C. J. Cherryh - Foreigner 5 - Defender

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Cherryh, CJ - [Foreigner 05] Defender
DEFENDER
Caroline J. Cherryh
the fifth in the Foreigner sequence
EBook Design Group digital back-up edition 
click for scan notes and proofing history
valid XHTML 1.0
Contents
|1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|12|13|14|15|16|17|18|
Chapter 1
^ » 
Firelight went up to the red figures of an ancient frescoed vault, 
smoke-hazed from the braziers on either side of the black stone tomb. 
In the dark congregation, watchful eyes now and again caught the 
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firelight and reflected it, gold fire brighter than the sheen of light off

opulent brocade.

It was an atevi place—and solemn tribute to a decades-dead aiji.

Decades in the past, Valasi might be, but the association he had

created had only grown wider at his death. It spanned the continent

now. It reached around the world. It shared the heavens with

strangers.

An atevi place, an atevi ceremony, an atevi congregation… but one

human, one pale, blond, very small and conspicuous human stood in

a crowd of towering atevi lords, some of whom had often and fairly

recently entertained the idea of killing him. Under the court attire, the

frock coat and the lace and the brocades, Bren Cameron wore ten

pounds of composite that would stop most bullets, if any of these

very adept gentlemen and ladies ventured an assassination without

proper Filing of Intent.

The Assassins’ Guild, on the living aiji’s order, would not allow that

to happen. The tall atevi on either side of him, Bani-chi and Jago, in

the black and silver of that Guild—they knew the odds, they knew all

the agreements and contracts currently in force—knew the likelihood

of illegal risks as well. And while assuring him there was no contract

Filed, and that no Guild actions but surveillance could be taken for

days on any side of this gathering—they still insisted on the armor.

So Bren complied, uncomplaining, with not too many questions, and

kept his head generally down, evading any too-direct stare that might

draw attention.

Deference, respect, solemnity… in a place where humans least of all

belonged.

Tabini-aiji had decreed this honor to his father’s tomb, so the

invitation declared, for a memorial and a reminder of the origins of

the Western Association—well and good. Humans and atevi alike

honored their dead, and they held memorials, particularly at points of

change or challenge.

But what was changing? Or where was the challenge?

But predictably enough—they could hardly ignore the call to

venerate the aiji’s father—the loyal lords of the western aishidi’tat

had come in with no trouble. Those from the south shore and from

the farthest eastern reaches of the Association arrived in far more

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uneasy duty, surely with questions of their own. They had been

Valasi’s allies, most of them—and saying so had been unfashionable

in the west for decades.

The aiji-dowager, too, had flown in from the east for this solemn

event. If she hadn’t, rumors would have flown.

Ilisidi, aiji-dowager, Valasi’s mother.

Tabini’s grandmother.

And the whole world knew that one of the two, Tabini or Ilisidi, had

almost certainly assassinated Valasi.

Well, grant she came: no mere opinion of men perturbed her. If one

was an atevi lord—and she was among the highest of atevi

lords—one rigidly observed the proprieties and courtesies that

supported all lords, whatever the circumstances. One consistently did

the right thing.

And if one were the human paidhi-aiji, the official translator, the

point of contact between two species, one also did the right thing, and

came when called, and kept clearly in mind the fact that this was not

human society. A paltry assassination by no means broke the bonds

of an atevi association, no more than it necessarily fractured

man’chi—that emotional cement that held all atevi society together.

A judicious, well-planned in-house assassination only made the

association more comfortable for all the rest—eased, rather than

broke, the web of association and common consent—in this case, the

family bond on which the stability of the world depended.

A well-chosen assassination might make unity easier, once the dust

settled, and a species that did not, biologically speaking, feel

friendship… still felt something warm, and good when its

surrounding association settled into harmony.

Were they here to meditate on that fact?

To renew the bond?

A human couldn’t possibly feel it. Wasn’t hard-wired to feel it.

Tabini had called him down from the orbiting station for this service,

which he’d taken as a simple excuse covering a desire to have some

essential conference, some secret personal meeting which would

make thorough sense.

