by Patty Jansen
She nodded.
“You.” I turned around and stopped at the next desk. “You might want to help him.” I pointed at the man I had told to work on Delia’s files. “I think there is quite a lot of work. Let me know if it doesn’t look like you’ll get it done. Also, the gamra news bulletins. Find out what they’re saying and what the mood is about the attack on Perto Sirkonen and whatever has happened since. . . .” I hesitated. “Especially find out what’s happening with the refugee situation.” I still heard that woman’s voice, Azisha! If her son hadn’t been on our flight, he would have been left behind in Athens.
Wide-eyed, the staff packed away their other work—whatever they had been doing, whoever for.
I was probably totally out of order, and much too informal, but they would have to get used to that.
The staff take liberties.
Not anymore. As long as it lasted, before someone presented me with a bill, I’d make as much use of these people as I could.
“You two, come with us.” I gestured at the remaining men, both young and lean.
I turned and strode out again. Thayu stood at the door; I swore her face carried an amused expression.
In the hall, I opened the door and told the Indrahui guards to come inside. They protested, but I explained that I had brought two locals to take their places at the door. The young men perked up to be given that task. The guards didn’t like it, but I insisted. No one else understood Isla.
Then, finally, with the black forms of the guards, and the assistant from downstairs, I went into communication room.
Thayu slid behind the control panel, and the staff lined up, looking awkward, in a showcase of different gamra races.
I pointed the young man from the office to a control panel on a desk just inside the door. “What is your name again?”
“Devlis, Delegate.” The light from the projection showed up the groove in the tip of his nose. A local, like Eirani.
“All right, Devlis, I am going to contact some people. I want you to make sure everything, every word, every picture, every attempt to connect, even if all lines are busy, is logged into my work directive area. Do you know how to do that?”
“I do, Delegate.”
“When you’ve set that up, I want you to be an independent witness. Use the translator, and log it as well.”
Without a word, Devlis tapped a command on one of the screens and then found a little box somewhere under the desk. He seemed to know what he was doing.
I turned to the two Indrahui. “Mashara, come over here and sit on this bench.” I gestured to the right of Thayu. “I want you to witness and use your experience with my world to interpret what’s going on. Make plenty of notes.” I hesitated. “The other thing is . . . your names, mashara. I know it’s not appropriate to ask, but this is my office, and it is not in my custom to speak to nameless people.”
The men glanced at each other.
“Anyone who doesn’t like it will be invited to share a cup of manazhu with the Delegate,” Thayu said.
Eyes widened.
I had to make an effort not to snort. “I believe my zhayma is joking.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled with laughter.
Oh, that dratted Coldi sense of humour. “Forget about the manazhu. If the staff is so good as to get it, I know it will be precious enough not to waste it on those who do not appreciate it. But, mashara, I would like your names.”
The guard with the dyed hair expelled a breath. “Evi.”
“Then you must be Telaris.”
The other man gave a small waggle with his fingers, a sign guards used for yes.
I hoped I hadn’t crossed too many boundaries. Indrahui expressions were hard to read and what little I knew about their culture indicated that they were intensely private people. I’d have to make this up to them in some way.
“Then let’s get to work.”
Thayu indicated that I should sit next to her, facing a sloping control panel with a glowing web of blue lines, like a spider web, and sliding buttons at their junctions. I had seen a similar setup numerous times before, at the Exchange in Athens, but had never been so close to the equipment.
Thayu’s hands moved over the lines with practised ease. The lines changed colour depending on how hard she pressed. Her eyes glanced here, then there. She adjusted this slide, then that one. There was a faint buzz and all around the walls little dots of light sprang into life. A 3D image of the gamra logo appeared in midair.
Thayu pointed at a junction on the panel. “This is where you make the connection. Press here.”
I did as she indicated, slid the touch-point right up to the junction.
Around the walls, the small projection nozzles of the imager increased in brightness and the image flickered in the air. Something that looked like the gamra news channel.
“Do I have an access code yet?” I needed that to get into the message board and get my personal directives.
She drew the floating command board to her and typed, lightning-fast. Coldi characters flew over the screen. She waited, typed again when letters flashed. Then she gave me that alert, alive-and-fighting look. Gorgeous eyes blinked. Triumphant. “There.” She was enjoying herself.
I squirmed, couldn’t meet her eyes any longer. If Eva ever found out I’d lived under the same roof as this gorgeous creature, she’d have a fit.
I connected with my reader and sent off a couple of short messages.
To my father: I am in Barresh. I’m fine.
To Amarru: Have arrived. Everything fine. Please check Nations of Earth payment to my accounts. I paused for a bit. Do you have lists of refugees stranded at the Exchange?
To Eva: I’m in Barresh. Everything is fine. I love you.
To Nixie Chan: Please report on Nicha.
