It occurred to the Consul that Brawne Lamia might well be considered
beautiful.
Introductions completed, the Consul cleared his throat and turned toward
the Templar. 'Het Masteen, you said that there were seven pilgrims. Is
M.
Weintraub's child the seventh?"
Het Masteen's hood moved slowly from side to side.
'No. Only those who make a conscious decision to seek the Shrike may be
counted among the pilgrims."
The group at the table stirred slightly. Each must know what the Consul
knew; only a group comprising a prime number of pilgrims might make the
Shrike Church-sponsored trip north.
'I am the seventh,' said Het Masteen, captain of the Templar treeship
ggdrasill and the True Voice of the Tree. In the silence which followed
the announcement, Her Masteen gestured and a group of crew clones began
serving the pilgrims their last meal before planetfall.
'So the Ousters are not in-system yet?" asked Brawne Lamia. Her voice
had a husky, throaty quality which strangely stirred the Consul.
'No,' said Het Masteen. 'But we cannot be more than a few standard days
ahead of them. Our instruments
have detected fusion skirmishes within the system's OOrt cloud."
'Will there be war."?" asked Father Hoyt. His voice seemed as fatigued
as his expression. When no one volunteered a response, the priest
turned to his right as if retroactively directing the question to the
Consul.
The Consul sighed. The crew clones had served wine; he wished it had
been whiskey. 'Who knows what the Ousters will do?" he said. 'They no
longer appear to be motivated by human logic."
Martin Silenus laughed loudly, spilling his wine as he gestured. 'As if
we fucking humans were ever motivated by human logic!" He took a deep
drink, wiped his mouth, and laughed again.
Brawne Lamia frowned. 'If the serious fighting starts too soon,' she
said, 'perhaps the authorities will not allow us to land."
'We will be allowed to pass,; said Her Masteen. Sunlight found its way
past folds in his cowl to fall on yellowish skin.
'Saved from certain death in war to be delivered to certain death at the
hands of the Shrike,' murmured Father Hoyt.
'There is no death in all the Universe!" intoned Martin Silenus in a
voice which the Consul felt sure could have awakened someone deep in
cryogenic fugue. The poet drained the last of his wine and' raised the
empty goblet in an apparent toast to the stars:
