Rogue Stars

by C Gockel et al.

  Shit.

  Why didn’t Danziger come to the point? But the point was that he didn’t seem to have a point, just a handful of half-threats he couldn’t carry out without approval of the executive council, who were all appointed by Sirkonen. Yes, his point seemed to be do as I say or you may well find yourself without a job. A threat he couldn’t make true while Sirkonen held the presidency.

  Danziger nodded. “It’s good that I have such excellent advisors, then. I wish you good luck, Mr Wilson, in your new job.”

  “Thank you.” Stiff-faced as hell.

  I rose, gave Danziger a polite nod. By the time I left the room, he had already gone back to his reader.

  On the large 3D screen, Sirkonen’s family sat around a projection of an X-ray while a doctor talked and pointed. Tears tracked down one of Sirkonen’s daughters’ cheeks.

  In the room behind me, Danziger worked, possibly a few heartbeats away from the presidency.

  What a mess.

  5

  WHEN I LEFT the building, flanked by the two guards, I was still dissecting all the posturing and contradictory statements Danziger had made, and deciding how seriously I needed to take them and what he had actually tried to tell me.

  Danziger had come up through the ranks of humanitarian aid agencies that had grown into state-like power in the food and water wars of the Asian subcontinent and Africa. A true Earth politician. Part German, part Argentinean. Never had much to do with the off-Earth section of humanity, the New Colonists who lived on Moon and Mars bases, or on Taurus, let alone with the extraterrestrial humanoids of gamra. Did he have the knowledge and backing to deal with this, now that the presidency had been thrust upon him? In the current situation, with food rationing still a reality in many parts of the world, and pockets of violence lingering from the oil wars, the relationship with gamra was not a priority and they wanted to be sure gamra got that message. I understood that. It was probably why Sirkonen had given the job to me, rather than one of his cronies. The tiny New Colonist off-Earth human population, mostly intelligent and influential people, had long been unhappy about having no say in Earth politics. Sirkonen had appointed their golden boy—me, in possession of several nice decorative awards—to appease them. I had no illusions about that either.

  But now Danziger was forced to deal with gamra, and the relationship had suddenly become important. He knew little about it, and needed a good advisor. I didn’t think I had ever impressed him. He might well want to replace me with one of his retired heavyweights. And damn it, I hadn’t gone through all this study to be some politician’s paperboy.

  It was still raining when I braved the bear-pit of journalists outside the gates. Behind the multi-hued sea of umbrellas, the waiting taxi stood like a lighthouse.

  I was alone, more alone than I’d been for the past four years. Normally, I would have conferred with Nicha through the feeder. Keep smiling or you first, that sort of thing. And he would have been there, a warm steadying presence next to me. Rimoyu, balance, imayu, the loyalty network; they weren’t instincts for me, but I’d come to rely on the social structure they afforded.

  But my head echoed with emptiness and the wind pelted freezing drizzle at exposed parts of my too-hot skin.

  I pulled my jacket over my head to avoid the rain and questions, but both came anyway.

  How was the president?

  Any word from Barresh as to who claimed responsibility?

  When was the press going to be informed?

  I wished I could answer those questions, or at least answer them positively. Tell them that the president would make a speedy and full recovery and would be back at work in no time. Instead, my guards cleared a path through the crowd, gaining me more questions.

  Why was I still considering leaving?

  Did this mean the handover had been signed?

  How could I even consider leaving seeing as the Union was clearly responsible?

  Whose side was I on anyway?

  One of the guards opened the door to the taxi, oh so inviting. But before I could get in, someone pushed a card under my nose. Melissa Hayworth, Chief Reporter, Flash Newspoint.

  I glared at her.

  “You seem to be under a lot of pressure, Mr Wilson.” Her hair, plastered against her forehead, dripped water into her face.

  “No thanks to you.”

  “The people have a right to know what happened. We live in a free world, no matter how much Nations of Earth and gamra would like us to forget that.”

  She said gamra and not Union. “Look, Ms Hayworth, it’s out of my hands. I told the police what I saw, and the matter is with them.”