To Delia: I have started my appointment. I apologise for my hasty departure, but I assure you that everything is fine. Expect my first report soon. I cringed at that one. I didn’t trust Delia as far as I could throw her, but she was, for the Nations of Earth half of my contract, still my supervisor.
To Danziger: I advise extreme caution in Nations of Earth actions. Please contact me as soon as possible.
Seeing as it was midmorning in Rotterdam, I expected replies very soon.
Then—I took a deep breath as if plunging in cold water—the Earth news services.
I linked to World Newspoint first. Across the page, in letters larger than this conservative service normally used, was one word: War.
I read, heart thudding, of riots in many large cities. Two deaths in an apartment fire in Paris, a woman and a young child. Coldi, I suspected.
The projection showed image after image of riot squads, of screaming protesters, of young men hurling rocks at buildings. Rotterdam went without city heating. A woman ventured into the street selling old-fashioned electric heaters and was attacked by a mob.
Mayhem.
Danziger appealed for calm.
Governments introduced martial law.
And damn—Elsi Schumacher’s body had been found in a bushland reserve in the province of South Bayern. The cause of death was not yet known, but since the body was tied up and wrapped in hessian bags it seemed highly unlikely she’d died of natural causes.
A huge military presence had closed the Exchange to all off-Earth air traffic. Athens was isolated.
World Newspoint displayed an article about me under the title Betrayed again. Underneath was a copy of my Nations of Earth staff photo, in which I resembled a rabbit caught in headlights.
As if causing the death of President Sirkonen was not enough, the Union has taken another of our candidates. Following the disappearance of Seymour
Kershaw ten years ago comes the disappearance, in similar circumstances, of Cory Wilson. Mr Wilson, on a contract shared by the Union and Nations of Earth, had been scheduled to depart for Barresh earlier this morning. However, when department staff checked on his room last night, they found it unoccupied. No one could shed any light as to Mr Wilson’s whereabouts. The hotel reception mentioned that “some black-skinned, red-haired people” had collected Mr Wilson’s luggage and paid his hotel bill, but Mr Wilson himself has not been seen since leaving his fiancé’s house in the early hours of the morning.
“It appears,” Ms Delia Murchison of Nations of Earth said, “that the Union is deeply involved in both the attack on the president and Mr Wilson’s disappearance. In response to our queries, we have heard nothing but silence.”
I closed the article, feeling sick. I should have been there. I should have explained, I should have . . . But what difference would it have made? People were saying I was a traitor, even before I left.
I wasn’t old school. I wasn’t from the aristocracy. I was a New Colonist from a section of humanity no one on Earth understood.
Flash Newspoint presented a different angle on the news.
Mr Zbrowsky, the Polish ambassador, said, “The young man has been mistaken in his belief that these people meant no harm. I had the two of them in my house. I should have stopped them leaving with Mr Wilson.” Eva Zbrowsky, Mr Wilson’s fiancée, was too distraught to speak. . . .
I clenched my jaws so hard my teeth crunched.
Wasn’t that just typical of Flash? There was no need to drag Eva into this. She had nothing to do with it.
But it was at the Nations-of-Earth-funded background news service Peace Newspoint that I found the most disturbing report.
Following the military blockade of the Exchange, security agencies report an increased activity in high-orbital space activity. The Exchange refuses to divulge the identity of the fleet, but it appears that a force is gathering to counter military action by Nations of Earth.
Written by Melissa Hayworth, whose restraint I found admirable. Had she written Asto is about to launch a counter-attack, this might have been all over the news.
I pulled out my reader and fired off a second, more urgent message to Danziger, even though he hadn’t replied to the first one.
“Delegate? Muri?”
Someone stirred at the door, one of the young men I had posted outside; he had used the local term for sir. “Some visitors . . . here . . . for you.” Interesting choice of pronouns, those informal ones. Not on purpose, certainly. The owner of the apartment obviously saw no need for correct formal Coldi pronouns.
“Let them in.”
“They . . . already inside. They want . . . see the Delegate now.”
Trouble.
Thayu glanced at me as I rose. “Do you want me to come?” That was a very intimate you she used.
I signalled yes, appreciated her support, and as we crossed the hall, regretted not having a feeder, because feeders were most useful in situations like this. There was really no alternative: I knew I would have to get one, and deal with the consequences of her intruding in my personal thoughts and memories. And explaining it to Eva.
Five people waited in the living room. Three guards stood silhouetted against the light that came in through the window. Coldi. Armed. Both couches had been pushed back into their former v-formation. On one couch sat a woman and, facing her, a man, both Coldi. I’d seen both of them before, but never this close. Delegates Ayanu and Sishaya, ambassador and vice ambassador of the Asto delegation.
Trouble indeed. In big fat capital letters.
But wait—there were only five. That meant there had to be someone else. Two delegates each with two guards.
