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ABOARD THE SOKOLOV, OUTBOUND FROM JAMALIYA STATION
"Talk to me about the transmitter."
Space aboard an Afridominian zamani was at a minimum, so Marla was doing sit-ups hanging from a bar set into the ceiling. Working in the field was good exercise, but sitting in a 6.5 cubit cabin for weeks on end during transit did nothing for her girlish figure. Earlie was perched on her bunk, surrounded by data pads and printouts on quick-cycle sheets. The Xelayan looked up, yellow eyes narrowed to slits over the top of amped-up sunglasses. The cat had an earbug as well, letting her hear the soft invisible voices of the processors riding in the pads. Marla had used field goggles before, with w-feeds and a sound interface, but they had been big, bulky units. Earlie's sunglasses were as sleek and dark as she was.
"It's an experimental unit, sister. A commercial version of the old military-grade Wayfinder ship-based transmitter. The Company is field testing it for MegaPulse----according to the logs, it's a two-one release. That means light encryption, no redundant power supplies or emitters, about a 7 to 8 light-year range." Marla made a chuckling sound like a hydrogen-powered chainsaw starting up. "Forty or fifty pre-defined channels---very primitive."
"But---grunt---not hand mirrors and smoke----grunt---from the mountaintop."
"No." Earlie clawed a pad and let some schematics drift past. "A little better than that. Each channel is identified by headers tacked onto the message packets, and then thrown out in a single emitter stream. Sort of an FTL telegraph. But it works, and it's as cheap as you can build a urophoton unit. I've tested the connection myself by patching through Jamaliya comm---they have a big industrial emitter and router---the unit on the Great Zimbabwe does respond to a 'hello,' but refused to open a conversation. I think the unit is actually in maintenance mode, on standby, waiting for the shipboard operator to reset the system." The Xelayan paused, then held up a pad. Marla jerked her head and Earlie flipped the device upside down.
"That----grunt---still makes no sense to me. Plain Dogon, sister."
Earlie laughed again, rolling on her back and lolling her head off the edge of the bunk. Now she seemed upright to Marla, though her ears were pointing off at a strange angle. "The Wayfinder has a manual mode, where the operator can pick and choose which channels are live. This is also used for maintenance, where you don't have to shut the whole system down. Specific components can be switched on or off, even removed from the chassis. When I send a 'hello' across the u-link, the refused connection message comes back with an error code. Of course, the code's not documented yet, not on a test system, but it matches the older military code for 'standby.'"
"So---grunt---there was a problem, they turned it off. The problem got worse----grunt---nobody came back to push the 'on' button."
"Or so the momma cat said."
Marla finished her count of 208, then swung down off the bar. The Sokolov was accelerating out from the station on normal space drive, chewing up antimatter pellets and spitting plasma, which gave them 1 g inside the habitat areas of the ship. A bigger ship, a commercial liner, or an Afridominian jagaban (battlecruiser), would have g-decking everywhere. The Sokolov was not a big ship. Marla stepped carefully over the duffels and equipment boxes strapped to the floor. The Marine suguru they had bumped back to hot-bunking with the rankers already had their cargo allotments aboard, so there was very little room for the Company people. A two-meter-high polyfoam crate holding spare transmitter parts occupied the space where a little table and seats were usually pulled down.
She frowned at the clothing spread out on her bunk. Playing in the dirt, as her father would say, did not require formal wear. Unfortunately, this was an Afridominian zamani, which meant Madhya Nirikshak Verma would have a black-tie evening mess. Marla sighed, turning over her "good" shirt. It had stains. Cryptroaches had eaten a hole in one sleeve.
"A citizen is humble, simply dressed, respectful, devout...." she mumbled to herself, fingers twitching her trousers straight.
Earlie laughed again, her tail twitching. "You're the kit who always has dirt on her nose and looks so surprised! Will this lion lord Verma nip your ears for a dirty pelt?"
"Yes. Miss Miss Mudrakshar Verma has been very polite and accommodating, but we need the commander's goodwill. He is Dvitya Sansargik, too, which means he'll be very proper and traditional. He may have guests----I can't embarrass him too much. Time for the ol' enzymatic cleaner."
