by Caro Soles
Beny pulled Triani to his feet. “There will be no more screaming histrionics from you in this office. Is that understood?” He sat down behind his desk and slipped one of the flat, yellow tranquillizers Eulio had given him under his tongue. Zox stood ram rod straight, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back. Triani slumped in a chair and stared at the ground, rubbing his arm where it had hit the floor. His eyes looked smudged with fatigue.
“What have you got to say?” Beny asked the dancer, trying to sound sufficiently fierce. Triani told him briefly what he had learned the day before from the fat man at the bar, then added his own interpretation.
Beny looked at Zox for his rebuttal.
“Losing at games of chance is not a crime,” said Zox coolly. “I freely admit that I was forced to give up my crystal figurine pendant in payment of a debt. The rest of what he says, about me having anything to do with the kidnaped dancer, is a complete fabrication.”
Beny looked at him consideringly. The Serpian was a senior member of his staff who had already hinted at prejudice against him on the part of the Merculians. Triani’s unsubstantiated story played right into this complaint.
“I’m not going to apologize,” said Triani suddenly, almost as if reading Beny’s thoughts. “That man hates me. He would do anything to hurt me.”
“Why?” asked Beny innocently.
For a moment, the Serpian’s slate colored eyes blazed a deep blue. “That is untrue,” he said quietly.
But for the first time, Beny began to wonder. “I don’t think anything more will be accomplished now,” he said in a conciliatory voice. “If you would return to your duties, Zox-k’sad, I would appreciate it.”
The Serpian bowed and withdrew. “He does hate me,” Triani said, rubbing his shoulder. “I don’t know why, but I know he does, even though I can’t pick up any signals through that thick Serpian hide.”
“If you’re right,” said Beny, “your recent behavior is certainly not going to change the way he feels.”
“How would you feel if you had reason to believe someone supposedly on our side had sold Eulio to the enemy?”
Beny felt the words like a blow in the stomach. “Frankly, it occurred to me that they may have been after Eulio in the first place. To an Abulonian, blond Merculians probably all look alike.”
“If we’re being honest here, you’re the one they should have been after.”
“Of course. But I rarely get time to go beyond this office or my own apartments. Therefore, Eulio is the next choice.”
“Well, someone slipped up. It’s Cham they’ve got.” Triani toyed nervously with the rings on one hand. “You didn’t see the way those big, hulking men looked at him,” he said softly.
“What you saw was curiosity.”
“And you know where that leads, don’t you? You do know our history, what happens to Merculians taken prisoner by—”
“That’s enough. I don’t need you to remind me of the danger. I’ve come too close myself to ever forget. On the other hand, Cham is a political hostage. It would hardly—” There was a loud crash, followed by a rumbling noise. They could feel it under their feet. They looked at each other.
“Holy shit! Is it a quake?”
“I don’t think so.” Beny rushed to the window. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go next door.” They rushed down the hall to Thar-von’s office on the other side of the building. Several people were crowded around the window already, including two Abulonian runners.
“What is it?” asked Beny. The crowd parted to let him through. Clouds of smoke billowed over the north part of the city.
“They hit the reservoir,” said one of the Abulonians.
“Yonan,” whispered the other one.
“Let’s hear it for those peace-loving revolutionaries,” muttered Triani between his teeth.
Beny stared at the ragged stain of smoke smudging the lavender sky. I think it’s time for plan B, he said to himself. He turned away from the window.
“Where are you going?” asked Triani.
“To do my job,” answered Beny as he started off to find Luan.
