Binary Part 7

Sandon let out a breath, took another. It wasn't over yet. Again the ground rose, taking him with it, motion shuddering through his bones. Eyes screwed tightly closed, he opened his mouth and yelled, forcing the air from his lungs, screaming into the storm of motion. Soon, soon it would end. It had to. The ground was still once more. He lay where he was panting, waiting, and waiting. It couldn't be over yet. The ground shuddered gently beneath him, again, once, twice, three times, and then all was quiet. That might have been the last of it. Very tentatively, he raised his upper body, ready to throw himself flat at the first sign of anything more.

Then came the noises. A padder screamed, then voices, called queries, the sound of feet and more shadows casting bizarre angles against the tent walls. Cautiously he poked his head outside.

One wagon lay overturned. Off on the tether line, a padder lay on the ground, its legs splayed. One or two tents had fallen, but for the most part, everything seemed intact. It hadn't been too bad then. Within the tent's confines, it had seemed enormous, but there was no sense of scale in such a confined s.p.a.ce. In small groups and singly, Atavists, both men and women, and children too, Sandon noticed, wandered between the tents and wagons inspecting for damage. An older Atavist in homespun headed purposefully toward the tether line, a broad flat knife in his hand. Sandon looked away, not wanting to watch what was about to happen. A group of men cl.u.s.tered about the side of the overturned wagon, already preparing to right it. They grouped evenly around the base, around the set of wheels that faced skyward and around its ends. Then, as one, they heaved, pulling it upright. The wheels held, but its roof sagged on one side where the struts had been cracked by its impact with the ground. Sandon stood and watched, not wanting to get in the way.

"Sandon, it is you. Are you all right?"

It was Alise. He turned to face her, one eye still on the proceedings around the damaged wagon. "Yes, I think so. Thanks. But I don't think it's done my head any good."

A concerned look flickered across her face, and then she gave a shy smile and nodded. He gave a short laugh in return, then immediately wished he hadn't. "But you shouldn't be worrying about me. What about the others? Is everyone unhurt?"

She nodded, and then glanced over toward the tether line. "Yes, except for, well, whatever is the will of the Prophet." She looked back at him. "Come," she said. "You must drink another dose and keep calm."

"But isn't there anything I can do?"

"Everything will be taken care of. Now come with me."

Feeling useless, he did as he was told. The ache in his head and the throbbing through his face and body were back. She was right. He was in no real position to argue. He glanced up at the sky, still covered in thick cloud, marked by the occasional flash of light. Storm Season was going to be heavy this cycle. A quake of that force up here and so early did not bode well. Storm activity often occurred early, especially on the Yarik plateau, but this storm looked ugly. So far, the winds had not started, but they could come at any time. He turned his attention to Alise who walked unhurriedly in front of him. He wondered whether she was keeping her pace slow to spare him. It was not until they reached her wagon that she finally turned and looked at him again.

"Sandon Yl Aris. It is a strange name," she said, then gave a little frown, climbed the steps to her wagon and disappeared inside, beckoning him to follow.

The next few days progressed in much the same fas.h.i.+on. Sandon either stood or lay around feeling completely useless. They rode out the storm, and Sandon found himself poring for hour after hour over the text in the large book Badrae had left with him. At intervals seemingly known only to Alise, she would appear, escorting him to her wagon for more of the restorative brew. Once or twice, she washed the paste away from his face, and then carefully reapplied it.

He couldn't understand how an entire people could live like this, divorced from the comforts of modern life: their simple wagons, the basic clothing, the hard sleeping pallets; they all had the feeling of penance rather than normal life. Yet Alise, whom he saw most of, seemed perfectly content. On a couple of occasions, he had tried to question her about her life, about the way they did things, but she would not be led. Most of the time she replied with a simple stock answer: As the Prophet wills. As the days wore on, his frustration grew. Alise was clearly not the route to the answers he needed, and he needed those answers if he was to follow through the plan that was gradually forming in the back of his mind. He decided to seek out the older man, Badrae. The only time he had seen him since entering the simple tent, it had been when he'd appeared just to look in on him, to see if he had any questions about the book.

