Wasteland of Flint

Aboard the Cornuelle, Outbound from Ctesiphon Station

"Talk to me about the transmitter."

Space aboard an Imperial warship was at a minimum, so Gretchen was doing sit-ups hanging from a bar set into the ceiling. Working in the field was good exercise, but sitting in a three-by four-meter cabin for weeks on end during transit did nothing for her girlish figure. Magdalena was perched on her bunk, surrounded by data pads and printouts on quick-cycle sheets. The Hesht looked up, yellow eyes narrowed to slits over the top of amped-up sunglasses. The cat had an earbug as well, letting her hear the soft invisible voices of the processors riding in the pads. Gretchen had used field goggles before, with v-feeds and a sound interface, but they had been big, bulky units. Maggie's sunglasses were as sleek and dark as she was.

"It's an experimental unit, sister. A commercial version of the old military-grade Wayfarer ship-based transmitter. The Company is field testing it for Tera-Wave — according to the logs, it's a one-oh release. That means light encryption, no redundant power supplies or emitters, about a six to seven light-year range." Maggie made a chuckling sound like a hydrogen-powered chainsaw starting up. "Thirty or forty predefined channels — very primitive."

"But…grunt…not hand mirrors and smoke…grunt…from the mountaintop."

"No." Maggie clawed a pad and let some schematics drift past. "A little better than that. Each channel is identified by headers tacked onto the message packets, then thrown out in a single emitter stream. Sort of a faster-than-light telegraph. But it works and it's as cheap as you can build a tachyon unit. I've tested the connection myself by patching through Ctesiphon comm — they have a big industrial emitter and router — the unit on the Palenque does respond to a 'hello', but refused to open a conversation. I think the unit is actually in maintenance mode, on standby, waiting for the shipboard operator to reset the system." The Hesht paused, then held up a pad. Gretchen jerked her head and Maggie flipped the device upside down.

"That…grunt…still makes no sense to me. Plain Nбhuatl, sister."

Maggie laughed again, rolling on her back and lolling her head off the edge of the bunk. Now she seemed upright to Gretchen, though her ears were pointing off at a strange angle. "The Wayfarer has a manual mode, where the operator can pick and choose which channels are live. This is also used for maintenance, where you don't have to shut down the whole system. Specific components can be turned on or off, even removed from the chassis. When I send a 'hello' across the t-link, the refused connection message comes back with an error code. Of course, the code isn't documented yet, not on a test system, but it matches the older military code for 'standby'."

"So…grunt…there was a problem, they turned it off. The problem got worse…grunt…no one came back to push the 'on' button."

"That's what the momma cat said."

Gretchen finished her count of two hundred and eight, then swung down off the bar. The Cornuelle was accelerating out from the station on normal-space drive, chewing up antimatter pellets and spitting plasma, which gave them one g inside the habitat areas of the ship. A bigger ship, a commercial liner or an Imperial battlewagon, would have g-decking everywhere. The Cornuelle was not a big ship. Gretchen stepped carefully over the duffels and equipment boxes strapped to the floor. The Marine gunso they had bumped back to hot-bunking with the rankers already had their cargo allotments aboard, so there was very little room for the Company people. A two meter–high polyfoam crate holding spare transmitter parts occupied the space where a little table and seats were usually pulled down.

She frowned at the clothing spread out on her bunk. Playing in the dirt, as her father would say, did not require dress-up clothes. Unfortunately, this was an Imperial ship of war, which meant chu-sa Hadeishi would have a dress evening mess. Gretchen sighed, turning over her "good" shirt. It had stains. Ruin bugs had eaten a hole in one sleeve.

"A citizen is humble, simply-dressed, respectful, pious…" she mumbled to herself, fingers twitching her trousers straight.

Maggie laughed again, her tail twitching. "You're the kit who always has dirt on her nose and looks so surprised! Will this clan-lord Hadeshee nip your ears for a dirty pelt?"

