Company Wars 01 – Downbelow Station

shadow on vid, occulting stars. They were friendly—hundreds of ships moving into

the search area. “We’re in it now,” Neihart murmured; “Union won’t rest.” But

they all knew that, from the time the word had gone out, from the time

merchanters had begun to pass to merchanters the word where to come and the name

that summoned them… a dead ship, and a dead name—from a disaster they all knew.

Inevitable that Union get wind of it; by now Union was surely noticing the

curious absence of ships from their stations, merchanters who did not come in on

schedule. They were panicking perhaps, perceiving disappearances in zones where

it could not be military action, with Mazian tied up at Pell. Union had

appropriated ships—they had proven that—and before this ship came, it might have

given its course to others. The next step was a warship sent in here… if Union

could spare one from Pell.

And the word had not sped only to Union space. It had gone to Sol—for Winifred

had recalled her Earthly ties, dumped her cargo, ridding herself of mass to jump

as far as possible… had undertaken that long and uncertain journey to what

welcome they did not know. Tell them about Mariner. Elene had asked of them. And

Russell’s and Viking and Pell. Make them understand. They did it dutifully,

because they had once been Earth’s. But it was gesture only. There was no answer

coming.

They did not find a capsule, only debris and wreckage.

iii

Downbelow: hisa sanctuary 1/6/53; local night

The hisa had been coming and going from the beginning, quiet migration in and

out of the gathering at the foot of the images, hushed and sober movement, by

ones and twos and reverently, in respect to the dreamers who gathered there by

the thousands. By day and by night they had come, carrying food and water, doing

small and necessary things.

There were domes for humans now, diggings made by Downer labor, and compressors

thumped away with the pulse of life, rude, patched domes unlovely… but they gave

shelter to the old and to the children, and to all the rest of them as brief

summer yielded to fall, as skies clouded and the days full of sun and the nights

of stars grew fewer.

Ships overflew them, shuttles on their runs going and coming; they were

accustomed to this, and it no longer frightened them.

You must not gather even the woods, Miliko had explained to the Old Ones through

interpreters. Their eyes see warm things, even through trees. Deep earth can

hide hisa, oh, very deep. But they see even when Sun doesn’t shine.

Downer eyes had gotten very round at that. They had talked among themselves.

Lukases, they had muttered. But they had seemed to understand.

She had talked day upon day to the Old Ones, talked until she was hoarse and she

exhausted her interpreters, tried to make them understand what they faced, and

when she would tire, alien hands would pat her arms and her face and round hisa

eyes look at her with profound tenderness, all, sometimes, that they could do.

And humans… by night she came to them. There was Ito, and Ernst and others, who

grew moodier and moodier—Ito because all the other officers had gone with

Emilio; and Ernst, a small man, who had not been chosen; and one of the

strongest men of all the camps, Ned Cox, who had not volunteered in the first

place… and began to be ashamed. There was a kind of contagion that spread among

them, shame perhaps, when they heard news from main base, that told of nothing

but misery. About a hundred sat outside the domes, choosing the cold weather and

the reliance on breathers as if by rejecting comfort they proved something to

each other and to themselves. They had grown silent, and their eyes were, as the

Downers said, bright and cold. Day and night… in this sanctuary, in the place of

hisa images… they sat in front of the domes in which others lived, in which

others were all too eager to take their turns—they could not all get in at once.