They crested a final hill, cold and aching, and the star port muted dawn-glow opened out before them like a midnight sun rising. The low dome of the subterranean complex was a vast bruise on the seaward plain, almost a city in its own right; unearthly light suffused its curving surface. There was no sign now of the starships’ landing: the dome’s impervious surface was unbroken by any opening. Away on the sea’s horizon he saw the winking shell-form of unsleeping Carbuncle.
Gundhalinu sighed, easing the painful tightness in his chest. Moon sat silently behind the controls; he wondered whether awe at the sight of the first star port she had ever seen had put her into stasis-until he remembered that it was not her first star port Her hand reached out suddenly and pressed his shoulder, in a gesture that asked reassurance more than offered it. He lifted his own hand to cover hers; found that it would not close. He dropped it again. “Don’t worry,” woodenly, inadequately. “We’d better angle left, make the approach toward the main entrance. Security will be upped a mag for the state visit — I don’t want to be a casualty to caution.”
She obeyed, still without answering him. Caught in his own sudden inability to reach her, to reassure her or even himself, he watched the dome grow ahead.
They were still a hundred meters out from the maIN surface entrance when light flooded around them and a disembodied voice ordered them to a halt. Four men wearing the blue uniform he’d almost forgotten the look of approached cautiously; he knew that more were observing the snow skimmer from inside. The face shields on their helmets were down; he couldn’t recognize any of them. But the knowledge that they were his own people did not comfort or reassure him. Instead he sat frozen with guilty unease, as though he had been a criminal and not a victim.
“You’re trespassing in a restricted area.” He recognized a sergeant’s insignia, but not the voice. “Clear out, Mother lovers, and if you brought more of your thieving clan along, take ‘em with you, before we use you for target practice.”
Gundhalinu stiffened. “Who the hell taught you procedure, Sergeant?”
The sergeant drew back in mock surprise. “Who the hell wants to know?” He gestured with his hand. Two of his men closed in around Moon, the third dragged Gundhalinu up from his place on the sledge. His legs gave way and he sat down unceremoniously in the snow.
“Leave him alone, damn you!”
“Get your hands off her!” His own angry protest overran Moon’s as she started toward him and the two men jerked her back. He pushed down his hood, peeled off the scratchy weather mask that disguised his face. He spoke deliberately in Klostan, the primary language of Newhaven: “I tell you ‘who wants to know,” Sergeant. Police Inspector Gundhalinu wants to know.”
The sergeant pushed back his helmet shield, staring. “Ye gods—”
“Gundhalinu’s dead!” The third patrolman looked down into his face. “Millennium come, it is him!”
Moon pulled free, came forward and helped him up. Gundhalinu brushed off his leggings, straightened with slow dignity. “The reports of my death were premature.” He put his arm around her, leaning heavily on her shoulder.
“Inspector.” The sergeant jerked to attention. Gundhalinu put a name to his face, TessraBarde. “We thought the bandits got you, sir. Give him a hand there—”
“I’m fine.” Gundhalinu shook his head as Moon’s grip lightened protectively, defensively, refusing to separate herself from him. “I’m just fine now,” suddenly oblivious to cold and fatigue, warm and strong with relief.
“Welcome back, Inspector! You made it just in time.” One of the men gripped his hand, peered curiously at Moon: Gundhalinu felt implications forming. “Who’s your Mother loving friend?”
“It’s good to be back; you can’t imagine how good.” He glanced at Moon’s unmasked face, saw the frightened question on it, and understood at last that a part of her silent uncertainty had centered on him. He smiled a promise, felt her grip on him ease. “My companion was a prisoner along with me. And before I say anything more about either of us—” postponing the moment when he knew he would have to lie, “we could use a hot meal and a chance to sit down.” He coughed rac kingly making his point.
“Inspector, as you know, sir—” he heard TessraBarde’s emphasis, “the, uh, locals aren’t permitted in the complex.”
“By all the gods, Sergeant.”“ He had no patience left. “If Winter bandits weren’t getting into the goddamn complex I wouldn’t be standing here half-dead! And if it wasn’t for this woman I wouldn’t be standing here at all.” He started toward the tunnel entrance, Moon supporting him. “Bring our sledge.”
There were no more objections.
Jerusha rubbed her eyes, stifled a yawn with a quick shifting of her hand. The drone of half a hundred conversations rolled over and around her, rose to the ceiling and were deflected back in a numbing assault. She had been awake for twenty hours already today, after another night of broken sleep; even this position of honor, seated at the head table in the hall among the demigods of the Hegemonic Assembly, had turned into just one more test of endurance. By the shipboard time of the Prime Minister and the Assembly, this was the middle of the day and not the middle of the night; and so it became for everyone delegated to welcome them as well.
She had shaken hands with Prime Minister Ashwini himself tonight, wearing the dress uniform of a Commander of Police, weighted down by enough glorious braid and brass to give the sun competition. Or so she had thought, until she had seen his own state garments, gem-brocaded, exquisitely tailored to show every line of his still-youthful body… How old was he, in real time? Four hundred? Five hundred? Even Arienrhod must feel a jealous twinge at the sight of all he represented. (It filled her with secret pleasure that Arienrhod was not permitted to attend this banquet.) Prime Minister for life, he had succeeded his father as a Hegemonic showpiece in the centuries after Kharemough’s dreams of dominating its fellow worlds had been laid low by the ultimate indifference of galactic space-time. He had greeted her with polite gallantry, in which she had read his private incredulity at finding her to be a woman. Chief Justice Hovanesse was seated beside him now, but she was almost indifferent to the sort of reports he was hearing about her.
A servo eased in beside her, deftly removed the sixth or seventh untouched course of her meal and put down another in front of her. She sipped at her tea, watching the oils eddy on its steaming reddish-black surface. It had steeped until the spoon must be ready to dissolve, and she hoped that it would be enough to keep her awake.
“Be we keeping you from an honest night’s sleep, Commander?”
Jerusha turned guiltily to look at the man on her right, the First Secretary, Temmon Ashwini Sirus, a natural son of the Prime Minister. He was a handsome man, fair skinned and large boned for a Kharemoughi, and just about entering middle age. The latter surprised her, because the Prime Minister himself looked younger. But it was hardly as surprising as finding a halfbreed among the members of the Assembly, that ultimate repository of Kharemoughi arrogance. Apparently he had earned considerable fame as a warrior statesman on his homeworld, and that had moved the Prime Minister to break with tradition and “elect” him to a vacant Assembly post. She had made banal conversation with him for the first hour or so, and with the royally dressed Speaker on her left, whose heavy cologne had started her sneezing. But the talk had died a self-conscious death, and she had been grateful when they let their attention be drawn elsewhere. “No, of course not, Secretary Sirus,” remembering her manners at last. She ran a finger along under the braid rough edge of her high collar.