Snoopers, Ekaterina Antakova had dubbed them, and the label had stuck in Engineering, though Annie refused to use it; too much like bullying. They just needed someone to reach out to them, she’d decided, so now she stood in her quarters, preparing to pay her neighbours a visit.
For neighbours they were – the Kerinians had been given Flora Cartwright’s old quarters, which stood to the aft of Annie’s as the rearmost of the long line of crew accommodations, dead opposite the vast Engineering section. Annie hadn’t been thrilled at Flora’s home being repurposed like this, but it had been the only option. Every other room on the wing was either in use or had been converted into a freezing morgue, the better to preserve the body of a lost crewmember. Flora alone hadn’t left anything behind to bury when they reached Earth, so Annie had moved her friend’s possessions out, and their guests had moved in.
She checked her reflection out in the mirror, and judged it ideal. The tape she was using to hold up her strapless dress itched somewhat, but it was worth it – the garment was ocean blue with lime green trimming, and she’d noticed those colours were favoured on Kerin. A diplomatic masterstroke, she decided. Inspir-sational. Shame there’s no-one here to appreciate it. No probs - I’ll tell Gypsy about it next time we eat. Bragging’s good for the soul, and she always backs me up, bless ‘er.
Speaking in Matan was her main worry, but she’d memorised a few phrases and was confident of improvising where she had to. Heart skipping merrily in anticipation, she grabbed the bottle of Gataran sparkling wine that had been part of her prize from the Zakazashi and stepped out into the corridor.
In contrast to the idiosyncratic embellishments Annie had painted on the walls both inside and outside her quarters over the years, Flora’s room had always been spartan. As she pressed the chime, Annie wondered how things would look now. She’d often heard the low rumble of conversation through the connecting wall, and once or twice an instrument that sounded vaguely like a flute had been played, but the Kerinians had been silent more often than not. Busy doin’ whatever it is they do.
The door swished open almost at once. Zokan stood framed in the doorway, bare-chested and holding a device that looked like an electric toothbrush. Behind him, the room was much changed, with pale sheets hanging suspended from the ceiling to screen off certain areas. She saw a silhouette move behind one of the sheets – obviously Zarka. Octagonal tiles with hand-drawn symbols on them scattered here and there about the floor. A game? Religious symbols? She added them to her list of potential conversation topics.
“Yes?” asked Zokan. Annie didn’t know Matan well enough to judge whether the word was spoken with hostility.
“Ummm …” Her prepared words of greeting momentarily deserted her, but she managed to regroup. “I have a gift for you, to celebrate you being amongst us. Fine wine to share.”
“Yes?” repeated Zokan, in a slightly different tone this time. Zarka’s voice called from somewhere behind the maze of sheets, speaking too quickly for Annie to understand. Zokan glanced over his shoulder and mumbled a response, then turned back to Annie. “Good,” he grunted, snatching the bottle from her hands and touching the close button by the door in one swift motion. It slid shut in the surprised technician’s face.
It took Annie’s brain a few moments to catch up with events. “I meant for you to share it with me,” she protested belatedly.
The door remained firmly closed. There seemed little to do but retreat to her quarters, face red with anger. “Lousy manners those guys’ve got,” she complained. “Danged lousy, actually. And my last bottle, too! Last time I make an effort for those, those … snoopers!”
Through the wall came the faint sound of laughter.
* * *
Since Kerin, Gypsy had begun taking daily sojourns around the ship. As much as she loved her meetings with Annie, she didn’t want to limit herself to just one contact with the outer world again. A creature of habit, she’d fashioned a routine and stuck to it without fail: a game of pool in the social lounge, a brisk walk on the treadmill in the gym, a stroll through the garden, then round to the observation window for some stargazing. The whole process took about an hour.
I’d liked to drop in on Annie, Gypsy thought as she made her way along the corridor between the gym and the garden. That was what friends do, isn’t it? Just stop by each other’s any time. No, she’s busy – I’d be worried I’m intruding.
