He looks at me. Am I supposed to respond? “Thank you,” I mumble. Then honesty forces me to add, “but I couldn’t, not when it mattered.”
“I suspect you did much better than you think. Twice now, while we’ve been speaking, you have switched languages seamlessly: grammar, syntax, idiom, all perfect, without a pause. I know of no other student here who can do that. You have a rare talent, Kia. I hope you will use it wisely and bring honor to this college.”
No one’s ever praised me like that. I don’t know what to say. He sits there, waiting, till finally I get out: “I won’t let you down, Sir.” Immediately I’m embarrassed at how dumb that sounds.
“I hope you won’t. Because a talent like yours also has the potential to bring disgrace to this Institution. If I had found that you cheated I would have expelled you. You wouldn’t be given a second chance. A dishonest interpreter at the highest levels can do great harm. We want no part of that here.” He looks across his desk at me sternly.
I swallow. What if he finds out about Sodum? The very thought makes me sick.
“I’m glad I didn’t find that to be the case,” he says, dismissing me at last. I walk back to residence repeating his words, rare talent, to myself, and don’t even need Jaro to remind me to smile.
This must be my day, because as soon as I get back to my room, there’s a knock at my door. I open it, all unsuspecting, and almost slam it shut again.“Akhié—”
“My name is Kia.”
She stiffens. Her smile is forced when she speaks again.
“Yes, Etin told us. I forgot.”
I can feel my roommate, Oghogho, watching us curiously from her desk. I’ve never told her anything about my past except to introduce Etin as my brother on one of his visits. He under-stood at once when I told him my new name that I won’t talk about the past.
Now here’s my sister, dressed in a trader’s jumpsuit, with our ship’s name—the Homestar—emblazoned on her left shoulder. I step into the hall, pulling the door shut behind me.
“What do you want?”
“To talk to you, Ak... Kia.”
“You miss our long sisterly conversations, right?” Oghogho barely spoke to me the entire last year I lived at home, even though we shared a room. Who does she think she’s fooling now?
“Mother is ill.”
I look at her without saying anything. I was ill last semester with flu. Where was ‘Mother’ when I was feverish and throwing up and terrified because I thought it might be my father’s malady? But there’s a tight feeling in my chest that keeps me from speaking. Oghogho wouldn’t be here unless it was serious.
There’s a knock from the other side of the door. I open it.
“I’m going to do some research at the library,” my roommate says. As she steps past us, she’s examining my sister. “Hello,” she says.
It’s the opening for an introduction, which I ignore. My sister finally gets it and just says “Hello” politely back.
On impulse, then, I say, “Oghogho, this is also Oghogho.” You’re as common as the red dirt, I think, smiling coolly at both of them. They both look down on me. But I, at least, am unique. A rare talent, the Dean said. I smile sweetly.
Oghogho my roommate nods curtly to Oghogho my sister and leaves, her knees and backbone held so stiffly her sandals slap against the tiles. I watch with satisfaction.
“I see you’ve made friends.”
“Of course. I’m a friendly person.” I wave Oghogho into the room, but her comment has ruined the moment for me. I imagine Jaro demoting me to a D. Maybe all the way back to an F.
I don’t have to be popular with everyone, I argue with him in my mind, but it’s no use; he doesn’t think like that.
Annoyed, I slap the door shut. At least we have privacy now. I sit on my roommate’s chair, tossing the clothes that lie on it onto her bed, and face my sister, who’s perched on the edge of my chair.
Oghogho leans over and picks up an earphone lying on the dresser beside my bed. Like many students, I’ve learned to sleep with language discs plugged into my ears, reinforcing the lessons I study before going to bed. But I do it regularly, test or no test. After a while, Saturday nights, the one night I allowed myself to rest from learning, began to feel strange. The silence was eerie. I’d wake up muttering foreign phrases into the darkness to fill it. Finally I simply started wearing the language headphones every night.