But thus far—there was no meeting. There was going to be a special

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session of the legislature—and that had made sense, until it was clear

he was dismissed, and would not attend. There’d been one intimate

audience with Tabini on that first day, in which Tabini had

entertained him in his study, a great honor, talked about

hunting—one of Tabini’s favorite occupations, which he never

actually had time to do—and asked in some detail about the welfare

of associates on the space station. They’d had several drinks, become

quite cheerful, shared an hour with Lady Damiri, the aiji-consort, and

discussed the weather, their son’s education, and the economy, none

of which he would have called critical—nor ever discussed with that

much brandy in him if he’d thought it would become critical.

Good night, Tabini had said then, good fortune, not forgetting there

was a memorial service involving, oh, the entire continent, and would

he kindly sit among the foremost in attendance?

Not quite news to him. He’d known it would take place— hadn’t

quite known, before landing, that it was quite so extravagant,

televised, or followed with a special session.

So he was on temporary display at the edge of the aiji’s household,

wearing that white ribbon in his braid that reminded all parties he was

the paidhi, the translator, the neutral, not an appropriate target.

He represented to those present, among other controversial things, the

full-tilt acquisition of technology over which Tabini and Valasi had

had their fatal falling-out.

So Valasi died under questionable circumstances, and instead of

declaring any decent period of mourning and reconsideration, Tabini

had immediately opened the floodgates of change: television, trade

with Mospheira… railroads. Valasi’s paidhi, a human whose modest

advocacy of airplanes, an expanded rail system and limited television

broadcasting had scandalized the traditional-minded among the

atevi—had quit, retired, and left the job to him.

Tabini had immediately taken—well, with atevi, a liking to him

didn’t translate, but certainly Tabini had sensed that he could work

with him. Occasionally he had wondered if Tabini had spotted the

world’s greatest fool and thought he could get the sun, the moon and

the stars from him…

The stars—considering that not so long afterward Phoenix had shown

up in the heavens, the colony ship returned to its lost human colony

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on someone else’s world.

Things out there, Phoenix reported, hadn’t worked out. Things had

involved an alien encounter gone very wrong at a space station that

never should have been built. And while the paidhi asked himself

how he had ever gotten into this, Tabini’s close cooperation with

humans spiraled wider and wider.

It took atevi into space, into a near-unified economy with the human

enclave on Mospheira. It took two species and three governments to

the very edge of union.

And atevi had never forgotten the hazards of swallowing foreign

answers to local problems.

Ilisidi entered the tomb, among the last, just behind Lord Tatiseigi of

the Atageini, uncle of the aiji-consort. She walked with a cane, went

in the company of Cenedi, her chief of security.

And Cajeiri was with her. Bren noted that—the boy, almost lost in

the company of adults, took his place with Ilisidi’s party.

There was a change. The aiji’s heir took his place, not with uncle

Tatiseigi, but one place down, still in the front row, with great-

grandmother Ilisidi.

Cameras were discreet, but in evidence, and cameramen shifted

slightly to get a good view of Ilisidi and the boy. This was going out

across the continent: a ceremony of national unity and a memorial in

respect for the past, it might be: but it was also a public function in

which the alignment of public figures was highly significant.

So the aiji-dowager stood there now before Valasi’s sarcophagus, just

visible in the tail of his eye. She was diminutive for an ateva, white-

haired with age, leaning on that cane… sharp eyes taking in every

nuance of expression and surely conscious of the camera. The boy

stood stock still, just visible past Cenedi’s black uniform—Cenedi

also being Guild security, oh yes. Guild security was all through the

assembly, despite the limited seating.

A war of flowers out there in the corridor: of colors, of position in

here—and a sense of progress and opposition in delicate balance,

with the Assassins’ Guild to guarantee good behavior.

But far, far better than the alternative.

The aiji’s immediate household filed in. That was Tabini, Lady

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Damiri, and their attendant security. Tabini-aiji was in black and red,

his house colors. Damiri wore gold and green, the Atageini colors,

and carried a lily in her hands, strong contrast to her black skin, amid

the glitter of emeralds. They took their places, finishing the first row.

All seats were filled. There was a little murmur of expectation.

Then a bell sounded.

Utter silence descended. A camera changed focus. That was the only

sound now, lamplight momentarily gilding an imprudent lens.

That stroke of the bell called for meditation.

Next would come a statement from the head of house— Tabini, in

this case. Bren had read the program somewhat before he entered a

shadow too deep for humans to read.

