Ambassador 1: Seeing Red (Ambassador: Space Opera Thriller)

by Patty Jansen

  She fiddled with the screen and showed me again.

  The Station Juice Bar, Barendrecht.

  “Do we know where that is?”

  “A part of Rotterdam. Mashara is working on the details right now. If we leave now, we buy ourselves some time before Renkati shows up.”

  When, not if, they showed up.

  I glanced at the relative safety of the waiting minibus outside the entrance. Rain still fell in sheets, leaving trails of mist over surrounding paddocks. The minibus was a regular taxi and had no equipment with which the guards could communicate, so one of them had to wave until the driver spotted them and brought the vehicle to the entrance.

  Two guards first, then Ezhya and me, and then Thayu and the last two guards behind her. Into the rain. Cold wind whipped straight through my shirt. Shivering, I clutched my reader to my chest. I wasn’t used to this kind of weather anymore. At the door of the van, I waited for Thayu to catch up. She half-ran, shielding her eyes from the rain. Her face was drawn taut.

  Horrible memories of near-death on the marshland outside Barresh? Her feeder output was blocked.

  I ached to say a few personal words, but she avoided my eyes, flung herself into the first available seat.

  I clambered up the step and sank in the seat next to Ezhya Palayi.

  The driver closed the door, and sought for my eyes in the bewildering party of weird people. “Back to the station, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The bus turned onto the road.

  I stared unseeing out the window. I hoped desperately that Michael Sirkonen would have the information we were after. I also hoped that whatever the meeting entailed, the Station Juice Bar served meals, and coffee, because, not having eaten either breakfast or lunch, I was swaying on my feet. Maybe Coldi and Indrahui could survive on thin air, but I definitely could not.

  Next to me, Ezhya said, in a thoughtful voice, “This particular visit was very useful.”

  “Was it?” That was news to me.

  Ezhya let a small silence lapse.

  “What he said—that the surface of our planet is cooling significantly—is what I suspected—and feared. It also explains actions by some groups.”

  “Does it?” I tore my gaze from the sodden paddocks and met the gold-specked black eyes.

  Ezhya’s face looked drawn, the grey in his hair more noticeable. He clasped his hands on his knees. “Not directly in relation to the murder of your president or this organisation that calls themselves Amoro Renkati, but to the larger motives behind it all.”

  I frowned.

  “Gamra has a law that none of the member entities should have repressed populations. An original population of a piece of land can stake a claim on their home territory to have it returned to them. In the past those claims have largely been granted by zhamata, and secondary populations, invaders if you like, have scrambled to defend themselves, and remain eligible to the network. That’s partly why Indrahui is such a mess.”

  I nodded. Then a feeling of cold ran over my spine. I whispered, “The Aghyrians.” They were the original inhabitants of Asto.

  Ezhya sighed. “Yes. Indeed. There has never been a point for them to make the claims, but a lower temperature is likely to make the planet once more inhabitable by the Aghyrians.”

  And leave a whole planet open to be claimed by a few? That was too ridiculous to contemplate. “But they’ve been gone for—how many years?”

  “That doesn’t matter. They’ll want what they think is legally theirs.”

  I didn’t think that was bluff. The hatred of Coldi had been obvious in everything I had seen from the Aghyrians: in Marin Federza’s words, in the way the medico spoke, in the way they offered Amoro Renkati the technology to break away from an Asto-dominated gamra. “There are only—what—about two hundred thousand of them?”

  “There are, but they are the fastest-growing ethnicity within gamra. Already, they hold many positions of power.”

  Delegate Joyelin Akhtari, Trader Marin Federza.

  “Most are extremely intelligent. They have technology that baffles our best teams.”

  “Which Amoro Renkati wants to use to set up a rival Exchange network, and which has been used to kill President Sirkonen.”

  “The Aghyrians have simply pushed Amoro Renkati into action. They are using Amoro Renkati as their lackeys. The Aghyrians have time. Before they make their claim, they would like to see our standing within gamra weakened.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I knew: it also made far too much sense. “Something must be done against this law. They can’t just go ahead and disown an entire population for the sake of a few.”

  “If the law isn’t changed, they can. The law was written to protect small populations who have been driven from their homelands. There are conditions that must be met, but we’ve tested them, and if the Aghyrians decided to claim, they could probably meet all of them. Asto would have to make huge concessions to the Aghyrians in order to maintain its Exchange. If this Amoro Renkati gets their way, there will be a lot of entities voting against us. I wouldn’t like to predict the outcome.”

  I stared. There were billions of people on Asto; they wouldn’t be happy with this. “So the material Danziger found was indeed a contingency plan?”

  Ezhya blew out a breath. “There are many such plans for many different places. We must be prepared for the worst.”

  In other words: yes?

  My voice dropped to a whisper. “Would you evacuate the entire population?”

  “Only if absolutely necessary. If the climate changes are worse than we feared. If we can’t come to an agreement. If . . .” He shrugged. “Right now, it doesn’t look good.”

  “Wouldn’t you . . . fight?”

