“Oooh, that sounds good! Which ones?”
“Se’ . . . Se’Thur—” He screwed up his face, struggling with the Partokian syllables. “Float a par, I took down the names.” He rifled through his bag and pulled out his handheld, tapping at it. “Se’Terrell, Se’Miiter, and Xe’Weshner.”
“Hmm.” Her brows drew together as she reached for his handheld to look at the spellings.
“Know any of them?”
“Possibly. I’m not sure. Something is familiar, but I might just have met someone from one of the family groups. Did they give you anything beyond the matronyms?”
“No, that’s all we have from the roster. Someone’s well enough informed to know who the juniors are on the other side. Or at least who the juniors are that bear watching.”
“So, a couple of potential troublemakers and Earth wants Turner’s ore.”
“That’s about the size of it. The seniors are leading with a conversation about Partoke’s trade ties with Perche. I’m not certain where they expect that to go. Well, I know they want Partoke declaring independent status from Perche and not relying on those trade ties, but they’re not willing to actually help, not in any meaningful way, so . . .” Now he trailed off. “Not much else. Unless you’re interested in fourteen ways to say ‘We welcome you to the table of talk’ in Partokian? Didn’t think so.”
“I can see why you love your job, angel eyes. Diplomacy is so fascinating.”
He ducked his head. “Ambassadorial training is what I went to school for from secondary right on through. It’s all I know. What else would I do?”
“You mean it’s what your parents paid to put you through school for, and they would be shocked and horrified if you left given their sizeable investment,” Gilly corrected dryly.
“That too,” he muttered. “Considering all I’ve heard about all my life is investment versus payoff.”
“The prenatal investment is their fault, not yours,” Gilly snapped. “And as for the schooling, if they’d asked you and you’d picked the DiploCorps, fine. But since they just shucked you in here without even caring whether you wanted to do this or not, I’m not inclined to think they deserve any return on their investment . You graduated. Top of your class. That’s more than they should have gotten.”
“Gil. They’re not . . . monsters. They just figured the Diplomacy Corps would be the only place I’d be useful with the way my genetic manips ended up. With the . . . you know. Unfortunate results.” His voice feathered down to a whisper.
“Whatever. Sorry. It’s just . . . you’re twenty-six, Ash. Keep going the way you are, and you’ll be the youngest to make ambassador since Kraiger. I’m sure your parents will be thrilled.” She narrowed her eyes. “Just . . . make sure you’ll be thrilled, too, before you get the fancy hat.” She shook her head. “Can’t seem to stay away from parents today, can we? Your fault, bringing up my father.”
“Sorry, it’s just that every time I sit down with you, and I don’t have thoughts and feelings pummeling me I want to thank your dad.”
She pushed back from the table, stacking their plates. “He just wanted his little girl to have an edge in this big bad old universe.”
“I can still be grateful.” He stood and took over. “Let me. You know I hate it when you clean up after me.”
“Fine.”
He gathered everything, then carried it to the receptacles. By the time he headed back she was pulled up close to the table again, hunched forward, fingers working away at something. Arriving at her side he found her with her own handheld out, her schedule called up beside a set of complicated routines that looked like flight plans.
“Ready to move?” She paged through a few more screens of flight plans before standing and hooking the handheld on her belt. “We got the duty roster midmorning. I’m not flying you lot on this one. Tzudeki is.”
“Well . . . that sucks.” He scooped his handheld up and into his bag, following her.
“I think so, but he’ll get you there in one piece.”
“I like sitting up front with the pilot. It makes me feel all special.”
“I could put a bug in Tzudeki’s ear. Get you an invite up front.” They boarded the lift and Gilly keyed in eighth level.
He gave her a dire look. “I think not. Tzudeki thinks I’m the biggest dork ever.”
“That’s not true—”
“Don’t even bother.” He tapped his temple. “I’ve got the inside story.”
She avoided his eyes. “Tzudeki is an ass.”
“Which is why I’ll wait to fly up front until you’re flying us.”