They all dressed alike, these Atavists. The older men wore beards. There was only slight variation in their frames. One might be a little bit heavier, another more slight, but generally, they all looked alike. As he spent more time observing, he became more adept at distinguis.h.i.+ng the individuals. Five days now, he had been among them. There was thick stubble on his own chin. No one had offered shaving materials, and he had none of his own gear with him. That had all been back in the groundcar. His clothing was starting to become worse for the constant wearing as well, and he was starting to smell of the potion Alise had been feeding him day after day. He had bathed, daily, in a large metal tub with the unscented homemade soap they provided, but it did little good if all he had were the same clothes to step back into. The paste on his face remained working on the cuts, despite the bathing. For the most part, the Atavist community simply ignored him. He was there, but they stepped around him, or out of his way. None of them offered conversation, and they shared very few words between themselves.

He scoured the camp, but Badrae was nowhere to be found. Asking was pointless. The first time he tried, he was met with a blank stare, a slight shrug, and then the person had simply walked on, ignoring further questions. The next was a repeat of the first. Not even a word. He then tried to find either Melchor or Arnod, the two who had been with Badrae when they brought him in, but both of them seemed to be missing too. He needed to find the old man. Already days had pa.s.sed, and in those days, he had no clue what might be happening with Men Darnak. Badrae was the only one who might be able to provide the answers that would let him return, let him help the Princ.i.p.al in the only way he knew how. The more time that pa.s.sed, the further he was from being able to do anything.

In the end, frustrated, he returned to Alise's wagon. He stood at the bottom of the steps, feeling slightly foolish. He didn't want to just climb the steps and walk inside. He knew she was in there, because he could hear her moving about, but with the Atavist avoidance of unnecessary talk, he was reluctant to call her name as well.

Finally, after he'd stood debating with himself for several minutes, Alise's face appeared.

"Sandon. What are you doing here? Is the pain back?"

"No, no," he said. "I, well, I wanted to ask you a favor or two. I cannot seem to get any sense out of any of the other members of your, um, family."

She nodded and beckoned him up, disappearing again inside the wagon's interior. He followed, ducked beneath the entrance flaps, then stood, still feeling awkward at one end. She gave him a slight frown, and waved at the bench. "Sit, Sandon, sit."

He nodded and complied. "Alise, I ... I would not want to impose, but there are two things you can do for me."

She stood waiting, and when he said nothing further, shook her head. "Speak, Sandon. Tell me."

He gestured down at his clothes. "Well, these, I've been wearing for almost a week now, and, I wonder if you could find me something else to wear."

She looked at him and laughed. "You should have asked before. We thought you would be more comfortable in your own clothes, made of such fine cloth. We did not think you would be at home in our simple garb. We have robes aplenty. All you needed was to ask."

"Hmmm," he said, looking down at the floor. "All right, I'm asking."

"And the other? If it's as simple as that."

"I need to talk to Badrae. Do you know where he is?"

Her face became serious again. "He is not here."

"I know that, Alise. I've looked for him. So, where is he? And Melchor and Arnod."

"Where the Prophet wills." She looked away.

"And where might that be?"

"Where the Prophet wills."

Sandon grimaced. It was the same set of stock answers again. "All right. I understand," he said.

Alise nodded, her face still serious; then her expression lightened.

"Then let us find you a worthy robe," she said. "Come." She held out a hand, and smiled.

Ten.

Jarid paced around the confines of his private workrooms in the Guild quarters, almost as if measuring the limits of his allotment. Yes, lesser status, lesser s.p.a.ce; that was how it worked. A slight sneer came to his face, and then, with an effort, he forced himself to forget about it. There were more important things to do than worry about the size of his rooms. If he could actually get Markis to play, without gaining direct knowledge of the game he was playing into, or of the real nature of Jarid's plans, then all the better.

He stood looking at his communication screen for a few minutes considering. He knew what he was going to say, but it didn't hurt to go over it one more time in his head. Markis would have to feel threatened enough to drop what he was doing and come rus.h.i.+ng back to the Guild rooms. Jarid would have to feed him enough information that he'd doubt, without giving the entire thing away, and that was a delicate juggling act. His brother had never been a really big thinker, however, and that should work to Jarid's advantage.