And whatever the aiji had to say, the gathered lords would parse it for

every detail. It was important—an address that could, if it went

wrong, break the union of lords apart. It always could. Any chance

word, gone amiss, could break the Association at any time—and in

this context, bets were doubled. Tabini had made deals with human

authorities, sent atevi to work on the space station, admitting a flood

of new technologies. He’d had to, for a whole host of economic and

practical reasons that sliced right across the ordinary order of politics,

throwing conservatives into alliance with the most liberal of western

powers.

He’d had to reach across traditional lines, across ethnical

lines—across associational lines.

And so the agreement with humans widened, policy deliberately

blind to the causes of the last world war, dancing across the shards of

old resentments, skipping over divides of opinion that had once

swum with blood.

Most of all, the crisis in the heavens and the need to secure a voice in

that resolution had shoved the whole economy into a hellishly scary

rush, a fever pitch run that no one at first had thought would last

more than a month.

No longer than three years.

Then no longer than six.

As yet there was no slowdown, no cooldown, no pause for

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breath—and no meeting of the associated lords—until this.

The silence after that bell was so absolute that breathing itself seemed

a disturbance… and in that silence, of all things, someone dropped a

program, a crack of parchment on stone that set a twitch—if not a

killing reflex—into every hair-triggered, Guild-trained nerve in the

chamber.

Every Guild member had to skip a heartbeat. Every lord

present—had to make a conscious decision not to dive below the

benches.

But it was only the next aiji, their someday ruler, diving almost to the

edge of the flower-decked sarcophagus to rescue that wayward,

unseemly folio.

In his haste it escaped his fingers on his retreat. Twice.

Bren winced.

Three times.

The boy had it. Scrambled back to his place in the standing line.

Cajeiri, Tabini’s and Damiri’s, the hope of the Association,

Tatiseigi’s grand-nephew—was the height and weight of the average

human teenager—but not, by any means, average, human, or

teenaged. Cajeiri tried—God knew he tried, but somehow his feet

found obstacles, his hands lost their grip on perfectly ordinary

objects, and when Cajeiri would swear to all gods most fortunate that

he was standing still, everyone else called it fidgeting.

Now of all times… in front of the whole assembled Association, the

lords of the aishidi’tat, this was no time for boys to be boys, or for a

child to be—whatever he might be.

Cajeiri was invisible in the first row again. Silence hung all about

him. The dignity of the highest houses settled on his young shoulders.

Tabini, Tatiseigi—now Ilisidi, in whose care the young unfortunate

attended the ceremony—were all in question in that behavior.

Fosterage was the rule of the great houses, once a child of rank left

the cradle. Tatiseigi, the maternal uncle, had had a go at applying

courtly polish, in the rural, rigid politics of the Atageini stronghold in

the central west. Now Ilisidi had him: in her district, modernist meant

someone who installed a flush toilet in a thousand-year-old

stronghold.

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God help the boy.

A second bell. Solemnity recovered. This was the second point,

fragile second, unfortunate second: atevi lived by numbers, died by

the numbers. Two of anything presumed there would be a third. There

must be a third. The very note, echoing in the stone recesses of the

place, on this occasion, gathered up the tension in the air and

prepared to braid it into a cord… if the third bell, please God, would

only ring without unfortunate omen.

Cajeiri held himself absolutely still. Two would ring ominously even

in an atevi six-year-old’s brain. Two always meant pay attention:

another will follow.

Bren had been to Malguri himself. In a way, he wished he could go

back there, have another try of his own at a life a human wasn’t

regularly admitted even to see. In a certain measure he so envied the

boy that chance.

Ilisidi had her hands full. He did know that. The boy, thus far, with

the best intentions, had destroyed two historic porcelains, set off a

major security alarm, and ridden a startled mecheita across newly-

poured cement in Tatiseigi’s formal garden.

Finally, unbearably, with the least shifting of bodies in anticipation,

Tabini, head of house, foremost of the Ragi atevi, aiji of the whole

aishidi’tat, moved out of the row to the single lighted lamp that sat

before the sarcophagus.

Tabini, tall shadow, took a slender straw, took light from one lamp

and lit one of two others.

Two lamps lit.

Jago, armed and informed, nudged Bren’s hand with the back of hers.

Pay attention. Be on your guard.

Banichi, on his other side, didn’t move.