"Yes. Miss Sho-sa Kosho has been very polite and accommodating, but we need the commander's good will. He is Nisei, too, which means he will be very proper and traditional. He may have guests — I can't embarrass him too much. Time for the ol' enzymatic cleaner."

Gretchen squeezed into the end of her bunk, found a clean cloth, then picked up her boots. They were good boots — her mother had had them fitted and built for her by hand, of realcow leather, with shock-soles and brass fittings — but the dust of Ugarit fouled everything it touched. She sighed, seeing the soles were beginning to separate from the uppers.

"No matter…" She shoved them to the back of the bunk. Aboard ship they went about in light disposable deck shoes designed to adhere to the walking surfaces when they were in zero-g. She spat on the shirt stain, then began to gently rub it between her fingers.

Two Imperial Marines in sharply creased black dress uniforms with crimson piping stiffened to attention as Gretchen approached a hatchway outlined in pale blue. Each Marine had his hands behind his back, but heavy flat pistols were slung on their belts and they had visors as sharp and sleek as Maggie's. The Navy rating escorting her bowed politely and thumbed a comm pad set into the bulkhead next to the hatch.

"Doctor Gretchen Anderssen, Commander," he announced in a stiffly formal voice.

The pad chimed and the hatch recessed with a slight chuff and then slid up into the bulkhead. Her mouth suddenly dry, Gretchen nodded to the young man, then stepped inside. The room was small, like everything on the Cornuelle, but managed to hold a low traditional table for six, dressed with crisp white linen and thin porcelain cups. A very short man, barely reaching Gretchen's shoulder, bowed in greeting from the head of the table. The five other officers — ranging from the petite executive officer, Sho-sa Kosho, down to a midshipman, or sho'i ko-hosei, with pale red hair — also bowed in place, their hands flat on the tatami mat floor. Their incline was slightly deeper than Hadeishi's. Gretchen kept her face composed, hands together in front of her, and managed a bow halfway between those that had greeted her.

"Welcome, Doctor Anderssen," Hadeishi said. Gretchen blinked in surprise — the Nisei's Norman was flawless. "Please, join us."

Gretchen slipped off her deck shoes before entering the room, turning the motion into a second bow.

The midshipman scooted a little to one side. Gretchen knelt, smiling politely at the boy. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. Like the other officers, he wore a perfectly white dress uniform, with the fire-snake emblem of the Imperial Navy worked in copper at his collar. Above his heart rode the sunburst symbol of the Cornuelle and a square glyph holding a running man.

The other officers remained still, heads lowered. The captain smiled down the table at Gretchen, and raised a thin porcelain teacup in polite greeting.

"Doctor Anderssen, welcome to the Cornuelle. I am Mitsuharu Hadeishi, her captain."

"Konichiwa, Mitsuharu-san. Thank you for making me so welcome."

"Your Japanese is excellent," Hadeishi said, smiling, eyes crinkling up. Gretchen felt an odd sense of dislocation. She had worked with many Nisei; at the university, on Old Mars, even on Ugarit. They were unfailingly polite but she had never encountered a Japanese man, particularly one her social superior, that had genuinely smiled at her.

"Thank you. Your Norman is perfect."

"No, please, I have a slight accent." Hadeishi set down his cup. "You have already met Lieutenant Kosho, my executive officer and pilot. This fellow next to her is Lieutenant Second Hayes, our weapons officer." Hayes nodded, somehow appearing deferential to Kosho, though the XO was a tiny woman, even slighter of build than the captain. Lieutenant Hayes was nearly six feet tall and powerfully built. Gretchen smiled politely.

"The young ensign is Smith-tzin, who runs communications, and this last is Lieutenant Second Isoroku, master of our engineers." Smith managed to nod politely and Isoroku, a bull-headed bald Nisei, had no reaction at all. Obscurely, Gretchen found this cold behavior comforting — his reaction was what she had expected, not the genial, almost cheerful tone expressed by the commander. Hadeishi stood and straightened his dress jacket. His uniform was very simple, expressing the best attributes of the Empire — humility, modest dress, quiet unassuming power — though his collar tabs were gold and the eagle glyph of an Imperial war commander sat next to the sunburst. An elderly man in a simple dark gray kimono appeared with a tiny green jade cup and a slim sake flask. Hadeishi bowed to him, took the cup and turned, facing his right.