Marla squeezed into the end of her bunk, found a clean cloth, then picked up her boots. They were good boots---her mother had them filled and built for her by hand, out of real leather, with shock soles and brass fittings---but the dust of Zoonar fouled everything it touched. She sighed, seeing the soles were beginning to separate from the uppers.
"No matter----" She shoved them to the back of the bunk. Aboard the ship, they went about in light disposable deck shoes designed to adhere to the walking surfaces when they were in 0G. She spat on the shirt stain, then began to rub it between her fingers gently.310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO1kNRgVbAA
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Two Afridominian Marines in sleek, form-fitting black jumpsuits with gold embroidery and patterns inspired by traditional African motifs, stiffened to attention as Marla approached a hatchway outlined in pale blue. Each Marine had his hands behind his back, but heavy flat pistols were slung on their belts and they had feathered helmets as sharp and sleek as Earlie's. The Navy rating escorting her bowed politely and thumbed a comm pad set into the bulkhead next to the hatch.
"Dr. Marla Landers, Navigator," he announced in a stiffly African-accented voice.
The pad chimed and the hatch recessed with a slight chuff and then slid up into the bulkhead. Her mouth suddenly dry, Marla nodded to the young man and then stepped inside. The dining room on the Sokolov was adorned with traditional African motifs, from colorful woven textiles to intricately carved wooden sculptures. There were cushioned seats positioned around a large rectangular table, also adorned with African-inspired patterns. A very short man, barely reaching Marla's shoulder, knelt in greeting beside the table. The five other officers---ranging from the petite executive officer, Mudrakshar Verma, down to a midshipman, or dabara, with pale red hair---also knelt, placing one hand upon their chests.
"Welcome, Dr. Landers," Verma said. Marla blinked in surprise---the Dvitya Sansargik's Anglomerican was flawless. "Please join us."
Marla slipped off her deck shoes before entering the room, turning the motion into a second bow.
The dabara scooted a little to one side. Marla knelt, smiling politely at the boy. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. Like the other officers, he wore a perfectly white dress uniform, with the gazelle-and-stars emblem of the Afridominian Navy worked in gold at his collar. Above his heart rose the "roaring lion" symbol of the Sokolov and a square glyph holding a running man.
The other officers stayed still, heads bowed. The navigator smiled down the table at Marla and raised a thin clay teacup in a polite greeting.
"Dr. Landers, welcome aboard the Sokolov. I am Aryan Verma, her High Navigator.
"Namaste, Aryan-sahib. Thank you for making me so welcome."
"Your Hindi is excellent," Aryan said, smiling, eyes crinkling up. Marla felt an odd sense of dislocation. She had worked with many Dvitya Sansargik; at the university, on Jiri, even on Zoonar. They were unfailingly polite but she had never encountered an Indian man, particularly one her social superior, that had genuinely smiled at her.
"Thank you. Your Anglomerican is perfect."
"No, please, I have a slight accent." Aryan set down his cup. "You have already met Mbopha (Lieutenant) Aryan, my executive officer and pilot. This fellow next to her is Nkosi (2nd Lieutenant) Grisham, our weapons officer." Grisham nodded, somehow appearing deferential to Aryan, though the XO was a tiny woman, even slighter of build than the captain. Nkosi Grisham was nearly six feet tall and powerfully built. Marla smiled politely.
"The young lionheart (Ensign) is Blackmon-bwana, who runs communications; this last is Nkosi Mahl, master of our engineers." Blackmon managed to nod politely and Mahl, a bull-headed bald Dvitya Sansargik, had no reaction at all. Obscurely, Marla found this cold behavior comforting----his reaction was what she had expected, not the genial, almost cheerful tone expressed by the navigator. Aryan stood and straightened his dress jacket. His uniform was very simple, expressing the best attributes of the Dominion---humility, modest dress, quiet unassuming power---though his collar tabs were gold and the eagle glyph of an Afridominian imperium general sat next to the gazelle-and-stars. An elderly man in a simple dark gray dhoti appeared with a tiny green jade cup and a slim Kashmir Dew flask. Aryan knelt to him, took the cup, and turned, facing his right.
