by Scott Meyer
Barsparse looked displeased.
“Not good?” Ebbler asked.
“Better than I’d hoped,” Barsparse said, shaking her head.
“As you both know,” Glaz said, “our work is a reflection of ourselves, and as such, we cannot tolerate any degradation of quality . . . usually.”
Ebbler nodded and pushed the plate across the table to Kreet, who sneered and muttered, “Took you long enough,” as he grabbed it and placed it on his grav-platter.
Ebbler was taken aback, but Barsparse, oblivious to any of the implied drama, said, “Actually, I wish it had taken a bit longer. In fact, you and Shly might want to walk slowly as you deliver the meal to Hennik. If you were to do so, the food might get cold.”
A voice from the doorway said, “To suggest deliberately sabotaging Master Hennik’s food would be very poor form.”
All eyes turned to see Migg and Phee standing in the doorway.
“Fortunately,” Migg said, smiling, “you didn’t actually suggest that they do any such thing. You simply stated the unarguable fact that they might want to. Indeed, Kreet and Shly might very well want to dawdle, knowing full well that Master Hennik is waiting with his customary lack of patience, and that absolutely nobody will ever check to see if they dragged their heels or not. No one here is suggesting that you two commit this completely unprovable breach of etiquette no matter how much joy it might bring yourselves and everyone else, myself included.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Kreet muttered, glaring sideways at Shly. “I want this over with as quick as possible, and I’m sure she can’t wait to get back here to the kitchen.”
Shly glared at him, but said nothing. Migg was certain there was a story there, and equally certain she didn’t want to get into it at the moment.
“You both brought lunch to Master Hennik as well, yes?” Migg asked.
“We did,” Shly said.
“How was he?”
“His usual self,” Shly said. “He claims he’s won. He says he wanted his own domain where he’d be left alone, and he’s tricked Her Ladyship into giving it to him.”
“Yes,” Migg said. “That does sound like him. Thank you, Shly.”
As Kreet and Shly left with Hennik’s dinner, Migg turned to Phee and said, “And thank you, Phee, for all of your assistance. Your first day as my protégée is officially at an end. I’m off to my quarters.” She bowed to the group and said, “Thank you all for your tolerance and patience. I know this situation has not been easy. Good night.”
Migg departed for her quarters, leaving Phee, Glaz, Barsparse, and Ebbler in the kitchen.
“You were with her the whole day, Phee?” Glaz asked.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Can we trust her?”
Phee muttered the word, “can,” then said, “Certainly we can trust her. The question is, should we?”
Glaz understood what she meant and said, “I suppose the question I really want to ask is do you?”
Heavy silence filled the room while they awaited Phee’s answer, so Umily drew everyone’s attention when she entered the kitchen. Her shoulders were hunched forward, and she was clutching her papers to her chest. Her lower lip was trembling, and her eyes were filled with tears.
“Um? What’s wrong?” Ebbler asked.
“I got a message,” Umily said, struggling to get the words out, “yesterday. Didn’t read it until now.”
“Is it Gint?” Glaz asked.
Umily nodded, then, while choking back tears, said, “He’s coming home!”
Glaz, Ebbler, and Barsparse rushed her, hugging her and telling her how happy they were. Umily cried some more.
“When?” Glaz asked. “When will he come home?”
“He’s on his way. He’ll be here tomorrow,” Umily said.
That triggered a fresh round of hugs and congratulations.
Barsparse handed Umily a kitchen towel to dry her eyes and sighed, “Aw, tears of joy.”
Umily took the towel, pressed it to her eyes, and kept crying.
49.
Migg returned to her quarters. She fought the urge to look up and down the corridor before entering. There was absolutely nothing suspicious about entering one’s quarters at bedtime, but she was about to engage in clandestine communications, and the instinct to do so surreptitiously was strong.
Despite the changes in her position, and in other people’s perceptions of her, Migg’s quarters remained unchanged. She had the right to move into Wollard’s old quarters, but she had opted not to—at least, not yet. The family and the staff harbored enough resentment over her usurping Wollard’s position. She didn’t want to look too eager to take his personal space as well.
She was absolutely certain that her quarters were not being monitored. To monitor any person’s private quarters was egregiously bad form. Besides, even if Lady Jakabitus had ordered for her quarters and communications to be monitored, anyone listening in wouldn’t hear anything Lady Jakabitus hadn’t been warned to expect.
Migg sat on the corner of her bed, facing a framed painting of clouds, cliffs, and the ocean. She pulled out her papers, accessed a specific document she’d been saving since before her arrival on Apios, and initiated a secure, unofficial line of communication. The landscape painting faded out and was replaced by the sneering visage of Lord Kamar Hahn.
“Your Lordship,” Migg said, bowing her head to the image. “Know that it is—”
“Skip the formal greeting,” Lord Hahn said. “I don’t have time for ephemera. Just tell me the important things.”
“Of course, Your Lordship. First, your son Hennik is healthy, and is being treated well.”
“I assumed as much. I said to tell me the important things.”