“Right. This is my exit.” She stepped out. “Later.”
“Thanks again.” He flashed a happy smile.
“Don’t mention it.”
Really. Don’t mention it. Gilly’s answering smile dissolved as the lift closed. She wished Ash wouldn’t do the sincere grateful thing so well. It was almost enough to wake up even her calcified conscience.
Almost.
Entirely too trusting. She needed to beat that out of him, too. She assumed she’d have had more impact by now, but he was a resilient bugger. Downright bizarre that he managed to remain so credulous, being friends with her, when she was doing everything in her power to train it out of him.
Granted, she was there to protect him from the rest of the known universe, but still. He needed better defenses of his own. Or he needed her on his shoulder round the clock, which even if she wanted to be, she couldn’t necessarily afford.
Of course, he could read minds and emotions, which did give him a jump in ascertaining motivations except for her own, leaving her the only person in a position to double-cross him. Whenever her mind reached that logistical point, it looped back to the basics. Entirely too trusting.
She jumped the outgoing shuttle for the hangars, grabbing a pole even though she didn’t need one for balance. Better to just blend, always. She’d wasted too much time waiting for Ash before using Stuart, and now she was running late. The shuttle jerked to a halt. She threaded through the crowd, deeming it safe to move just a little too fast given the heavy traffic.
Skirting the larger ship holds and the diplomatic bays, she moved on to the collection of small, nameless, government-issue hoppers. Pulling her identcard off her belt, she ran it through the slot and leaned into the retina scanner. The door slid open and the rows of tiny gleaming ships winked at her in welcome. She smiled back. “Hello, baby girls.”
Down the row to Number 708, and she keyed her handheld into the dock, setting up an open file that showed her identification working on the small ship. Once the program began, she ran the manual override command that wasn’t supposed to be allowed, and carefully disengaged her handheld. The file stayed open, and for all intents and purposes, she remained actively working on Number 708. She moved farther down the row to the grip, hooked a belt around her waist, swung down to the next lowest level, and sought out Number 914. Pulling a second keycard off her belt that didn’t identify her, she inserted it into 914’s slot and grinned as all the mechanisms unlocked with soft clicks, but all the indicator lights stayed red, as if everything remained locked down tight. The benefits of keycards belonging to individuals with higher clearances than mine.
She popped the seal, climbed in, and closed it down after herself. Winding her hair into a clip, she pulled on the headset and eyepiece, then took the hopper out, right fingers flying over the keypad as her left hand guided the control. Within seconds she was at the hangar exit, flagging the control room. If everything was on schedule, Deb should be on duty . . .
The older woman’s face appeared on screen on cue. Dark hair pulled back from her preoccupied face, glasses perched on her nose, she didn’t even turn fully around as she rattled off, “Name, rank, destination?”
“Takin’ gov’ment prop’ty out for a joyride. Wanna go for a spin?”
“Gillian.” A dry smile as Deb looked up. “What are you doing now?”
“My feet just go
t a little itchy. I needed a loop. You know us fliers.”
Deb shook her head but grinned. Her circle of friends included enough pilots that she did know. Her eyes flicked in either direction and her voice dropped. “That hopper—”
“Won’t even register as being out of dock. Check the system.” Gilly knew 914 would show up as in the bay. “Won’t be long.”
“One of these days, you’re going to get me in so much trouble.” She tapped on her screen, and the first of the airlocks began to open.
“Nonsense. I’ll defend you to the death and get someone you hate in trouble. Promise. Thanks, hon. I’ve got a bottle of that unpronounceable wine you like with your name on it.” She zipped the hopper forward and waited while the airlocks closed behind and opened in front of her. Destination programmed, she settled in and unhooked her handheld from her belt, engaging it with the hopper’s screen.
For the rest of the trip, she skimmed the briefing notes she’d downloaded from Scott’s handheld while he’d returned their lunch dishes.
The small Partokian ship was bigger than her hopper, but it didn’t give Gilly pause. She knew she was the better flier and could evade if necessary.
