Impersonations

by Walter Jon Williams

  Research. Something that Sula was good at.

  Sula realized she wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours yet, not with the jolt of adrenaline that Goojie’s appearance had brought, so before beginning her researches, she went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. She was adding a thick dollop of golden cane syrup when Macnamara entered, wearing official viridian Fleet sleepwear and a nacré velvet dressing gown that Sula had given him as a present, knowing something so grand would make him uncomfortable but wanting him to have it anyway.

  “My lady,” he said. “You should have called. I would have brought you tea.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of making tea,” Sula said.

  She really didn’t need servants. She was happier keeping her own place tidy, polishing her own shoes, brushing her own tunics, tossing her own salads. She was perfectly self-sufficient in that regard, and she didn’t like other people touching her things. But Spence and Macnamara were too precious to dismiss from her life, and so she had to put up with their insistence on making her life easier.

  The nacré dressing gown shimmered closer. “Do you need anything else, my lady?”

  Sula stirred the tea, put the spoon in the saucer. “No, that’s all. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “I wasn’t asleep.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night, Lady Sula.”

  Macnamara remained in the kitchen, ever on duty, as Sula carried the tea to her quarters.

  What am I going to do with him? Sula thought. Him and his gun.

  She put her tea down on the bedside table and reached for her hand comm.

  First things first. She needed to find out all she could about Caro Sula’s best friend.

  * * *

  Once upon a time, when she was Gredel, she’d been known as “Earthgirl.” She had been obsessed by Terran history, the intricate, complex narrative of ancient humanity before Earth’s conquest by the Shaa. Her friends had found her hobby amusing and singularly useless—even humans couldn’t work up much interest in the backwater world on which their distant barbarian ancestors had built their rude civilization. And even she, trapped in poverty on the world of Spannan, hadn’t ever seen Earth, or could reasonably hope to do so.

  She had learned to imitate an Earth accent, a hick dialect even she had found hilarious. Once she’d actually arrived on Earth’s ring and taken command of the shipyard, she’d encountered workers born on Earth, and discovered that there were a great many different Earth accents, of which imperial popular culture had absorbed only the most uncouth.

  She felt indignation on behalf of humanity when she realized this. Imperial culture had trivialized her species’ home world. And then, because she was never far from paranoia, she wondered if this had been done deliberately, to degrade all culture but that imposed by the Shaa conquerors.

  But no. To the rulers of the empire and the sophisticated denizens of the capital, all that mattered was the culture of Zanshaa High City, compared to which all else was provincial. Next to Zanshaa, every world was a backwater, and worthy of mockery whether it had once belonged to a single species or not.

  Sula had been given the Earth assignment as punishment, by a superior offended by her unorthodox behavior. But Sula was unorthodox enough to rejoice in the assignment and the possibility that she might view all the places and monuments that had filled her imagination when she was young.

  SaSuu. Byzantium. Xi’an. The Grand Canyon, the Arch of Macedoin, the pyramids. All wondrous places that had stirred her, that had become her passion as she’d coped with a childhood of poverty, deprivation, and violence.

  And now, as she stood in the waiting room before boarding the elevator that would take her to the planet’s surface, she looked at the video monitor that showed a view of the blue-and-white world, and thought, Soon.

  Who was she now? A tourist, she hoped. A happy tourist.

  Sula got only a few hours’ sleep, the rest spent in a thorough search of available records for Lady Ermina Vaswani. Caro’s friend Goojie had been born a Sula, sure enough, but after the fall of the Sulas, her parents had changed their name to that of another relative, a Vaswani, a Peer family largely unknown on Zanshaa but powerful on their provincial home world of Chijimo. To trade the Sulas for the Vaswanis was to drop several levels in the Peer hierarchy.