  “Only if we have to. But it would split gamra. We would lose the Exchange network, because it can’t exist without us. Without others, who would walk out, we have no trade.” He let the obvious hang in the air: Asto imported much of its food. He shook his head. “No. We must keep talking. It will take a long time, but we must solve this peacefully, with gamra, with independent negotiators. It’s the only way.”

  Where had I heard this before? Out of the mouth of a much-too-young, much-too-cocky wannabe diplomat, facing the full Nations of Earth assembly, most of whom were at least twice his age? A young man full of ideals. Look where it had got me.

  “There are many other issues that need clearing up,” I said.

  “Agreed.” A small silence. Then, “Such as this belief issue.”

  I cast him a sideways glance. Was I hearing this correctly?

  “I have a theory. I think belief is a bloodline issue. It is bred, not taught. I have studied the reports from early discovery missions.” The ones that had re-established contact between the various parts of humanity. “By far the majority of peoples have in their population both people capable of supernatural beliefs, and people who are not capable of such. Sometimes the believers dominate, sometimes the non-believers do. It’s taken me some time, but you can track it down through bloodlines, recombinant characteristics, if you get the analysis of the characteristic allocations on the chromosomes. If you know the codes, you can tell by a blood sample whether or not a person is a believer or not. I have a diagram. I can show you one day.”

  Never underestimate this man’s intelligence. “What about people who change their mind later in life?”

  “They were always non-believers, or believers, but were forced into circumstances by their environment. They were people, like the ones on this world, who grew up with strongly believing families, but only believed by rote themselves. Because everyone else did. You can control such person when they’re young, but there comes a time they will acknowledge the tr
uth, or maybe not, but they will never believe. They’re not that way inclined.”

  “All right. . . .”

  “The Coldi are the only type of human who do not possess the believing characteristic, at all. That is not a fault. That is the way we are.”

  And that was pretty much what Kershaw had said, but still I saw no reason for this wonderfully diverse humanity to split.

  I was lost in thought when Ezhya asked, “Would you be interested in a position as negotiator? A full gamra stipend, the apartment, six staff and a generous travel allowance.”

  That brought my attention back. “Me?”

  “You’re on speaking terms with everyone. Your imayu reaches in places I can’t go. I’ve not heard a single person within gamra say a word against you. Even Marin Federza talks to you. Seeing what you’ve gone through, it’s obvious you can function under pressure. Besides . . .” Black eyes fixed mine. “Do you ever lose your temper? I admit, I tried very hard at that first meeting in my apartment to crack you, but I’ve been unsuccessful. Do you ever try to intimidate someone by raising your voice? Do you ever let personal discomfort get the better of you?”

  I thought of that afternoon in Ezhya’s apartment, when I had nearly collapsed from heat stress.

  “I will now; if I don’t get anything to eat soon, I’m going to faint.”

  But I recognised a good offer when I saw one. Get a paying job that didn’t depend on Danziger’s goodwill and whims? Tick.

  ‎

  Chapter 23

  * * *

  IN THE NEXT HOUR or so, I discovered that Barendrecht was one of those new social-experiment, high-tech, low-impact suburbs that replaced older centres which had fallen victim to the rising water levels. Built in a pentagon design around a central square with bus shelters and a tram station, and surrounded by shops. Or so the map on Thayu’s reader said. Barendrecht had no train station on the main line and rather than wait for a taxi in the cold and wet, the group declared it was safe and less conspicuous to use the tram. It was only two stops along the line.

  As to inconspicuous . . . when I stepped aboard, with two obsidian-black guards much taller than myself and four guards much wider than myself, a sole puny human in an unearthly blue outfit surrounded by a wall of flesh and body armour, passengers stopped talking. A mother yanked a toddler out of the centre aisle; the boy started screaming.

  My old transport card of course had been left in Athens, but Thayu had given me a new one. I had no idea how she arranged these things out of thin air. However, when I slotted it in the ticket machine, the screen said ticket malfunction. Oh great.

  I took the card out and tried again. The same thing happened. I muttered a silent curse. Where was technology when you needed it? We were about to proverbially save the planet and a ruddy machine was going to stop us?

  As if to rub it in, a mechanical voice said, “An entry has not been detected. Please insert your EuroTransport Card to begin the transaction.”

  I yanked the card back out, fighting an urge to slam my fist into the screen.

  The voice said, “Please leave this car and contract EuroTransport to report any difficulties.”

  Oh, for crying out loud!

  “Excuse me,” said a young voice in Isla.

  The girl was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, thin as a broomstick, pale-skinned, with her hair dyed violent pink, and piercings in her eyebrows, nose, lips and all the way down both ears. She squeezed herself between Evi and Ezhya—the guards tensed—and held out a hand so be-ringed that I wondered why her fingers didn’t fall off. “Sometimes you got to put the card in upside down. Some machines are funny like that.”

  Long fingers with black-painted fingernails took the card from my hand and put it back into the machine.

  The screen said, “Welcome to EuroTransport. Please state your destination.”

  Phew. “Thanks.”

  “No prob.” Quick as she had come, she sat back down.

