by Patty Jansen
My father had said yes, and then Erith had shaken her head and mumbled something about gamra not being happy with him.
Half-distracted, I pulled a simple sleeveless tunic from the rack. The fabric was thin like gauze and when I draped it over my arm, my skin shone through. Was this acceptable?
Thayu stood at the entrance to the shop, legs apart, hands on hips. She wore a temperature retaining suit, and her silver-clad arms protruded from under her tunic. The fabric showed a slight bulge at her thigh, and a metallic glint.
Monitoring equipment? A gun? Nicha never carried a weapon.
Telaris leaned against the doorpost; Evi had come into the shop, but his eyes were focused on the plaza outside.
None of them was going to be much help in choosing. I should have brought Eirani, for all the hostility that would have evoked from Thayu.
“That would be an appropriate choice,” the fitter said behind me, and his voice startled me.
I held the tunic up, and couldn’t see myself in something so . . . revealing.
“Does the shop have something with longer sleeves?” I was no athlete and there was no need to advertise that fact.
“Yes, there are various other designs.” The man proceeded to pull out four other tunics, some with sleeves, some not. None came with matching trousers, so I would have to buy those separately. Not blue—only senior delegates wore full blue dress.
Bewildered, I glanced at Thayu, but her attention was elsewhere: on a man who walked past her into the shop.
He was at least a head taller than me, carried his height without stooping or looking reedy. His uniform was all blue: a shimmering tunic and trousers in a slightly darker shade. A thin cloak, like an academic gown, hung from his shoulders. His chest and collar bore gold-coloured ornaments.
Not an ordinary delegate, this one.
He bowed, first to the uniform fitter, and then to me. His eyes were brown like beach sand, lighter than hazel and not vivid enough to be yellow.
“I’m here to pick up my order,” he told the fitter in accentless Coldi.
Yet he definitely wasn’t Coldi. Too thin, and too tall, his eyes deep-set, not flat and single-folded, like the Coldi, Asian-like eyes. His hair was night-black without the peacock gloss, hanging loose over his shoulders.
“Just a moment. Excuse me.” The fitter scrambled to the other side of the shop, fumbled in a cupboard and pushed a wrapped parcel across the counter.
The man took it, gave a curt thanks and headed back to the entrance. When he was almost out the door, he hesitated, again turning his gaze on me.
“Delegate.” He nodded at the tunic in my hand. “Delegate, if I may be so impudent, I believe that the short sleeves are out. If merchant Hadri wants to get rid of his stock, he can do so without preying on unsuspecting new delegates. Wearing short sleeves will make a person look out-of-touch. The hem of the tunic needs to be below the thigh and the elbow-length sleeves are very trendy at the moment.”
The fitter made some spluttering noises.
I inclined my head. “Thank you. In all truth, I am new and I do not know much about the latest trends.” Nothing, in fact.
An expression came on his lips that could be a smile, or maybe not, since I was lost as to what type of person this was. “We all know who you are, and merchant Hadri knows this, too. But you must forgive me. I better introduce myself. Marin Federza.” He held out his hand in an Earth-style greeting.
“Cory Wilson.” I held up my hands, clumsily. “I’m afraid I’m indisposed. You know our customs?” Most gamra cultures did not shake hands.
“My grandfather taught me.” He paused and then continued in Isla, “It seems that was a useful skill.” Accentless.
One thing I had learned early in interactions with gamra people: never assume that no one understood me, whatever language I spoke. Most delegates were fluent in at least one other language besides their own, if not two or three, but to hear Isla spoken this well surprised me, hell, more than surprised me. Not many non-Coldi came to Earth. Certainly no one I knew who hadn’t grown up on Earth spoke any Earth language this well. Those languages were of no import in the scheme of things at gamra.
“Forgive my rudeness, but you represent. . . ?” Also in Isla.
Thayu scrambled to attach the translator to her ear.
“The Trader Guild.”
Ah. Reason clicked into place. Traders travelled a lot and knew many different languages. Now the unusual dress code also made sense. Traders had their own uniforms. The Trader Guild was a government without a country, but older than gamra itself.
I inclined my head and went back to Coldi. “Forgive me, Trader Delegate. I didn’t realise.”
“We don’t tend to be loud. We just get the work done.”
“You have regular contact with Earth?”
“I’ve been there, a few times. Interesting place.” His face showed no emotion.
I laughed away my unease. A few times did not justify his total command of Isla, and I didn’t know what else to ask, without being rude for no reason.
Marin Federza nodded at the tunic still draped over my arm. “I better let you choose your uniform. I will see you again when zhamata meets. I believe your speech will be popular. A lot of delegates are talking about it.”
“I bet they are.” Damn that Asto delegate and her pressure.
“I am looking forward to it.” He stepped closer to me, enclosing me in a scent of musk-like perfume. “Delegate, I want to say that we support you in this matter that has upset Nations of Earth. If you air your entity’s concerns, we will support your vote, if it comes to that.”