There, on a bulkhead covered with inset wooden screens painted with mountains in clouds, were two portraits. They were not holo images, but traditional paintings on silk, in delicate animal-hair brushes with faint washes of color. On the left, looking very young, was the Mansa of the World, T'Challa, the eleventh of that name, Grand Mansa of the Africans and all other peoples under the Dominion's domain. The artist had captured his pensive nature well, looking off to one side, slim hand pressed against his chest.
Aryan knelt humbly before the image of the Mansa, then raised the clay cup.
"So, meditate on this, hunters and warriors," he began, his Dogon slow and measured, as flawless as his Anglomerican. "Though you be of clay, though you be of gold, you too will lie down for the final sleep. All the world will one day sleep. No one will remain."
The room became very still, each man and woman at the table looking down. The servant had disappeared. Marla saw the navigator's face was composed and calm. She recognized the words, written nearly a thousand years before by a man who had opposed the policies of the Dominion when it was still young. Her eyes drifted to one side, watching the faces of the other officers. The poetry of the doomed Wolowo prince, Anwar Diop, was banned throughout the Dominion. The poet's philosophy did not express the ascetic martial spirit deemed fitting by the great powers of the Africans.
Aryan lowered the clay cup, pressing it against his lips, then raised it again, to the second portrait. This was a grumpy old man, his face pinched in a scowl, his hair bound up in the traditional ponytail at the back of his head. He frowned, irritation alive in the smooth brushstrokes. He was Siddharth Shah, the thirty-second Supreme Technocrat, and unifier of all India. Aryan smiled faintly, saying: "They are mere green herbs, grown in the soil of a great mountain; but if I pluck them gracefully, how joyful is my labor!"
Then he placed the clay cup into the hands of the little old man and turned to face the table again. The welcoming ritual complete, two ratings slipped out of the little galley behind the officer's mess and began serving the first course. Marla felt her stomach grumble, smelling sweet onions and broth. For a moment, she was frozen, watching everyone else pick up their spoons.
Then the captain somberly tasted the onion stew and nodded to the two cooks. They grinned and everyone was eating. Marla forgot about her worries for a moment, listening to the quiet cheerful banter among the officers and enjoying the excellent meal.310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbUQR6tZ2q5
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The captain's cabin of the Sokolov was a true testament to the grandeur and cultural heritage of its builders. As Marla stepped into the cabin, she was immediately enveloped in an atmosphere that seamlessly blended advanced technology with traditional Jabari aesthetics.
The walls were adorned with intricate carvings, depicting ancient symbols and patterns from various African tribes. These carvings seemed to come alive as holographic projections danced across them, showcasing scenes from the Dominion's rich history. The lighting, reminiscent of a starry night sky, created a serene ambiance that fostered focus and tranquility.
The centerpiece of the cabin was an imposing ebony desk, meticulously crafted by skilled artisans using sustainable materials. Embedded within its surface were holographic displays that projected real-time data feeds from across the empire, providing the captain with vital information at their fingertips. The desk also housed a state-of-the-art communication system, allowing for seamless contact with other ships, should the need arise.
Seated behind this desk was Aryan. "You were worried by my poetry?" he said. He cradled a heavy Mumbai-style wine cup in his hands. The liquor was hot, steaming up into the chilly air of the ship. Marla was sitting opposite him, in a real chair, still uncomfortable, holding a similar cup. She cradled it gently, having determined as the captain was pouring that it was an artifact and possibly 3,000 years old. Her training urged her to pack it in shockfoam and label it, not sip smooth, old wine from the broad-mouthed bowl.
"Yes. Isn't it treason for you to speak those words?"
"It is not." Aryan shook his head, a grin hiding in his dark eyes. His hair was long and a little stringy, though he kept it tied back. Here, in this softly-lit room, filled with lots of Africana, he seemed elfin with his delicate features and sharp little mustache. "It's traditional, among the Dvitya Sansargik and Jabari both, to offer songs to the great. It is not disrespectful to offer a small portion of a masterpiece---especially those composed by royalty. But I understand your situation. From your mouth, Anwar Diop is treason. Where were you born?"