“Of course, Milord. I am sorry.”
Lord Hahn glared at Migg as if his patience was being sorely tested. “Again, I assumed as much. You’re wasting my time.”
Migg stiffened, looked Lord Hahn in the eye, and said, “I believe I can talk Lady Jakabitus into it.”
“Of course you can,” Lord Hahn said. “I wouldn’t have deployed you and Hennik if I weren’t absolutely confident that her stupidity ran deep enough that even you could exploit it.”
“Indeed, Milord,” Migg said.
“Still, it is amazing that she would give up something that seems so precious to her.”
“She hasn’t yet, Milord, but I believe she will, because she won’t perceive it that way. She won’t think that she’s losing anything, just risking it, and she’ll believe she’s getting something even more important in return.”
PART 7
Self-improvement is to be encouraged, as long as all parties involved are in agreement as to the definition of “self,” and what constitutes “improvement” and “encouragement.”
-Excerpt from the Academy of Arbitration First-Year Instructional Text: “Adventures” in Semantics
50.
“Good morning,” Migg said brightly.
The staff, sitting as they did every morning for the daily staff meeting, looked at her, then at each other, confused.
Migg had anticipated their reaction, and had prepared an explanation. “The full formal greeting can be used at the beginning of regularly occurring meetings, but is only, strictly speaking, necessary if there has been a substantial change in the location, situation, or identity of the attendees since the full formal greeting was last invoked,” she explained. “As the only change in the parameters defined by the full formal greeting is the date, which has progressed, predictably, by one day since we last met, I have chosen to dispense with the full formal greeting until at least one of the other parameters has changed as well, in the interest of saving time.”
She looked down at the staff, then added, “One would hope that I will not have to explain the lack of the full formal greeting every morn
ing, as the explanation proved substantially longer than the greeting itself.”
Under different circumstances, Migg would have hoped for some outward signs of amusement—nothing so garish as outright laughter, but perhaps a smattering of smirks. Given the circumstances, the absence of contempt could be seen as progress, and she decided to take it as such.
Migg consulted her notes and continued. “Today looks to be an eventful day here at Palace Koa. The primary official event of note is a visit from a Lord Kank, ruler of the Cappozzi. He and his Master of Formalities are traveling to a conference, and will stop here on Apios to greet Lady Jakabitus to discuss their possible participation in the war. They will be here for lunch and a brief meeting with Her Ladyship, but they are expected to be on their way before dinner, meaning that Barsparse will only have to tailor the lunch menu to their distinctive palate. The Cappozzi are a stoic people, and their cuisine reflects their character.”
Migg paused, smiled as she read her notes, then said, “That’s the most notable piece of official business for the day. I think everyone here will agree that the most important event planned is the homecoming of Gint, Umily’s husband, and Barsparse’s former sous chef.”
Now Migg got the positive response she had wanted. It wasn’t really news to anybody, of course, but the fact that a gentle, thoughtful, well-liked, artistic young person returning from a war zone alive was good enough to warrant repetition. There were many smiles, pats on the back, and quiet congratulations for Umily, who seemed embarrassed by the attention.
Migg said, “Kreet and I are the only people in this room who haven’t met Gint, but I do know that you all think very highly of the young man. I look forward to meeting him, and I’m certain you look forward to welcoming him back. He is expected to arrive sometime this morning. We will make sure everyone has an opportunity to say hello, but it is suboptimal to make too large a spectacle out of a soldier’s return. The conventional thinking is that he has had quite enough excitement, and would prefer to ease back into his life. Umily will be given the rest of the day off, of course, as well as the next two days. Phee and I will be happy to pitch in to help where help is needed.”
“Is he going to get his old job back?” Kreet asked while smiling sideways at Ebbler, who currently had Gint’s old job.
“I’m sorry,” Migg said. “Did somebody have a question?”
Normally, a junior staff member would be chagrined to have to repeat a question, but Kreet welcomed the chance to ask again. “Query,” he said sweetly, raising his hand.
Migg said, “Query denied,” which caused a visceral reaction in the staff. Wollard had never denied a query. They hadn’t actually realized it was possible.
Migg said, “Any decisions regarding Gint’s future employment are a matter for Gint, Barsparse, and Glaz to determine. I would point out, however, that if Gint were to supplant Ebbler in his current position, there’s an excellent chance that Ebbler would then supplant the person filling his former position, Kreet.”
This last missive received a subtle, but undeniably positive, reaction from the staff members who weren’t Kreet. Migg was delighted. She had established that she was intolerant enough of disruption to threaten a staff member’s job, yet the staff thought better of her for it.
I owe Kreet a thank you, Migg thought. In private, of course. Thanking him publicly would undo most of the good he’s done.
51.
Wollard’s journey to the Central Authority was almost complete. He had tried to frame the journey in his mind as an adventure filled with exotic sights and new experiences, seasoned with a little fear of the unknown.
Instead, he had seen the insides of various terminals, lounges, and transport vessels, and experienced institutional indifference in its many forms, seasoned with fear of the all-too-well-known.
