The light in the jungle was still blue, and glancing back, Nomun could see no sign of the Blood Moon. Perhaps the moon would not rise until he had reached the second internode. The thought cheered Nomun, and he increased his speed. He began to catch an occasional glimpse of Young Nomun, who seemed able to maintain a good pace, despite the blow to his head. Nomun was pleased. The young one was, as far as he could tell, the only truly human person among them.
BY THE TIME the Blood Moon showed above the canopy, Nomun was almost happy. When the jungle began to pulse with the hot light, he slowed a little, took more care with his movements. Perhaps they might both survive. Who knew what waited for them at the memwort’s last node; perhaps rescue, or even reward?
These pleasant thoughts occupied him for long minutes, to such an extent that he did not notice the storm until Young Nomun shouted, and the brilliance swept over him, washing everything away.
...AND HE DOCKED his ship with the Dilvermoon beanstalk. The terminal habitats glowed, their thousands of ports like colored spangles sewn to the black cloak of space. He watched the curving silver of the planet’s hull, until his ship sheathed herself in the cradle.
He shut down the ship’s systems one by one. The noises he had lived with during the month-long return from Mavark died away and left him alone with his triumph. Alive. He was still alive.
When he stepped down into the concourse, he was surprised by the size of the crowd. Every corner of that vast space was packed with newsels, each equipped with a camera. Every eye, human and machine, was fixed on him.
A semicircle of red-uniformed guards held open a space directly before him. An old herman in elegant Dilvermoon garments bowed to him, his/her face composed into lines of dignified joy.
“Greetings, Nomun,” he/she said, in a rich strong voice. “Dilvermoon is honored by your presence. The world is yours.”
A roar came from the crowd and Nomun smiled.
After the speeches, after the questions, after Nomun’s triumphant procession through the crowd, the old herman and his/her guards escorted Nomun to the beanstalk, and they rode down toward Dilvermoon in an expensively appointed private car.
The herman splashed a pale mauve liquid into a goblet of pink corundum and handed it to Nomun.
“What is this?” Nomun asked. The liquor had a heavy sweet fragrance; Nomun thought of tropical flowers and rot.
“Mavark brandy, Emancipator. You appreciate the irony?” Nomun set the goblet down, untasted. “To an extent.”
“That is a precious substance, Emancipator; far more so now that you have freed the serfs that formerly went down into the heatlands. You know, to collect the fruit from which it was made.” The herman sipped from his/her own goblet; his/her old face softened with delight. “My combine is particularly grateful to you. We control three hundred megaliters; we’ll profit heavily before the former serfs resume the harvest.”
“They’ll never do so. Humans die too easily in the heatlands.”
The herman laughed, though not rudely. “This is the first great revolution you have made, is it not? I suppose idealism is a necessity to one like you, still young in your craft. As necessary as a knowledge of weapons and tactics.”
The old herman wore condescension like a second skin, but Nomun smiled. What did it matter? He was Nomun. The universe was his.
The herman returned his smile. “You’re amused? That’s good. The drop to the shell will take thirty minutes; make yourself comfortable.” The herman pointed to a deep soft chair by the videopanel, and Nomun sat down.
The herman settled into a chair opposite Nomun’s, raised his/her goblet and drank again. “So. Tell me, is it good to be a famous lion?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Of course. But surely there are drawbacks?”
Nomun let his smile slip away. “Not that I’ve noticed. Educate me, please.”
“That would be presumptuous. What could I, a simple trader, teach a great emancipator? Yes, you will be great, Nomun. I’ve predicted this, and prediction...that’s my skill. I’m rarely wrong. You have all the qualities you will need to be first in your profession: intelligence, ruthlessness, will, courage, reckless commitment.”
Nomun’s heart filled.
“I see that I have pleased you,” he/she said. “But consider. With great fame comes great change. A new set of problems. For example; your cells will become very valuable to the cloners. A child of your flesh will bring a fine price in the market of any world to which your fame has penetrated. As your fame grows the price will grow too.”