“We don’t dictate.”
“The iron-fisted suggestions of the paidhiin. Backed by a space station and technology we don’t dream of.”
“A space station that sweeps down from orbit and rains fire on provincial capitals at least once a month—we’ve had this conversation before, Banichi. I had it with Ilisidi’s men in the basement. I just had it, abbreviated version, with the gentlemen in the back of the plane, who broke my arm, thank you very much, nadi, but we don’t have any intention of taking over the planet this month.” He was raving, losing his threads. He leaned his head back against the seat. “You’re safe from them, Banichi. At least as far as them coming down here. They don’t like planets to live on. They want us to come up there and maintain their station for them, free of charge, so they can go wherever they like and we fix what breaks and supply their ship.”
“So they will make you go back to the station?” Banichi asked.
“Can’t get at us, I’m thinking. No landing craft. At least they didn’t have one. They’ll have to wait for our lift capacity.“ He began to see the pieces, then, in a crazed sort of way, while the arm hurt like bloody hell. “Damned right they will. The Pilots’ Guild will negotiate. They’re scared as hell of you.”
“Of us?” Banichi asked.
“Of the potential for enemies.” He turned his head on the head rest. “Time works differently for space travelers. Don’t ask me how. But they think in the long term. The very long term. You’re not like them, and they can’t keep you at the bottom of a gravity slope forever.” He gave a dry, short laugh. “That was the feud between us from the outset, that some of us said we had to deal with atevi. And the Pilots’ Guild said no, let’s slip away, they’ll never notice us.”
“You’re joking, nadi.”
“Not quite,” he said. “Get some sleep, Banichi-ji. I’m going to do some computer work.”
“On what?”
“Long-distance communications. Extreme long distance.”
Ilisidi was on her feet, hovering over Cenedi’s shoulder, Banichi and Jago were leaning over his. He had the co-pilot’s seat. It was a short patch cord.
“So what do you do?” Ilisidi asked.
“I hit the enter key, nand’ dowager. Just now. It’s talking.”
“In numbers.”
“Essentially.”
“How are these numbers chosen?”
“According to an ancient table, nand’ dowager. They don’t vary from that model—which I assure you we long ago gave to atevi.” He watched the incoming light, waiting, waiting. The yellow light flickered and his heart jumped. “Hello, Mospheira.”
“Can they hear us?” Ilisidi asked.
“Not what we say, at the moment. Only what we input.”
“Dreadful changes to the language.”
“ ‘Put in,’ then, nand’ dowager.” Lights flashed in alternation. ID, came up. The plane was on autopilot, and Cenedi diverted his attention to watch the crawl of letters and numbers on a small screen, all of which ended in:
—the further content of the lines wasn’t available to the screen.
Humans had, at least in design, set up the atevi system. It answered very well when a human transmission wanted through. The systems were talking to each other, thank God, thank God.
The plane hit bumpy air. Pain jotted through the nerve ends in the shoulder. Things went gray and red, and for a moment he had to lean back, lost to here and now.
“Nand’ paidhi?” Jago’s hand was on his cheek.
He opened his eyes. Saw a message on the screen.
The Foreign Office wanted to talk on the radio. He’d a headset within reach. He raked it up and fumbled with it, one-handed. Jago helped him. He told Cenedi the frequency, heard the hail sputtering with static.
“Yeah,” he said to the voice that reached him, “it’s Cameron. A little bent but functioning on my own. Where’s Hanks?”
There was a delay—probably for consultation. They hadn’t, the report was, finally, heard from Hanks. She’d gone into Shejidan and dropped into a black hole four days ago.
“Probably all right. The atevi have noticed we’ve got company upstairs. Ours, I take it?”
The Foreign Office said:
“That’s Phoenix, in a high-handed mood.”