by Scott Meyer
Phee was young, and her role as a protégée who was still learning afforded her a certain latitude that Wollard didn’t feel he could allow himself. He continued to stand apart from the rest of the staff. They were all happy, and watching them be happy together pleased him. He cast his gaze around the room, which was when he realized he was not the only one who was remaining separate from the celebration. Migg was standing a distance away from the others too, watching with clear interest, but not interfering. Wollard was impressed with her good sense.
It wasn’t a long letter, but everyone was taking his or her time reading it. Some were savoring every word, others had already read it multiple times, and still others were having trouble making headway because of the way Umily’s hands were shaking. Shly and Ebbler made room for Phee to squeeze in and read the letter herself. She did so carefully, as she knew that Wollard would want a full report even though he would never come out and ask.
Dear Umily,
I’m not dead.
My superiors tell me it’s very important that I make that clear straightaway. I promise, despite what you’ve been told, I am not dead.
They say they sent you a letter telling you I was killed in action. While I am alive, that letter was not wrong. My superiors believe it’s also very important for you to know that, so I will say it again: my superiors were not wrong.
I know. It sounds crazy. I don’t really understand it myself. I guess the best thing I can do is just tell you what happened.
When I went through training they did some scans and tests on me. I thought it was just routine medical stuff, but it turns out they were part of an experimental program. “Loss-retardant measures,” they call it.
Here’s what I remember. I left the palace, went through training, put my head in their scanner, and then woke up this morning in a hospital. Well, it looks like a hospital. They call it a Recuperation Center, but I guess it’s more like a science lab. They tell me that I was assigned to a battalion, shipped to the front, and killed in combat with the Hahn. They used what was left of me to rebuild my body, and their scan to refill my mind. Seems they’ve been able to rebuild bodies and reload brains for a long time. They haven’t used the technology up until now because they weren’t convinced it worked properly. They didn’t like the idea of a bunch of people who might be copies of dead people walking around, but I guess they figured if we were copies, we could still fight in the war just as well as the originals. All I can tell you is that I feel like I’m still the real me, and that’s all the proof I need.
They say the Hahn overran our bunker again, and that I made two errors that led to my death. I hesitated to kill what I thought was an unarmed enemy, and I failed to search him well enough to find the fission grenade he was hiding.
I’m sorry and ashamed to have to tell you these things. The good news is that they tweaked a few things while they were rebuilding me. They also improved my military knowledge and combat skills, to make me stronger and less likely to get killed again. Hopefully they didn’t have to erase too many of the recipes Barsparse worked so hard to teach me to make space.
They tell me they’ve also taken three months off my term of service to make up for the inconvenience, so not only am I now much more likely to come home to you alive, but it will happen sooner!
I know what I wrote you in my last letter. They let me read it before I wrote this one, to get me up to speed. It was a little embarrassing to read something I don’t remember writing, particularly since it was so mushy. I hope it didn’t make you respect me less.
I have to go. They’re shipping me back to my battalion. I love you, Umily, and can’t wait to come home to you. Please tell everyone “hello.”
Gint
Once everyone had read the letter, they stepped back to let Umily have some air. There was a fresh round of congratulations, which ended abruptly with Pitt saying, “Well, Umily, you’ll want to meet our new Hahn.”
Having anticipated this possibility, Wollard had prepared for it. He was standing near Migg. Not with her. Near her. His goal was to give the impression that she was not to be feared or avoided.
Umily said nothing.
Migg bowed deeply.
“Ma’am. My name is Migg, and I am from the Hahn home world. I don’t know you, but I can tell that all of these people think highly of you and your man. I’m glad to hear he’s alive.”
It was inelegant, but Wollard thought it would do. He especially liked that Migg had called Umily ma’am, even though Migg was clearly at least a decade her elder.
Umily stared at Migg for a long moment, then said, “Thanks.”
Again, Wollard thought this would do.
11.
The wallpaper in the vestibule outside Lady Jakabitus’s office was a pattern of thorn bushes and storm clouds, rendered in dark colors. Neither Wollard nor Phee chose to comment on this.
Wollard put his hands on the doors, then paused to look down at Phee.
Phee took a deep breath.
Wollard nodded, as if in agreement, and pushed open the doors.
The wall of windows that usually gave a spectacular view of the capital was darkened, blocking out much of the light. Lady Joanadie Jakabitus sat with the intricately decorated back of her chair facing the door.
“Ah, Wollard. Do come in,” Lady Jakabitus said without turning to look at him. “I see you’ve arrived mere seconds before my morning briefing is scheduled to begin. It’s a shame we won’t have time to talk privately.”
“Indeed, Milady.”
The chair spun to face Wollard and Phee. “Perhaps it would be possible for me to free some time in my schedule after the briefing for us to have a little chat? Who manages my schedule, Wollard?”
“I do, Milady.”
“Good. Wollard?”
“Yes, Milady.”
“Schedule our talk for directly after the briefing.”
Wollard looked at his papers and cleared his throat. “Milady, that time is currently set aside for—”
“I didn’t ask, Wollard.”