"On Solaria," she said quietly, taking a small, careful sip.
"Impossible. You do not have a solar crest on your forehead. And your first and last names do not refer to a celestial body."
Marla shook her head. Her poor family situation had weighed against her in school, at university, and in getting employment, even after the burning suns of Zoonar. As a child, her race had been a fierce burden, but she had struggled and survived, and she felt no need to hide or dissemble.
As refugees, we were kindly welcomed by the Solarians. I was born on their planet, yes, but my true heritage traces back to Belgium.
Aryan smiled over his cup, then put the bowl aside on the desk. "Your people fought well and accepted defeat honorably. It pains me to see you suffer for this, but I suppose not everyone can be blessed like the Americans, the Russians, and the Dvitya Sansargik, with the favor of the Father Creator. Someone, after all, needed to stand fast in the face of the Dominion. Glory isn't possible without a mighty opponent."
"I suppose." A little over two hundred years had passed since the Jabaris had crushed the last independent nations on Gbe. The Belgians and Germans, fighting on in the ruins of their great cities, had surrendered only when all else had fallen to the Zulu and the Ashanti Legions. Many of the survivors had scattered to the trans-solar colonies, or even beyond the embrace of Sol. Marla's grandparents had managed to settle on Solaria, one of the lusher, Earthlike planets the Dominion had chosen to leave alone because they considered the Solarian people to be "Spirited Elephants." Her grandparents and parents had never spoken of The War, but the Solarian government's nationalistic propaganda had filled in the blanks. "That is past history."
"Perhaps." Aryan leaned forward, his face suddenly serious. "You are not comfortable with me and my crew---we were not what you expected. You are even surprised I speak passable Anglamerican."
"Yes." Marla set aside a stage of age-yellowed magazines and put down her cup. "I am surprised, though I have never been on an Afridominian warship before. All of the Afridominian officials I've ever met have been very forbidden men and women, ascetic and distant. I have never heard an official use any language but Dogon. Isn't that the recommended style?"
"In many places, yes. You've stumbled onto an odd corner of the Dominion with us, I fear. The Afridominian Navy is a strange creature, one head on two distinct bodies. I know you've found your place in society restricted by your birth---our Navy suffers the same fate. Certain kinds of ship commands----really, anything large and impressive----are reserved for navigators and senior crew drawn from those 'close to the Center.' This leaves the smaller ships---mosi (cruisers), zuberi (light cruisers) imanzi (destroyers)---to those 'further away.' And among those who are not of the Great Tribes, you will find the Dvitya Sansargik are the most trusted." Aryan paused, thin mobile lips twisting ironically. "So we are repaid for trading horses and steel for food and shelter so long ago.
"If you were to go down into the ship's enlisted country," he continued, "you would find crewmen and women of many races, even some with hair the color of beaten gold, like yours. Nearly a quarter of light-ship crews are of omoluabi descent. Despite the racism and nepotism of the Dominion Tribes, crew rosters must be filled and the navy is not picky about lineage or birth----for crewmen, at least! Haven't you noticed everything is labeled in Anglamerican? Our manuals, our computer systems, everything is in Anglamerican. Every Afridominian officer must be proficient if they are to speak with their crews." He paused. "Of course, they have reliable officers to guide them, like me."
Marla stifled a laugh. She was suddenly aware there had been Kashmir Dew with dinner too, and most of the Mumbai bowl was empty. The air seemed chillier than it had been.
"I'm still surprised," she said, fingertips brushing the medband on her wrist. It could dispense more than serotonin regulators. A cool sensation followed, rushing up her arm. Objects in the room began to assume a preternatural clarity. "Are you judged so reliable you lack a political officer? Someone to help you guide these tribeless, landless crewmen?"
She stopped, aware of the bitter tone in her words. Aryan raised an eyebrow, shaking his head gently. He put a thin finger to his lips in warning. "Careful, Doctor. In this world, we must keep our places, at least with open words. My command staff and I have been together for six years---first on the imanzi Zambezi and now here. We are very comfortable together----a family. You've seen into the door of our house tonight, watching us laugh at dinner. Perhaps we should have been more circumspect."