There, on a bulkhead covered with inset wooden screens painted with mountains in cloud, were two portraits. They were not holo images, but traditional paintings on cream-colored rice paper, in a delicate ink-brush with faint washes of color. On the left, looking very young, was the Lord of the World, Ahuizotl, the sixth of that name, huey tlatoani of the Mйxica and all other peoples under the domain of the Empire. The artist had captured his pensive nature well, looking off to one side, slim hand pressed against his chest.

Hadeishi bowed deeply to the image of the Emperor, then raised the jade cup.

"So, meditate on this, eagles and jaguars," he began, his Nбhuatl slow and measured, as flawless as his Norman. "Although you may be jade, although you may be gold, you too will journey to the fleshless land. We all must disappear, no one will remain."

The room became very still, each man and woman at the table looking down. The servant had disappeared. Gretchen saw the captain's face was composed and calm. She recognized the words, written nearly a thousand years before by a man who had opposed the policies of the Empire when it was still young. Her eyes drifted to one side, watching the faces of the other officers. The poetry of NezahualcГіyotl, the doomed prince of Tetzcoco, was banned throughout the Empire. The poet's philosophy did not express the ascetic martial spirit deemed fitting by the great powers of the Mйxica.

Hadeishi lowered the jade cup, pressing it against his lips, then raised it again, to the second portrait. This was a grumpy old man, his face pinched in a scowl, his hair bound up in the traditional samurai knot at the back of his head. He frowned, irritation alive in the smooth brushstrokes. He was Juntoku, the one hundred and thirty-sixth Tenno no Nihon, Emperor of Japan and all the Nisei people. Hadeishi smiled faintly, saying; "Mere green herbs they are, grown in the mountain soil; yet if I pluck them with grace, how joyful is the toil!"

Then he placed the jade cup into the hands of the little old man and turned to face the table again. The welcoming ritual complete, two ratings slipped out of the tiny galley behind the officer's mess and began serving the first course. Gretchen felt her stomach grumble, smelling sweet onions and broth. For a moment, she was frozen, watching everyone else pick up their spoons.

Then the captain somberly tasted the miso and nodded to the two cooks. They grinned and everyone was eating. Gretchen forgot about her worries for a moment, listening to the quiet cheerful banter among the officers and enjoying the excellent meal.

"You were worried by my poetry." Hadeishi was sitting in his office, a tiny cluttered room dominated by a wall of old books and a great deal of quick-cycle paper in stacks on an inset metal desk. He cradled a heavy Jomon-style sake cup in his hands. The liquor was hot, steaming up in the slightly chill air of the ship. Gretchen was sitting opposite him, in a real chair, still uncomfortable, holding a similar cup. She cradled it gently, having determined as the captain was pouring that it was an artifact and possibly two thousand years old. Her training urged her to pack it in shockfoam and label it, not sip smooth, old sake from the broad-mouthed bowl.

"Yes. Is it treason for you to speak those words?"

"No." Hadeishi shook his head, a grin hiding in his dark eyes. His hair was long and a little stringy, though he kept it tied back. Here, in this softly lit room, filled with the familiar odor of old books and ink, he seemed elfin with delicate features and sharp little mustache. "It is traditional, among the Nisei and Nбhuatl both, to offer songs to the great. It is not disrespectful to offer a small portion of a masterpiece — particularly those composed by royalty. But I understand your situation. From your mouth, NezahualcГіyotl is treason. Where were you born?"

"On New Aberdeen," she said quietly, taking a small, careful sip.

"But you are not a Skawt? Surely not with a family name like Anderssen."

Gretchen shook her head. Her poor family situation had weighed against her in school, at university, in getting employment, even under the burning suns of Ugarit. As a child, her ancestry had been a fierce burden, but she had struggled, and survived, and she felt no need to hide or dissemble.