Indeed as soon as I walked into the room, the missing guard materialised from next to the door. He had his charge gun out of its bracket and held it, casually, pointing at the floor.
In my living room.
The woman, Delegate Ayanu, said, “You accuse Asto of this attack on your president? What is your basis?” Her speech, harsh and abrupt, rattled with accusatory pronouns.
Good morning to you, too.
I stopped a few paces inside the door. With both couches occupied, there was nowhere for me to sit.
So today’s business was intimidation, huh?
In Coldi society, she would be my superior, and I should greet her as such: looking down, my arms by my sides.
Gamra protocol didn’t require this deference, but lines between gamra protocol and that of the individual member entities blurred often, and if people wanted to impress or schmooze Coldi delegates, they usually adhered to Coldi customs.
Not me. Not today.
I quietly met her gaze, darker than Thayu’s. Like a lot of middle-aged Coldi women, she carried a fair amount of weight, with soft fleshy arms protruding from her tunic.
“I do not accuse Asto of anything.” And that was a goddamned royal I.
“Then what is this?” She signalled and the guard behind her placed a reader on the couch next to her and hit a button. A projection sprung up.
A sweaty-faced man sat at a table in a courtyard, fiddling with the hem of a dirty shirt. His hair, limp and grey, hung down the sides of his head like bits of greasy string.
With a sick feeling I recognised the image: the dramatic last scene from the movie about Seymour Kershaw. The fake-Coldi Asian man, the fake setting, the Jacaranda tree, the fake gun. The Coldi man shooting Kershaw.
Bang, bang.
The projection went black.
In the room, harsh eyes met mine, six pairs of real Coldi eyes that said explain. Thayu behind me was probably thinking much the same thing. She had a right to be angry. They all did.
If I ever met that movie producer I’d kick him all the way to Mars.
“I think the Delegate misunderstands.” Back to a neutral I now. “I’m sure the Delegate can see that the attacker is not a real Coldi man.”
“Then what is the value of this?”
I glared at the rolling credits.
The movie had been filmed in some studio in Italy and a number of companies with Italian-sounding names had been involved in it.
“The value of this movie is entertainment, nothing more.” Not story because that could be interpreted as lie. Not recount because that could also mean history.
“Entertainment.” She snorted. “Surely the people of your world don’t tell untruths for the sake of offending others. This . . . movie is a load of propaganda.”
Another word I’d been avoiding.
“It is not.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I attempted to explain. “The educational value of this type of entertainment is not in the learning of facts, but in the exploring of possibilities. It is about asking the question: what if history had been different?”
“But it never happened any different.” Trust Coldi bluntness to misunderstand my intentions. Curse Coldi to come in here unannounced, while I was unprepared to argue my case.
The credits had finished. At the end one single line remained on the black background. Dedicated to Amoro Renkati, whoever that was.
Their guard shut down the recording. Delegate Ayanu’s gaze never wavered from mine.
I said, “I agree with you.”
Up went the eyebrows again.
“I am pretty sure it didn’t happen like this, but we need to face the truth: no one knows what happened to this man because his body was never found. This movie tells us how it might have happened.”
“You contradict yourself. You just said this is unlikely to have happened. So why tell it like this? It’s a lie.”
“It’s not
, because it was never meant to represent the truth.” I would make a comparison with dreams, but Coldi didn’t talk about dreams; they were regarded as embarrassing. They did, however, have a high regard for history.
“For example, you could make a movie about a part in the history of Asto that isn’t clear, or a part where one little difference would have changed everything.”
She frowned, but said nothing, so I went on, “For example, a movie could show what would have happened if the meteorite that struck Asto thousands of years ago didn’t wipe out all larger inhabitants.”
“But it did,” she said, her face stiff. And the Coldi race had risen from the ashes, people now known to have been engineered for survival by the race that had inhabited Asto and had spread humanity across the universe.
“Yes, I know, but that’s beside the point. What if it hadn’t? What would it have meant? Say if for argument’s sake the meteorite had been smaller and it hadn’t struck where it did, and there hadn’t been a shift in surface temperature, and Aghyrians had survived in large numbers, then Asto would look very different today, wouldn’t it?”
Her face hardened.
“This is not a joking matter.”
“I agree, it is not.” Shit. Bad move, Mr Wilson.
“Then tell me, why are we talking about this?”
“To illustrate my explanation. Someone tells an alternative sequence of events. A story. Not true. Our culture does that all the time.”
Her face remained hard. “So . . . someone can say just about anything, make a movie like this, and then when people get angry about it, they say it’s not real. How do you even know which way it’s intended?”
“By the way it’s presented.” But plenty of people on Earth seemed to have trouble with just this dilemma. When networks like Flash become involved, lines between fact and fiction blurred. Allegations were raised, and never retracted. Rumours spread, and never stopped doing the rounds.
Delegate Ayanu’s finger went up a fraction.
