Two days later we got a cryptic message from Rune. He contacted Eran and with terse instructions to, “Get everyone together at nineteen hundred hours on Tuesday and make sure you come up with a good cover story.” Something was obviously up, but Gaspar being Gaspar, he didn’t elaborate on why he suddenly wanted to meet with all of us when he had been avoiding exactly that for weeks on end.
Liriene was the one who suggested the poetry reading as a “good cover story.” We basically took a page from the Quingenti’s own playbook, adapting the tactics they had used to set up their fake “How to Make the Most of Your Life Conference” a few centuries earlier. The ruse worked as well for us as it had for them. We decided against contacting Rune with the particulars; much safer to let him see the announcement and figure it out himself. We knew he would.
Liriene’s “Intimate Evening with the Great Poets” was advertised ship-wide. It would begin at seven. The hostess would give readings from the works of major nineteenth-century poets; wine and cheese would be served. Space was extremely limited, seats to be reserved on a first-come-first-served basis, and the library would be closed to all other patrons during the event. Two days after the invitation went out, several would-be participants received a short message from the librarian: Thank you for your interest. Regrettably, all available seats have been spoken for. However, I will hold a similar soiree very soon and will add your name to the list of those who will most certainly be invited to attend.
Only a handful of people knew the guest list had been locked in before the advertisement went out.
It was a simple, yet brilliant plan with a deliciously ironic twist—namely, the people who had come up with it first never caught on. Impressed by Liriene’s logistical thoroughness, I had to wonder if Rune wasn’t rubbing off on all of us. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, that was a comforting possibility.
The night of, we arrived singly and in pairs, dressed to the nines and trying to act relaxed and sociable, at least until we got behind the closed portal. This public display was no small feat, given the nerves jangled by Rune’s singularly uncommunicative communication.
With eleven of us there, the library should have seemed even cozier than usual—except cozy makes evokes thoughts of warmth and comfort and safety, not the pins-and-needles apprehension that gripped us as we waited for our host. Seated next to Eran on the same bench where we had decided on our course of action—was it really only six months ago?—I absently fingered the top pearl-like button on my turquoise tunic and let my gaze wander over nine of the people who had come to be like family to me. Each was coping with the tense wait in his or her own way.
Lu, for example, was taking refuge in her art. Tucked away on a padded bench in one of the small alcoves carved in the right-hand bulkhead, she sketched busily, glancing up every now and then to study the three women on the balcony. I had never seen Lu wear black before, but it suited her. She looked positively statuesque in the unadorned floor-length gown that left her arms and shoulders bare, while its high collar combined with her upswept hair to accentuate the long, graceful line of her neck.
Her unwitting models—Alis, Liriene, and Na’weh—stood on the balcony with their backs to the shelves, their heads bent over a small blue volume in Liriene’s hand. Side by side in a semicircle and dressed in pastels—Alis in a robin’s egg blue pantsuit, Liriene in a pale yellow micro-mini, and Na’weh in a caftan striped in shades of celery—they already reminded me of a painting.
Down on the first level, Lexi and Jordi sat at a long wooden table across from Isidor, Ziv, and a taciturn Etsuo. I smiled inwardly over the fact that Etsuo’s formalwear was a slightly spiffier version of his overalls. And only our agronomists could carry off evening clothes with an earthy touch—an olive green, off-the-shoulder gown for her and a rust-colored tunic for him. Conversation at the table appeared desultory and half-hearted and as I watched, Isidor ran a nervous finger under the stand-up collar of his dove-gray tunic.
Distinguished-looking but uncomfortable, I decided with a small, fond grin.
Ziv chose that moment to glance at me, raising his eyebrows as if to say, What could you possibly have to smile about at a time like this? Since I didn’t know how to explain, I shrugged and diverted him by pointing from my shoulder to his. He frowned down at his powder-blue tunic, plucked off the stray thread, and turned back to his companions.
“Ah. The man of the hour arrives at last,” announced Eran, standing and sliding his left hand into the pocket of his tan jacket as the portal slid open.
Rune had indeed arrived, but he wasn’t alone—Gregor Sterling was with him. Rune didn’t seem to notice the surprised gasps that punctuated their entrance and prompted the navigator to smile in self-conscious greeting. Signaling for silence, Gaspar produced a wafer-thin hand-held device from his inside jacket pocket and moved to the center of the library, where he did a slow one eighty, taking an obvious reading. Only then did it dawn on me how instinctively careful we had been with our conversation while we waited for him to show up. Apparently, our security chief had managed to instill a bit of what he called tradecraft in us, whether we were conscious of it or not.
Once he was satisfied the room was clean, Rune re-pocketed the device and waved us all over toward Liriene’s desk. “Huddle up, folks. We’ve got a problem.”
I think I can safely say we’ve got a problem were the last words any of us wanted to hear. Problems we already had and plenty of them. We weren’t anxious to add another one, especially if it involved the kind of trouble that rated a risky all-hands-present-and-accounted-for meeting with Rune. But having no other real choice, we huddled up as ordered.
“Go ahead, Sterling,” said Rune. “Tell them.”
Gregor appeared uncertain. “I don’t quite know where to begin.”
Rune swore softly. “We don’t have time to tiptoe around this,” he announced bluntly. “I’ll start; you fill in the gaps. We have a new wrinkle,” he told the rest of us, watching our faces closely, “and it’s a big one.” He paused. “There’s a better than even chance the Colony is off course literally, as well as figuratively.”
“Say again?” said Eran. “The Janus is off course?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” objected Gregor at the same time, drawing all eyes to him. “That we’re off course, I mean.”
“Just how would you put it?” Eran asked.
The navigator’s green-brown gaze darted nervously around our huddle. “It’s more like the course we were on no longer exists.”
Ω
Chapter 42 coming next week!
© 2010, Kathy DiSanto, all rights reserved