I take the earphone from Oghogho. She’s deliberately postponing the news she came to tell me. Either it’s very bad—so bad she doesn’t want to talk about it—or they want something from me. That’s unlikely, but I’m beginning to hope that’s it.
We sit for a while without talking.
It must be very bad.
“What do you expect of me after all this time?” The words burst out without me intending to say them.
“It was you who left,” Oghogho says. “And you who chose to stay away. Did you want us to run after you and beg you to come back?”
I flush, because I realise I did want that, and she just has to look at me to know how pathetic I am. So I get mad instead. You made me a thief! I want to yell at her. But it isn’t true. My father made me a thief by passing on his stolen legacy: the mystery I can’t solve despite all the hours I’ve spent in the library researching diamonds, and can’t part with, either, despite Sodum’s warning.
“Perhaps we should have,” Oghogho says. “Yes, I should have. I’m sorry. But you were so aloof after father died. And, I’ll admit it, I was relieved at first. When you left, all the tension left our house. It was like some guilty secret hung over us, and then it was gone.”
“Was I so terrible?” I feel my eyes water and blink furiously. After how they treated me, why do I even care?
“No, of course you weren’t. It was all of us. I think now it was Father...” She takes one look at my face and says quickly, “I loved him, too, Akhié. As much as you did. Maybe more, because I could remember how he was. But he was sick, and now that I’m older, I can see how it affected us all. I was glad you left, Akhié, but it wasn’t you, it was him. If he hadn’t died, he would have destroyed us all. He almost did.”
I jump up so angry I can hardly breathe. “You’re wrong!” I scream, not caring who hears. “It was Owegbé! It was never Father! It was... Owegbé!” I can only repeat it. I’m so good at arguments but now I’m too mad to think of any. “And I’m Kia,” I shout, “Kia!” I stop for breath. “You should go. You should go now!”
“Mother’s very sick, Kia.” Oghogho stands up, too, but her voice is quiet. Sad. “She may be dying. I didn’t come here to fight with you.” She holds out her hand, palm up in peace. I ignore it. “I’m sorry. We should be over this by now. I came because I thought you should know.”
“In case I want to see her? Has she asked for me?” I already know the answer—she hasn’t called once since I left. I try to laugh sarcastically. It doesn’t come out right.
Does she want to see me now? I wonder.
Etin never asked what father and I had talked about in Malemese. I don’t think he blames me for Father’s death—he said it wasn’t my fault, that day when he sent me away. But Owegbé?
“Tell her... Tell her I hope she gets better.”
“You’ll have to tell her yourself. I’m on my way to the Spaceport. I’m shipping out in two hours.”
“But Etin’s out with the Homestar.”
“No, he’s trading for the Montrealm III.”
I open my mouth to tell her it isn’t true. Etin told me last month he’d been approached by one of the Montcliffs, the family who own the largest trading chain on Seraffa, but he turned them down. He’d never be happy trading for someone else; he likes being his own boss.
But why would she lie? I close my mouth, noticing for the first time how tired Oghogho looks.
“Mother needs a heart transplant.”
I shrug. “She’s a citizen. Her medical care is free.”
“Yes, but Mother can’t tak
e a standard lab ’plant. You know how sensitive she is to allergens. It’s why she could never go into space with Father.”
I hadn’t known that. I feel a stab of envy. Oghogho was always so much closer to Owegbé.
“Her body won’t accept anything but a human donor’s heart,” Oghogho says, “and there isn’t likely to be one with the right blood type on Seraffa in time. Medical aid is free, but bringing another heart in, on a speedship, with the machines and storage unit to keep it healthy and a specialist to watch it—”
She sounds as though she’s ticking off expenses she’s calculated many times. I imagine her and Etin sitting with their heads together in front of a screen of figures. I should have been with them. Why am I always excluded?
Oghogho glances for the second time at the digital display on my workstation. “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t come before this. And I’m sorry we argued. But I have to go.”