"No, we are Swedish. Refugees."

Hadeishi smiled over his cup, then put the bowl aside on the desk. "Your people fought well and accepted defeat honorably. It pains me you should suffer for this, but I suppose not everyone can be blessed like the Skawts, the Irish and the Nisei, with the favor of the Lord of Men. Someone, after all, needed to stand fast in the face of the Empire. Glory is impossible without a mighty opponent."

"I suppose." A little over a hundred years had passed since the Mйxica had crushed the last independent nations on Anбhuac. The Swedes and Russians, fighting on in the ruins of their great cities, had surrendered only when all else had fallen to the Jaguar and Eagle Legions. Many of the survivors had scattered to the trans-solar colonies, or even beyond the embrace of Sol. Gretchen's grandparents had managed to settle on New Aberdeen, one of the lusher, Earthlike planets the Empire had apportioned to those races of men who were "Third From the Center." Her grandparents and parents had never spoken of The War, but the colonial government's nationalistic propaganda had filled in the blanks. "That is past history."

"Perhaps." Hadeishi leaned forward, his face suddenly serious. "You are uncomfortable with me and my crew — we are not what you expected. You are even surprised I speak passable Norman."

"Yes." Gretchen set aside a stack of age-yellowed magazines and put down her cup. "I am surprised, though I have never been on an Imperial warship before. All of the Imperial officials I have ever met have been very forbidding men and women, ascetic and distant. I have never heard an official use any language save Nбhuatl. Isn't that the recommended style?"

"In many places, yes. You've stumbled into an odd corner of the Empire with us, I fear. The Imperial Navy is a strange creature, one head on two distinct bodies. I know you have found your place in society restricted by your birth — our Navy suffers the same fate. Certain kinds of ship commands — really, anything large and impressive — are reserved for commanders and senior crew drawn from those 'close to the Center.' This leaves the smaller ships — destroyers, cruisers, light cruisers — to those 'further away'. And among those who are not of the Great Clans, you will find the Nisei are the most trusted." Hadeishi paused, thin mobile lips twisting ironically. "So we are repaid for trading horses and steel for food and shelter so long ago.

"If you were to go down into the ship's enlisted country," he continued, "you would find crewmen and women of many races, even some with hair the color of beaten gold, like yours. Nearly a quarter of light-ship crews are of macehualli descent. Despite the nepotism of the Imperial Clans, crew rosters must be filled and the navy is not picky about lineage and birth — for crewmen at least! Haven't you noticed everything is labeled in Norman? Our manuals, our computer systems, everything is in Norman. Every Imperial officer must be proficient if they are to speak with their crews." He paused. "Of course, they have reliable officers to guide them, like myself."

Gretchen stifled a laugh. She was suddenly aware there had been sake with dinner too, and most of the Jomon bowl was empty. The air seemed chillier than it had been.

"I am still surprised," she said, fingertips brushing the medband on her wrist. It could dispense more than serotonin regulators. A cool sensation followed, rushing up her arm. Objects in the room began to assume a preternatural clarity. "Are you judged so reliable you lack a political officer? Someone to help you guide these clanless, landless crewmen?"

She stopped, aware of the bitter tone in her words. Hadeishi raised an eyebrow, shaking his head gently. He put a thin finger to his lips in warning. "Careful, Doctor. In this world, we must keep in our places, at least with open words. My command staff and I have been together for six years — first on the destroyer Ceatl and now here. We are very comfortable together — a family. You've seen in the door of our house tonight, watching us laugh at dinner. Perhaps we should have been more circumspect."

He smiled gently, putting both forefingers to his temples. "Keep your true life here, inside, and you will be safe. Now listen, Doctor, for there are things I must tell you."

Gretchen straightened up, her mind now crystal clear. Something about Hadeishi had changed as well, the captain-ness of him coming forward. Now that she knew him a little better, she could see him change, his openness fading away, though he was still genial and polite.