  “So you’re going?”

  “Yes.” Never mind what I would do if Nicha didn’t come back before tomorrow morning; that was none of her business.

  A brief silence. Not a flicker of emotion crossed her face. She looked at where I held the top of the taxi’s door. “How are your hands?”

  “Fine.”

  Her dark gaze slid to my jacket, and rested on the blood-stained pocket. “You don’t look fine, Mr Wilson.”

  “I’m only tired.” Bloody exhausted in fact.

  She lowered her voice. “You can talk to me. I know what it’s like.”

  “I’m fine, really. Thank you for your concern.” What did she mean I know what it’s like? What was this woman trying to do, asking me about my health? “Ms Hayworth, please let me get into the taxi. I have an appointment.”

  I expected a snide remark or more questioning, but neither came.

  “Very well.” She stepped back and gestured at the card. “If ever you feel like telling the truth behind this, don’t hesitate to contact me.” She tapped her shoulder where a nifty plastic cap covered the microphone of the reader she carried on her belt.

  “Miss Hayworth, I will certainly not forget that.” I fumbled the card into my pocket, trying not to wince, and slipped into the back seat of the taxi, next to the guard with the sunglasses. He had pulled up his knees sideways so he fitted between the seats. The other guard shut the door behind me, and clambered in the front seat.

  I gave the onboard computer Eva’s address and told it to stop at a flower shop along the way, instructions I had to repeat, of course. The guard next to me raised his eyebrows. “Flowers, Delegate?”

  “On this world, and this culture, when one visits a woman, it is the custom to bring flowers.” And despite so much of their former country being under water, the Dutch still did flowers very well.

  Goodness knew what Indrahui did with flowers—ate them, probably. Hunger was a constant companion of common people on Indrahui as their leaders fought over which piece of land belonged to which ethnic group.

  I fished my comm unit from my pocket and pressed the one-button shortkey to my office in Athens, wincing as pain spiked through my palms. Ouch, ouch and ouch. The bandage itched, my fingers felt hot and the skin pulled when I moved.

  The call was answered quickly by Sheyna, who I jokingly called mail boy and who looked after the correspondence.

  I switched to Coldi. “Is Amarru there?”

  “Sure.” There were some clicks.

  “Cory, how are you?” My mind flooded with relief at the familiar Coldi voice, too deep to be a woman’s, too high to be a man’s.

  “I’m fine. I lost my feeder.”

  “I noticed that—”

  “When is Nicha going to be freed? No one is talking to me here.”

  “Cory. I think we need to tread carefully.”

  “What do you mean? Has Nicha told you anything?”

  “I haven’t spoken to Nicha.”

  Shit. “You haven’t spoken to him? At all? The police told me he was entitled to one call and that he had already made it. I thought . . .”

  Who had he contacted? Nicha’s mother no longer lived in London; Nicha didn’t have a girlfriend . . . who was I missing?

  “I don’t believe he’s been allowed to contact anyone. Only this morning I managed to speak to
the police officer in charge of prisons. Not a cooperative fellow. I’m waiting for him to contact me back. He says he can’t do anything without Nations of Earth approval.”

  I glanced at the clock. At a quarter past four, there were three quarters of an hour left in the working day; nothing was going to happen today. Someone was stalling. And all the time I’d thought the Exchange was working on something—I’d even had the disgrace to feel miffed that Nicha hadn’t called me. And all that time, Nicha had been alone, going crazy. . . .

  “I have to see him.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why not? Amarru, he’s—”

  “Can’t talk about that right now.”

  What the fuck was going on? “Then can you at least get a lawyer onto this?”

  “We already have. I’ve just been talking to Nixie Chan. She’s outraged and is more than happy to help.”

  “Good.” Although frankly I would have preferred someone less loud and flamboyant, someone less likely to stir already-frayed emotions.

  Something beeped in the background of Amarru’s office.

  “Oh, that might be her. Cory, are you online the rest of the day?”

