Michael Flynn - The January Dancer

“Nothing more? A tramp captain would not think that so little. But I’ll give you an answer. In the normal course of affairs, January would go no nearer the Rift than Jehovah Roads, while Jumdar would send it to Old ’Saken.”

“Enter, the Cynthians,” the scarred man prompts. “They would have gone all the way to Sapphire Point on their way home.”

“Aye, into the hands of na Fir Li.”

“Too simple. There’s another reason.”

The harper thinks about it, then shakes her head. “No, that cannot be it.”

The skull beneath his skin leers at her. “Can it not? I’ve all but told you.”

“Then why”—she slaps the table—“not come right out and say it?”

“Why else but that the story achieves its end.”

Old ’Saken! the scarred man says. The very name is magic. Here was the world at the end of the ancient Via Dolorosa, where the bewildered detritus of Terra was cast off to live or die as best they could in the collapse of the Commonwealth of Suns. In the tumultuous and despairing first generation, the ultimate decision had been to live, and that had resulted in a certain lack of sentimentality. “Whatever it takes” was the motto of the first dynasty of presidents. In her long history, ’Saken’s refugee camps came under rough bosses, gave way to city-states, then organized in leagues and empires and shattered in civil wars. Her rough-and-tumble traditions linger in her civic religion, but the bond of fractious solidarity that arose among the exiles resulted finally in the largest world with a single planetary government. The Forsaken, as they call themselves, have a motto: “I against my brother; my brother and I against our cousin; my cousin and I against the world.”

Other worlds were settled by successive waves of deportees: Waius, Damtwell, Die Bold, Bandonope, and the rest, and some prospered (like Friesing’s World) and some did not (like the derelict worlds of the Yung-lo), but ’Saken always held to pride of place. That their ancestors had been the first deported argued that they had been especially important in the old Commonwealth. At least, the Forsaken argued so. If Jehovah is unworldly and Peacock indolent, if Die Bold suffers ennui and New Eireann desperation, a certain whiff of satisfaction, of even arrogance, has settled over Old ’Saken. In the heart of every Forsaken man and woman rests the suspicion that they were just the least bit better than those upstarts on Die Bold or Friesing’s World.

All of which could be very problematical when it came to tourism.

People across the Spiral Arm came to visit Old ’Saken. Obstreperous boozhies from the Greater Hanse; pesky Megranomers and their peskier children; Chettinads in their ridiculous garb; yokels from Jehovah; rubes from Gatmander; even jump-up so-called royalty from the so-called capital world of High Tara. They all wanted to see the First Field, where the landings had been, and other sites associated with the early days: Kong Town, Elsbet Bay, Raging Rock.

So there was a great deal of traffic on the Piccadilly Circus and it was not impossible, nor even very unlikely, that a trader or tourist chance-met on Die Bold would show up also on Old ’Saken. So the posse would, Bridget ban insisted, maintain the same identities, just in case.

The transit took only a single day, but the traffic on the ramp was heavy and intricately choreographed by local STC. After that, the magbeam network caught the two ships and gentled them down toward the legendary world where the Human Diaspora had begun. During the crawl, Bridget ban and the Fudir studied maps of Chel’veckistad, searching out the best and most plausible routes from the spaceport to the Dalhousie Estate in the Northbound Hills where Lady Cargo lived. “She’ll have it with her in the estate,” Bridget ban had said. “Question is, do we enter the grounds openly or secretly?”

“Or both,” suggested the Terran.

Greystroke and Hugh in the other vessel had agreed. A Krinthic merchant prince might have probable cause for calling on the chairman of the ICC and just enough social standing to pull it off. Hugh was able, after some research, to craft a plausible RFP involving a shipment of crater gems for Dalhousie Dew. The latter was an especially fine touch, since the hybrid fruit grew only in the soil of the Northbound Hills under direct control of Lady Cargo’s estate. The pricing was inevitably months out-of-date, but the proposal would at least get them a hearing with the estate manager and the master vintner.

“She will almost surely try to influence the terms of the deal with the Dancer,” Greystroke said. “Ringbao will use Fudir’s plan and we’ll compare notes afterward.”

The Fudir had suggested aural implants that would block Cargo’s direct voice, while repeating the sense of the words via simulation. He called it the “Odysseus Strategy,” after an ancient Terran god. Hugh had thought of a number of other possibilities—the actual vibrations in the air might carry the effect, the sense of the words might carry the effect despite the buffer—but as no one could see a way around those objections, they had decided to go ahead with the plan.

“If ye agree to a muckle bad deal,” said Bridget ban, “we’ll know the buffers are no help.”

“What matters,” the Fudir interjected, “is to scout out the security inside the grounds. We need to know where she’s keeping it, and what we’ll have to bypass to get to it.”

“Teach a Peacock pleasure,” Greystroke retorted.

“I don’t know why ye bait him so much,” said Bridget ban after the connection was broken.

“Getting him to react is the only way I know he’s there,” the Fudir grumbled. “He’s my jailor, gods take him. How should I feel about him?”

“Enough o’ that, now,” said the Hound. “Let’s go over the topography again. There’s a ravine near the north end o’ the estate that might provide an entrance.”

They were a day out of High ’Saken Orbit when Bridget ban picked up a Hound’s beacon.

“Yes, Grey One,” Bridget ban told the Pup when he had called with the same information. “We’re hearing it, too. Yellow Code. A ship in parking orbit. Fudir’s trying for a visual right now. I think it must be Grimpen. He told us at Sapphire Point he was going to the Old Planets. Wait, here’s the image. Aye, that’s Grimpen’s ship, alright, the muckle great wean. No, no answer yet…Give it a minute for the time lag.”

“According to the intelligence,” said the Fudir, “the other ship’s intelligence is on standby. Answers politely, but won’t comment on the owner’s whereabouts. Won’t even acknowledge that Grimpen’s the owner.”

“No, it would nae do so…”

“Cu,” said Greystroke. “Grimpen must have gone planetside. Ask his ship when he’ll be back.”

“Nay, the Grimpen is senior tae me, and his ship’ll nae accept my override. Yes, Rollover? Yes, I’ll leave a message. Tell your master that Bridget ban and Greystroke want to meet with him. Greystroke, if Grimpen came directly here from Sapphire Point, he’s been here for a metric month. Unless he stopped at Abyalon, or took a side trip to the Cynthia Cluster.”

“Which means he’s on the scent of something.”

“He was on the scent of something when he left Sapphire Point. But not the Dancer.”

Early the next morning, the Fudir put Endeavour into High ’Saken Orbit not too far off the Chel’veckistad beanstalk. From parking orbit, they could see the two other beanstalks peeping over the horizon. Bridget ban admired the flame-red aspect of the distant Kikuyutown-Chadley Beanstalk, which was just catching the sunset. “They’ve been around a long time, the Old Planets have. Someday Jehovah, Peacock, and the rest will have them, too.”