The screen stuttered and flickered a few times before the image stabilized. Jarid pursed his lips as he was waiting. Already the interference was bad. He drummed his fingers on the table, killing time while the various connections directed the call through pathways that would guarantee the best signal. It took longer than usual, but at last, the symbol indicating connect wavered into solidity in the screen's center. It flickered once or twice, shuddering and jerking in and out of definition while he waited for Markis to respond. His brother was probably out at the mines right now. He'd have to get back to the screen to answer, but any call at this time should be enough to prompt him to hurry back to the mobile communicator wherever he might be. He pictured Markis reaching for his prompter, the look of concern on his face, a muttered curse, then the looks, this way and that, working out how he was going to make his way to the communication station. As Jarid waited, the screen faded in and out. The image wavered, shook, solidified and sparked across with random lines. It seemed to be taking forever. He stood and stretched a few times waiting for the tone to arrive.

At last, the insistent chime drew him back to the desk, and he sat before the screen. His brother's image swam into view, broken by static and random lines. If this was the best connection they could get, interference from the stellar storms clearly had to be strong, getting stronger.

"Jarid," said his brother's voice from the speaker, overlaid with hissing white noise. "What is it? What's happened."

"Markis, h.e.l.lo. How are things at the mines?"

"Yes, they're fine at the moment. Pretty quiet, considering."

"No trouble with the Kallathik?"

"No, none to speak of. But come on, Jarid. You didn't call me simply to discuss what's going on at the mines. What is it? What's happened?"

Jarid chose his next words carefully. "It's father."

His brother's face loomed larger in the screen. "What's happened?" A note of panic in the voice. That was good. Very good.

"Is he all right? What's happened?" His face was now reflecting the panic.

"Yes, yes, he's All right. Relax. Nothing's happened to him, but there are things you need to know."

Markis's features eased slightly, but a frown wrinkled his forehead. "And couldn't this wait?"

Jarid reached out and gently traced the fingers of his right hand up and down the side of the screen and then leaned forward, dropping his voice. "Markis, no, it couldn't wait. There are things you need to know about right now. As soon as I found out, I had to get in touch with you. Before you spoke to father."

"I don't understand."

Jarid maintained the conspiratorial tone. "There's a lot you have to understand, Markis, and understand now. Someone's been at father. There have been accusations. We need to talk as soon as possible, and we need to do it in person."

Markis c.o.c.ked his head to one side on the other end. "I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Too much interference. You said something about someone being at father, about something else. What are you saying?"

Jarid nodded in understanding and repeated what he'd just said. Markis's face drew back from the screen. The image wavered again and then he spoke. "This is going to have to wait. I have things to do out here, Jarid. You know that. We have to get everything ready. I can't trust the people out here to do it properly without supervision, and I certainly can't..." His voice disappeared into a burst of static.

"Sorry? Repeat the last."

"I said I certainly can't trust the Kallathik."

"Yes, I know. But this is far too important." He paused, waiting for maximum impact. "Do you value your position, Markis?"

"What?"

"You heard what I said. Do you value your position?"

His brother started to look concerned anew. "What are you...?"

"You need to get back here. We need to talk in private, plan how we're going to deal with this together. We can't trust this link, Markis. You have to get back here. This is serious."

Markis looked torn. "Are you sure?"

"I'm absolutely certain. How soon can you get here?"

There was a long pause. Markis was clearly debating with himself, a.s.sessing his priorities. Finally, he seemed to reach a decision, and leaned forward again after glancing off to one side. He looked tired and hara.s.sed. "All right. As soon as I can. Where will you be?"

"I'll be here, my rooms, waiting for you. I'm not going anywhere."

Markis nodded, and Jarid cut the connection, forestalling any further questions. He sat back, fingers linked behind his neck. Good. Markis would be off balance by the time he arrived. He had let him have little enough information to keep him guessing. Anything serious enough to have him called back from the mines was serious indeed. He nodded to himself then tapped at his screen to call up a strategy game. He would have some time to kill before Markis arrived.