“Wait. I have some money.” I jump up and run to my workstation. C28. I already know how few creds I have left.
Why did I only take one necklace at the Ossidian Ball, when the whole safe was open to me? Because that’s all I needed, I answer myself. If only I hadn’t spent most of the money already. I slide my card into the slot, turning toward Oghogho.
“I can get more. ...Translating,” I add quickly, hoping Oghogho doesn’t know students aren’t paid for translating.
“I didn’t come here for your money.”
“Take it!” I key in my access without a pause in the rush of words. “My tuition and board are paid for the rest of the year now. I don’t need it. I want to help you and Etin.”
“Not Mother?”
I stand up, waving my sister into the desk chair. “Take it.”
“I can’t take it. I’m on my way to the Spaceport. You should take it to her yourself. But, Kia... Thank you.”
We stand for a moment looking at each other, before she turns and leaves.
Chapter Six
The Newtarion Embassy is the most impressive embassy on Seraffa. I climb the dozen steps that lead up to the ten-foot-high double doors at the entrance, feeling a cross between excitement and fear. I give my name and registration number to the armed guard as I lean in toward the monitor for a retinal scan. He con-firms my ID and palms one of the doors in an unmarked spot. Both doors slide open onto a huge foyer at least two stories high. Cool air rushes out, engulfing me. The waste shocks me, even though it feels wonderful.
Excited as I am to see this embassy, I wish I hadn’t been assigned to it. The Newtarions are known for their tight security. But when you put your name down as a student translator you can’t specify when and where. At least the Newtarions are wealthy. The safes in the guest rooms have to be full of expensive jewelry. I’ll take two pieces this time, to buy my mother a heart. It’s probably the best use that jewelry will ever be put to. I can already imagine the look on Etin’s and Oghogho’s faces when I transfer the creds to them.
Oh yes, I have a rare talent, as Dean Harris said: my father’s talent.
Two more guards are stationed beside a second set of doors between the foyer. I’m ID’d again before I pass through into the main hallway. It’s at least twenty feet wide and three times as long, hung with holo-portraits of famous Newtarions in gilt-edged frames. On the left there are several doors, some of them standing open to reveal huge waiting rooms with real leather armchairs and Earthoak tables. I can’t help wondering who they think needs this much impressing on Seraffa.
I checked out the internal layout as well as I could online, so I know the wide spiral staircase that I pass just before the ambassador’s reception hall will take me to the upper offices and the guest suites. The ambassador’s suites are also upstairs, though the secure stairway to his rooms is separate, past the reception hall.
I ladle myself a glass of fruit punch at the refreshment table. A translator can’t accept food or drink in case it’s been tampered with, and the best way to keep from being offered something is to have a drink already in hand. There are stories of professional interpreters causing far-reaching upheavals after being put under a mild hypnotic inducement before interpreting. It’s hard to prove they were drugged and the person who schemed to provoke the conflict is seldom identified. Better to be wary, even at a primarily social event like this one.
As a student, my duties are light. The Newtarions have their own interpreters on staff, but not enough for a huge reception like this. And not everyone trusts embassy translators, even those wearing the highly respected dark green jumpsuit with its stylized initials, E.T.—Earth Translator—that promises political neutrality. I stroll through the reception room sipping my punch. This is the first time I’ve worn my E.T. jumpsuit; they had to make a special one for me because I’m too small even for XS. Privately, I think the forest green with blue piping is ugly—the colors are from Old Earth, where the College of Translators and Interpreters originated, and I prefer the reds and yellows of Seraffan scenery—but its effect is exhilarating. The guards and servers treat me with respect and people move aside to let me pass.
I look around for anyone wanting my services. At least half of the people here are wearing electronic devices, most small enough to fit inside an ear. No one important relies on them, though.
Only a human interpreter can get the nuances right, the colloquialisms and cultural connotations conveyed by word choice, gesture, and expression which can change the meaning of a phrase completely. Detecting irony, appreciating humor, are crucial to making political or business contacts. I spend as much time learning the social cultures of different worlds as their languages.
