Assegai

by S J MacDonald

  ‘That’s right,’ Min said. ‘Take all the magic out of it.’ But she was grinning, and looking fascinated too. ‘I have seen footage of Shion in her Pirrellothian robes,’ she confided, ‘Attending a dinner on the League One… and what have I said there to make you crack up?’

  ‘Ohh!’ Alex controlled himself, though still chuckling. ‘I will,’ he said, ‘Tell you about it sometime! But oh, lord, the most ridiculous… how Shion kept her composure through it all, I do not know. Once we got back on the shuttle, though, she let rip, and it was a good quarter of an hour before we could get her to stop laughing. I learned quite a lot about how not to do exodiplomacy that day! She did wear her robes once at Quarus, showing them the flower-greeting ceremony. That didn’t go too well either, though – it basically involves everyone sitting in silence meditating on a flower for at least a quarter of an hour, and you can guess how long it was before the quarians lost interest and wandered off. But Shion does know how much it would mean to them here if she wore her robes for a social event, and she has said she might.’

  ‘Well, I won’t pressure her, but I hope she does,’ Min said. ‘But just one more thing – what is the situation with A/S Glyn? Is he to join your staff?’

  Alex smiled. Owun Glyn was one of his crew from the Heron, and he, indirectly at least, was responsible for them being here. He was Camag himself, and it was his realisation that his home language and quarian were mutually comprehensible that had so excited Silvie, finding a human world with a language so closely linked to her own. Owun had been a big hit at Quarus, too, a high profile member of the exodiplomacy team.

  And he was, now, back on Camae. Those few members of the Heron’s crew not taking their long leave at Therik had been allowed to leave the ship at Chartsey so they could head back to their homeworlds to spend time with their families there. So while the Assegai had been swinging out to Karadon, picking up Eldovan and making their way through a Van Damek, Owun had hitched rides, first on a Customs ship to Karadon, then on a fast freighter to Cwmbracha, and finally on the ferry which ran between Cwmbracha and Camae. He had got here four weeks before them, arriving to find himself already a global celebrity. He, too, had obviously been informed that the Assegai was arriving, with Alex, Silvie and Shion aboard. He’d sent a very happy welcome, offering to return to duty if the captain had any use for him.

  ‘No – he’s on leave,’ Alex said. ‘I’m sure he’d like a ship-visiting pass at some point, but purely as a visitor.’ He grinned. ‘Though we may bump into him at social events,’ he commented. ‘They’ve made him Glyn ip Glyn.’

  ‘Er…’ Min was hastily reviewing what she had learned from operational briefing files. There were only five common surnames on Camae, between them accounting for ninety three per cent of the population, and of those, Glyn was the most common of all. Around a third of the four and a half billion people on Camae had the surname ‘Glyn’. And with a similar dearth of variety in given names, more than a quarter of the men were called Owun, too. If you were trying to find an Owun Glyn on Camae, you’d be looking for a needle in a very large haystack. The suffix ‘vawr’, used for a prince, actually translated directly as big. So the prince of the Glyns was, literally, Big Glyn.

  There were other titles, though. To be Glynbas meant that you were related to the prince, she remembered that. Little Glyn. But ip… ip…

  ‘It means Glyn of the Glyns,’ Alex told her. ‘An honour, makes you a VIP.’

  Min contemplated the notion of an able star rating who was also a VIP, and made a little gulping noise.

  ‘No finger-kissing,’ Alex grinned. ‘But he may be at events and be introduced as ‘Glyn ip Glyn’. Not a problem, just treat him in the same way as any other guest.’

  ‘I feel,’ said Min, ‘my definition of ‘normal’ expanding.’ She was moving towards the door as she spoke, aware that he had a lot to do now before they got to Camae. ‘But – just, one more thing, Alex…’ she paused this side of the door, looking back at him. ‘You’re not,’ she asked, ‘seriously, going to have Simmy steward actual diplomatic dinners, are you?’ She saw the answer in his wicked grin, and groaned. ‘Ohh, Alex! I thought you were joking!’

  ‘Simmy,’ Alex said, ‘is my flag steward. She would be devastated if I didn’t allow her to carry out her duties, it would shatter her self-esteem and I would not do that to any member of my crew. My guests will be privately advised that I do have a very young steward and asked to overlook any mistakes she might make. But she has been learning, you know, working very hard, and I do think she might surprise you.’

  ‘Well, your call,’ Min conceded, fatalistically. ‘But – please, please, for pity’s sake, Alex… no bunting!’

  Alex looked hurt. ‘I like the bunting,’ he said.

  Min gave him a withering look and went out without another word.

  Fifteen

  Alex met Migan on his second day at Camae, by which time he was already starting to feel very much at home there.

  They met at the Embassy, where Alex was living. Even before he’d got into port he’d been told that he’d be staying at an apartment in the Embassy and shifting on to Camag time – and there had, he’d soon discovered, been no argument about it.

  Not that he’d argued, anyway. Not once he’d seen the itinerary and understood the care that the Embassy and the Camag authorities were planning for him. They had seen what condition the demands put on him at Chartsey had reduced him to, and they were having none of that here. His days would be organised with a reasonable workload, a well-balanced diet, time for rest and sightseeing and a full nine hours of undisturbed sleep.

