"Is that what they told you?" she asked. She snorted with derision. "And you believed them."

"Dammit, Sofia, don't patronize me! I know starvation when I see It-"

"What if they are starving?" she snapped. "Shall I regret that a cannibal starves?"

"Oh, for crissakes, Sofia, they aren't cannibals!"

"And what would you call it?" she asked. "They eat Runa-"

"Sofia, listen to me-"

"No, you listen to me, Sandoz," she hissed. "For nearly thirty years, we-but-not-you fought an enemy whose whole civilization was the purest expression of the most characteristic form of evil: the willingness to erase the humanity of others and turn them into commodities. In life, the Runa were conveniences for the djanada-slaves, assistants, sex toys. In death, raw materials-meat, hides, bones. Labor first, livestock in the end! But the Runa are more than meat, Sandoz. They are a people who have earned their liberty and won it from those who kept them in bondage, generation after generation. God wanted their freedom. I helped them to get it, and I regret nothing. We gave the Jana'ata justice. They reaped precisely what they sowed."

"So God wants them extinct?" Emilio cried. "He wants the Runa to turn the planet into a grocery store? God wants a place where no one sings, where everyone is alike, where there is one kind of person? Sofia, this has gone way past an eye for an eye-"

The sound was like a gunshot, flat and unresonant, and he could feel the exact outline of her hand, stinging and sharp, form on his face.

"How dare you," she whispered. "How dare you leave me behind, and come back now-after all this time-and presume to judge me!"

He stood still, face averted, waiting for the sensation to ease, eyes wide to keep the tears from spilling. Tried to imagine forty years alone and unsupported, without John or Gina, without Vince Giuliani or Edward Behr, or any of the others who'd helped him.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I'm sorry! I don't know what happened here, and I won't pretend to understand what you have lived through - "Thank you. I am glad to hear it-"

"But, Sofia, I do know what it is to be a commodity," he said, cutting her off. "I know what it is to be erased. I also know what it is to be falsely accused, and God help me! I know what it is to be guilty-" He stopped and looked away, but then met her eye and said, "Sofia, I have eaten Runa, and for the same reason the djanada did: because I was hungry and I wanted to live. And I have killed-I killed Askama, Sofia. I didn't mean it to be her, but I wanted to kill, I wanted someone to die so that I could be free, one way or the other. So you see," he told her with bleak cheer, "I am the last person to judge anyone else! And I grant you that the Jana'ata you fought got what was coming to them! But, Sofia-you can't let the Runa kill them all! They've paid for their sins-"

"Paid for their sins!" Incredulous, she stood, and left her chair and walked a step or two, bent and hobbled by a coiled spine. "Did they confess to you, Father? Have you forgiven them, just because they asked you to?" she asked, face twisted with contempt. "Well, some things cannot be absolved! Some things are unforgivable-"

"You think I don't know that?" he shouted, his own anger rising to meet hers. "No one confesses to me anymore! I left the priesthood, Sofia. I didn't come here to judge you. I didn't even come back to rescue you! I came because I was beaten senseless and kidnapped by Carlo Giuliani. I spent a good portion of the voyage from Earth drugged, and all I want to do right now is go home and find out if the woman I nearly married seventeen years ago is still alive-"

She stared at him but now his eyes did not drop. "You said that you knew what happened to me at Galatna, Sofia, but you don't know the worst of it: I left the priesthood because I can't forgive what happened to me there. I can't forgive Supaari, who did this to me," he said, holding up his hands. "And I can't forgive Hlavin Kitheri, and I doubt that I ever will. They taught me to hate, Sofia. Ironic, isn't it? We heard Kitheri's songs and risked everything to come here, prepared to love whomever we met and to learn from them! But when Hlavin Kitheri met one of us-. He looked at me, and all he thought-"

He stopped, spun from her, hardly able to breathe, but turned, trembling, and held her uneasy gaze as he said in a voice soft with outrage, "He looked at me and thought, How nice. Something new to fuck."