Across the crowded room I notice a certain shade of blue. My excitement drains away as I slip between the people to get a better look. Yes, I’m right, it’s the blue and white habit of a Select of the Order of Universal Benevolence. I turn and walk casually in the opposite direction, swearing under my breath. I don’t dare steal anything here now.
I’m so upset I almost miss my first summons. A tall woman is signaling me with an imperious gesture. Her thick white hair is curled and piled on top of her head, making her even taller. Strange that she’d let her years show in her hair while she’s obviously had every sign of them removed from her face, I think as I hurry toward her. The black on blue of her flowing kaftan identifies her as Coralesian, and she’s wearing the small planetary symbol of an ambassador: a very important woman. There’s a translation implant above her left ear. As an ambassador, she already speaks several languages herself. But she’s surrounded by a triad of Salarians, the most easily offended people in the galaxy. I feel myself start to sweat under my jumpsuit.
A male interpreter is closer, but she waves him off when he steps forward. He should know better. The Salarian women would be insulted to have a male interpret for them. Better a female student translator who can’t yet call herself an interpreter. I think of that 100%, and breathe a quick prayer. I’m so nervous I’d claim not to know Salarian if the flags weren’t sewn onto my left shoulder.
***
I lean against the wall just inside the reception hall. I’ve been translating for three hours now, for five, no six dignitaries, three of them ambassadors. I think they’ve adopted me as some kind of pet, the way they keep calling me over, even when there are other student translators closer to them. At least I haven’t started any wars. I may be about to, though.
I’ve decided to do it, after arguing with myself all afternoon. It might be weeks before I get another chance like this. Owegbé—my mother—could be dead by then. I hate that I’m in my new uniform, that if I’m caught I’ll bring shame on it, and even if I’m not caught, every time I wear it I’ll remember this. But I can’t let her die, knowing I could have prevented it. I can’t kill both my parents.
I take a sip of punch, glancing over the rim of my cup to make sure no one’s watching, then slip through the door and around the corner out of sight. I make myself walk slowly up the wide stairway. There’s no reason to be nervous.
No one saw me leave the crowded reception. There’s only one Select there and I was never anywhere near her. If someone sees me, I’ll say I’m looking for a restroom. But no one will be up here; they’re all downstairs enjoying the party.
My arguments convince me; I reach the top ready to do what has to be done. I pass the first guest room—too close to the stairway. The second is double-locked and I don’t want to stand outside picking two locks unless I have to. The third guest room opens at once when I press my palm, covered by the thin, wired-plastic override, against its sensor. Whoever is staying here was in too much of a hurry to join the party, to use the double lock. I hope they made the same mistake with the safe.
It makes me a little nervous when the safe opens to the palm override as easily as the door did, like this is too good to be true. But as Sodum told me, the more well-guarded the premises are, the more lax the guests become. If you can get inside—and a good translator can—the rest is easy. I shrug and reach into the safe.
I’m admiring a diamond necklace when I hear a soft cough behind me. I freeze. At the corner of my eye I see the Select. She looks at the open safe and then down at the incriminating evidence in my hands.
I don’t say a word. I don’t move. I can’t bear to do anything that will start what I know will happen, happening. I wish it was me with the failing heart, and I could die right now. How did I ever imagine I could get away with this while a Select of the O.U.B. was here? Embassy Security, even the Planetary Police, are nothing compared to them.
“What have you taken?”
Nothing. I haven’t taken anything yet. I can still put it back. We can pretend this never happened, because it hasn’t yet, not really...I open my mouth—and close it again, because there is the palm override, on the table under the safe, and beside it the little finger comp, a thief’s tools, and there’s nothing I can say. I open my hand to reveal the stunning necklace. Even in the darkened room, its diamonds sparkle.
Walls of Wind and the Occasional Diamond Thief Boxed Set Page 37