  They still, as Her Excellency the League Ambassador had apologised for, had to do ‘The VIP thing’, so there was an Embassy dinner in his honour that evening, with the usual reception beforehand.

  In structure, even in venue, it was exactly the same as every other Embassy dinner he’d attended – a reception for around five hundred people in the big room with the mirrored wall and stiff floral arrangements on classical pillars. Stewards glided about with silver trays, distributing what Alex would never again be able to think of as anything other than opratiffs and horsedurrs. After an hour of this, the Ambassador and the privileged fifty or so would remove to the dining room, leaving the rest of the guests to a sumptuous buffet. After a five course dinner, then, the two groups recombined for after dinner coffee. Which, where climate permitted, was taken in the Embassy gardens.

  Alex could, as guest of honour, have opted for private coffee and liqueurs with the Ambassador instead, but he was feeling so relaxed and comfortable here that the idea of wandering out into the garden for coffee was actually enjoyable.

  Because this had not, despite superficial similarities, been your usual Embassy do. The guests at the reception had been chosen as a broad cross section of Camag society for Alex to meet. They’d been excited to meet him, but eager to tell him about themselves rather than to hammer him with the same old questions over and over and over again. He was interested, genuinely interested, and there was hardly one of them he wouldn’t have wanted to stay talking to at the point where the Cultural Attaché at his elbow courteously moved him along.

  Of all the people in the room, though, the one he was most reluctant to walk away from was Migan.

  ‘Migan Glynbas,’ the intern shepherding that particular group of guests brought them over at the Attaché’s subtle signal, introducing them with friendly informality, ‘She’s in Town Planning.’

  ‘It’s a lot more interesting than it sounds,’ said Migan. She was the eighty second Migan he’d been introduced to, just that day, but the only one he felt he would remember.

  She was of similar height to himself, perhaps a centimetre or two taller. Slim, quick physique, hazel-brown eyes, nut-brown hair, amber skin. Regular features, a wicked heart-shaped face. She was not wearing the currently fashionable quarian-inspired makeup, just a blue outline below her eyes which brought out the green in them to beguiling effect. Her
Camag formal-wear, a velvet gown with rather more skirt than could have been comfortable, was stylish but did not fit her well enough to have been made for her – borrowed or hired for the occasion, no doubt, as perhaps was the set of diamonds and emeralds which enclosed her throat, glinted at her ears, clasped her wrists and glittered in a thin tiara.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, and smiled into his eyes as they shook hands.

  What was it, that connection? Mere biochemistry? A visual match to an unconscious ideal? Or perhaps something more, an empathic awareness. Whatever it was, Alex felt a thrill go right through him at the touch of their hands, a fascination and attraction which he felt would have taken him to her through a very much bigger crowd than this.

  But the intern was already introducing others in the group, big smiles and hands outstretched. Two of them were very rapidly vocal, and even as he was trying to tear himself away from hearing all about them so that he could talk to Migan, the Attaché was gently signalling the intern to detach the group, gliding Alex on to meet the next.

  He thought about Migan more than once over dinner. She was not one of the privileged who sat down in the dining room. She was in the buffet crowd. So when asked afterwards if he would like to withdraw for private coffee and liqueurs, he said at once that he would like to join the other guests in the gardens.

  There was a ritual to this – a procession, led by the Ambassador and guest of honour, followed by the dining guests and then those at the reception, released to come and join them. They walked out on to the terrace and down the grand outdoor stairs into the formal gardens with their elegant lighting and the scent of night-blooming flowers.

  This was Camae, though, so the procession was no pompous semi-march but a noisily chattering throng milling down the steps in the Ambassador’s wake.

  As they got coffee and strolled around the ornamental pond, Alex was scanning the crowd for Migan – the Migan, as he was already thinking of her, and not allowing himself to think the thought that he would really rather like to be able to think of her as his Migan. They had, after all, spent rather less than two minutes in one another’s company, just a few words and a handshake.

  He thought that he was being subtle about his scanning of the crowd, but Her Excellency the League Ambassador to Camae didn’t miss much. As he was glancing oh-so casually around, she tapped his arm lightly with a finger and indicated with a movement of her head, and a knowing smile, that the person he was looking for was over there.

  She had come to stand at the edge of a box garden, far away enough not to be blatant about it, but positioning herself so that he could see and join her there if he felt so inclined.

  Alex glanced at the Ambassador, who moved her head again. It was a much more graceful movement than a jerk, but conveyed the same imperative, go!

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ said Alex, and walked over to Migan with a sense of thrill, of discovery, of magical potential, not that far removed from the feelings he might have at first contact with an alien race.

  It had been a long time, after all, a very long time, since Alex had met anyone like this. Yula hardly counted, in that sense. He’d known her for years as a friend, and though there’d always been a spark between them the flare of it into a romantic relationship had happened so fast they’d been kissing before they could think about it.

  This was different. This felt like being a teenager again, walking up to the girl you fancied. Alex felt scared, tongue-tied and absolutely wonderful.

