Reading his mind again but his stance if not his face must have mirrored his thoughts. The factories had been established before she had been born. Greg had insisted on funds being set aside for the project. Strong in the Council his words carried weight, but interest had waned when he died.
Died. Greg dead. Why hadn't it been him?
A question asked countless times and still he had to find the answer. Instead he had only the scene repeated over and over in his mind as if it were a loop of film. The raid, the fires and smoke and stench of burning. The shouts and blasts of guns and the adrenalin running high. A neat, well-planned raid designed to achieve the maximum of loot and the minimum of damage.
It happened when the raid was over and the recall had sounded. A man, gun in hand, rising from a mound of rubble. Opening fire without hesitation. Bullets holding explosives in shaped charges which tore through amour as if it had been paper. The first had slammed into his hip. Greg had taken the rest, flinging himself as a barrier before him. A time of noise and confusion, the gun jerking in his hand, the stranger falling back a bloody pulp above his shoulders, then pain as he fought the crippling effect of his wound. Anger as his body refused to lift the deadweight of his brother. Near-dementia as others had torn him from the body and carried him into the waiting ship.
He had lived – that had been the hard part. Medical science had replaced his hip and healed his flesh but it could do nothing to assuage his grief. Nothing for the wife of his brother who had bequeathed him her daughter before following her husband into death. An act of bravery, but those of Kaldar had never wanted for courage. Yet had she guessed her ghost would haunt him each time he looked into the girl's face?
He doubted it; Marta had never been intentionally unkind. Not even when rejecting his love when, too late, he had begged her to become his wife. Greg had won her heart. Why had the wrong man died?
'Uncle, there are things to be done.' Nadine appeared at his side. If she knew of the agony which tore at his heart it remained her secret. 'Shall we go down?'
Below waited tedium. A host of tiresome details, decisions, judgments, unpleasant facts. Here, on the summit of the tower, he was free to dream and remember and, if some of the memories gave rise to pain, yet they still held the life he had once known.
'I won't go down without you.'
He flared with sudden anger. 'You talk as if I was stupid! Senile! A dotard! If I want to stay up here I will!'
'Of course.'
'It gives me time to think. To plan.' He saw her face, the set of her mouth, her chin. Hardness which matched and eliminated the thirty-year old ghost. She was reading him again and his anger vanished as quickly as it had come. What use to deny the truth? 'Child, you should be roving or wed.'
'Have I no choice?' Amusement lightened her features. 'Does your assistant have no standing?'
Too much and they both knew it. As the Council knew it and others who fretted at her summations and proposals. Married she would have the protection of a husband and his family. Now she had only herself and the fading glory of his name.
'Don't worry about it,' she said. 'Things will work out.' Pausing, she added, 'Mel Jumay was more than careless during his celebration. He fired the church.'
When an adolescent Brother Weyer had seen a man flogged almost to death for having stolen food. A common crime and a common punishment on Delt where starvation was a constant threat. The monk who had gone to his aid had been old, stooped, gaunt with privation. Unable to lift the moaning wretch he had appealed for help. Shamed, Weyer had supplied it, carrying the torn body to the flimsy shelter of the church.
Fifty years ago now and each had been spent following the path he had chosen to take. First at the great seminary on Hope where he had been taught, trained and tested. Then to be one of the great band of monks carrying help and hope to all who were in need. To teach the basic creed of the Church to all so that even the strong, the rich and powerful, when looked at those less fortunate than themselves would say, 'There, but for the grace of God, go I'
When all lived by that creed the millennium would have arrived.
'Brother!' Nealon came towards him, his face hard against the thrown-back cowl. Ash coated his robe and his feet, naked in their sandals, were thick with grime. 'Two more ganni have just died. That makes five to date. Nothing seems to help. If only the city would send us doctors-'
'They would be just as helpless.' Nealon had much to learn. 'They are dying because they have lost the will to live. I have seen it often before. You are wrong to blame yourself.'
'Who else?'
'Did you cause the fire? Spread it? Burn the victims?' Weyer masked his impatience. 'You are not a judge to determine guilt or to apportion blame. You are a monk of the Church of Universal Brotherhood. Your task is to care for the afflicted. We can best do that in the infirmary.'
It was a crude shelter built of scraps which shielded the interior from the sun and the infrequent rains. The air held the taint of sickness. On cots the ganni lay like creatures already dead. Weyer halted besides one, looking down at the round, blank face, the staring, empty eyes. A creature with the size and shape of a man, the features of an idiotic child, the hands of a laborer. The product of a world circling a violent sun, brought to Kaldar to tend and serve, to work at tasks too demeaning for those who ruled.
'Why do they die?' Nealon touched the fine down which covered the ganni like fur. 'I know what you said but I don't understand. They are not that badly injured. A man would easily survive. Why don't they?'
Weyer shrugged. The universe was full of questions and, as fast as answers were found, more questions rose to make fresh demands. It was enough to know that, if hurt too badly or shocked too deeply, the ganni died. The ultimate defiance of a slave.
When he finally left the infirmary a thin wind from the distant hills was dispersing the last of the smoke and Weyer breathed gratefully at the air. The city had sent help. Overseers directed ganni to clear the charred wreckage. They were slow to obey. From a group gathered to one side rose a keening dirge spreading as others joined in. A death chant the monk had heard before and now, as then, it caused a sudden depression. A mood he fought as he made his way to where Mukerjee and the other two monks were hard at work.
Already they had cleared the site and were assembling struts which would be covered with plastic to form a small, enclosed chamber. A tent barely large enough to hold a monk and a suppliant, but it would serve.
'Brother?' Mukerjee straightened, easing his back with broad, scarred hands. Fire had seared one cheek leaving an ugly patch on his ebon skin. His robe was singed and half his hair had vanished. 'How are the sick?'
'As well as can be expected. Brother Nealon is taking care of them. Now I want you to report to him so that he can take care of you.' Weyer's tone precluded all argument. 'He will give you an intravenous injection of saline and glucose together with antibiotics, a sedative and nutrients. You will need them under slowtime.'
Mukerjee frowned, the drug was expensive. Weyer spoke before he could object.
'One hour.' His smile softened the rebuke. 'Pride is a sin, brother. Manga, see that he doesn't fall into it.'
The old monk led Mukerjee to the infirmary, his step firmer than the younger man's. An hour of slowtime would cure that, the drug accelerating his metabolism to give him the equivalent of two days rest and normal recuperation. Time for the danger of shock and infection to be eliminated and to ease the pain of his burns.
Prinsloo joined him as Weyer turned to the carefully wrapped bundle lying to one side. It contained the benediction light which Mukerjee had saved at the cost of his injuries.
As he examined it the young monk said, 'It isn't damaged. I've checked.'
Good news; the instrument provided communication with the great seminaries of Hope and Pace as well as a more obvious function. Beneath the swirling light it projected in hypnotic splendor suppliants would kneel, confess their sins and suffer subjective penance. They would gain comfort and absolution – and be conditioned never to kill. The wafer of concentrate which was the bread of forgiveness was a fair exchange.
'Brother?' Prinsloo looked at his superior. 'Have you decided who should be the first to serve once the church is open?'
Himself, he hoped, and Weyer could understand his yearning. To build held its own satisfaction. To ease the torment of crippled minds was something else. To watch as faces became smooth as guilt was erased and inner harmony established was reward enough for the ceaseless dedication demanded of all who wore the brown, homespun robe.
Gently he said, 'First, all must be made ready. Then, brother, who would you select to be the first to