“Yes, Milady. How should I categorize the time, for the record?”
“Just put berating Wollard. I’ll know what it’s about.”
“It is done, Milady.”
“Splendid. It’s nice to have something to look forward to.”
“Milady, while last night’s introduction did not—”
“Ah ah ah,” Lady Jakabitus interrupted. “There’ll be time for that later. Now the briefing is starting.”
The portraits on the walls faded out and were replaced with live feeds of the various ministers, functionaries, and generals who reported to Her Ladyship each morning. Today General Kriz was present as a feed, rather than being there in person.
Most of the briefing was utterly routine. On a planetary level, political change was a slow process. Over time the circumstances could change drastically, but when experienced on a day-by-day basis, each briefing was almost identical to the one delivered the day before, like a single frame in an animation. It was only in retrospect, when an entire year could be compressed into a short paragraph, that history seemed to move.
The only real surprise came midway through the Minister of Health’s report: Phee giggled. Lady Jakabitus didn’t seem to notice it, but Wollard did. He turned and saw Phee hastily stow her papers away.
General Kriz, who went last, reported that the Hahn offensive continued and had grown even more violent while remaining equally futile. Many Hahn soldiers had started using conventional weapons, though not for offensive—or even defensive—purposes. The invading soldiers would use their own weapons against themselves if there was a risk of being captured alive. He also reported that the experimental loss-retardant measures were bearing great fruit, and would be expanded. Then, with permission from Her Ladyship, he informed the non-military personnel of the capture of Hennik
Hahn, and Lady Jakabitus’s decision to show the boy mercy. He explained that the palace security staff, maintaining their invisible vigil from the palace’s recent addition, had been ordered to keep an extra eye on Hennik to prevent him from either doing harm to, or escaping from, the ruling family.
Lady Jakabitus received a barrage of congratulations on this brilliant and unorthodox move. She was gracious but unequivocal as she put a quick end to the daily briefing.
“That went well,” Lady Jakabitus said.
“They did seem to take a favorable view of your adoption of Master Hennik,” Wollard said.
“Yes,” Lady Jakabitus agreed. “Of course, they haven’t met him.”
She stood up and rubbed her hands together. “Well, Wollard, I guess we should move on to the next item on the agenda.”
“The briefing ended a bit early, so you do have some free time before your next scheduled appointment, Milady.”
“Good. We can start early then.”
“Indeed.”
“Wollard, did you know Hennik Hahn was a monster when you proposed that I adopt him?”
“No, Milady.”
“Why didn’t you find out if he was a monster before you brought up the idea?”
“I couldn’t have known, Milady. The people of Apios know precious little about the Hahn, as you are aware.”
“But the Arbiters know all about them.”
“Some Arbiters do, yes, Milady. The Arbiters of the Archive get information directly from the Hahn’s Master of Formalities.”
“And you and your protégée work for the Arbiters.”
“On your behalf, Milady. As such, we are seen by the Arbiters as citizens of Apios. We’re given only the information they deem necessary to lubricate the interaction between ours and other worlds. Thus, the Arbiters, in their wisdom, only chose to inform me and Phee of the cultural differences between our peoples once you had committed to your chosen course of action.”
“So they won’t warn us that we’re about to make a mistake, but they will tell us how big a mistake we’ve made after the fact.”
“It may feel that way, Milady, but I am not convinced we’ve made a mistake.”
A long silence passed while Lady Jakabitus stared at Wollard. Finally, she said, “Explain.”
“I agree that Master Hennik’s attitude upon arrival was challenging. He is young, and has been captured by his enemies and told that he cannot leave. One could well expect even the most docile person to be combative under such circumstances, and I think we can all agree that Master Hennik is not the most docile person.”
“You’re telling me that taking the Hahn boy in was not a mistake because we should have known he’d be awful?” Lady Jakabitus said. “You should have known telling me that would make me angry. Was it a mistake to have told me, Wollard?”
“No, Milady, and as is often the case, you have cut directly to the heart of the matter. I did suspect that saying what I just said would do little to improve your mood, but it was not a mistake. You would not want me tell you anything other than the truth as I know it, so I did so, knowing it might anger you further. Telling you the truth was worth the risk and difficulty.”
Lady Jakabitus stared silently at Wollard. When dealing with someone who is both powerful and angry, anything other than an invitation to speak is an order to be quiet, but Wollard felt the occasion warranted the risk of additional words.
“Milady, you are ending a war that has lasted generations. There’s no easy way to do that, or it would already have been done. Fate has given you a unique opportunity. You can cease untold bloodshed and waste by enduring the presence of a petulant teenager in your home. Like anyone who has ever been forced to tolerate such a thing, there will be times when you’ll wonder if it is worth it. You have far more reason than most to decide that it is.”
Lady Jakabitus sat in her chair and considered Wollard’s argument. She sighed heavily. “Will he come around eventually?”
“Nobody can say for sure, Milady.”
“We are committed. I guess we need to do everything in our power to make sure this works.”