Currently, he feared death in a fiery orbital transport accident, which didn’t actually happen that often, but was spectacular enough when it did that most people pictured it happening to them whenever they boarded an orbital transport.
Wollard had spent the entire eighteen hours of his trip on the new, extra-large interstellar transport reassuring himself that he would be riding on a smaller craft for the third primary leg. The thought had given him a great deal of comfort . . . until he actually saw the smaller craft in question.
After Wollard’s seats had deplaned, and Wollard had then de-seated, he made his way to the terminal’s main concourse, feeling as if he were teaching his limbs how to move again. He went directly to use the facilities he now needed.
His complimentary repressors had not all worn off at the same time. For all he knew, the nausea repressor was still going strong, and he would never know for sure it had stopped working until the day he once again became nauseous. The urinary and bowel-function repressors had started to lose their effect during the final half hour of the flight. The panic repressor wore off while he stood in line at the terminal restroom.
Once that awful business was done, he set about locating his connection for the last leg of his journey. He was not in the Central Authority’s star system yet, but he was as close as he was going to get via mass transit. The Central Authority was a world shrouded in mystery, and commercial carriers seldom ran regular transportation services into the unknown.
Wollard looked at his papers. His instructions were to make contact with a liaison from the Central Authority. That was the end of the instructions.
There’s such a thing as being too succinct, Wollard thought. It is not a sin of which we in the Formalities trade are often accused, but in this case, I fear the shoe fits. I am to make contact with someone, but I know not how or with whom. Perhaps this is a test of some sort.
The idea that his skills were being challenged roused some of the spirit that the experience of traveling had buried deep within Wollard. He folded his papers decisively, determined to find this liaison, wherever he or she was hiding.
“Are you Wollard?” the liaison asked impatiently, having spent several seconds watching Wollard read his papers. He was a short, sallow man, wearing loose-fitting black overalls that were made of a sturdy fabric, but which had the unmistakable lapels and cuffs of a Master of Formalities.
Wollard bowed hastily. “Yes. Know that two thousand, one hundred, and seventy-one conventional years have pa—”
“I know,” the man in the coveralls said. “Follow me.”
The man walked quickly through the crowded terminal. Wollard struggled to keep up.
“My name is Wollard,” Wollard said.
The man said, “We established that when I asked if you were Wollard, and you said yes.”
“And you are?” Wollard asked.
“Your pilot. I’m to fly you to the Central Authority to be scrutinized. My duties don’t include making conversation, but I am under orders to supply you with information I deem useful. For your information, my name is Prindle. You’ll find it useful to know my name when you tell people about your trip later on. You’ll be able to say Prindle seemed unhappy. Prindle didn’t want to talk. I kept nattering at Prindle anyway. Finally, Prindle threatened me. And so on.”
Normally Wollard would have responded to an introduction by saying, Nice to meet you, but he chose not to in this case.
They walked in silence to the distant, unfashionable end of the terminal, where the crowd and the carpet were thin. Without breaking his stride or even looking back to be sure Wollard was still with him, Prindle turned and started down a gantry way leading, presumably, to his transport.
Wollard could see the transport docked outside the window. What he saw didn’t fill him with confidence.
The craft looked to be in good repair, but it was small and its design reflected the tastes of a bygone era. The garish stripes down the side and the decorative exhaust vents that served no useful purpose were a dead giveaway to its age. It would have seemed outdated decades
before Wollard was born, but the laws of physics hadn’t changed with the fashions. If it had been capable of interstellar travel and orbital reentry when it was made, there was no reason to suspect it wouldn’t be now. Indeed, its silver skin was dulled and discolored from countless reentries.
The craft’s interior was small and cramped, but Wollard had the entire passenger compartment to himself. The seats, floors, and ceiling had been cleaned regularly and repaired when necessary, but never updated or replaced. The cockpit was separate, and as Prindle closed the door behind him, Wollard wondered if that was the last he’d see or hear of his pilot. He was no sooner done thinking this than he heard Prindle’s voice broadcast through a public address system.
“We’re looking at about two hours of travel at interstellar speeds, then reentry at the Central Authority. Try to relax.”
Acceleration to interstellar speed was not as smooth as it was in larger or newer transports. Wollard didn’t know if the antique craft’s inertial compensators were in disrepair, or if Prindle had merely decided against fully engaging them. One thing Wollard did know for sure was that his nausea repressor had definitely worn off.
Wollard stayed awake. Between his excitement at seeing the Central Authority, his fear of what might happen to him once he got there, and his much more immediate fear of what might happen to this relic of a craft to prevent him from ever arriving, sleep was not an option.
As the transport began its reentry, Wollard listened to its support struts groan and its outer skin flex and warp. When the ride finally smoothed out, he peered out the window. Beneath him, he saw puffy white clouds and a sparkling blue ocean. The craft lost altitude quickly, then leveled off at a cruising altitude low enough that when it finally reached the shore, Wollard could count the people enjoying themselves on the beach and the patrons of the open-air cafes that always seem to spring up wherever water meets land.
