a political future yourself. All you intended was a temporary retreat. Very clever. Advance a proposition you cannot defend and replace it with one more reasonable.”
Fenaday yawned. “It also served to clarify the sides.” He looked up at Telisan, “So, whose side are you on?”
“I gave you my word,” Telisan said, his face drawn and tight. “So long as you got us to Enshar and made no move against the personal safety of my patron, I am your officer.”
“You disagreed with me a minute ago,” Fenaday said.
“Forgive me,” Telisan said, “but I hate ambiguity. I disagreed but made it clear that I am your man. I will follow your orders, even if it means killing.”
“Yes,” Fenaday said, more gently. “Thank you, Mr. Telisan. As regards the matter of your resignation, can I rely on your giving me fair warning if I encroach on your oath to Duna?”
“Yes,” Telisan said, clipped and tense.
“I believe you,” Fenaday said. “Please retain your commission.”
“I also believe you,” Shasti added, to everyone’s surprise.
Telisan nodded, evidently not trusting himself to speak and looking almost weak with relief.
“Poor Telisan,” Duna said, his fur rippling with anxiety. “It is I who did this to you. Blame me for any failure you feel there has been, Captain.”
“We all do what we have to do, Duna,” Fenaday said, “and justify it later. No one is pure here. At least I can understand and admire your motives; that’s more than I can say for most people.”
“Well, perhaps you can start calling me Belwin then,” Duna said, hopping off of his rock podium.
Fenaday smiled. It was almost impossible not to like Duna, despite the predicament. “Good night, Belwin.”
“Good night, Captain,” Duna turned and walked out of the lantern light.
“I’ll take first watch,” Telisan offered. “I am too keyed up for sleep.” He nodded to Fenaday and also vanished into the dark.
Fenaday turned to Shasti, anxious for her assessment.
“Do you have another chocolate bar?” she asked.
Chapter Twelve
Fenaday’s fortified campsite stood on the southeast coast of an island almost twenty kilometers long. Near midnight, on the northern side of the island, a huge mechanical shape drifted down toward the rocky beach. The name on the immense floating platform would have translated as Industrial Seacatcher #14 had there been anyone to read it. Nothing warm-blooded had moved on the giant processing platform in nearly three years. Nothing since the nightmare of terror ended for her crew on its derrick and net-filled decks. Pitiful skeletons littered those decks, splintered and fragmented.
Seacatcher wandered with the current, much as her designers intended. A few functioning automatics and luck kept her from grounding. On her port side, a small ferry lay wedged and partially submerged—a companion in death also crewed by bones—collected on some unwitnessed occasion.
The heart of her automatics had now failed and Seacatcher, which floated over the horizon when Fenaday’s force landed, drifted into shore. High above, Sidhe orbited. The starship noted the approach of the derelict. Despite the upload of the attack at Belwin Duna’s home, it never entered Perez’s prosaic mind that the derelict could pose any threat. The chief engineer lived in a secure world of math and science. Imagination was not his strength. He noted the powerless derelict’s drifting approach, but ignored it. It was, after all, merely another dead wreck.
Seacatcher came to rest on the other side of the volcanic ridge that bisected the island. The pounding roar of the surf masked much of the grinding, metallic cacophony of its arrival. Distance and the heavy night air attenuated it further.
On the derelict a shape formed, taller than an Enshari, nearer the height of a man. It drew its substance from paper, plastic and bits of bone and metal. The shape canted across the deck, heading toward land. As it moved, pieces dropped off and new ones took their place. The gusting wind seemed to shred it at times, as if the energy or attention keeping it together waxed and waned. When it reached Seacatcher’s landward edge, it simply toppled over into the surf. Fragments washed up along the beach, and it took some time for the manifestation to collect itself. It moved on, pulling sand, driftwood and shell into its body. Down the wind-swept beach it danced, with only the rustling sound of wet paper and sticks. It slipped along lightly, now with greater speed, now with lesser. Sometimes, it came close to dissipating, as if its outraged component parts demanded rest, a return to their natural state. The shape negotiated the