“Thank you, Delegate.”
“We want to solve this peacefully.”
“Sure.”
“I will see you then.” Marin Federza bowed and strode to the shop entrance.
Thayu watched him, the listening device attached to her ear. Her face showed no emotion.
As he walked across the plaza, the realisation came to me: like Delegate Akhtari, Trader Marin Federza was an Aghyrian, the original inhabitants of Asto who had almost been extinct.
I also had a feeling his meeting me here had been no accident.
* * *
After I finished ordering the uniforms, Thayu took me to the Trader Ledger. The gamra financial organisation occupied a freestanding building in the middle of one of the courtyards. The outer walls made entirely from glass, it looked like a giant crystal cube, strangely out of place in this stately complex with its ochre-walled buildings, mosaics, carved columns, arched entranceways and nary a right angle.
I had been to the office before, but as I stepped into the cooled air and padded onto the soft carpet of the light-filled hall where couches stood around low tables, the whole atmosphere obtained a new meaning. This was the office of gamra’s most important financial institution, and it belonged to the Trader Guild. No other entity had commercial representation within gamra headquarters.
And Marin Federza, whom I had just met, represented them, represented this entire building with its wood panelling and glass walls, with its luxurious carpet and polished wood tables surrounded by soft chairs; he represented all the employees, dressed in Trader red, a bright carmine, who worked quietly at their desks, modern holo-projectors before them.
Thayu led me towards an employee who beckoned, and then bowed as we took seats opposite the table.
I gave my name and details, and the employee brought up my account.
There had been a modest transfer as part of my gamra advance. Not a great amount. Not enough, I thought, to pay for the accommodation when that bill appeared.
“Is there anything else? I’m expecting an advance to come in from Nations of
Earth.”
The man used his eyes to give a command. More figures hovered in the air; he shook his head. “Nothing as yet.”
Damn Danziger. What was going on?
“Could it be that the transfer is held up because new accounts need to be set up?” My first stipend was meant to have gone in at the signing of the handover.
“It could be . . . but in that case the hold-up is at the other end. Any transfer affected anywhere at any of our offices is available immediately. That is our service guarantee.”
I blew out a breath. The money simply wasn’t there. Right—I reordered the six office staff in my mind—I had to reserve one person to chase up the funds more aggressively for a few days. If I had a few days, because right now, I had nothing to pay them, and someone was sure to turn up with a bill.
Chapter 12
* * *
WE MADE OUR WAY back to the apartment along the tree-lined waterfront. Delegates clad in various amounts of blue sat on benches, quietly discussing or reading. The windows of the administrative offices of gamra subdivisions looked out over the marshland. A lazy harvester floated in a field, sunlight glinting off its beetle-like back and the surrounding water. Locals waded through the paddy to load bags onto a flat-bottomed boat.
In the distance, the main island of Barresh basked in sunlight. Pink-flowered trees spread their crowns over the roofs of the blocky mansions of the old families. The white dome of the council building protruded from a mass of green.
The air was heavy with humidity and the scent of wet mud.
I felt Thayu’s presence next to me without looking. The warmth radiating from her pricked my skin, even in the bright morning sun; I hovered between wanting to step away and wanting to get closer. If she had been Nicha, we would have touched in some way, one of those wordless Coldi gestures. A hand on the shoulder, a tickle in the side, a pat on the head. Just to confirm that yes, I’m still here. I still support you.
I halted and walked onto one of the eating-house terraces, if simply to step away from her, to have an excuse not to touch her, and put a table between us.
We sat down under a large tree, and I studied the branches for listening equipment.
Dappled shadows fell over her face, each with one yellowish and one bluish edge, an effect of the binary suns. It gave her eyes a soft look.
Those gorgeous eyes. I had dreamed of Inaru again last night. Was this bewitching woman going to leave me in peace?
The guards had stopped at a few benches that lined the edge of the terrace. For security, I guessed. Evi unclipped a reader from his belt and used his thumb to flick through the screens.
A small beep signalled the arrival at our table of a serving robot, a circular column about half a metre across, on three sturdy wheels. The top part swivelled so a screen faced us.
“Any idea about the specialties of this place?” I asked Thayu.
“The chilled juice isn’t bad.”
I went through the robot’s menu, making sure that whatever juice I ordered from the selection was suitable for both of us. Even that simple action brought memories—asking for lists of ingredients from restaurants when I took Inaru somewhere away from the Coldi community. As afterthought, I added two lots of yellow-coded juice for the Indrahui guards, who sat, silent and observant, watching every movement on the terrace.
The robot accepted my code and ambled into the building. Silence lingered.
Eventually, she asked, “Is there a problem?”
I said, in a low voice, “I’d like to know who is going to pay for my accommodation. Is anyone paying you?”
Thayu frowned at me. Her gold-speckled eyes reflected the blue sky. “I get my usual stipend.”
I presumed the money came directly from gamra headquarters. “What about the apartment? How much am I being charged for that?”
