The Return

Chapter Five

Some fool had torched Gannitown and thick plumes of black smoke rose to mar the lavender clarity of the morning sky. Watching them Brak scowled; the town had no real value and its inhabitants little more, but without the ganni the irrigation canals would choke, the crops fall, dirt mount in the streets of the city. The old problems of labor-shortage now aggravated by some hothead out on a spree.

"Mel Jumay," said a voice behind him. "Yesterday he reached his majority and decided to celebrate."

Nadine who seemed at times to have the ability to read minds, but Brak knew there was nothing mysterious about her comment. Only a fool would have failed to recognize his irritation and the Jumays were notorious for undisciplined behavior.

"Three sections destroyed," she continued. "A dozen ganni burned and twice as many with superficial injuries. Cuts," she explained. "Singes. Most were asleep when it happened. The cost — "

"Will be met."

"By Mel Jumay?"

A boy, barely a man, with nothing behind him but his family's reputation. Brak smarted at the cynicism in her voice, the tone which hinted at his own weakness. One he rejected with brusque anger.

"The damage will be repaired and the expense borne by the boy and his family. Have no doubt as to that."

She made no comment and he was grateful. If nothing else the girl had a sharp wit and an acid tongue. Turning he looked at her, seeing the ghost which rested beneath the contours of her face. A harder, older visage, but one with the same dark enigma of the eyes, the generous curve of the lips, the strong jaw. The ebon mane of her hair was longer, the skin paler, but never could there be any doubt that she was his brother's child.

"Uncle?"

"Nothing." He turned from her stare, the question in her eyes. The memories were too strong and he brushed them aside as he limped to the far edge of the tower. "Why don't you go down?"

"Later."

He could have insisted and she would have obeyed, but what would have been gained by the exercise of his authority? Instead he leaned against the parapet, looking over the city, seeing other towers, the buildings which set them apart, the narrow streets which wound like serpents between high and featureless walls.

A complex of defensive structures enclosing stores, bunkers, arsenals buried deep. In the center lay the great square ringed with shops and sheds. Warehouse sprawled to the north now mostly empty. To the south lay the factories, too small and too idle. Instead of the flood of raw materials to be processed there was only a trickle of scrap, broken and obsolete parts, discarded rubbish. It had been too easy to acquire the new to replace the old. Too simple to take instead of making. Now the artisans capable of operating the machines were too few and far too expensive.

"A mistake," said Nadine. "One of timing."

Reading his mind again but his stance if not his face must have mirrored his thoughts. The factories had been established before she had been born. Greg had insisted on funds being set aside for the project. Strong in the Council his words carried weight, but interest had waned when he died.

Died. Greg dead. Why hadn't it been him?

A question asked countless times and still he had to find the answer. Instead he had only the scene repeated over and over in his mind as if it were a loop of film. The raid, the fires and smoke and stench of burning. The shouts and blasts of guns and the adrenalin running high. A neat, well-planned raid designed to achieve the maximum of loot and the minimum of damage.

It happened when the raid was over and the recall had sounded. A man, gun in hand, rising from a mound of rubble. Opening fire without hesitation. Bullets holding explosives in shaped charges which tore through amour as if it had been paper. The first had slammed into his hip. Greg had taken the rest, flinging himself as a barrier before him. A time of noise and confusion, the gun jerking in his hand, the stranger falling back a bloody pulp above his shoulders, then pain as he fought the crippling effect of his wound. Anger as his body refused to lift the deadweight of his brother. Near-dementia as others had torn him from the body and carried him into the waiting ship.

He had lived — that had been the hard part. Medical science had replaced his hip and healed his flesh but it could do nothing to assuage his grief. Nothing for the wife of his brother who had bequeathed him her daughter before following her husband into death. An act of bravery, but those of Kaldar had never wanted for courage. Yet had she guessed her ghost would haunt him each time he looked into the girl's face?

He doubted it; Marta had never been intentionally unkind. Not even when rejecting his love when, too late, he had begged her to become his wife. Greg had won her heart. Why had the wrong man died?