Plus, she’s a naturist, or something. What if she opened the door and …?
Oh! No, I couldn’t cope with that.
Gypsy’s heartrate quickened appreciably at the thought, a reaction that her light workout on the treadmill had failed to achieve. She was grateful when a distraction appeared in the form of Iris Jones, exiting the Medical Bay further down the corridor and heading her way.
There was a brief inner struggle as Gypsy fought against her urge to change course and avoid a social situation. She persevered with her chosen course.
I could try and make small talk. What can I ask her? Oh, she’s not wearing glasses. Dr Little said Iris might get laser eye surgery from specialists on Kerin. Yes, we can talk about that.
“Oh, h-hi Iris. Have you had, ah…”?
The young doctor swept by without responding.
What did I do wrong? Did I offend her some time before and forget about it? Was she shaking her head as she went by? Scornful. She hates me.
No, don’t be paranoid. I speak too quietly – she was probably thinking about work and didn’t hear me. Yes, that must be it. Mustn’t it?
Yes.
No.
Yes.
Let’s think about it…
Gypsy was so caught up in replaying the incident in her mind that she passed through the garden almost on autopilot, and was approaching the nose of the ship before coming out of her trance and seeing that here too, she was not alone.
Someone was standing before the observation window, head bowed and dark hair unkempt. It was Jess Ryan, the ship’s botanist. Even Gypsy could recognise the signs of distress.
She was married to Ki. That thing took her wife. Krikili. It made an orphan of me and a widow of her. Perhaps they used to stand here, the two of them? Watching the stars and planning their future together. Everything ahead of them. Now, nothing.
Ki was kind to me. I should let Jess know how much that meant.
Gypsy stepped forward, clearing her throat almost inaudibly. “Are, are you okay?” she managed, one hand hovering uncertainly a few inches over the scientist’s back.
Jess Ryan turned. Her eyes were full of tears; her voice quavered as she spoke Gypsy’s name. Impulsively, she hugged the mathematician.
Gypsy’s body stiffened defensively in response, but she didn’t pull away. She willed her muscles to relax, and brought her hands up to rest on Ryan’s back – tentatively at first, as though her fingers might be burnt at the touch. She realised then that her words of comfort could be left unsaid.
I’ll never be a natural at people stuff, she decided, but this isn’t so bad. I’m making progress, just like Mum always wanted. There’s only one more demon to slay…
For a moment, she almost had a name for that final challenge. Then her thoughts danced away from it, and back to safety. She considered the woman in her arms. For a change, the tears that ran down Gypsy’s cheek were not her own.
I’m not the only one in pain.
* * *
Up in her gloomy loft, Chamonix felt Gypsy’s heartrate slow. She felt Jess Ryan’s tears run dry, felt the fabric of Annie’s dress caress the deck plates where the technician flung it down ill-temperedly.
She could sense them all.
Contact was all it took. From fingertips to metal bars to deck plating to passengers, the connection was complete and instantaneous. No-one could sneak up on her, not unless they possessed the power of flight. Two were approaching even now, their footfalls heavy and slightly uneven.
Chamonix’s powers were growing, and she had her parents to thank fo
r it. She dreamed of them often now, and each time found her reach extended. The words they spoke to her continued to be vague, even empty on the surface, but always she awoke with a renewed belief that the abilities she had possessed back on Mahi Mata could be hers again. Perhaps they tutored her on an unconscious level.
Her visitors had reached the gym below her, and were standing at the base of the ladder leading up. She identified them easily as the Kerinian ambassadors, Zarka and Zokan: their male sexual organs would have given them away even if their species had not. The two had evidently been drinking, though not to excess – their blood alcohol levels were just a trifle higher than they had been the last time she checked in on them. One of them held a mechanical device which appeared to be pointed in her direction.