  I paid for the fares and settled between Thayu and Evi. The girl had gone back to listening to music, unfazed by, perhaps used to, our strange group. Some of the older passengers still stared. That was, I thought, the division I was trying to overcome, between young and old, between people upset by “chans” and people who didn’t mind them. People who had watched Ezhya Palayi’s first official touchdown in Athens, and had marvelled, and hoped, and people who just accepted Coldi as part of the scenery.

  No one spoke during the short tram ride; the atmosphere in the carriage was tense. I tried to look around casually, and studied advertisements above the windows and on the ceiling. Brand names that meant nothing to me. Advertisements that puzzled me so much I didn’t even know what they were for. Directly opposite me was an advertisement for, of all things, a cosmetic clinic. It mentioned skin-resurfacing, hormonal hair loss treatments, foot and heel abrasion—whatever that was. The things people did to themselves. But it also offered unwanted hair removal—

  My mind did a monumental shift sideways. I could almost feel the sting of the blunt razor on my skin.

  Damn. Now there was an idea.

  As if on cue, rain stopped and the sun flashed out, even though the wind chased brightly-lined clouds through the sky, many of them a dark shade of lead-grey.

  Barendrecht Plaza, as it was imaginatively named, glittered with puddles and drops of water on stainless steel bus shelters, like something out of a crystal shop. After two days of gloom, it hurt my eyes. The biting wind, as we stepped from the tram, hurt the rest of my body and dislodged half my hair from my precarious ponytail.

  The Plaza looked like it might be a pleasant place—in summer. A ring of now-leafless trees surrounded a central parkland in which stood a quaint old church with a squat tower of dark bricks—salvaged from before the rising of the sea levels? There was also a kiosk, a playground, a fountain—the basin empty in preparation for winter—and various seating arrangements, glaring wetly and startlingly in the sudden burst of sunlight. The tramline circled the park like a giant roundabout. Shops and terraces occupied the perimeter of the plaza, and above those shops rose several storeys of apartment blocks in a pyramid formation.

  The Station Juice Bar was located—unsurprisingly—opposite the tram station. It had a large glass-covered seating area. An open fire glowed invitingly in a decorative bowl-like hearth in the centre of the room. More inviting still was the serving counter on the far side.

  Food! Coffee!

  Michael Sirkonen waited at a table in the very corner, studying the menu on the table screen. A bag lay on the seat next to him. His father’s reader? I hoped so.

  He was dressed entirely in black, the lush veil of silver-blond hair hanging over his shoulders. The hair reminded me uncomfortably of his father, but his eyes were grey rather than blue.

  He nodded formally and shook my hand. “Mr Wilson.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Thayu came behind me silent and soundless like a cat. The others were settling on the next table, effectively cutting the corner off from the rest of the room. A young serving girl behind a counter that led into the main part of the building looked on, wide-eyed. Ezhya took the chair facing away from Michael.

  “My zhayma, Thayu Domiri. The others are my bodyguards.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow and shook Thayu’s hand formally and bade us to sit down.

  “I’m sorry to ask you to come all the way out here.” Michael spoke just loud enough to be heard over the rumble of a tram outside the window. It occurred to me that he looked tired and his face appeared older than it should.

  “Has anyone been harassing you?”

  Michael snorted. “Where do I start? All the time. I’ve been staying with friends since my father died.”

  “I’m sorr
y. My condolences.” I could not begin to understand what a circus his father’s funeral must have been, and how he would have been thrown in the limelight through no wish of his own.

  “Excuse me, what would you like?” The serving girl stood at the end of the table.

  “Oh. I haven’t looked at the menu yet.” Fancy place. I had expected to order through the table screen. “I need something solid to eat.”

  “A salad roll?” she asked.

  “I guess. I’m dying for a coffee.”

  “Sure. Do you have any vouchers?”

  “Vouchers?” I frowned at her.

  “Health Authority regulations, sir, since coffee was declared a drug.”

  Oh, for crying out loud! “No. I don’t have any vouchers. Does this rule apply to visitors? I normally live in Barresh.”

  “Yes. You need the vouchers all over the country.”

  I clenched my jaws so tightly my teeth crunched. What had Ezhya said again about my temper? “Is there anything else you can recommend?”

  “We have the orange mix on special today. It’s one of our favourite drinks. It has orange juice, avocado, honey and cinnamon.”

  That sounded perfectly . . . disgusting. “No thanks, I’ll just have water.”

  I ordered a vegetarian roll for Thayu, then the girl took Michael’s order and left.

  I shook my head. “Tell me, am I so out of it?”

  Michael grinned, but said nothing. I knew the truth. Life on Earth had moved on without me. Orange juice mixed with honey and avocado. I felt sorry for the oranges.

  “Now, let’s get started. Your father.”

  “Did you get the message about the vodka?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got it with me.” Michael glanced at the empty seat next to him. A flat bag lay there, of the type that normally contained a reader. “He had dinner with me, the night before . . . He asked me if he could leave it with me.”

  Yes. I had struck gold. “How was your father that night?”