"Uncle, there are things to be done." Nadine appeared at his side. If she knew of the agony which tore at his heart it remained her secret. "Shall we go down?"

Below waited tedium. A host of tiresome details, decisions, judgments, unpleasant facts. Here, on the summit of the tower, he was free to dream and remember and, if some of the memories gave rise to pain, yet they still held the life he had once known.

"I won't go down without you."

He flared with sudden anger. "You talk as if I was stupid! Senile! A dotard! If I want to stay up here I will!"

"Of course."

"It gives me time to think. To plan." He saw her face, the set of her mouth, her chin. Hardness which matched and eliminated the thirty-year old ghost. She was reading him again and his anger vanished as quickly as it had come. What use to deny the truth? "Child, you should be roving or wed."

"Have I no choice?" Amusement lightened her features. "Does your assistant have no standing?"

Too much and they both knew it. As the Council knew it and others who fretted at her summations and proposals. Married she would have the protection of a husband and his family. Now she had only herself and the fading glory of his name.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Things will work out." Pausing, she added, "Mel Jumay was more than careless during his celebration. He fired the church."

When an adolescent Brother Weyer had seen a man flogged almost to death for having stolen food. A common crime and a common punishment on Delt where starvation was a constant threat. The monk who had gone to his aid had been old, stooped, gaunt with privation. Unable to lift the moaning wretch he had appealed for help. Shamed, Weyer had supplied it, carrying the torn body to the flimsy shelter of the church.

Fifty years ago now and each had been spent following the path he had chosen to take. First at the great seminary on Hope where he had been taught, trained and tested. Then to be one of the great band of monks carrying help and hope to all who were in need. To teach the basic creed of the Church to all so that even the strong, the rich and powerful, when looked at those less fortunate than themselves would say, 'There, but for the grace of God, go I'

When all lived by that creed the millennium would have arrived.

"Brother!" Nealon came towards him, his face hard against the thrown-back cowl. Ash coated his robe and his feet, naked in their sandals, were thick with grime. "Two more ganni have just died. That makes five to date. Nothing seems to help. If only the city would send us doctors-"

"They would be just as helpless." Nealon had much to learn. "They are dying because they have lost the will to live. I have seen it often before. You are wrong to blame yourself."

"Who else?"

"Did you cause the fire? Spread it? Burn the victims?" Weyer masked his impatience. "You are not a judge to determine guilt or to apportion blame. You are a monk of the Church of Universal Brotherhood. Your task is to care for the afflicted. We can best do that in the infirmary."

It was a crude shelter built of scraps which shielded the interior from the sun and the infrequent rains. The air held the taint of sickness. On cots the ganni lay like creatures already dead. Weyer halted besides one, looking down at the round, blank face, the staring, empty eyes. A creature with the size and shape of a man, the features of an idiotic child, the hands of a laborer. The product of a world circling a violent sun, brought to Kaldar to tend and serve, to work at tasks too demeaning for those who ruled.

"Why do they die?" Nealon touched the fine down which covered the ganni like fur. "I know what you said but I don't understand. They are not that badly injured. A man would easily survive. Why don't they?"

Weyer shrugged. The universe was full of questions and, as fast as answers were found, more questions rose to make fresh demands. It was enough to know that, if hurt too badly or shocked too deeply, the ganni died. The ultimate defiance of a slave.

When he finally left the infirmary a thin wind from the distant hills was dispersing the last of the smoke and Weyer breathed gratefully at the air. The city had sent help. Overseers directed ganni to clear the charred wreckage. They were slow to obey. From a group gathered to one side rose a keening dirge spreading as others joined in. A death chant the monk had heard before and now, as then, it caused a sudden depression. A mood he fought as he made his way to where Mukerjee and the other two monks were hard at work.

Already they had cleared the site and were assembling struts which would be covered with plastic to form a small, enclosed chamber. A tent barely large enough to hold a monk and a suppliant, but it would serve.