“Agreed, Milady. That brings me to the next issue. We must announce to the galaxy that Master Hennik is here, he is safe, and he is being treated as a member of your family.”
“How do you suggest we proceed?”
“For your subjects, the usual means of releasing information will suffice. The more pressing issue is how we should inform Kamar Hahn. We don’t know how much he knows. It is possible that the last news he heard was that his son was involved in a battle that ended badly for the Hahn.”
“You’re saying that he might think Hennik is dead?”
“Dead or in danger, Milady,” Wollard said. “In a situation such as this, it would be good form for you to make contact with Kamar Hahn personally to deliver the good news.”
“Direct contact with the leader of the Hahn?” Lady Jakabitus said. “There hasn’t been any direct contact between the Apiosans and the Hahn for over a hundred years other than violent exchanges.”
“But there will be, today,” Wollard said, “because of your actions, Milady.”
“And you can set this up?”
“I’m certain, given the nature of the message, that the Arbiters and the Hahn Master of Formalities will cooperate. It’s because of situations such as this one that the great houses agreed to Arbitration in the first place.”
“Direct communication with the Hahn,” Her Ladyship said, picturing it in her mind. Her expression soured. “He’s going to be awful, just like his son, isn’t he?”
“It is possible, Milady. It is also possible that he may be the exact opposite of his son, and that Master Hennik behaves as he does in an attempt to rebel against his father.”
“You think that’s the case?”
“It’s possible, Milady.”
“But is there any reason to believe it’s true, Wollard?”
“Milady, there’s no reason to believe it, but there’s always reason to hope.”
12.
Wollard walked through the Grand Gallery at his accustomed speed, but with less than his usual energy. Between arranging the communication with the Hahn, planning a strategy for said communication, and entertaining Lady Jakabitus’s musings as to how the situation would play out, the meeting had stretched on until lunchtime. It had taken a great deal out of Wollard. Still, he needed to meet with Barsparse as soon as possible to discuss arrangements for dinner. The conversation had already been delayed far longer than he would have liked, but he could hardly have put off Lady Jakabitus for an important meeting with the chef.
He walked as quickly as he could without appearing to hurry, but the escalator ride, which he usually used as a chance to talk with his protégée, was instead taken as a welcome chance to rest.
He and Phee walked in silence. Phee wanted to commit every second of the meeting to memory so she could refer to it in the future, when she herself was a Master of Formalities. Wollard, on the other hand, wanted to forget it all. He saw his role as helping other people wriggle out of trouble. He found it undignified to have to wriggle out of trouble himself.
Phee finally broke the silence. “Wollard, that was amaz—”
“Phee,” Wollard interrupted, then paused, reinstating the silence for a few steps before continuing. “You laughed. The Minister of Health, the Honorable Seibert Adler, was briefing Her Ladyship, and you laughed.”
She inhaled sharply through her teeth, then said, “I had hoped nobody would notice.”
“That which is out of place is always noticed, Phee, and nothing is more out of place than a sign of enjoyment when the Honorable Seibert Adler is speaking. If I did not know better, I would suspect that you were reading unrelated materials during the briefing.”
Phee said nothing.
“Perhaps messa
ges sent through less than legitimate channels.”
Phee said nothing.
“If I were being particularly pessimistic, I might even suspect it was the very type of message you were warned about only yesterday.”
“I wasn’t sending messages,” Phee said. “But I saw that I’d received one.”
“Don’t say another word, Phee,” Wollard admonished her. “I took you on as a protégée because I want to teach you, not because I want to punish you. Don’t make me.”
“I’m sorry, Wollard.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Show me, by not doing it again.”
Wollard and Phee came to the kitchen, where lunch production was in full swing.
Barsparse held two pots in one hand, using her powerful fingers and forearm to grip their handles. The pots contained two fluids of subtly contrasting colors and viscosities. Four plates were lined up on a prep table, each holding a beautifully formed ball of pinkish meat. Barsparse worked her way down the line, using a spoon to drizzle a thick, dark-blue fluid around the meat, then a thin, light blue fluid in an artistic curve around the dark blue fluid. She applied the sauces to each plate with the precision and regularity of a machine.
Pitt followed behind with a small metal bowl full of sprigs of some herb. He placed a single sprig on each plate, instantly transforming the dish from a piece of meat with two sauces into an edible piece of art depicting a tiny island, surrounded by water, with a single tree.
“That’s beautiful,” Ebbler said, watching from the corner.
“Dat’s beeeeuteeful,” Pitt imitated in a slow, slurred voice. “Just be careful lugging it to the dining room. We didn’t make a masterpiece just to have it destroyed by the lummox carrying the tray.”
“Less talk, more work, Pitt,” Barsparse said. “Thanks for the compliment, Ebbler. It turned out all right, but there’s definitely room for improvement. There’s always room for improvement, isn’t that right, Pitt?”
Pitt glared at Ebbler, then looked down at the plates. “I, uh,” he stammered, “I don’t know what more we can do, Chef.”