She doubted it would be necessary.
Neither ship opened communication. She settled in her seat, determined not to crack first. Watching the silent ship, she wondered if Ash could pick up empathic or telepathic emanations from this distance. It wasn’t the first time thoughts of productive partnership had occurred to her in the course of her extracurricular sideline. Bringing him in appealed to her on more than one level.
Occasionally, it even occurred to her that it would mean she could stop . . . obfuscating.
Please. You could stop lying to him quite so often.
What pissed her off was that the lying even occasionally mattered to her. When the chirrup of a ship-to-ship came, she smacked her hand down on the toggle, her voice carrying her irritation. “What?”
The pause hung for a moment, then a carefully modulated voice enunciated, “Gil-lian?”
She fought back her irritation. “Brandyn. Darling. Wondered how long we were going to sit here and stare at each other.” She unlocked all transmission channels. Immediately, the screen split and the visual of Brandyn Se’Terrell materialized beside the image of his ship.
“Cau-tion in all event-ual-IT-ies,” Brandyn inclined his head minutely, and his shoulder spines flexed.
Gilly grinned. “Caution? You? You’ve been talking to your mother. How is Ell Karyn?”
The tiny slash of a mouth, half-concealed face, and the one visible opaque black eye displayed no emotion or expression at all, but both the shoulder and elbow spines flexed fluidly, extending fully and retracting before extending and remaining at a relaxed half-mast state. “My Ell-mother is well. She will be plea-sed to hear of your in-quiry.”
“Good, good. Your Ling is sounding excellent,” Gilly prepped her data transmission as she complimented him. Her severely edited and condensed version of Ash’s notes made a potent package. “You’ve been practicing.”
“Th-ank you.” He preened. “You have the informa-tion?”
“Ready to send. I’ve translated into Partoke . . . I assume you’d rather not read Ling?”
“Ind-eed.” His elbow spikes retracted fully, snapping closed.
Her lips twitched. “Transmission prepared. My payment?”
“Pre-par-ed. Send-ing?”
“Sending.” Gilly sent the command to her third-party contact, as he did the same with her payment. As their mutual contact confirmed receipt of both, and sent each on, confirmation flashed for both almost simultaneously. Gilly breathed out an invisible sigh and did the mental calculation in her head, totaling up how many leetas her private account held now. Almost there. Almost ready. Just a few more jobs.
On screen, Brandyn’s shoulder spikes extended fully, the rills of bone giving the Partokian a majestic look that belied what Gilly knew was pure youthful excitement. “As always, Gil-lian . . . a pleas-ure.”
“Indeed. By the way, be careful. They’ve got their eye on you.” She cut contact and brought the hopper around, not bothering to watch Brandyn’s ship depart.
Business complete. Business as usual.
::Scott Ashford, report to the Central Office. Scott Ashford to the Central Office immediately.::
In the middle of a rush assignment—tracking down which statutes applied during a species-based disagreement on art versus obscenity when humans were stuck in the middle, not even understanding why it was considered art, much less why it was considered obscene—Scott still made it out of his chair and halfway across the library before pausing, wondering if Gilly was at it again. The laconic, slightly nasal delivery was definitely Stuart. Ever since the absolute unqualified disaster of the Partokian talks, Gilly had pulled out all stops to cheer him up.
He couldn’t control the roll of nausea at the thought of the fiasco. Knowing, without doubt, that every single Partokian delegate knew their strategy before they even opened their mouths . . . and unable to say a word. How could he possibly explain his knowledge? The Partokians played their hand perfectly. As the mockery of talks unfolded, he’d come so close to going to the seniors—going to the ambassadors—and telling them the Partokians knew. Only Gilly’s voice in his head held him back. “And when they ask how you know? Don’t be naïïve, they’re hardly going to thank you for being an illegal manip.”
The concept of self-preservation wasn’t a lost cause on him after all. The most he’d done was raise concerns, vaguely, to three different seniors. Who all ignored him with the ease of arrogance born of superior status. He’d returned from the talks feeling like an absolute traitor. Gilly’d gotten so pissed when he told her that, she hadn’t spoken to him for a full standard.