"Brother?" Mukerjee straightened, easing his back with broad, scarred hands. Fire had seared one cheek leaving an ugly patch on his ebon skin. His robe was singed and half his hair had vanished. "How are the sick?"

"As well as can be expected. Brother Nealon is taking care of them. Now I want you to report to him so that he can take care of you." Weyer's tone precluded all argument. "He will give you an intravenous injection of saline and glucose together with antibiotics, a sedative and nutrients. You will need them under slowtime."

Mukerjee frowned, the drug was expensive. Weyer spoke before he could object.

"One hour." His smile softened the rebuke. "Pride is a sin, brother. Manga, see that he doesn't fall into it."

The old monk led Mukerjee to the infirmary, his step firmer than the younger man's. An hour of slowtime would cure that, the drug accelerating his metabolism to give him the equivalent of two days rest and normal recuperation. Time for the danger of shock and infection to be eliminated and to ease the pain of his burns.

Prinsloo joined him as Weyer turned to the carefully wrapped bundle lying to one side. It contained the benediction light which Mukerjee had saved at the cost of his injuries.

As he examined it the young monk said, "It isn't damaged. I've checked."

Good news; the instrument provided communication with the great seminaries of Hope and Pace as well as a more obvious function. Beneath the swirling light it projected in hypnotic splendor suppliants would kneel, confess their sins and suffer subjective penance. They would gain comfort and absolution — and be conditioned never to kill. The wafer of concentrate which was the bread of forgiveness was a fair exchange.

"Brother?" Prinsloo looked at his superior. "Have you decided who should be the first to serve once the church is open?"

Himself, he hoped, and Weyer could understand his yearning. To build held its own satisfaction. To ease the torment of crippled minds was something else. To watch as faces became smooth as guilt was erased and inner harmony established was reward enough for the ceaseless dedication demanded of all who wore the brown, homespun robe.

Gently he said, "First, all must be made ready. Then, brother, who would you select to be the first to serve?"

Prinsloo was worthy of his calling. Without hesitation he said, "Mukerjee has earned the right."

The right, the duty and the chance to sit and rest while his body healed.

Vargas was annoyed. Nadine heard the deep rumble of his voice as she entered the workshop, a blast of anger which sent echoes from the roof.

"Fool! You've exceeded the tolerances by three hundred percent! Do it again and I'll have you flogged!"

He came into sight as she passed the bulk of a machine, big, his apron soiled, arms and torso bared. The worker standing before him was young, banded with the collar of his servitude. He sidled away as Nadine approached, cradling a piece of equipment in his arms.

As he vanished from sight she said, "I assume you've checked the instruments he's using. It's possible they could be at fault.'

"What?" Vargas snarled, still dominated by his anger. "Damn it, woman, I know my business. If the fault is his he goes, but first he'll be flogged and branded."

"That will lower his value."

"As an engineer he won't have any." His tone warned her not to argue further. "Now, aside from telling me how to run my workshops, what do you want?" He pursed his lips as she told him. "Materials for construction? Sure, I'll have them delivered. Council charge?"

"Jumay's." She added, quickly, "Mel Jumay is responsible for the damage. It includes that done to the church. He and his family should pay for it."

"Do they agree?" Vargas frowned as she made no answer. "They won't like it. Suke is touchy about such things and he has no time for the monks. I can't blame him. Always whining, begging, trying to change things. They should be kicked off the planet. They should never have been allowed to come here. They don't belong."

An opinion she had heard before. Patiently she said, "You could be right, but see the materials are delivered as soon as you can. If we don't need the monks we need the ganni."

Some worked among the machines, sweeping, dusting, stepping aside as she left the workshop busy with her thoughts. Had the young engineer been genuinely careless or had he attempted sabotage? Producing a component holding a subtle flaw which would cause it to fail at a critical time. It was possible; none forced to wear the collar could be expected to love those who had put it there, but how to prove it? A man daring enough to commit sabotage would have the intelligence to alter the calibration of his instruments so as to appear innocent.

"Nadine!" A young man came running towards her. Nigel Myer, face flushed from recent exertion, sweat running over his naked torso. Behind him, on the exercise ground, other young men struck and weaved in simulated combat. "A moment. Please!"