FOURTEEN
Applause rose out of the darkness in waves, breaking over the small figures on stage who stood hand in hand, bowing to the audience. The Merculian National Dance Company was a huge success. Ever since Cham’s ‘disappearance’, as the official bulletin put it, interest in the alien dance group had increased tremendously. Line-ups for tickets started early in the morning and prices soared towards evening. Tonight was a gala event and everyone was there. The Great Chief sat in the middle of the gilded balcony surrounded by his six daughters. Luan was with him, Marselind by his side. The Chief had even brought his wife, a short, rotund lady with beautiful liquid brown eyes. It was her opinion that the little Merculians all looked as if they needed a good meal. “They must eat like birds, dear,” she murmured to her youngest daughter. “No meat! Can you imagine?” She shook her head uncomprehendingly. Nearby sat Quana with her parents, shaking her wooden clapper with enthusiasm. She had good reason to be pleased with herself for engineering this second visit to the theater. Even with Triani’s help it had not been easy to get the tickets. The Merculian office staff, who never missed a performance, were jumping up and down, shouting themselves hoarse and throwing garlands of flowers on stage. Talassa-ran Zox looked at them with lofty disdain. He was glad that it was so obvious he was not one of them.
Triani looked out over the sea of faces, his artificial smile stretched painfully tight across his face. The lights sparkled on the multi-colored spangles of his costume and made his black eyes glitter as he stepped forward with Eulio to accept the bouquet of feathers. Pink. Cham’s favorite color. Triani blinked. There were pink feathers in his dressing room from some unknown admirer. When they had arrived, Triani sat down at his dressing table and started to drink mint wine. He was beginning to come apart, slowly, painfully, and the feeling frightened him. He wanted to keep it private. He dreaded sympathy. When Nevon came into his dressing room this evening before the performance, Triani didn’t even turn around. The director looked at him for a moment, sighed and shook his head. “I know I don’t mean anything to you now, dear one, and probably never did, but I still care about you. I can’t stand by and let you kill yourself with guilt right in front of my eyes. Just because you never get drunk doesn’t mean this stuff is good for you.” He picked up the bottle and put the stopper back on. Triani sat motionless, one slender hand holding the fluted glass. Nevon sighed again and gently touched the soft black, curls. “Oh, Anni,” he murmured. “Won’t you even look at me, darling? After all these years, don’t I at least get to comfort you?”
Triani moved his eyes to meet Nevon’s in the mirror. His lips felt numb. “I always thought I was incapable of these feelings.”
“So you used to tell me years ago,” said Nevon. “Are you all right, dear one? If you can’t go on tonight, I’ll understand.”
“I’ll go on.” Triani threw back his head and finished the wine in his glass. “I’ll always go on, Nevon.” Triani turned now to face Eulio and kissed his hand, the ritual sign of respect for a good partner. Eulio smiled graciously and returned the gesture, realizing as he did so that Triani was only partly aware of what he was doing. In the state his partner was in, Eulio found it hard to understand how his dancing had become even more brilliant than usual. Triani had always created an atmosphere of excitement and magic on stage, but now he projected the charged feeling that every breathtaking leap and spin might be his last. They joined hands and bowed again, backing up to take their place in the center of the line of dancers.
Without warning, the lights went out. There was a collective gasp from the Merculians, whose instant response to unexpected darkness was fear. Eulio’s grip tightened painfully on Triani’s hand. Instinctively the dancers moved closer together. The Abulonian males automatically clapped their hands to their weapons, although most wore only the short broad knives that were more for show than us
e. The women froze, uttering no sound.
Suddenly a low roll of drums sounded from above their heads. A murmuring rustle came from the audience as everyone twisted around in his seat, looking for the source of the noise. On the right hand side of the theater, halfway up the wall, appeared the hologram image of a small, blond Merculian. Triani caught his breath and swore. Several Abulonians screamed. They had never seen a hologram.
When the din died down, the image began to speak.
“My name is Chamion Adino Eseris and I am from Merculian.” He bowed low, one foot pointed, one knee bent. His hands gestured gracefully in the air as he straightened, adding extravagant flourishes to the movement.
On stage, the dancers muttered amongst themselves and glanced towards Triani. They had all been trained in the language of mime, although its significance was lost on the Abulonian audience. Triani had, of course, caught the desperate words that came to him from the fluttering gestures. ‘Come rescue me, my love, for I am dying.’ Triani stifled a sharp cry as Cham continued. “The People’s Technical Revolution Party has allowed me a few moments to speak to The Great Chief of Abulon. So far, I am well and unharmed. Yonan has promised to send me home if the conditions are met. He is a man of high ideals and an iron will. For my sake, pay attention to his words. Please. My life depends on it.”