"The sector admiral agreed to let you and your team ship with us to Ephesus because this benefits the Empire, not as a favor to your Company. The ruins on Ephesus Three, and the marks of shaping the planet bears, make it important to the Navy. Our own scientists have reviewed the data from the probe. At some time in the distant past, at least a million years ago, the world was violently transformed by the First Sun People. It may be an abandoned project — we have found those before — or may have been completed.

"Regardless of what happened to the Palenque, the investigation must continue. I have been entrusted with seeing you safely there and then making sure your work is a success. Whatever you need — transport shuttles, men, equipment, repair parts — I will provide."

Gretchen sighed, weariness hidden behind the booster. "I understand, Commander. If we find anything interesting we will turn it over to you." She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes. "I've worked under military supervision before."

"I know." Hadeishi did not smile, but there was a trace of humor sparkling in his eyes. "On Old Mars — the Polaris excavation — under Director Huicton. You are young, Doctor, but you were chosen for this mission because of your experience and skill. Listen to me, I am here to help you, not to stumble around in your investigation, shooting people or being heavy-handed. I cannot imagine there is a great deal of trust between us, but I hope to gain yours."

"Why?" The side of Gretchen's mouth twisted and she had to quell the urge to chew on the inside of her lip. "You certainly don't need my trust. You can order me to do whatever you want. What you are trying to say, politely, is that we are consultants to the Navy."

Hadeishi nodded in agreement. "This is true. But this is not a military mission."

Gretchen's eyebrows raised in question. "I don't understand."

Hadeishi ran his finger around the top of his drinking bowl. He seemed pensive, uneasy. After a long moment he said, "This has become a matter of concern to the Smoking Mirror. We are both under the direct jurisdiction of an Imperial nauallis — a judge."

Swallowing, her throat tight and dry, Gretchen managed to speak. "Is this brujo aboard ship?"

Hadeishi nodded, his face a tight mask. "Yes, you will speak to him soon. His name is Huitziloxoctic."

Green Hummingbird, she thought. A powerful name.

Gretchen thumbed open the hatch to her quarters, and stopped in the doorway, finding Parker and Bandao sitting on the deck amid drifts of bits and pieces of metal, plastic flasks and wads of cloth. The pilot was in a T-shirt and ragged work pants lined with pockets. Bandao, as ever, was in sharply pressed slacks and a dress shirt. Maggie was still on her bunk; though she had squeezed down to make room for the equipment cases that had been sitting on the deck.

"Hello. Why are you cluttering up my floor?"

Parker looked up, pale brown eyes twinkling. "Sorry, boss, but we don't have any room in our cabin." His hands were spotted with light oil. Gretchen could smell it hanging in the air, a bitter thick tickling in her nose and throat. The pilot had an automatic pistol in his hand, mostly disassembled, with the gas venting mechanism sticking out.

"They weren't clean already?" One of her eyebrows inched up. She stepped inside, letting the hatch slide closed, then stepped over the two men and swung up into her bunk. "What makes you think a pistol will be useful on Ephesus?"

"A gun is always useful," Parker grinned, sliding the top of his automatic back together with a sharp click. He nodded at Bandao, "Isn't that so?"

Bandao nodded, his face as calm and composed as ever. A heavy cloth, almost a rug, lay over his knees holding a heavy round barrel and a dizzying array of smaller parts, as well as a stock formed of honeycombed plastic. His hands, which seemed small on a solid, muscular body, held a rag and a shining metal component. Unlike Parker's mess, the gunner had arranged his tools on a cloth in neat and orderly rows.

"Well," Gretchen smiled across at Magdalena. "If it makes you happy."

"How did the yrrrchuu-owl, go?" Maggie was lying on her back, a heavy flat comp on her furry stomach, a v-screen flipped up. "I mean, the hunting feast."

"It went." Gretchen rummaged in her bag, frowning at the mess her rack had already become. She glowered sideways at Maggie — her bunk was carefully ordered, with everything in place. Damn cat. "It was even pleasant. I had a talk with chu-sa Hadeishi afterward, in his office. He says that there is an Imperial nauallis on board."