"It's over," she snapped, face white. But he knew it wasn't, not even for her, not even after all these years. "You work," she told him. "You concentrate on the task at hand-"

"Yes," he agreed willingly, quickly. "And you make loneliness a virtue. You call it self-reliance, right? You tell yourself you need nothing, that you don't want anyone in your life ever again-"

"Wall it off!"

"You think I haven't tried?" he cried. "Sofia, I keep stacking up the stones, but nothing holds the walls together anymore! Not even anger. Not even hate. I am worn out with hating, Sofia. I'm tired of it. I'm bored by it!" The storm was now only minutes away and the lightning was frighteningly close, but he didn't care. "I have hated Supaari VaGayjur, and Hlavin Kitheri, and sixteen of his friends but... I can't seem to hate in the aggregate," he whispered, hands falling emptily. "That one small island of integrity is still left to me, Sofia. As much as I have hated the fathers, I cannot hate their children. And neither should you, Sofia. You can't in justice kill the innocent."

"No," she said, curled over her own heart. "There are no innocents."

"If I can find you ten, will you spare the others for their sake?"

"Don't play games with me," she said, and motioned for her bearers.

With one step, he came between her and the chair. "I helped to deliver a Jana'ata baby a few days ago," he told her conversationally, blocking her way. "Cesarean section. I did what I could. It wasn't enough. The mother died. I want her baby to live, Sofia. There is very damned little that I am certain of these days, but I'm sure of this one thing: I want that kid to live."

"Get out of my way," she whispered, "or I'll call my guards."

He didn't move. "Shall I tell you what the baby's older sister is called?" he asked lightly. "Sofi'ala. Pretty name, isn't it?" He watched her react, her head jerking as though recoiling from a blow, and he pressed on mercilessly. "The child's mother was named Ha'anala. Her last words were of you. She said, 'Take the children to my mother.' She wanted us to march them to Gayjur! A sort of children's crusade, I suppose. I didn't do it. I refused her dying wish because I am afraid to be responsible for the lives of any more children, Sofia. But she was right-those kids have never murdered or enslaved anyone. They are every bit as innocent as the VaKashani children we saw slaughtered."

The rain was beginning-heavy drops as warm as tears-wind whipping the fabric of the shelter noisily, almost drowning out his words. "I will stand surety for those kids and their parents, Sofia. Please. Let them live and all the good they do-all the music, the poetry, everything decent they are capable of-all that is to your credit," he told her, desperate now, taking her stillness for refusal. "If they kill again, I'll be the goat. Their sins on my head, okay? I'll stay here and if they kill again, then execute me and let them have one more chance."

"Ha'anala's dead?"

He nodded, ashamed to weep when Sofia should have mourned. "You taught her well, Sofia," he said, voice fraying. "She was, by all accounts, a remarkable woman. She founded a sort of utopian society up in the mountains. It's probably doomed-like all utopias. But she tried! All three of our species live together up there, Sofia-Runa, Jana'ata, even Isaac. She taught them that every soul is a small reflection of God, and that it is wicked to murder because when a life is taken, we lose that unique revelation of God's nature."

He stopped again, hardly able to utter the words. "Sofia, one of the priests I came with-he thinks your foster daughter was a sort of Moses for her people! It took forty years to burn the slavery out of the Israelites. Well, maybe the Jana'ata need forty years to burn the mastery out of them!"

He shrugged helplessly at her stricken glare. "I don't know, Sofia. Sean's probably full of shit. Maybe Abraham was psychotic and schizophrenia ran in his family. Maybe Jesus was just another crazy Jew who heard voices. Or maybe God is real, but He's evil or stupid, and that's why so much seems so insane and unfair! It doesn't matter," he shouted, trying to make himself heard through the roar of the rain. "It really doesn't matter. I don't give a damn about God anymore, Sofia. All I know for certain is I want Ha'anala's baby to live-"

She walked out into the rain, its relentless noise drowning all other sound. For a long time, she simply stood in the downpour, listening to its hissing crash, feeling it beat down on her twisted shoulders, work its way through her hair, wash over the ruins of her face.