  “Yes. I’ll be visiting Eva, but . . .” Dratted dinner party. As usual, Eva came last. To my horror, we had already arrived in the suburb where she lived.

  “All right, I’ll ping you when we know more.”

  I closed the connection and scrambled for Danziger’s ID on the reader. I might just have time to call him. Danziger’s secretary answered, saying the vice president was in a meeting. I begged her to send her boss an urgent message. Nixie Chan has just been assigned as Nicha Palayi’s lawyer. Please contact me as soon as possible.

  The guard next to me met my eyes. An earpiece with a tiny microphone dangled at his ear. He said, “The white car follows again.”

  I looked over my shoulder, but saw at least four white cars, two of them taxis trundling behind us, the other two minibuses.

  The guard in the front seat muttered, in Indrahui, “I’ll be glad when we’re out of here.”

  I wasn’t sure if he realised I understood.

  Eva’s house. A two-storey affair with a straw roof, bay windows, mock-historic woodwork and a white picket fence before a smattering of neatly-clipped but bedraggled roses. As it was October, the leaves were turning yellow, and red rosehips floated like little bits of colour, a pale memory of the splendour of the garden in summer. A few sad asters bloomed purple under the living room window, but the rest of the garden bathed in yellows and browns—preparing for winter. Next time I came here it would be summer.

  The door to the house swung open and there stood Eva, in a shimmering green gown with bows and ruffles and collars edged in white lace. Her hair, a mass of dark curls, had been pinned on her head in mock-Victorian style.

  She rushed out, her shoes clacking on the steps, meeting me halfway down the porch.

  “Oh, Cory!”

  I whisked the flowers out of the way of her whirlwind embrace.

  She smelled of roses. Loose strands of curls tickled my face.

  “Cory, oh Cory. I heard about it yesterday. I was so scared.” She was crying.

  At the sound of her familiar Polish accent, the heavy cloak of tension slipped from my shoulders. I buried my face in her curls, brushing my lips over the skin of her neck. I wanted to kiss her, and for once not care about the excessive prudishness that swept through the upper echelons of the diplomatic corps. Everyone is always watching. Do nothing that could discredit you. How I regretted that attitude. If only she would come to the hotel with me.

  I handed her the flowers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier.”

  Eva smiled through her tears, all glittering eyes and white teeth. “Oh Cory . . . they’re beautiful.” She gingerly touched the bandage on my right hand. “What happened to your hands?”

  “I fell on glass.”

  “Does it hurt—” Her eyes widened. “Who are they?”

  Both guards stood at the gate, studying the house as if deliberately avoiding looking at us. Indrahui did not show this type of affection in public. “Gamra sent two bodyguards.”

  Eva’s frown deepened. “For you?”

  “Yes. I’m a gamra delegate now, remember?” My attempt at an upbeat tone fell flat. I didn’t even feel optimistic myself. I began to think that I, too, would be more at ease once I had left.

  Eva’s throat worked. “Is that because you. . . ? You know they say gamra are responsible for the attack on the president?”

  The gaping hole of insecurity inside me grew. “A lot is being said right now. Most of it is nonsense.”

  Eva nodded, said nothing about what she believed; and, somehow, I really wanted to know. Was she taken in by the media hype? Was she curious about what had really happened? She studied international politics. What did she think?

  There was no time to discuss. The curtains at the bay window stirred. Hidden by folds of gauze, her parents would be watching.

  “Do those men . . . come in?”

  I could see her brain working. They hadn’t catered for two extra mouths; she wasn’t sure what they ate. Gamra people was a sore subject with her father anyway—

  “Eva, you don’t need to feed them. They’re professional bodyguards. They can look after themselves.”

  A tiny frown crossed her face. “In the rain?”

  I flooded with warmth. Eva cared; yes, she would get used to living in Barresh. She might be scared and bewildered at first, but she would be fine.

  “I’ll let them come into the kitchen. At least it’s dry and warm there.”

  “I’m sure they’ll appreciate that. —Mashara.”

  The men came up the path, meeting me like glistening obsidian statues come to life.

