Free Tracker by C. J. Cherryh

juice.
    Even the youngsters stayed in a cheerful mood so long as the fruit juice held out.
    But as Koharu and Supani cleared the service away, a glum quiet descended on the young company at that end of the car. Heads came close together up there, secrets exchanged.
    â€œThey’re exhausted,” Jase said quietly, over a last cup of tea. “They were up all night. They’re running entirely on nerves this morning. Irene’s scared of flying. Absolutely terrified.”
    â€œPoor kid,” Bren said. And added: “They’ve been running hard for days. And it was a given they wouldn’t sleep last night until they fell over.”
    â€œIf they did sleep at all, it was about an hour toward dawn.”
    He and Jase shared a second pot of tea. Banichi and the others, in rare relaxation, sat at the other end of the bench, in their own conversation. Jase’s bodyguards, Kaplan and Polano, in green fatigues, had the side bench seat, backs to the false windows, talking together as the valets cleaned up and put the dishes away.
    Jase, like the youngsters, had opted for atevi dress all the way to the spaceport. Just when they’d change clothes, or whether they’d all change before the launch, Bren hadn’t asked.
    Maybe the clothing choice was a courtesy to their hosts. Maybe it was a way of not saying good-bye yet.
    But Jase, Bren thought, was already mentally going home, already thinking about problems aloft, business that had to be done—and Jase was clearly less happy this morning.
    Truthfully, he was going through exactly the same process. He’d have liked to have more days at Najida.
    He’d have liked to have time to handle some local matters.
    He’d have liked to make a personal visit to Kajiminda, Geigi’s estate, just down the main road, to take a leisurely walk through Kajiminda’s ancient orchard. He’d have liked to take the bus out to the new construction the Edi were building at the end of that peninsula.
    He’d even more have liked to have a week to himself on his yacht, to feel the sea under him. He dreamed of four or five days to pretend to fish, but he absolutely couldn’t afford any more time away from the capital.
    And he found himself, in the quiet moments this morning, already thinking about the legislature: already thinking about the dowager’s agreement with the Marid, and about the next things that had to be done.
    He wasn’t thinking, quite yet, about the problems on the station.
    He was doggedly not thinking about that.
    That resolve failed. He urgently had to do something about Tillington. A letter to Mospheira was a start. The President, Shawn Tyers, was indeed an old friend. And he had to make that letter say what needed saying. He
might
have to go to Mospheira, to say what needed saying. He just didn’t know.
    He’d been up well before dawn composing one document—in two languages.
    Now he quietly picked up his briefcase, opened it, and handed them to Jase.
    â€œWhat I promised,” he said. “Take the copies for your own files. I have a translation for the aiji.”
    â€œExactly what I need,” Jase said, as he read, and gave a deep sigh. “Excellent. Thank you.”
    â€œThere’ll be a statement with the aiji’s own seal, next shuttle.”
    Jase drew his own traveling case from the floor near his seat. “There was a little lingering question up there, whether Tabini-aiji would stay in office or whether, if he did, his power would ever be what it was. I have no doubts now that it’s probably greater than it ever was. And I’ll convey that impression to the Council.”
    â€œI’ll report to the aiji, in turn, that Sabin remains his ally.”
    â€œOgun isn’t the aiji’s enemy, understand, if I’ve given any other impression. Ogun’s just keeping all the connections polished. And right now, and since Yolande’s resigned, he thinks he