When she came back from where she had been in memory, Emilio was waiting for her. Soaked and chilled, she walked slowly to her chair, accepting his offer of an arm to steady her climb. When she reached the platform, she sat as heavily as a tiny woman could.

The first violence of the storm was passing, the rain now a steady drumming, and for a time they simply gazed out at the drowning landscape. She touched his shoulder and he turned to her. Reaching up, she placed her hand gently over the mark she'd laid there, minutes before, and then lifted a lock of his hair. "You've gotten gray, old man," she said. "You look even worse than I do, and I look awful."

His reply was starchy, but the red-rimmed eyes were amused. "Vanity is not among my failings, madam, but I'm damned if I'll stand here and be insulted." He made no move to go.

"I loved you once," she said.

"I know. I loved you, too. Don't change the subject."

"You were to marry?"

"Yes. I left the priesthood, Sofia. I was done with God."

"But He wasn't done with you."

"Evidently not," Emilio said wearily. "Either that, or this has been a run of bad luck of historic proportions." He walked to the edge of the awning to stare out at the rain. "Even now, I think maybe it's all a bad joke, you know? This baby I'm so worried about? He could turn out to be such an evil bastard that everyone will wish he'd died in his mother's womb, and I'll go down in Rakhati history as Sandoz the Idiot, who saved his life!" Braced hands limp at his sides, he snorted at his own absurd grandiosity. "Probably he'll just be another poor clown doing the best he can, trying to get things right more often than not."

Then, without warning, his posture shifted. He became, somehow, taller, rangier, and Sofia Mendes heard once more the beloved Texas twang of D. W. Yarbrough, the long-dead priest who'd taught them both so much. "Miz Mendes," Emilio drawled, defeated but not without humor, "the whole damn thing beats the livin' shit outta me."

TALKED OUT, EMILIO SAT ON THE GROUND NEXT TO HER, AND TOGETHER they watched rain turn the world to mud. Before long, she realized he had fallen asleep, propped against the supports of her chair, the crippled hands lax in his lap. Mind empty, she listened to his soft snore and might have slept herself if she had not been disturbed by a huge and sodden young man, clutching a cloth cap and stooping to peer under the awning.

"Signora? Is everything going to be all right now?" he asked anxiously.

"And who are you?" she asked very quietly, glancing significantly at Emilio.

"My name is Niccolo d'Angeli. 'D'Angeli' means from the angels," the young giant whispered. "That's where I came from, before the home. The angels left me there." She smiled, and he took that for a good sign. "So everything will be all right?" he asked again coming in, out of the rain. "The Jana people can live up there, if they don't bother anyone, right?" She didn't answer so he said, "That would be fair, I think. Is Don Emilio all right? Why is he sitting there like that?"

"He's asleep. He must have been very tired."

"He has nightmares. He's afraid to sleep."

"Are you a friend of his?"

"I'm his bodyguard. I think his friends are all dead." Nico gave this some consideration, but looked unhappy. Then, visibly struck by a thought, he brightened. "You're his friend, and you're not dead."

"Not yet," Sofia confirmed.

Nico stepped to the edge of the shelter and watched the lightning play for a while. "I like the storms here," he remarked. "They remind me of the last act of Rigoletto." She had been thinking, He is retarded. But this gave her pause. "We found your son, signora," said Nico, facing her again. "He wants you to visit him, but I think he should put some clothes on first. Did I say something wrong?"

She wiped one eye. "No." She smiled then and confided, "Isaac has never liked clothes."

"He likes songs," Nico reported.

"Yes. Yes, indeed. Isaac has always liked music." She sat as straight as her contorted body would allow. "Signor d'Angeli, did my son appear well?"

"He's skinny, but they all are up there," said Nico, warming to his topic. "There was a lady who died having a baby before we left. Joseba thinks she was too skinny and that's why she died-because she wasn't strong enough. We brought food, but a lot of people were so hungry, they threw up from eating too fast." He saw the signora's distress but didn't know how to interpret it. Turning the brim of his hat around and around, he shifted his substantial weight from one foot to the other, and squinted a little. "What should we do now?" he asked, after a little while.

She didn't answer right away. "I'm not sure," she said honestly. "I need some time to think."

HOURS LATER, IN THE FIRST MOMENTS OF CONSCIOUSNESS, LYING IN A bed of unaccustomed comfort, Emilio Sandoz believed himself to be back in Naples. "It's all right, Ed," he was about to say. "You don't have to wait up." Then he came fully awake and saw that it was not Brother Edward Behr but Sofia Mendes who'd spent the night watching his face as he slept.

"I have spoken with your colleagues in the N'Jarr valley," she told him without emotion, "and to a woman named Suukmel." She paused, face neutral. "I don't rule here, Emilio, no matter what your djanada friends told you. But I have some influence. I will do my best to arrange safe conduct for a delegation of VaN'Jarri to speak with the Parliament of Elders. It will take time and it won't be easy, even to get you a hearing. The elders remember what it was like, before. There is a woman named Djalao VaKashan who will be difficult to convince. But I will tell them that you and the priests are good men with good hearts. I can't promise more than that."

He sat up, and groaned at the stiffness, but said, "Thank you." The rain was gone, and sunlight was pouring through the awning. "And you, Sofia? What will you do?"

"Do?" she asked, and looked away, to think, before she answered, of well-run cities, of lively politics and burgeoning trade; of festivals and celebrations; of a joyous appreciation of the novel and the untried. She thought of the florescence of theater and explosion of technology, the vigor of the art that had sprung up when the dead hand of the djanada was lifted from Runa lives. She thought of the Runa Elders, who now lived long enough to add real wisdom to raw experience, and of imperfect children, permitted to live, who brought unexpected gifts to their people.

Certainly, there had been a price to pay. There were those who thrived in the new world-liberated in every sense-and those who had been cast adrift, unable to adapt. Illness, debilities, failure, dispute; poverty, displacement, bewilderment-all these were a part of Runa life now. But what they had already accomplished was admirable, and who knew what else they were capable of? Only time would tell.

All that, balanced against tiny crescent claws, and amethyst eyes blinking in the sunlight...

She had read Yeats in Jimmy's memory, and thought now of the Pensioner: I spit into the face of time / that has transfigured me...

"Do?" she asked again. "I am old, Sandoz. I have spent my life among the Runa, and among them I shall stay." She was profiled against the light, her blind side toward him, and she was silent for a long time. "I regret nothing," she said finally, "but I have done my part."

39.

N'Jarr Valley

December 2078, Earth-Relative

AFTER MONTHS OF CONFINEMENT ABOARD THE GIORDANO BRUNO, Daniel Iron Horse found the mountains surrounding the N'Jarr as seductive as certainty, and set his sights on a high ledge east of the settlement, hoping for perspective of one kind or another. He had no equipment and his shoes were all wrong, and it crossed his mind that a fall in this terrain could easily result in a very fancy death. But Danny needed to be alone, craved the sense that only God would know where he was, and so he left at dawn, telling no one of his plans.

From the moment Emilio Sandoz left the valley to meet Mendes on the road, Danny had felt the man's absence like a shedding of weight. Now, as he began to climb the main rockface, he was happier than he'd been in a year. Calm claimed him, his attention absorbed by the delicate, tactile search for purchase. Hooking his fingers into cracks in the stone, he saw the sturdy bone of Grampa Lundberg's wrists, thick as fenceposts; felt in his chest the heart of Gramma Beauvais, strong and steady in her nineties. Funny, he thought, how his grandparents had always tried to parse him out. He'd resented their urge to divide his DNA, particularly when his father's family warned him, with tragic justification, about having "that Lakota liver." Now, finally, he was in a place where none of that made any difference, where he was simply an Earthman. Only here had he come to understand that he was not a battleground-to be divided and conquered by his grandparents-but a garden, where each person who'd contributed to his existence longed to see that something of themselves had taken root and grown.