Every bodyguard in the whole chamber must be thinking the same,

prepared for anything. It was in all the machimi, the history-plays: in

the feudal age, in Malguri’s age, the time of bright banners and

heraldry, assemblies thus invited had been murdered wholesale,

slaughtered by hidden archers. Whole tables of diners had fallen ill at

once. Ladies had perished in poisoned baths—name the death:

someone had delivered it.

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Hearts beat, atevi, and in one case, human, with utter trepidation.

Tabini, damn him, knew it. The third bell had not yet rung. And

Tabini turned, in that terrible, unprecedented interval.

“I speak,” Tabini declared, in that resonant, still-young voice,

“between the second and the third bell. We live … between the

second and the third bell of our associated lives. We live … on the

edge of decision and chance. We live… between expectation and

fulfillment. Between the second and the third bell of our collective

existence, I am Valasi’s son, I am Valasi’s heir… I am Valasi’s

successor.”

After the hasdrawad and the tashrid, the bicameral legislature, had

determined for the second time that Ilisidi would not be aiji, they had

appointed Tabini to head the aishidi’tat.

And the whole assembly, caught between the bells and the lights,

heard felicitous, redeeming threes. Every atevi nerve rang as a human

could only intellectually comprehend—not feel, gut-deep: felicitous

one, then the two strokes of we live. Then I speak, disastrous

two—felicitous three of we live. And now no resolution of the first

cahi, the first proposal, at all, but the infelicitous two of I am. A

human brain could short-circuit keeping up with the bracketing

structures, but Bren swore he felt it in his own nerves: and he felt his

knees go weak when Tabini gave the assembly that third, redemptive

I am. The whole audience held its breath, angry as they must be at

this tactic. That, in this audience, didn’t matter. They were caught up,

snared, and couldn’t move. Daren’t move. Felt the aishidi’tat

threatened—and were drawn, unwillingly, to hope that it, and their

lives, continued.

“I speak as your appointed guide into time to come,” Tabini said.

And delivered the next third stroke, that painfully woundup, merciful

third: “I speak for the unity of the assembly of us all.

“We do not forget,” Tabini continued, as nerve and flesh all but

liquified in relief and bodyguards stood down from red alert. Tabini

swept on in possession of all attention. Thank God no program

dropped. Breathing itself was at a minimum. Tabini’s oratory was all

fortunate threes now, rapid, hammering into nerves still resounding to

two strokes of the bell, still waiting for the resolution of their

universe. “We do not break our strong connections with all that

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Valasi-aiji built. We do not abrogate our traditions. The more

knowledge we acquire, the more we rationally comprehend the

universe, the more we control our own destiny—”

Sensitive spot: the number-counters who so powerfully ruled the

traditional world had long discounted the numbers of the heavens,

meaning they had deliberately, scornfully dismissed the work of

astronomers, who had failed to foresee the Landing.

But the modern-day Astronomer Emeritus, a genius of his age,

brandished numbers that confounded the number-counters—those

mathematicians who claimed to guide the less talented to understand

the balance of the universe. The newly respectable Astronomer

Emeritus was Tabini’s. And with Tabini’s blessing, the Astronomer

Emeritus worked to understand the stars and make reliable paths

through the heavens. The numbers flowing down from the heavens

now ran a starship and promised to connect atevi to a rational

universe that also accounted for humans—

To a universe, what was more, that brought them a second foreign

species. That this new species happened to be hostile— well, well,

but the soaring optimism of good numbers insisted the difficulties

could be overcome, irresistibly so.

Atevi relied on a rational universe.

Humans on the island enclave of Mospheira had faith in miracles.

Humans on the starship over their heads had more faith in a second

armed starship and a planetful of allies, in a universe otherwise sparse

with life.

But atevi being an independent lot, fiercely so, and hating worse than

poison to be handed a fait accompli involving someone else’s

numbers, had politely declined to make too strong a point that a

human species that had misplaced its own home planet was not

infallible. In the main atevi were impressed by what they saw going

on in the heavens—what, at least, the dedicated and the suspicious

alike, armed with binoculars, could make out as going on in the

heavens. It was at least a personal enough contact with the presence

up there to make it a national obsession, and binoculars and

telescopes enjoyed a vogue at garden parties and secret meetings.

The latter—since a last die-hard cadre of the traditionalists wanted

their world back the way Tabini had inherited it, sans telescopes,

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