Wisps of clouds poured past; the sun chased reflections across the cockpit and the plane came about and kept on with the sun on its right wing.
“We’re going to pick up our escort in a few minutes,” a thin voice came over the speaker in the helmet. The pilot or copilot was talking on their channel. “They’ll meet us at Delga.”
Duun acknowledged that. The voice came again. “We’ve just got word. We’ve got ghota craft headed our way. Our escort’s going to intercept. Planes are in the air at Homaan. Council’s going into session now.”
Thorn leaned his head against the cushioned seat and stared ahead of him at the milky glare of light, the black, surreal figures of the pilots. There was no world but this, no past or future. He hung motionless above the earth while the sky rushed faster and faster at them and small voices from the ground spoke to the pilots (who themselves could do nothing) and told them that the world was in chaos. Duun spoke of missiles. Of intercepts. Of aircraft which would be lifting from one city and another around the world, across seas and continents. People down there were looking up in fear at planes they could not see, expecting missiles to fall on them. Children standing on that brown rock at Sheon, next the bent tree, would look up and wave at white trails in the sky. (“See us, here we are! Hello!”) -while dreadful missiles roared off in fire and smoke.
(This can’t be happening.)
(There is no can’t, minnow.)
“Someone’s on intercept with us.” The pilot’s voice again. “Bearing 45 low.”
“From the sea,” Duun said. “That’s Betan. I figured. Hang on, minnow.”
The plane turned in flight. Pressure dragged at them, pulled at jaws and eyes and bowels and Thorn’s nose ran; there was a pounding in his ears. The plane rocked. They went into a steep bank. (We’re going to crash. We were hit.) Thorn rolled his head against the seat as his heart went wild and the sun spun up again and over the right wing.
“That’s a miss on their side, a hit on ours. It’s down.”
(What are they talking about? The other plane? Betan?)
The milky light surrounded them again, implacable. On a screen a tiny point of light went out and Betan no longer existed, a plane scattered itself in shards and fragments, lives went out- (“That’s a miss on their side, a hit on ours.”) Their own plane had fired. That had been that shaking. And Betan was dead in a moment, with all her courage and her skill. (“It’s down.”)
“Betan,” Duun said, “headed out over the sea and came back again. Points to her. She might have won it right then.”
“She’s dead.”
There was a silence for a moment. The sky was incredibly smooth. Surreal again.
“There’s a man named Shbit,” Duun said. “A councillor. You know Dallen Oil? You remember your companies?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they’re not only oil, they’re a lot of things. Energy, trade, manufacture. They’ve got a lot of power in council. They saw it slipping. They got Shbit elected: one of their own. Shbit wanted you transferred out of Ellud’s wing and into one where things are more accessible- where you’d be more-public. Where politics could benefit by controversy. Where I could be weakened. They can’t overthrow a hatani judgment. But they can undermine it. They can come at you from so many sides you can’t track them all. Shbit tried that. He had a few ghotanin in his employ. Personal guards. They’re ordinary as rain in private service. He had a few free-hatani he knew where to reach back home. A few kosanin, gods help them. And the fool got Betan past a fool of a personnel supervisor, the security chief, the division chief, Ellud- gods, five years ago; while we were still at Sheon. Brightest young security officer Ellud had. She ought to have been.”
“Elanhen and Sphitti and Cloen-”
“Security as well. Sphitti’s a free-citizen, son of a woman I know. Elanhen and Cloen from the station: kosanin. Damn good kids. Betan; free-citizen, career security. So they said. They left out pertinent details in her case.”