  ‘Hello.’ She’d said something to the other people she was with as Alex approached, and they melted off into the background, not without some knowing grins of their own.

  ‘Hello.’ They stood there looking at one another for a few seconds in a silent mutual-admiration society of two. Then Alex, never the most socially polished of beings, ventured, ‘So – town planning, eh?’ And as Migan’s beautifully arched eyebrows raised, he prompted, ‘You said it was more interesting than it sounds.’

  She laughed. She had a lovely laugh, Alex thought. Not a self-conscious, polite little giggle, but a gurgle that made you want to chuckle as well.

  ‘I always say that,’ she told him. ‘Everyone thinks Town Planning is too dull for words. And it is, too, I suppose, if you don’t find it interesting. I do, but I try not to bore people with it.’

  Alex smiled. He could not imagine Migan ever being boring.

  ‘So – what is it that you do?’ he asked, and hazarded, ‘Plan towns, I suppose?’

  She gave a deeper, more prolonged gurgle at the thought of that.

  ‘No – my job is to advise town councils on their housing requirements,’ she said. ‘I’m a statistician – I study population shifts both socio-economically and geographically, so I can advise town councils if the next five years is likely to see a rising or falling demand for housing and if they need to build, what kind of housing they will need to plan for. Its interesting work, research and analysis, and if I get it right, housing is there for people when they need it.’ She smiled. ‘And now,’ she observed, ‘I should ask what you do, but…’ she gave him a mischievous look and gurgled merrily again. ‘Let’s face it, I already know.’

  Alex gave the almost inaudible snurge which was as close as he could come, whilst in dress uniform and out in public, to a hearty guffaw. His expression was severe, he knew, for all that he wanted more than anything just to chat and smile. But she seemed to understand, and to be able to see past the public stone-face, too, seeing the man within.

  Alex looked at her – intelligent, funny, attractive, socially confident; she was just his type. But he’d met many women over the years who’d been every bit as attractive and had turned away from them, uninterested.

  Something had changed, he recognised. In him. And he was self-aware enough to recognise that it was not a random thing that he felt ready to date now. His ex-wife had behaved appallingly at Chartsey, bringing up a lot of very painful, deeply buried feelings. And Yula was marrying somebody else. So this… this oddly imperative feeling, the desire for consolation, even validation that his romantic life was not lying crushed and bleeding in the dust... this was rebound.

  Part of him was telling him that it was not fair to engage in a relationship when you knew yourself to be on an emotional rebound. More of him was of the opinion that it was not fair for him to engage in any relationships at all, given the immense media blitz and even personal security risk being with him would entail. His libido, though, was blocking his brain, snapping back that it was hardly entering into a relationship, they were just talking.

  ‘I’d rather hear about you, anyway,’ he said – charm, by Alex’s standards. ‘So – are you part of a big family?’ This was a pretty safe bet on Camae, but she laughed again. Probably, he thought, at his clumsy chat-up.

  ‘No – just the usual,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’ Alex was genuinely interested. ‘So – what’s ‘The usual?’’ he queried.

  Migan grinned. ‘The average family on Camae,’ she said, ‘statistically, has between a hundred and a hundred and twenty adult members and between ten and fifteen children. Between forty eight and fifty two of the adults will commute to work in cities, ten to twelve of them will work locally and the rest will work, as I do, primarily from home. They will occupy between fourteen and sixteen houses, own, between them, one or two family vehicles and one or two croffs, with an average income of…’

  ‘Please!’ Alex was almost laughing aloud at that, flinging up a hand. ‘I know all that!’ he told her. ‘I meant – what’s your family like?’

  ‘My family?’ Migan smiled warmly. ‘They’re great! I’m living with my parents just now. I share a room with my younger sister Bithny and my cousin and his wife are staying there too till they get a place of their own. Beyond that, you know – the usual!’ She grinned. ‘Two brothers and another sister, their partners, their kids, aunties, uncles, cousins, up the generations to the great-greats, two great-great grandparents surviving and seven great-gr
eat aunties and uncles. My great aunt Migan is head of the family.’

  That was a real thing on Camae. The head of the family was a legally recognised entity, and liable to be called in as such in any matter of family or even civil law in the Camag courts. And in a familial sense, at least, their word was law.

  ‘We are, I guess, pretty typical – average, if you like,’ Migan said. ‘We’re Glynbas because great-great-great grandad was a cousin of the Prince, but that dies out in the next generation so any grandkids of mine will be plain old Glyn. We’re a middle income family, most of us in office work, most of us live in the Tertsea region of Parva. We have two buses – one of which my Uncle Owun insists on driving, to the terror of everyone else in the air, so we tend to race for the other. You should see it, at a picnic – everyone’s packed up the food and they’re waiting, watching Aunt Migan with this tension gathering, and she just sits there, arms crossed, dragging it out – anyone who tries to get up gets the Glare, so people are trying to move into a starter-crouch without her noticing. And then when she finally says, ‘Okay, let’s go,’ the entire family springs up and races for the other bus, elbows pumping, with poor old Uncle Owun coming after and calling out, ‘Come on, I’m a really good driver!’’