One by one, he selected, and then lined up his chosen forces, positioning them carefully. He made one or two adjustments, repositioned a unit here and there and then rethought the composition of one of the groupings before pressing the sequence to start the game. He didn't know how old the program was, but it was one of the few non-utilitarian things saved from the wreckage of some of the first colony s.h.i.+ps. He'd only discovered it by chance when trawling through some of the old records. One day, maybe, they'd be in a position again to have such things, to have them generally available, but such a time was not yet. Until then, he would use his own position within the Guild hierarchy to get whatever he could. He scratched the back of his head, grimaced, made another adjustment, and then finally satisfied with the composition of his forces, keyed the sequence to start the game.

Jarid was still playing when Markis finally arrived, looking hot and fl.u.s.tered. He hung on the doorframe slightly out of breath. Dust from the mines was still on his clothes. Good, he'd wasted no time at all getting back. Jarid nodded once, glanced back at the screen, determined that he had a good position and took his time checking his decision was right, before pressing to save the scenario. He'd recall the game later.

"By the Twins, Jarid. You call me back here for some mystery, the least you can do is give me more attention than your b.l.o.o.d.y game."

Jarid swiveled his chair to face the door. "No, Markis, you're right. I'm sorry. Come in." He waved a hand. "You'd better close the door behind you."

Markis did so and crossed to sit nearby. Taking a position on the edge of the couch, he smoothed his trousers, then his sleeves, wiping away some of the dust. Jarid waited, watching. He could see some of himself in Markis's face, but they were different, clearly different.

"Jarid, will you just cut playing with me? I'm not one of your d.a.m.ned games." His annoyance was clear on his face.

"No, you're not, Markis. And if you've quite finished spreading dirt all over my couch, you might give me your proper attention. You have to realize that this is all a game when it comes down to it. Especially where Father is concerned. It's all politics, and you d.a.m.n well know it, whether you want to admit it or not."

"Yes, so what? I can get on without getting tied up in all that. There are things we have to do."

"But you want to be in a position to be able to do them, don't you?" Jarid leaned forward.

A flicker of confusion, and then a frown. "What do you mean?"

"What I told you on the communicator. Someone's been at Father, making accusations. They've convinced him that you're involved in some plan to agitate the Kallathik and seize power in the Guild."

"Who? What?" Markis got to his feet, looking aggrieved. "That makes no sense at all."

"I don't think that matters. What matters is that the old man believes it. Whatever was said was convincing enough to sway him."

"But that's ridiculous. How could he possibly think -- ?"

Jarid raised a hand. "It doesn't matter. Sit down, Markis. What matters is that he does think it."

"But I've done nothing!"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Who, Jarid? Who?" Markis bunched his fists, looking around the room as if seeking someone to strike. "Who would want to do this to me?"

"Just sit down, Markis. You're not going to achieve anything getting all worked up like that. We have to approach this calmly."

Slowly, Markis relaxed his fists and then sighed. "Yes, you're right. I'm just tired." He lowered himself to sit on the couch again. "Tell me, how bad is it?"

"Bad enough. Father's talking about removing you from the current operations. You know how he gets. Once he's got an idea..."

Markis made to stand again, but Jarid gestured for him to stay.

"What good is it sitting here?" said Markis. "I have to talk to him."

"No you don't. You know you can trust me to look after things at this end. I just don't think it would be a good idea to see him right now. You know Father; he's liable to do something rash. No, I think it would be better if you let me handle him. If you can trust me to do so, that is? You do trust me, don't you, Markis?"

Markis nodded slowly. "But then what should I do?"

"You should go somewhere out of the way for the moment. Get down to one of the estates, out of the mines and out of the city. You've probably done enough to make sure everything's running smoothly at the mines. I'll wait for the old man to calm down, and then I'll choose my moment, get him alone and talk to him quietly. We'll stay in communication with each other, as much as we can, and I'll let you know when it's safe to face him yourself. This is clearly something from within the Guild. Someone is taking the opportunity of the current instability to make their move. Leave me to deal with Father and to find out who, and that way you'll be out of direct line. I think that's safer."