“Lucky you,” she said, turning again to Rigo’s bed. Here in the Port Hotel she and Rigo weren’t saved for even this life if the Hippae got in. Tony was, maybe, if someone found a cure soon. And Stella. Remembering how Rillibee had looked at her, perhaps Stella was saved. If not for eternity, at least for a very small being’s lifetime, which was all one could expect.
She went back to the window, looking across the battle to the huge barns against the wall. The horses! She could see the barn where they were stabled. It was stout, true, but not impenetrable. It was connected to the building they were in by the tunnel network. Everything was connected to everything else. Could she find her way there? She fumbled in her jacket pocket, finding the trip recorder that Brother Mainoa had returned to her.
“The Seraph, he had a few men in town,” the trooper said.
“What will they do?” she wondered.
He shook his head. “The Seraph, he’s what you’d call conservative, ma’am, I’ve heard the Cherubim say that, a few times. He’ll wait until morning, then he’ll prob’ly make a sweep from the wall with all the men moving on automatic fire. By that time, he’ll have more men down from the ship.”
“There’s at least one tunnel where the Hippae came in,” Marjorie said. “It’ll have to be blown up, or flooded, or something.”
“Do the people in the town know that?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “Then they’ll tell the Seraph and he’ll take care of it. Maybe even tonight if he can get an assault hopper down. Seraph has an assault group moves with him, wherever he goes. Assault group’s got all kinds of demolition stuff.”
“Would he have taken a group like that into town?” she asked incredulously.
“Everywhere,” he said soberly. “Everywhere he goes, even to the toilet. In case something happens while he’s gone and he has trouble getting back to his command. Like a mutiny or something.”
She shook her head, amazed. How insecure a Hierarch must feel to make a routine provision for mutiny.
“Mutiny?” asked an angry voice from the door. Rigo, stripped to his trousers, feet bare. “What’s going on?”
Marjorie stood aside from the window to let him see.
“They’ve come through,” she said. “This young man and I have turned off the power to the hotel,” she said. “They won’t be able to get up here unless there are some stairs I’m unaware of. By the same token, however, I’m afraid we’re trapped. For the time being.” She believed they might not outlive their entrapment, though she did not say so.
Rigo looked expressionlessly out the window. “Hippae,” he said unnecessarily. “How many?”
“Enough to do a great deal of damage,” Marjorie replied. “I quit counting at eighty some-odd, and there were still more arriving.”
“If you’ll wait outside,” Rigo said to the trooper, “I’d like to talk to my wife.”
“No.” she said. “He can wait here. I don’t want him out in the hall, where they might smell him or hear him. There might be another way up, and I don’t want to attract them. If you want to talk, we’ll talk in your room.” She went before him, rumpled, uncombed, and yet stately. In the room where Rigo had slept, she sat in a chair and waited while he stalked about, three paces, three paces back.
“While you were away,” he said, “I had an opportunity to discuss our situation with Father Sandoval. I think we need to talk about our future.”
She felt sorrow mixed with a faint annoyance. It was so like him to pick a time when there might not be any future to discuss their future together. He had always picked times when there was no love to talk about love; times when there was no trust to talk about trust. As though love and trust were not feelings but only symbols or tools which could be manipulated to achieve a desired result. As though the words themselves were keys to open some mechanical lock. Twist love, love happens. Twist trust, trust occurs. Twist future …
“What about our future?” she asked expressionlessly.