In the dim theater, Thar-von was writing down what Cham was saying on the backs of programs, using a peculiar-looking Serpian shorthand of his own invention. Beny sat tensely beside him, one hand on his friend’s knee, trying to calm his jumping nerves. He stared with concentration at the young Merculian face hanging above them. He didn’t seem drugged and he certainly wasn’t tied up in any way. There were no guards to be seen. But he looked very strained and thin, and there was something about the voice that didn’t sound quite right. The image flickered, stabilized, flickered again, as if the person responsible was unfamiliar with the equipment. The break-in, Beny thought suddenly.
In the semi-darkness a messenger bent over him.
“Your presence is requested, Your Excellency.”
“Where?”
“In the High Council Advisory Room, at 11:45.”
Beny scribbled a note on a message cube and sent the boy off to find Talassa-ran Zox. When Cham finished speaking, a powerfully built, hawk-nosed man wearing the red and white headband of the rebel party took his place. A low growl swept through the audience, accompanied by the clank and clash of metal. Beny squeezed closer to Thar-von. The Abulonian’s dark eyes were bright and quick and he stood forward slightly on the balls of his feet.
“I am Yonan of Quekar,” he began with easy assurance. “There are many who seek to discredit us. The Great Chief of Abulon encourages these lies. Why? Because he does not want you to know the truth. We are men and women, just like you. We want what’s best for ourselves and our families. He is the one who has forced us to take up arms. What happened when we tried to change things peacefully? We were thrown in jail! Is this the way of peace? Is this the way to make Abulon a better place for our children? No! If diplomacy will work, we would prefer it. But change will not happen if we do not fight! If sacrifice is needed, we will have sacrifice. If battles are needed, we will have battles. And we will persevere. Is the life of this innocent, alien youth the price you are willing to pay for the truth? We do not enjoy the ritual of death. It is the Great Chief of Abulon who wields the knife at midnight!”
“What do you think?” asked Beny, looking at his aide.
“That man is a damn fine speaker,” said Thar-von quietly. “It’s no wonder the Chief wants to keep him muzzled. Apart from that, I wonder who had the expertise to use Merculian equipment.”
“Bloody damn,” remarked Beny, without enthusiasm.
* * *
The Festival Office was lit up as if for a party. Acting on Beny’s scribbled orders, Talassa-ran had unlocked the doors and switched on the auxiliary lighting system. Now he stalked about, making sure people didn’t tamper with anything, although what these primitives would make of such sophisticated equipment was beyond his imagining.
Most of the dancers were there and all of the office staff. Luan was there, too, sitting on a desk watching Marselind, who leaned casually against the wall, one eye on the chronometer. Triani was hunched up in a big chair, massaging his ankle. He had pulled a muscle during the last part of his solo and the pain gave him something to concentrate on. Eulio paced back and forth between the rows of desks, chewing on a tranq stick and hitting his thigh with his open hand. They were all waiting for Beny and Thar-von to come back from their meeting with the Chief and the First Minister. Luan had not been invited. People had been dropping in and out since the office opened its doors an hour ago, offering sympathy and advice. Their words were often vague but always kindly meant. A few left without saying anything on seeing Luan there.
When Quana arrived, with her young brother, she went hesitantly over to Triani and touched his arm. He glanced up impatiently.
“Shit!” he muttered through his teeth. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hey! Watch how you talk to my sister!”
“Oh, shut up,” said Triani wearily.
“I want to help Cham,” she said to Triani, ignoring her brother. Her voice wasn’t very steady. “I’m trying to trace my uncle. If I can find him, maybe he can stop all this.”
“Before midnight?” asked Triani dully.
Quana started to cry. “Yonan can’t kill him! He won’t! He sounded so reasonable; so rational! Men like that don’t kill people, do they?”