  “This is a private gathering for me; there is no risk to my person here. I would appreciate—for the sake of my host—if mashara would not come into the room with me. The lady says there is a place to wait, out of the rain.” Never mind what the Polish cook would feel about this extraterrestrial invasion of his domain.

  The guard with the sunglasses said, “This is the personal residence of Nations of Earth ambassador of Poland, Zbrowsky?”

  I nodded. “I’m contracted to his daughter.” Not the same as engaged, but close enough.

  “Mashara advises caution with the ambassador.” So, they’d worked out that Eva’s father was a supporter of Danziger’s. Not bad at all.

  “Don’t worry. Really, mashara, this place is my second home.” Was that a slight flick of the eyebrows I saw? “The lady invites you in. I suspect you’d appreciate waiting some place dry.”

  Mind your pronouns, Delegate.

  Faces impassive, the men bowed to Eva, and she blushed. “Oh, aren’t they just gorgeous?”

  I hissed a whisper, “Eva, they understand Isla.”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks grew even redder.

  I followed Eva into the house, the two men walking a step or two behind. I was cold. Nervous. Not in the mood for pomp and ceremony. Realised that what I wanted most right now was privacy. Just me and her in a nice little restaurant, talking about—well—us, without half the world listening in. But of course that was out of the question.

  Into the hall. The floor, the walls, the curving staircase all glared white with artificial marble. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, some grotesque bird’s nest of glitters and dangles. Palms grew in brass pots on either side of the living room door. Smells drifted from the kitchen, at the end of the corridor that led off the hall.

  I glanced at the dark cavity at the top of the staircase. Eva’s room was up there, although I had seen it only twice, and she had been too nervous to enjoy the kiss I had thought to steal in the privacy of lace curtains, down-filled bedcovers and ruffled pillows. A good Catholic girl did not take her boyfriend to her room. Anyone in a position of note, who possessed a contract for the intent of marriage, did not misbehave for fear it might be used aga
inst them—mainly by news services like Flash.

  “Oh, poor Cory.” Eva’s mother had come to the door of the living room, dowager hips straining at her green velvet dress.

  She enfolded me in a hug heavy with perfume. Her lips smacked the air, just missing my cheeks. “Come inside, you poor thing. We were waiting for you.”

  At that moment, my comm unit beeped. Wincing, I fished it out of my pocket and recognised the ID by the time I had managed to attach the earpiece to my ear. Ouch—damn those bandages. “Delia?”

  It wasn’t Delia, but her secretary: Delia wanted to see me tomorrow morning. I started to protest that I was leaving tomorrow morning, but caught Eva’s dagger glance.

  I ended the conversation quickly, but had barely taken two steps before the unit beeped again. Some unknown ID. Local. Nixie Chan, I guessed.

  A dainty hand closed over the comm unit, and Eva’s brown eyes met mine. “No. You’re not bringing that thing inside. Turn it off.”

  “But this is important. Nicha . . .” I tried to free the unit without hurting my hands too much.

  “You are about to leave for six months, and I don’t want to share you with Nicha. Just for dinner, one evening. Nicha is not going to run away.”

  I met her eyes, wordless, while the unit still emitted muffled beeps. No, Nicha was definitely not going to run away since he was in jail, and in case she hadn’t noticed, he was innocent. Nicha was my zhayma. Nicha was my work, and my work was my life. Nicha was more important than . . .

  Than Eva?

  I sighed, cut off the beeping and unclipped the earpiece. All right, I’d have dinner with the family without electronic interruption, but I was not switching the unit off altogether. I called, “Mashara.”

  The closest guard took the unit from me.

  I said, in Coldi, “Please answer any calls. Come and get me if it is vitally important.”

  The man nodded and retreated towards the hall.

  It was warm in the living room, with a scent of cigar smoke as a blue mist in the air. A fire blazed in the hearth and the big dining table, with a pristine white tablecloth and delicate antique chairs, was set with gold-rimmed plates of two sizes, long-stemmed wine glasses, serviettes and finger bowls; the diplomats loved their mock-Victorian style and manners.