement.”

Anya nodded. “Yes. But, please, let me hand you over to Forester D'Avanos, who has been involved from the start. I will let him tell the story.”

Merral, aware of the intense and unfaltering gaze of both the representative and his advisor, began his account. He started four months earlier, just before the Nativity celebrations, when he had visited the Forward Colony of Herrandown and seen what he had taken to be a large meteor going northward, toward the area of the Lannar Crater.

Here Clemant silently raised a finger to pause him, drew a control pad out from the table, and pressed buttons. The woodland scene on the far wall disappeared, to be replaced by an image of the whole of Menaya. Merral, recognizing it as a customized digital composite, was struck by how the green areas of woods and cultivation seemed no more than some artist's daubs over the blacks, grays, and dirty browns of the lava fields, ash flows, and sand deserts.

Feeling conscious of the shortage of time, Merral quickly continued. “While I was at Herrandown I felt there was something wrong— something I couldn't identify. Anyway, I returned on the eve of Nativity to Ynysmant to find that Vero had arrived at my parents' house.”