“No. They pay others to do it for them.” Triani pulled himself to his feet. He felt very tired and old. With one finger he brushed the tears from her cheek. “I don’t understand you people. To me, you’re primitive and violent. This man you call reasonable has killed before. He did it again this afternoon, or haven’t you heard? He blew up the reservoir. An old man and two children were killed. Is this rational?” Marselind covered the space between them in three strides. “That was not the work of Yonan!” he said hotly.
“So you say. Who the hell are you anyway, smartass?”
Luan stirred uneasily. He was relieved when the door opened and Beny and Thar-von came in. Beny looked exhausted, his face pale and blotchy from fatigue and worry. Thar-von went around the room ushering out the people who in his opinion didn’t belong there.
Beny sank into an armchair Eulio brought for him with a sigh. He held out his small hands, palm up. “I’m sorry. The bloody damn man won’t budge.” He looked over at Luan. “You know your father very well. Let’s hope you are equally right about plan B.”
“Now?” asked the boy.
“Now.”
With one smooth motion, Luan unfolded himself from the desk and stood up. He was carrying a small, grey box. “I’m betting my life on this,” he said simply and handed the box to Marselind.
The tall Abulonian took the gadget and moved to the center of the room. He paused and looked around at the expectant faces, obviously used to commanding attention. “Triani has asked me who I am,” he began. “My name is Marselind and I am one of the Captains of Yonan. I brought the hologram here and activated it in the theater tonight.” A gasp of astonishment from Talassa-ran. He turned toward the Serpian coolly. “Yes, sir. There is much about us that you do not know.”
“You got that right,” muttered Triani.
Marselind continued: “Luan was afraid that his father would not back down on any of the points relating to the release of the hostage. He made a secret agreement with the Ambassador that if this proved to be the case, the Merculian would send his own I.P.A. representative to Yonan as a go-between. This person has yet to be appointed. When that is done, I will signal the camp and we will leave immediately, before the Chief decides to close down the city.”
Triani sprang at Marselind fiercely. “You dirty, rotten, bastard son of a bitch!” he shouted. “You don’t give one god damn about anyone! That so-called deadline didn’t mean sweet s
hit, did it?”
“But they won’t hurt him now, Anni, don’t you see?” Nevon tried unsuccessfully to calm him down. “They won’t do anything till they meet with the representative.”
Triani swung around to face Beny. “I demand to be the one appointed, Benvolini!”
“Triani, you’re about as diplomatic as a terraforming bulldozer.” said Beny patiently. “You may go along, but not as my representative. And Von, it’s no use volunteering. You’re just as official here as I am. It can’t be anyone attached to this office.” Beny ran both hands through his reddish curls distractedly.
Eulio came out from behind Beny’s chair with an air of purpose. “I’ll go.”
“Wait a minute,” cried Nevon. “What about the program?”
“Use the alternative cast with Alesio and Serrin,” said Triani. “That’s what understudies are for.”
“I’ll go,” Eulio repeated. “I have a title and that gives me the right to speak for my government.”
“It hardly gives you the right to speak for the I.P.A., chaleen.”
“I’m the best you’ve got, Orosin.” They looked at each other a long moment. Eulio fingered the jewel around his neck with one hand. It was glowing a deep red.
“And we get to bring back Chami?” demanded Triani.
Beny gestured towards Marselind.
Triani swung around. “Tell me the truth, shithead.”
“Are you talking to me?” Marselind took a step forward.
“Don’t you thrust your aggressive maleness at me!” cried Triani. “I want the truth! Now!”
Marselind, his thumbs hooked into his wide, tooled leather belt, looked down at Triani impassively. “Are you always like this?” he asked mildly. “Or should I make allowances? Is there some Merculian kind of reason I don’t understand?”
For one terrifying minute, Triani didn’t know if he was going to burst into tears of frustration or screams of rage. He felt Nevon holding his hand and pulled away. He made a great effort to keep his voice steady. “You want an explanation, sweetie? I thought even you could figure that out, since judging by what I walked in on the other night, you do have your share of hormones. Chamion is my lover. Your macho bully boys took him by force. He’s been gone a week and I want him back, okay? Is that clear enough for you?”