Chamonix didn’t know why they’d come. Reading minds was quite beyond her, at least for now; she could detect their larynxes vibrating as they conversed with each other, but had no way of knowing what they were saying.
Why not ask them, then?
She drifted down towards the hatch and reached out a hand to open it. Then she hesitated. Her ability to manipulate matter still lagged behind her enhanced perception, but just in that instant, Chamonix believed she could make the titanium floor beneath her peel aside like damp paper with a single thought.
The hybrid child of Vitana concentrated her mind. Yes, there it is…
Then the moment passed. The floor rippled, nothing more, and the fountain of her power ran dry.
Soon, she decided, as she manually turned the handle and pulled the hatch open.
The ambassadors fled – she barely had time to see their retreating feet before they were out of view. She felt them, though, felt their brief spike of fear subside rapidly as they left her what they judged to be a safe distance behind.
The chilliest of smiles crossed Chamonix’s pale face.
Soon.
Soon there will be no safe distances from me…
II
Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly and applying the wrong remedies.
– Groucho Marx
Monosade. Literally translated, it meant “tree world”, a moniker short on imagination but high on accuracy. Nearly three quarters of the planet’s land surface was forest, a vast quantity that had hardly dropped since the Matan exiles arrived here. The first settlers had identified flora as a key facet of their new world’s character, and laws against arbitrary felling were swiftly put in place. Operations requiring a significant amount of open space did inevitably exist, many of them relating to the military. These were typically based in the smaller desert areas.
The meeting hall where Hunter now sat was of classical Monosadan design. There were broad, curving walls but no roof and no floor; lush grass caressed her feet, which were bare in keeping with local tradition. Trees sprung up at regular intervals within the graceful walls, which were inlaid with coloured glass, creating pretty patterns where the sun shone through.
It would have been an impractical meeting place during winter or a rain shower, and she guessed there must be an indoor alternative nearby. This was summer, though, and the air was warm. In other circumstances, this would have been a nice spot for a mid-afternoon snooze. But today was all about business.
There were several dozen people in attendance, including ten from the Bona Dea – Hunter had been told that bringing a large contingent to back her was expected. The vast majority of those present occupied semi-circular benches set back a few yards from the action.
Only five people occupied the circular central table: Hunter, Zarka, and three representatives of the Monosadan government. Thanks to a thorough briefing from the Kerinian ambassadors, Hunter was already well versed in the dramatis personae before meeting them.
In the centre and speaking now was Safri, current Prime Minister of Monosade. He was young and muscular, his fair hair free and wild on his face and arms – probably elsewhere too, but a pale tunic obscured his chest from view. The voice with which he opened proceedings was clear, even slightly lilting. Safri was the leader of the diplomacy-friendly Popular Party, who had ousted the more aggressive Liberty Party from office shortly after the last war with Anasade had ended in an unsatisfactory stalemate.
To his right sat Hoga, a grizzled old man whose crisp green uniform was adorned with badges, readily identifying him as a successful military officer. His rank was War Minister, which also conferred on him the role of deputy Prime Minister. Not the most promising state of affairs, Hunter thought, when a fighting man automatically held such a lofty perch. She hoped that bloodthirstiness wouldn’t dominate proceedings.
Finally, there was Treja: thin, dark-haired and a habitual scowler. He led the Victory Party, a smaller group whose support was needed for the Popular Party to form a working majority. Zarka described them as something of a political wildcard, their policies centred around the belief that Anasade must be defeated, but that direct military action was not the best way to accomplish this end.
Hunter had asked for details on the internal policies of the three parties – economy, education, transport and so on – but Zarka believed that these hardly mattered. Monosadan politics were centred around Anasade, and vice versa.
That the three leaders opposite her were all male did not escape Hunter; a result of a war-centred culture, or mere coincidence? She didn’t have enough data to tell, and they weren’t here to conduct social science research. Safri was wrapping up his opening address. Time for business.