Parker looked up, quizzical. Bandao continued to work on cleaning the assault rifle, but Gretchen thought the smooth, assured motion of his hands paused for a moment.

"A what?" Parker put down his pistol and scratched his chin, leaving a glistening smear of oil along the line of his jaw.

"An Imperial judge," Gretchen said, pulling a holocard out of her bag. The side of her mouth twisted unconsciously. She ran a fingernail along the back of the card, then jammed the holo against the bulkhead. It adhered to the painted metal, then flickered on. The image was set to 'still', extending its life from days to years. Three young children, a boy and two girls no more than six years old, were smiling up at the holocam. They were in a swimming pool, all blue water and glittering sunlight. In the high definition of the holocam the green tint of too many summer days spent in chlorinated water was very clear. "An agent of the Mirror. A spy. Both Hadeishi and I are under his jurisdiction. This is a government mission now, not the Company's."

Bandao looked up, forehead creased by a single frown line. Parker stared at Gretchen, grimacing. "The secret police? Sister's smile, this sucks!"

Gretchen nodded, turning away from the holocard. "Listen, we have to be careful with this. We still work for the Company and will be held responsible for getting back the Palenque and any material, objects, artifacts, data — everything the first expedition collected. Gossi's 'great deal' was forced on him by the Navy and he didn't have much choice about shipping us out with them. This judge will keep out of the way, but anything that we find he wants, he gets. Poof."

Parker shrugged. He didn't care. Bandao slid the barrel of the shipgun back into the firing block and locked it in place with a twist and a sharp chink. Like everything else he did, the motion was assured and without waste.

"Let's talk about the Palenque." Gretchen pinched the bridge of her nose. "The captain has offered us a Marine boarding team to secure her. However, an agent of the Company has to be the first on board, to reassert claim to the ship. Otherwise, it will be a derelict and the Navy will have possession. Now, the Company could get the ship back, eventually, but not without putting a case to the Naval court of adjudication. Parker — you have z-g experience, right?"

The pilot nodded, fingering one of the patches on his jacket. "You bet, boss. My suit is in storage, but I'll pull it out and checklist it tomorrow. Who else goes? Or is it just little ole me with the big mean Marines?"

Gretchen pointed at Bandao with her chin. "Mister Bandao, are you qualified in a suit? Can you use this cannon of yours in z-g?"

The gunner nodded, looking up. He had very pale blue eyes.

"Do you ever say anything?"

"Occasionally." Bandao snapped the stock and the body of the shipgun together. "Parker talks enough for both of us."

The officers' mess seemed colder as Gretchen entered and sat down. The lights were dimmed and the hatchway to the galley was closed. A man was sitting cross-legged on the mat at the head of the table, watching her. He seemed to be of medium height, lean and wiry, with a solid nut-brown face and deep-set eyes. Gretchen sat quietly, her face impassive. She felt on edge, but not nervous. The man was wearing a plain white shirt, cut to resemble a traditional mantle with long sleeves. His hands were hidden under the edge of the table.

After a long period of silence, he said, "Do you understand how dangerous you are?"

Gretchen blinked, then shook her head. "I don't follow your meaning."

The man continued to sit. The nearest ceiling light illuminated the crisp white cotton of his shirt, but not his face. "You are a scientist, a thinking being. Tell me why you are dangerous."

"I am not dangerous," Gretchen replied, her voice acquiring an edge. "I am a loyal citizen of the Empire, a dutiful employee, a careful scientist. My work may place me in physical danger, but I am not, of myself, dangerous. I have never hurt anyone."

The man continued to sit quietly, watching her. More time passed.

At last, nervous, Gretchen said, "Is this interview complete?"

The man shook his head, no.

"You have not given me enough information to form a hypothesis," she said, after another long pause. Then she stopped before saying anything more. She realized that he had provided her with three — no, four — data points. Enough for a three-dimensional structure… Unconsciously, her head bent down a little, and she frowned, her lips pursing.