  Nevertheless, Goojie had continued her education on Zanshaa, gone to Remba College for a degree in Praxis theory, and then had celebrated with a tour of vacation spots throughout the empire. Obviously, the Vaswanis had survived with more money than had the Sulas. Goojie had been on Preowyn when the Naxid rebellion broke out, and spent the war there in apparent comfort. Now she was the new Executive Director of the Terran Division of the Kan-fra Company, controlled by her patron Toi-an clan. Apparently, Kan-fra rented medical equipment to hospitals, clinics, and nursing homes.

  It seemed a company safe enough for a new, young Executive Director. Goojie’s inexperience and her degree in Praxis theory probably couldn’t do much harm.

  Probably they couldn’t do Sula any harm, either.

  * * *

  Sula turned at the sound of footsteps and saw her own chief of security, Lieutenant-Captain Lady Tari Koridun, as she carefully came down the ramp into the departure lounge. Koridun moved a little uncertainly in one-third normal gravity. The lower part of the ring—“lower” only from the perspective of someone on the planet, not on the ring itself—rotated at the same speed as the planet to which it was tethered, and provided only one-third gee. The “upper” ring, where most people lived and worked, rotated at a greater speed to provide normal gravity.

  Koridun bounced a bit on the landing, then braced in salute with her throat bared. She was a Torminel, with thick gray fur striped with rich sable, and to keep from overheating wore only a uniform vest and shorts over her pelt. Her eyes were a deep, distinctive cobalt blue, unusual in her species.

  “Koridun?” Sula said. “There’s a problem?”

  “Nothing to concern you, Lady Commandant.” Koridun lisped the words around her fangs. “I’ve got to go to the planet surface to bring up a prisoner.”

  Sula was surprised. “Don’t you have constables for that?”

  “There seems to be some dispute concerning whether the authorities have the right prisoner. Since I know Laimak by sight, I decided to go down to Palermo and see to the matter myself.”

  “Laimak,” Sula repeated. She tried to remember where Palermo might be. “That would be the rigger that’s overstayed his leave?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Laimak was a Torminel name, and the Torminel had no physical characteristics that would confirm ID, such as a human’s retina patterns or fingerprint. Eyewitness identification was the most common way to clear up any disputed identity.

  Sula rubbed the heavy layer of scar tissue on the pad of her right thumb.

  “Can’t you do a gene test?” she said.

  “There is a dispute concerning who is to pay for any such test, my lady. The Palermo authorities have been . . . intransigent.”

  Sula gave up. Perhaps Koridun’s story was true, or perhaps she was using Laimak as an excuse for a bit of leave on Earth. As security in the dockyard consisted almost entirely of breaking up fights, tossing inebriates in the drunk tank, and keeping thieves out of Fleet stores, there was no urgent business to keep Koridun on the ring. She might as well have fun in Palermo, wherever that was.

  “Well,” Sula said. “It will be a pleasure to share the journey with you.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Sula turned to Macnamara and Spence and introduced them to Koridun. They braced in salute.

  “Very good,” Koridun said, as if she for some reason approved their names. “Bordi, my attendant, is dealing with the baggage.”

  There was a chime and then a soft-voiced announcement that the elevator car was ready. Sula turned as the double row of airlock doors opened, and then led the others into the car named Kirinyaga.
>
  Two stewards in gold-striped uniforms of pale blue offered to assist her entry, but she was reasonably competent in low gravity, declined their offer, and entered the compartment reserved for Fleet officers. There were a glass wall that would gaze out over the planet once the car left its docking bay, video monitors with a selection of entertainments, a small kitchen, a full bar with ornamental brasses sculpted with Earth’s wonders, a deep soft carpet both on the floor and ceiling, and luxurious leather-clad acceleration couches suitable for all the species living under the Peace of the Praxis. The recycled air carried a slight taste of cardamom.

  Koridun followed into the section, then turned back to Spence and Macnamara with a faint air of surprise.

  “You’ll find the servants’ compartment two or three sections below,” she said.

  “They can stay,” said Sula, a bit more firmly than she’d intended. Koridun turned to Sula and retained her look of mild bewilderment.

  Sula was unwilling to explain herself. As far as she was concerned, Spence and Macnamara had earned the right to sit in the company of anyone they wanted. She’d throw Koridun out the door before either of her servants.