::Scott Ashford, Central Office immediately.:: Wavering, he glanced at the research node, then made for the doors. He couldn’t risk it. He made it to Sector Central in record time.
To find no Gilly. Stuart sat at the main desk, looking attentive, professional, and controlled. And feeling oh-so-edgy. A cold fist of dread closed around Scott’s stomach. Stuart’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Ashford is here,” he relayed into his streamlined headset, fitted so well against his ear and jaw as to be almost invisible.
A tall woman approached from the left immediately, and with a start Scott realized she’d come to collect him. Had she been lying in wait? Scary thought. Relieved he hadn’t asked Stuart anything about why he’d been summoned, he faced her and received another jolt. She wasn’t a woman, but a female Mor, the blue undertones in her flesh much softer than the dominant yellow, and shimmering under the Central lights in such a way as to appear reflective shadows of the deep blue suit she wore. Her pupils were fully contracted, giving her eyes a human appearance, and she wore the dark hair on her head long and straight, falling over her ears and the sides of her face to an equal length all around, straight bangs falling to her eyebrows and concealing her forehead. Unusual for a Mor, it appeared she encouraged the illusion, blending with humanity purposefully.
“Mr. Ashford,” she extended a gloved hand in the human greeting. “I’m Jaane. Follow me.” Doing so, he wasn’t surprised to see her tail carefully tucked away down the back of the tailored suit. Not that most Mor would have their tails out in public, but for one so thoroughly blended as this, he wasn’t surprised to note that it was almost impossible to tell a tail was being camouflaged.
The unease in the pit of his stomach grew, and the lingering taste of nausea flooded his throat again.
Two hallways offered ample time to test her mind and he found it startlingly calm and quiet. Thoughts of a man—a male Mor rather—featured topmost. Chol. They worked together. For some time. Scott concentrated harder and let his vision blur out. Genial thoughts, some exasperated, all quite objective, and most tinted with a metallic tang he recognized from his limited experience with the species as the peculiar sense of what the Mor might term affection if they had
a word for the concept in their language.
Scott couldn’t help but notice that he figured in as the barest afterthought if at all. A piece of mail to be picked up and delivered. The realization shriveled something within him. Empathically, Mors always presented a challenge, but Jaane read like a flat screen. He wondered if he could get away with brushing her actual hand or some other skin. Physical contact enhanced the empathy when a subject proved difficult. Caught by the graceful sway of her hips and hair before him and the impossibly long legs, the thought of brushing her skin took on a new meaning and he felt an inconvenient blush rise from his throat to his hairline. He swallowed hard as she paused at a door, knocked once, then entered.
Senior Wedderburn sat to one side of his own desk. In the large chair directly behind the desk sat the Mor from Jaane’s thoughts. He wore full Assembly uniform, as did the human male standing just behind his left shoulder. Two Assembly officials sat against the far wall but Scott didn’t recognize them, and didn’t look at them long enough to ascertain their rank. The Mor behind the desk stood and the room seemed to close in.
Short dark hair spiked up, displaying the distinctive ridged ears of his species and baring his broad forehead, making the flare of bone over the eye sockets more noticeable than in Jaane’s hair-softened countenance. Like hers, his pupils were contracted to human light-levels, displaying vivid green around the black centers. The fine blue cast to his flesh stood out much stronger, shading up through pale white with none of the golden tones of hers, his lips lavender in contrast to the more human-seeming peachy-rose of Jaane’s. If the face was ice, the thoughts were worse. Blue-white lightning bombarded Scott, flashing without heat but scorching just the same—striking across the distance of the desk to sum him up with a flickering glance and a mental review of pertinent points from files. Cold, hard suspicion raked every facet of his person; twisting and jiggling each tiny piece to see if it fit the larger puzzle being assembled. And at the center of the puzzle—watching how each piece lined up with Gillian Gedrick.
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