For a time, he abandoned himself to a pure enjoyment of strength and agility, but altitude was a factor. Winded, he gave up a few hundred meters shy of the target ledge, and found instead a rubble-filled indentation that had collected enough debris to provide a humus cushion. Swinging into it, he sat quietly awhile, studying the layout of the evacuated village-alert to clues about social structure-and prayed for the well-being of the refugees who'd left it two weeks earlier. It had been a long time, he realized, since he'd felt like either a political scientist or a priest.

Chagrined by the time it took for his breathing to come back to normal, he admitted to himself that altitude was not the only thing slowing him down. The words of Vincenzo Giuliani came to him: "You are young, Father Iron Horse." Not all that young, Danny thought, filling his lungs with thin mountain air and remembering that night in the Naples garden. "You are young, and you have the vices of the young. Short-sightedness. Contempt for pragmatism..."

High above the valley, the only sound was the roar of water falling from a cataract so near he could feel its mist when the breeze shifted. Alone now and able to think, Danny forced himself to be still, to picture the chessboard, assess the pieces, see the long game. Unknowingly, he asked himself the very question that had formed the basis of much of Vincenzo Giuliani's career: So, who have I got to work with here?

Nothing came clear. Judging by the outcome of the first mission, catastrophe lurked behind the smallest mistake; muddled impasse seemed the best that they could hope for. That's Sandoz talking, Danny thought with sudden insight. But this is politics. We just have to find a way for all the players to get at least some of what they need.

Hardly aware of his movement, he stood and began again to climb toward the ledge he'd set out for, and by the time he reached it, the solution had come to him like the revelation at Cardoner, and seemed so obvious that he wondered if Vincenzo Giuliani could have foreseen this situation. That was impossible, and yet...

You win, you old fox, Danny thought, and he seemed to hear the sound of a soul's laughter as he pulled himself onto the ledge and stood like a colossus overlooking the valley. Suukmel first, Danny thought. Then Sofia Mendes. If she agrees, then Carlo. And from there to the others.

The irony of what he was going to propose was palpable, and he knew that he would not live long enough to see the outcome. But at the very least, he thought, it might buy time. And time was all that mattered.

JOHN CANDOTTI WAS SITTING ON A TREE STUMP, SURROUNDED BY THE pieces of a broken pump he was trying to fix, when Danny strode buoyantly into the center of the village late that afternoon. "Where the hell have you been?" John cried. "Sean and Joseba are out looking for you-. What happened to your knees?"

"Nothing. I slipped," Danny said. "What time is it on the Bruno?"

John pulled his chin in, surprised by the question and by Danny's air of enterprise. "I don't know. I haven't looked at a watch in days." He glanced up at the suns and worked it out. "Must be about eight in the evening, I guess."

"So it's just after supper, ship's time? Good. I've got a job for you," Danny said, jerking his head in the direction of the lander. "I want you to get Frans on the radio. Tell him to try the yasapa brandy." John didn't move, reluctance plain on his open face. "I could ask you to trust me," Danny offered, small eyes dancing, "or I could just tell you to do as you're told."

John blew out a breath and put down the gasket he was making. "Ours is not to reason why," he muttered, and followed Iron Horse to the edge of the valley where the lander crouched. "I don't suppose you'd like to explain?" he asked, as they climbed inside.

"Look," said Danny, "I could do this myself, but I promise you it'll be more fun if you help. Just suggest to Frans that this would be a very good time to have a nice little postprandial drink, okay?"

Frowning, John said, "But then he'll tell Carlo-"

Danny grinned.

Lips compressed, John shook his head, but sat down in front of the console and raised the Giordano Bruno.

"Johnny!" Frans cried moments later, a shade too heartily. "How are things?"

"We, um, got your message, Frans," John said, not sure if Carlo was monitoring the conversation. "Sandoz is taking care of it." He coughed and looked up. Danny was making "Go on" motions. "Listen, Frans, have you tried any of that yasapa brandy yet?"

"How'd you find out about that?" Frans asked warily.

"Lucky guess. Had a taste yet?"

"No."