He smiled gently, putting both forefingers to his temples. "Keep your true life here, inside, and you will be safe. Now listen, Doctor, as there are things you must know."
Marla straightened up, her mind now crystal clear. Something about Aryan had changed as well, the navigator-ness of him coming forth. Now that she knew him a little better, she could see him change, his openness fading away, though he was still genial and polite.
"The ubuntu kasikili (system admiral) agreed to let you and your team ship with us to Ashanti because this benefits the Dominion, not as a favor to your Company. The ruins on Kumasi III, and the marks of shaping the planet bears, make it important to the Navy. Our own scientists have reviewed the data from the probe. At some time in the distant past, at least a million years ago, the world was violently transformed by the First Light People. It may be an abandoned project---we have found those before---or may have been completed.
"Regardless of what happened to the Great Zimbabwe, the investigation must go forward. I have been entrusted with seeing you safely there and then making sure your work is a success. Whatever you need---transport shuttles, men, equipment, repair parts----I will provide."
Marla sighed, weariness hidden behind the booster. "I understand, Navigator. If we find anything interesting we'll turn it over to you." She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes. "I've worked under military supervision before."
"I know." Aryan did not smile, but there was a faint trace of humor sparkling in his eyes. "On Jiri---the Zorah excavation---under Director Mwangi. You are young, Doctor, but you were chosen for this mission because of your experience and skill. Listen to me, I am here to help you, not to stumble around in your investigation, shooting people or being heavy-handed. I cannot imagine there is a great deal of trust between us, but I hope to gain yours."
"Why?" The side of Marla's mouth twisted and she had to quell the urge to chew on the inside of her lip. "You surely don't need my trust. You can order me to do whatever you want. What you're trying to say, politely, is that we're consultants to the Navy."
Aryan nodded in agreement. "This is true. But this is not a military mission."
Marla's eyebrows raised in question. "I don't understand."
Aryan ran his finger around the top of his drinking bowl. He seemed pensive, uneasy. After a long moment, he said, "This has become a matter of concern to the Grand Djed. We're both under the direct jurisdiction of an Afridominian sangoma---a magistrate."
Swallowing, her throat tight and dry, Marla managed to speak. "Is this manlike heks aboard ship?"
Aryan nodded, his face a tight mask. "Yes, you will speak to him soon. He's an Egyptian named Ramesses."
Reborn by Ra, she thought. A powerful name.310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3dhTQHcjdg
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Marla thumbed open the hatch to her quarters, and stopped in the doorway, finding Baxter and Chowdhury sitting on the deck amid drifts of bits and pieces of metal, plastic flasks, and wads of cloth. The pilot was in a T-shirt and ragged work pants lined with pockets. Chowdhury, as ever, was in sharply pressed slacks and a dress shirt. Earlie was still on her bunk, though she had squeezed down to make room for the equipment cases that had been sitting on the deck.
"Hello. Why are you cluttering up my floor?"
Baxter looked up, pale brown eyes twinkling. "Sorry, boss, but we don't have any room in our cabin." His hands were spotted with light oil. Marla could smell it hanging in the air, a bitter thick tickling in her nose and throat. The pilot had an automatic pistol in his hand, mostly disassembled, with the gas venting mechanism sticking out.
"They weren't clean already?" One of her eyebrows inched up. She stepped inside, letting the hatch slide closed, then stepped over the two men and swung up into her bunk. "What makes you think a pistol will be useful on Kumasi?"
"A gun's always useful," Baxter grinned, sliding the top of his automatic back together with a sharp click. He nodded at Chowdhury, "Isn't that so?"
Chowdhury nodded, his face as calm and composed as ever. A heavy cloth, almost a rug, lay over his knees holding a heavy round barrel and a dizzying array of smaller parts, as well as a stock formed of honeycombed plastic. His hands, which seemed small on a solid, muscular body, held a rag and a shining metal component. Unlike Baxter's mess, the gunner had arranged his tools on a cloth in neat, orderly rows.
"Well," Marla smiled across at Earlie. "If it makes you happy."
"How did the zssssdivv-pxm, go?" Earlie was lying on her back, a heavy flat comp on her furry stomach, a w-screen flipped up. "I mean, the hunting feast."