  But it probably wouldn’t do for Koridun to think that.

  “Please join me, Lieutenant-Captain,” Sula said. “Shall we have refreshments?”

  Terrans and Torminel shared similar construction, though Torminel tended to have a stockier physique and a more substantial bottom. They could use the same furniture. Sula and Koridun sat on adjoining couches, and the blue-jacketed stewards brought them menus. Sula ordered tea and pastry, and Koridun a tartare and a hot drink that probably involved blood.

  Koridun was being tactful in the presence of a member of another species. Torminel were carnivores, and most of their meals tended to involve recipes a bit messier than tartare.

  Sula looked over her shoulder and saw that the stewards had every intention of ignoring Spence and Macnamara. She gave the nearest steward a glare, and with a show of reluctance, he picked up a pair of menus and handed them to the enlisted.

  Sula poured a long tawny rope of honey into her tea, sipped, then settled into her couch. The scent of fine leather rose from the cushions.

  “I wonder, Lieutenant-Captain,” she said, “if you know anything about the Manado that I saw in the dockyard yesterday.”

  “I know they rent space in our dockyard,” Koridun said. “Otherwise, the Manado Company is very secretive.”

  “Do you know what they’re trying to do?”

  Koridun lapped at her drink, licked a drop of scarlet from her lower lip. “I can guess, my lady. I think they’re exploring the outer reaches of the system. Looking for a planetoid or some other resource they might exploit.”

  Sula considered this. Koridun’s speculation seemed reasonable.

  “Do you have any hard evidence?”

  “No. But Manado is gone for months at a time. They bring back very little, just some cases that might be samples or instruments, and that we aren’t allowed to look at.”

  “Do they carry shuttles? It would be difficult to land something as big as Manado on a planetoid, and much easier to use a shuttle. If it’s samples they’re after, I mean.”

  “I saw two shuttles strapped onto the ship.”

  Sula nodded, sipped again at her sweetened tea. “Another speculation, then, if I may. Why the Fleet dockyard and not one of the civilian docks?”

  Koridun tapped her fork lightly against the side of her plate as she contemplated the question. “I can only guess, but they may intend to reduce speculation about their mission. If they used a civilian dockyard, they’d be operating in full view of their competitors, and there would be a lot of talk. And, frankly, our security is better than that at the civilian docks, which tends to be, ah, porous.”

  “Thank you. You’ve helped a great deal.”

  “Pleased to be of service, my lady.” Koridun took another swig of her prokaryotic beverage.

  There was a chime, and a sonorous Daimong voice informed the passengers that the car was about to depart, and that all travelers should by now be strapped into their couches. The stewards stepped forward to assist, but Sula and the others managed to buckle themselves in without help.

  There was another, more urgent chime, and the same voice said that the car would be under one point seven gravities for the first few minutes of the descent. Sula took a gulp of her tea and placed the cup and saucer on the telescoping table provided for the purpose.

  A third chime, and then acceleration pushed Sula into her couch. Kirinyaga shot free of its tunnel, and suddenly Earth was visible through the glass wall, a great blue-white plate poised above Sula’s head, its outlines hazed with atmosphere. The brilliant cloud formations were as big as continents.

  The elevator car crackled and shivered under acceleration.

  “Have you been to Terra before, my lady?” Koridun asked.

  “No. But I’ve studied the history here.”

  “I’m afraid I know very little.”

  Sula smiled. “It’s a specialized subject.”

  Kirinyaga’s acceleration continued. Even before it launched, the car was theoretically at escape velocity—any ship released from dock on the ring would be thrown free of Earth even if it never lit its engines—and so the car had to overcome its own outward potential energy before it could begin its plunge toward the planet. But soon, Kirinyaga was well on its way and acceleration eased to one Earth gravity. The recorded Daimong voice told passengers that they could unstrap from their couches and walk freely in their assigned area.

