“We’ve contacted Saber,” Luiz said. “They want to see you.”
He saw the hardness in their looks: he had run, taken the enemy side; this, not even Boaz was prepared to understand.
‘ And they had seen the mri track, the desert of stars.
“I will go,” he said.
“Put off the weapons,” said Liuz, “and put the dus outside.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You would have to take those, and the beast stays with me.”
It was clear that there were men prepared to move on him. He stood quietly, felt the dus’ ward impulse, and the fear that was thick in the room.
“There are arguments you could make hi your defense,” Boaz said. “None of them are worth anything if you make trouble now. Sten, what side are you playing?”
He thought a moment. Human language came with difficulty, a strange, deja-vu reference in which he knew how to function, but distantly, distantly. There were ideas that refused clear shaping. “I won’t draw my weapons unless I’m touched,” he said. “Let Saber decide. Take me there. Peace.” He found the word he had lost for a time. “It’s peace I bring if they’ll have it.”
“We’ll consult,” said Luiz.
“We can lift and consult later. Time is short.”
Boaz nodded slowly. Luiz looked at her and agreed. Orders were passed with gestures, and a man left.
“Where are the others?” Luiz asked.
Duncan did not answer. Slowly, carefully, lest they misinterpret any move, he began to resume the zaidhe, which made him more comfortable. And while Luiz and Boaz consulted together, he put back the veil, and adjusted it to the formal position. The dus stood beside him, and the men with guns remained in their places.
But elsewhere in the ship came the sound of machinery at work preparation for lift, he thought, and panic assailed him. He was a prisoner; they had him back, and doors had closed that he could not pass.
Warning lights began to flash in the overhead. He looked about apprehensively as another three regulars came into the compartment, rifles leveled at him, and Luiz left.
“Sit down,” Boaz advised him. “Sit down over there and steady that beast for lift. Will it stay put?”
“Yes.” He retreated to the cushioned bench and settled there, leaned forward to keep his hand on the dus that sat at his feet.
Boaz delayed, looking down at him: blonde, plump Boaz, who had grown thinner and grayer, whose face had acquired frown lines wondering now, he thought, and not understanding.
“You speak with an accent,” she said.
He shrugged. Perhaps it was true.
The warning siren sounded. They were approaching lift. Boaz went to the opposite side of the room, to the bench there; the regulars with their guns clustered there, weapons carefully across laps. The dus lay down at Duncan’s feet, as the stress began, flattening itself to bear it.
The lift was hard, reckless. Duncan felt sweat breaking from him and his head spinning as they lofted. The dus sent fear… afraid, Duncan thought, of these men with guns. The fear turned his hands cold, and yet the heat of the compartment was stifling.
It was long before they broke from the force of lift, before new orientation took over and it was possible to move again. Duncan sat still, not willing to provoke them by attempting to rise. He desired nothing of them. Boaz sat still and stared at him.
“Stavros did this to you,” she said finally, with a look of Pity-Again he shrugged, and kept his eyes unfixed and elsewhere, lost in waiting.
“Sten,” she said.
He looked at her, distressed, knowing that she wanted response of him, and it was not there. “He is dead,” he said finally, to make her understand.
There was pain in her eyes: comprehension, perhaps.
“I feel no bitterness,” he said, “Boz.”
She bit at her lips and sat white-faced, staring at him.
Luiz called; there was an exchange not audible to him, and the regulars stood by with lowered guns, kept them constantly trained on him. He sat and stroked the dus and soothed it.
The guards sweated visibly. To confront a disturbed dus took something from a man. They were steady. There was no panic. Boaz sat and mopped at her face.