"It went." Marla rummaged in her bag, frowning at the mess her rack had already become. She glowered sideways at Earlie----her bunk was carefully ordered, with everything in place. Damn cat. "It was even pleasant. I had a talk with Madhya Nirikshak Verma afterward, in his office. He says that there is an Afridominian sangoma on board."
Baxter looked up, quizzical. Chowdhury continued to work on cleaning the assault rifle, but Marla thought the smooth, assured motions of his hands paused for a moment.
"A what?" Baxter put down his pistol and scratched his chin, leaving a glistening smear of oil along the line of his jaw.
"An Afridominian magistrate," Marla said, pulling a holocard out of her bag. The side of her mouth twisted unconsciously. She ran a fingernail along the back of the card, then jammed the holo against the bulkhead. It adhered to the painted metal, then flickered on. The image was set to 'still,' extending its life from days to years. Three young children, a boy and two girls no more than six years old, were smiling up at the holocam. They were in a swimming pool, all blue water and glittering sunlight. In the high definition of the holocam the green tint of too many summer days spent in chlorinated water was very clear. "An agent of the Djed. A spy. Both Aryan and I are under his jurisdiction. This is a government mission now, not the Company's."
Chowdhury looked up, forehead creased by a single frown lines line. Baxter stared at Marla, grimacing. "The secret police? Sister's smile, this sucks!"
Marla nodded, turning away from the holocard. "Listen, we have to be careful with this. We still work for the Company and will be held responsible for getting back the Great Zimbabwe and any material, objects, artifacts, data----everything the first expedition collected. Farrugia's 'great deal' was forced on him by the Navy and he didn't have much choice about shipping us out with them. This magistrate will keep out of the way, but anything we find he wants, he gets. Poof."
Baxter shrugged. He didn't care. Chowdhury slid the barrel of the shipgun back into the firing block and locked it in place with a twist and a sharp chink. Like everything else he did, the motion was assured and without waste.
"Let's talk about the Great Zimbabwe." Marla pinched the bridge of her nose. "The navigator has offered us a Marine boarding team to secure her. However, an agent of the Company has to be the first on board, to reassert the claim to the ship. Otherwise, it will be declared a derelict, and the Navy will have possession. Now, the Company could get the ship back, eventually, but not without putting a case to the Naval Court of adjudication. Baxter---you have 0g experience, right?"
The pilot nodded, fingering one of the patches on his jacket. "You bet, boss. My suit is in storage, but I'll pull it out and checklist it tomorrow. Who else goes? Or is it just little ole me with the big mean Marines?"
Marla pointed at Chowdhury with her chin. "Mr. Chowdhury, are you qualified in a suit? Can you use this cannon of yours in 0g?"
The gunner nodded, looking up. He had very pale blue eyes.
"Don't you ever speak?"
"Sometimes." Chowdhury snapped the stock and body of the shipgun together. "Baxter talks enough for the both of us."310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuwNitXbvpU
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The officers' mess seemed colder as Marla entered and sat down. The lights were dimmed and the hatchway to the galley was closed. A man was sitting cross-legged on the mat at the head of the table, watching her. He seemed to be of medium height, lean and wiry, with a solid coal-black face and deep-set eyes. Marla sat quietly, her face impassive. She felt on edge, but not nervous. The man was wearing a plain white shirt, cut to resemble a traditional dashiki with short sleeves. His hands were hidden under the edge of the table.
After a long period of silence, he said, "Do you understand how dangerous you are?"
Marla blinked, then shook her head. "I don't follow your meaning."
The man continued to sit. The nearest ceiling light illuminated the crisp white cotton of his shirt, but not his face. "You are a scientist, a thinker. What do you think I mean?"
"I'm not dangerous," Marla replied, her voice acquiring an edge. "I'm a loyal citizen of the Dominion, a dutiful employee, a careful scientist. My work my place me in physical danger, but I am not, of myself, dangerous. I have never hurt anyone."
The man continued to sit quietly, watching her. More time passed.
At last, nervous, Marla said, "Is this interview complete?"
The man shook his head, no.