"You say that I am dangerous. I am a scientist. I think. If my work is successful, something unknown to our science becomes known. That would be something new. Newness is change, which may inflict pain, or suffering, or death. Do you think there is something on Ephesus I might find, where others have not? Something dangerous?"

The man leaned forward a little, and the overhead light caught in his eyes. They were a smoky, jadite green. "There is a man in your cabin. His name is David Parker. He carries a weapon. Is he dangerous?"

"I don't think so," Gretchen said, turning her head a little sideways, eyes narrowing. "I know him, he is a companion. He is not dangerous to me. But yes, I understand. He is, of himself, dangerous. He could kill or hurt another."

The man leaned backward, the smoky green light fading. "Is he very dangerous?"

Gretchen bristled at the new tone in the man's voice. Where before it had been calm and level, now it took on a patronizing tone, as if she were a small child having trouble with her maths. "No, not very. Not in a large context. He might kill one other, then be slain himself. The duration of his dangerousness is limited."

"Is yours?"

"Limited? It must be, for I am only one person. What could I do? I could be easily killed or imprisoned if I prove dangerous. Is that what you do? Do you watch for 'dangerous' persons and remove them from society? Is this what it means to be a judge?"

The man placed a small blue pyramid of what seemed to be leaded glass on the table. In the brief moment when his hand was visible, Gretchen saw that it was gnarled and twisted, muscular, a farmer's hand. Like her grandfather's hands, roughened and seamed by the elements. Fine puckered scars ran across the palm and the wrist. The stiff white shirt-cuff hid the forearm, but Gretchen was suddenly sure his whole body was marked in this same way, like etched glass.

"The tlamatinime, the wise men, have a sacred duty. It is to sustain the world." The man turned the pyramid a bit, so the light fell upon it squarely. "They are ceaselessly vigilant, watching over each of us while we go about our daily business. Do you see this book?"

Gretchen raised an eyebrow in surprise. The blue pyramid did not look like a book at all, though she supposed it might contain a holostore or memory lattice. "Yes."

The green-eyed man smiled faintly, holding up the pyramid. "It is very dangerous. A world might be destroyed by it. But it is not as dangerous as you are, right now."

Gretchen felt a chill steal over her. She could not see the man's other hand, and she suddenly imagined the scarred fingers holding a gun, a weapon, a small flat gray pistol with a round black muzzle. The gun, she was sure, was pointed at the pit of her stomach. It would fire a shock pellet, striking her flesh, ripping through her shirt, then bursting violently, shattering her pelvis, gouging a huge gaping red hole out of her back. She would die slowly, as blood leaked away from her brain and the wrinkled gray organ asphyxiated.

"Why am I dangerous?" Her voice sounded very faint.

The man put the blue pyramid away. "Telling you why would serve no purpose. It is enough, for you, for now, to know you are dangerous. In you, the life of every living human being is at risk." His gaze sharpened and Gretchen felt his scrutiny like a physical pressure against her face. "Are you are afraid of me?"

"Yes."

"That is good. Are you afraid of death?"

"Yes."

"Better."

Then he was silent. Gretchen waited, sitting, her palms damp with sweat. She wondered what the blue pyramid contained. A dangerous book? Books had always been friendly to her, offering her succor, sanctuary, and advantage. Friends who didn't mind if you only called once a year. But it might contain plans for a weapon — a virus, a bomb, something truly deadly. With that, she thought she understood his question. What if I find something like that on Ephesus? Some First Sun weapon that could shatter a star, or burn a planet to a cinder?

Green Hummingbird stood up, moving stiffly. Gretchen realized he was very old, far older than his voice suggested. He looked down at her, his face grim, then limped to the door. Without turning her head, Gretchen tried to see if the man really had a pistol. Nothing. The hatch chuffed open and the Mйxica went out into the passage. Gretchen let out a long, slow breath, feeling suddenly awake and relieved of a great weight which had lain upon her.