She waited, knowing what he wanted, pretending ignorance as he fought to regain his breath.

"I heard what happened in the town. I'm sorry."

"Did you have a part in it?"

"I was with the crowd," he admitted, "but I had nothing to do with the fire. If there is anything I can do to help?" He paused, waiting for the expected rejection of the empty offer. One not meant and made as the part of a calculated design. "Nadine?"

She said, knowing his answer. "You could help with the construction."

"I'd like to but I can't. I'm hoping to get a place with Toibin," he explained. "I'll have to be in top condition when he makes his decision. It's important that I make his crew. I need action!"

And wanted her to speak for him. She could sympathize with his need. A man without reputation had little chance of selection and needed all the help he could get. Without it he would be lucky to be picked at all even if willing to take a minimum share or no share at all in order to gain experience.

"I'll do what I can," she promised. "But don't build up your hopes. Your best chance is to catch Toibin's eye. Draw his attention in some way. Do something spectacular." She anticipated his question. "I can't tell you what, Leese Toibin has his own standards, but I can tell you this — he won't look kindly on a man who needs a woman to speak for him."

Something he should have known and the fact that he had appealed to her for help showed him to have more ambition than capability. Kaldar had too many of his type.

Her office was cool, shadowed, a haven to which she clung. Later, when darkness came, the air would lose its heat and winds blow from the hills carrying the scent of chard, kren, emulish, the subtle magic of peedham. Stars would blaze in the fading lavender of the sky and all would be at peace.

Odd thoughts and disturbing. She was far from senile and only the old dreamed of endless tranquillity. Irritably she shook her head, reaching for papers, halting the motion as the communicator glowed to life.

"Nadine?" It was Jessie from communication. She continued as Nadine acknowledged. "Messages from Chapman and Lochner. Chapman wants to know if a final assessment has been made of the peedham he sent in. Lochner said to call him. He's having trouble of some kind."

"Serious?"

"Isn't it always?"

"Always," admitted Nadine. To the man even a broken sprocket was tantamount to the end of creation. She forced herself to be patient. Jessie loved to play her little games. "Can you give me a clue?"

"I heard a rumor from someone who knows his engineer. My guess is that he wants Council backing in order to buy a new generator.

Nadine reached for the computer as the screen died. Lochner's ship had a record of unreliability. Too many minor breakdowns leading to aborted raids and dissatisfied crews. He had coasted on past success, but now his credit was exhausted which meant he would have to make do with what he had and rely on the young and inexperienced to crew his vessel. Any loot he might gain was already spoken for and generators didn't come cheap.

A bad risk. He would appeal to the Council against her summation, but they were men of business. In the end Lochner would lose his ship, his standing and, if he chose to quarrel with the wrong man, his life.

New data replaced the old. Chapman was in a different category. He had taken up farming after taking a bad wound and grew peedham in hydroponic vats. His crops were uniformly good and his credit was high. The latest assessment would provide a rich bonus. One he might be interested in investing. It would do no harm to let him know of the opportunity presented by Lochner's situation. If interested they could make a deal. Lochner would have his new generator, Chapman a share in his vessel and the Council would not be involved.

She might even avoid making a new enemy.

Leaning back she looked at the charts decorating the walls, the portrait facing her. That of a man, hair shaped to form a dark helmet over the contours of his skull, the eyes deep-set, meshed with lines, the mouth, smiling now, holding a hard resolution. Her father. A man she had never known.

What would he have made of her?

Something she would never know. How to tell how she would have developed under his parental influence? How she would have grown had her mother not chosen to follow him into oblivion? Why had she done that? For love, they had told her, but how could she have been so selfish? Tradition, honor, custom, loyalty — what value did such things have when set against the needs of a helpless child?

She felt pain and looked to where her nails dug into her palms. They drove deeper as she watched, blood welling from the small punctures, the sight feeding her impulse to destructive violence. To hurt! To destroy! To kill!

To smash the bars of her prison and to be free!