“We’re grateful for your warm words, Prime Minister. Hearing you speak with such openness of mind and heart, I feel sure that you are the right leader to see your people through to the peace they must crave. As you know, we have a proposal that may see you and your neighbours working together towards a common goal.”
“The completion of Vitana’s stone? Yes, that does interest me, but I’m not sure any Anasadans feel the same way. Philosophical pursuits are not their way.”
“Oh, they’d like to complete the stone,” cut in Treja. “By stealing the other fragments as they did ours. Watch yourself amongst the Ana-worms, Captain. They’ll take everything you have, and blame it on you.”
“You’re quite certain, are you, that they have your fragment?” Hunter addressed her question directly to the Prime Minister, but Treja cut in again.
“Of course.”
“It was twenty generations ago, I think?”
“Our records from the time are quite clear. A contingent of their ambassadors were on our world at the time of the theft. They departed during the night, using Vitana’s monolith. The next morning, evidence of a break-in at our National Museum was discovered. All that had been taken was the fragment: our jewel, our birth right.”
“There are some who say that Monosade staged the break-in,” said Zarka neutrally. “Some say that your government wished only to invade and conquer, and were in want of a pretext.”
“Lies.”
“Others say that the Chilu Raza were responsible,” said Safri, waving a silencing hand at his ally. “There’s an ocean of theories out there if you care to swim in it. I don’t. All I can say with certainty is that we don’t have the fragment.”
Hunter nodded. “But Anasade definitely still have their piece?”
“Of course. In a vault in their capital, under continuous guard.”
Treja snorted. “Half their army are stationed there. They’re terrified of having done to them what they did to us.”
“Then we need to find a way to open talks with them,” said Hunter. “No-one benefits from silence, but even the Kerinian president couldn’t persuade them to speak with us. Do you have any idea why they refused?”
Treja looked ready to launch into a diatribe, but Safri again raised a hand, and quickly replied, “They bear the baggage of history, as do we, Captain. Kerinian mediation has accomplished little in the past.”
“It’s not our job to pull apart fighting dogs,” chipped in Za
rka.
Hunter shot the man an angry glance – he was being less than helpful. “Do you have a method of contacting Anasade?” she asked. “Some way of opening talks?”
“Our monoliths are no longer connected,” answered Safri, “and we have stationed no ambassadors on each other’s worlds since our fifth war began with a mass killing of delegates on both sides. The only ways to contact them are via radio transmission, which they’re liable to simply ignore, or by sending a ship to an asteroid belt which serves as a meeting point. Again, a response is unlikely.”
“But would you be willing to try?”
“Perhaps, though the benefits to my world aren’t entirely clear…”
“I’m sure that once talks begin, you’ll find-” began Hunter, but Treja cut in again.
“Safri is right. Satisfying three parties is all but impossible, but two? That can be done. Share your science with us, Captain. Work with our military to bring about a quick and bloodless victory. You’ll get your fragments; we’ll get justice for our dead.”
Zarka laughed. “Always trying to get someone else to fight your battles for you. You never change, little man.”
Treja pounded the table with his fist. “You! Do you enjoy watching us struggle from your high perch, vulture? We could end all our wars in a day if Kerin would listen to our pleas, save lives by the millions.”
“We could deliver victory to Anasade just as easily,” returned Zarka smugly.
“It’s peace we’re here for, not war,” said Hunter, increasingly wishing that the Kerinian had remained aboard ship with his colleague. “Let me be clear, I can’t countenance any course that may lead directly to a loss of life.”
“We’d need so little from you…” began Treja, but he was cut off again, this time by the old War Minister, Hoga.
“Are you really so eager to fight?” he asked gruffly. “You often preach of a better way than war.”
“This is the better way. By elevating our technology with alien knowledge, we’d ensure a swift victory without significant loss. A slaughter, not a war … if they resist at all.”
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