"You have not given me enough information to form a theory," she said after another long pause. Then she stopped before saying anything more. She realized that he had provided her with three----no, four---data points. Enough for a three-dimensional structure....Unconsciously, her head bent down a little, and she frowned, her lips pursing.
"You say that I'm dangerous. I'm a scientist. I think. If my work is successful, something unknown to our science becomes known. That would be something new. Newness is change, which may inflict pain, or suffering, or death. Do you think there's something on Kumasi I might find, where others have not? Something dangerous?"
The man leaned forward a little, and the overhead light caught in his eyes. They were a smoky, quartz brown. "There is a man in your cabin. His name is Mike Baxter. He carries a weapon. Is he dangerous?"
"I don't think so," Marla said, turning her head a little sideways, eyes narrowing. "I know him, he is a companion. He is not dangerous to me. But yes, I understand. He is, of himself, dangerous. He could kill or injure another."
The man leaned backward, the smoky quartz light fading. "Is he---very dangerous?"
Marla bristled at the new tone in the man's voice. Where before it'd been calm and level, now it took on a patronizing tone as if she were a small child having trouble with her maths. "No, not very dangerous. Not in a large context. He might kill one other, then be slain himself. The duration of his dangerousness is limited."
"And yours?"
"Limited?! It has to be, for I am but a single person. What could I do? I could be easily killed or imprisoned if I prove dangerous. Is that what you do? Do you watch for 'dangerous' persons and remove them from society? Is this what it means to be a magistrate?"
The man placed a small blue pyramid of what seemed to be leaded glass on the table. In the brief moment when his hand was visible, Marla saw that it was gnarled and twisted, muscular, a farmer's hand. Like her grandfather's hands, roughened and seamed by the elements. Fine puckered scars ran across the palm and the wrist. Marla was suddenly sure his whole body was marked in this same way, like etched glass.
"The jalis, the wise men, have a sacred duty. It is to sustain the world." The man turned the pyramid a bit, so the light fell upon it squarely. "They are ceaselessly vigilant, watching over each of us while we go about our daily lives. Do you see this book?"
Marla raised an eyebrow in surprise. The blue pyramid did not look like a book at all, though she supposed it might contain a holostore or memory lattice. "I do."
The quartz-eyed man smiled faintly, holding up the pyramid. "It is very dangerous. A world might be destroyed by it. But it is not as dangerous as you are, right now."
Marla felt a chill steal over her. She could not see the man's other hand, and she suddenly imagined the scarred fingers holding a gun, a weapon, a small flat gray pistol with a round black muzzle. The gun, she was sure, was pointed at the pit of her stomach. It would fire a shock pellet, striking her flesh, ripping through her shirt, then bursting violently, shattering her pelvis, gouging a huge gaping red hole out of her back. She would die slowly, as blood leaked away from her brain and the wrinkled gray organ asphyxiated.
"Why am I dangerous?" Her voice sounded very faint.
The man put the blue pyramid away. "Telling you that would serve no purpose. It is sufficient, for you, for now, to know that you are dangerous. In you, the life of all humanity is at risk." His gaze sharpened and Marla felt his scrutiny like a physical pressure against her fact. "Do you fear me?"
"Yes, I do."
"That is good. Do you fear death?"
"Yes, I do."
"That is even better."
Then he was silent. Marla waited, sitting, her palms damp with sweat. She wondered what the blue pyramid contained. A dangerous book? Books had always been friendly to her, offering her succor, sanctuary, and advantage. Friends who didn't mind if you called once a year. But it might contain plans for a weapon---a virus, a bomb, something truly deadly. With that, she thought she understood his question. What if I find something like that on Kumasi? Some First Light weapon that could shatter a star, or burn a planet to a cinder?310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5sgUkKCepE
Reborn-by-Ra stood up, moving stiffly. Marla realized that he was very old, far older than his voice suggested. He looked down at her, his face grim, then limped to the door. Without turning her head, Marla tried to see if the man really had a pistol. Nothing! The hatch chuffed open and the Jabari went out into the passage. Marla let out a long, slow breath, feeling suddenly awake and relieved of a great weight that had lain upon her.310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHiC2rVc7lB