  Sula spent the hours strolling, in desultory conversation with Koridun and in drinking sweetened tea. For the most part, though, she just watched as Earth grew larger. She could make out the beige-and-green landmasses, the profound blue of the deep ocean, the silver serpents of rivers writhing through green landscapes. Lightning coiled over storm clouds, flashed like a semaphore transmitting in an unknown language. And slowly the great line of darkness advanced over the Pacific as night’s terminator swept along on its eternal mission, leaving behind islands of light and the uneasy flashes of storms.

  She had seen all this on other worlds—on Zanshaa itself—but somehow, this was special. Earth had long been the planet of her dreams, and she possessed the notion that she would feel at home there, comfortable in a way that she hadn’t felt at Zanshaa, in the Cheng Ho Academy, or even living on her own home world of Spannan.

  Earth was ancient. Earth’s primeval stones would murmur in her ear, speak to her daughter in a voice both consoling and filled with the melancholy, hard-earned, disenchanted wisdom of the very old.

  Perhaps Earth would even forgive. Who could say?

  Because she was senior officer, Sula was able to call for a soundtrack to her thoughts, and so Kirinyaga vibrated to the sound of a massed Daimong chorus, the booming voices a perfect accompaniment to the magnificence of the view.

  Everyone strapped in again for the turnover point, where acceleration ceased and the passengers experienced weightlessness. The couches rotated to face what had been the ceiling, and so, in a neat trick of engineering that was a pleasure to watch, did the bar and the kitchen, which were equipped with appliances that could either be flipped or used with gravity going either way. Then deceleration began, gravity built, and the couches settled into their new configuration, along with the rest of observed reality. The carpeted ceiling had become the carpeted floor, and Earth was no longer over Sula’s head but below her feet. As soon as she was permitted, she unstrapped and walked to the glass window to give herself a better view.

  She had to strap in again for the entry into Earth’s atmosphere. Gees built, and Kirinyaga rattled on its cable as sheets of flaming ions cascaded past the glass wall and strobed everything in the room with stark, brilliant light.

  Eventually, the ride calmed down, and Sula looked up at a dark blue sky, with the thin silver arc of the antimatter ring shining from horizon to horizon. Minor shifts in deceleration t
ugged at her inner ear. High winds buffeted the car.

  A moment of sudden grayness, and then they were through cloud. Sula felt her heart lift.

  The Daimong chorus struck a climactic chord as snowcapped Mount Kenya rose silently into view, its pinnacles glowing in the westering sun, its fissures and valleys a deep black. Kirinyaga bobbed on its cable, lurched like a terrestrial elevator trying to locate the proper floor, and then the beige buildings of the launch complex rose around them, and the elevator car silently entered its home as the Daimong choir sang out their triumph.

  * * *

  Sula tipped the stewards on her way out, wished Koridun luck in locating her fugitive, and sent her toward the train station and, ultimately, Palermo. Macnamara and Spence collected the luggage, and Sula led them outside, into a long curved cloister lined with fluted pillars in the Dhai-ro style, where she took her first breath of free, cool Terran air. There had been rain, and the cool, humid air was heavy with the scent of grasses and flowers. All the species living under the Praxis bustled about the busy concourse, and Sula’s nerves sang a warning as she saw Naxids scuttling among the throng. Centauroid, covered with beaded black scales, the Naxids zigzagged through the crowds as they sped about their errands.

  Sula had killed Naxids with antimatter missiles, with bombs, with firearms, with improvised weapons. Even though the Naxids had been decisively defeated, Sula had spent too long a time killing them to be easy around them.

  She tried to ignore her unease and stepped out from beneath the cloister. She looked up to see the two elevator cables foreshortening toward her from their vanishing point in the ring, both looking like the dark rain-streaked trunks of enormous trees.

  She’d engaged a car and driver, and the Hunhao limousine, a lustrous and discreet maroon in color, pulled up on silent electric motors. The Lai-own driver stepped from his compartment, took his soft round cap off his feathery head, and rolled up the passenger door. Sula stepped inside and smelled hot coffee waiting in a flask.