“You haven’t been told?”
“No. I know nothing. All I knew was that I’d have accommodation, and I assumed that would be on the ground floor.”
“You are unhappy that gamra gave you better accommodation?”
“The quality of the accommodation is not the issue. Didn’t you see my fund balance back there at the ledger? That’s all I have. There is no way I’ll be able to pay for the accommodation, and for the staff.”
A frown made her eyebrows bristle. “Maybe someone is lending it.”
“Yes, but whoever lends me accommodation will want something in return. That’s why I want to know whose apartment it is. Who is spying on us?”
She blinked, still frowning. “I don’t know. I thought it wise to make you aware of the equipment. It may not be used for a reason in particular. As far as I know, all apartments are bugged this way. I don’t know who owns the apartment.”
“And I don’t believe that.”
She blinked. “The only thing I know is a name, a local I think, someone who is not in the assembly. The apartment is registered in the name of Renkati. I have no idea who this person is.”
I tried hard, but didn’t entirely succeed, in stifling my Earthly anger. She had known the name of the owner all along. How very Coldi.
“To me, the name alone is an answer, even if you don’t know who the person is.”
A short silence. She looked down. “My apologies, Delegate.” Back to formal pronouns.
I touched her then, lifted up her chin until her eyes met mine; a Coldi gesture of forgiveness. “I said to call me Cory. I understand what you’ve been taught. Only the full reply will do, but listen: giving me the name would have told me that whoever owns the apartment, it’s not anyone I know. I don’t know why I was put in here or even if it’s important, or if the listening equipment is routine, but one thing we do know: this is not a routine situation. I am sure this is not a standard job for you either. My boss was murdered. The person you replace has either been framed for the crime or arrested on the basis of discrimination. Delegate Akhtari seems to think someone is after me. Every bit of information, no matter how incomplete, is valuable to me, and it should be valuable to you. We are stuck in the same shit together.”
She winced; I had used the word orro, meaning the putrid contents of the latrine in army desert camps, drawn from Nicha’s extensive vocabulary of Coldi swear words. She said nothing, blinking several times.
I let out a breath. “Thayu, I want you to find out who this person is, who is listening to me, and with whom they’re allied.”
“I will do that, Delegate. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. I will try to do better.”
I lifted up her chin again. “I told you to call me Cory.”
She gave me a blank look.
* * *
I cursed myself for much of the way back to the apartment. This was not going well. How could I make her understand that I couldn’t, just couldn’t, be as close to her as a normal zhayma relationship demanded?
Eva would not understand that the reassuring pats on the head didn’t mean anything, or weren’t supposed to mean anything, but reminded me of Inaru, or . . . awakened memories I thought I had forgotten. So many things I had never told Eva. How could I not adore anyone whose eyes were so incredibly beautiful? How could I not gaze and marvel?
It wasn’t right. I didn’t want to be touched by her, and when she got a feeder, I didn’t want to share my thoughts with her.
With Nicha, it had been easy. Nicha grew up in London; Nicha understood.
And now Thayu thought she failed me, and this whole mess was my fault. I, who had lived under the illusion that I understood Coldi so well. That I could handle cultural differences. That I could separate intimacy for bonding and intimacy for love.
And I couldn’t.
I wanted Nicha back.
As I stepped into the hall, Devlis ran out of the darkened hub room. “Delegate. Someone has been most insistent to contact you.”
“Someone?”
“I don’t know who it is.”
Danziger. Hope flooded me. “What did you tell them?”
“I couldn’t tell them anything. They don’t write Coldi.”
In a few steps, I was in the hub room. I sank into the chair, still warm from where the young man had been sitting. “Where is the message?”
Devlis bent over the control panel and dragged out the message from behind other projections.
It was from Eva. I knew I shouldn’t feel disappointed, but I did. Why was Eva the only person writing to me?
Cory, I’m scared. The press, World Newspoint and Danziger’s people are saying a lot of horrible things about you. Ever since you left our street has been blocked off. The place is swarming with journalists. They want information, as if Dad can give that to them. No one in Athens is willing to speak to the press. Nicha has been arrested. Some people are saying how you might have something to do with Sirkonen’s murder because you disappeared. I don’t believe this at all, of course, but I worry. Now there are rumours that you have been kidnapped in Barresh. Please Cory, let me know how you are.
I stared at the text.
I had sent her messages. “You disappeared”? What had happened to the contribution I had written for Word Newspoint yesterday?
I pushed Eva’s letter to the side and opened the Exchange link.
As I scrolled through the World Newspoint service, my first thought was that they hadn’t put the statement up at all. Eventually I found my long letter . . . in the fucking opinions section? I linked to the many comments attached to the article, half of which, or at least the ones I read before my eyes clouded over with anger, seemed to doubt the authenticity of my message.
If you are really Mr Wilson, some loudmouth said, maybe you could tell us why these aliens are dictating the terms to us.
