That Distant Dream

by Laurel Beckley

  Melin blinked. So, this was a diplomatic mission. She really had to pay better attention to this shit.

  “What’s in it for us?” the leader asked. His accent as he spoke Standard was a little less noticeable as if to stress they had learned the language of their conquerors.

  “Continued peace from our soldiers, continued technological assistance, and continued deterrence of harboring criminals and rebels on your side,” Dar’Tan replied.

  “Peace?” the leader asked. “What peace? What assistance? My people are denied access off-planet while yours traipse about without pause, crushing our crops with your machines—when you can be roused from your safe fortress. The planet is burning, and you do nothing.”

  Sorem and Temir sputtered.

  Melin squinted at the leader, considering him more carefully. He spoke too imperiously to be a lieutenant, particularly when vaguely threatening mutiny against the IASS. And his accent had all but dropped away when he heatedly spoke in Standard.

  After a pause, Dar’Tan replied, “We can renegotiate the offworld access.”

  The ambassadorial team must be livestreaming from his implant, and the long pauses meant they were providing prompts. That the ambassador’s teams weren’t using Temir as their spokesperson indicated a lot about the implicit power structures within the embassy. Melin had assumed Temir outranked Dar’Tan but rapidly reassessed their relationship. Judging by how Temir’s leg kept jiggling, he didn’t like being reminded of his lower status.

  Dar’Tan continued, “Provided you agree to an increase in taxation to allow for the transportation of your people. And continue to cease harboring rebels.”

  “We have never harbored rebels,” the leader replied with a touch of indignation.

  Smooth, too smooth. Melin had a nagging suspicion—more a major fucking, huge, blaring claxon—that perhaps these people didn’t define rebel quite the same way the IASS did. But the indignation was a nice touch, and one that would halt negotiations in a heartbeat.

  She stepped forward. “My lord didn’t mean to imply insult,” Melin said in her Saturan. Between the dreams and the forced-diplomacy, Anikki’s Saturan was beginning to feel pretty familiar although she had no idea what the word for major was, so she substituted in lord, hoping Dar’Tan wouldn’t mind the promotion. Not that he had any idea what she said.

  The Saturans stared at her en masse. Melin’s stomach clenches at the attention. Unlike with Kubicek’s attempt, most of the gaggle seemed to understand her, although one or two had a head tilt as though they were struggling to follow along. They all had similar expressions when Standard was being spoken, too, like they knew what was being said but were playing dumb. Curious.

  The three main players—the leader, the woman in red and the man in black—looked intrigued.

  Dar’Tan gave her a slight nod to continue.

  Melin swallowed. Great. It was on her. “Of course you’re not hiding rebels. Your honor would not permit a breach in the treaty.” She couldn’t believe the lie rolling off her tongue. She had no fucking clue what the treaty included, but she added to test her hunch, “Damir Adorjan.”

  The leader grunted.

  The man in black leaned forward in his saddle, propping his elbow on the pommel and resting his chin on his hand. No one else in her party seemed to notice. Any other movement from the Saturans made the soldiers twitch—but this man was flying below their radar. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “And you are?” the damir asked, bringing her attention back to him. The Old Tongue rolled with a rich accent, fluid and more fluent than Zhoki or even her great-grandmother. He sounded like one of the people from her dreams. A shiver ran down her spine.

  “Melin Grezzij,” she replied.

  Adorjan shared a glance with the woman before turning to face Melin again. The man in black rubbed his hands together. It was hard to watch him for too long.

  Melin added, “I speak for Major Dar’Tan as his translator, my lord.”

  Adorjan winced, a barely perceptible expression. “Do not call me ‘my lord.’” He rolled his shoulders, and the IASS soldiers shuffled. His gaze flicked to them before refocusing on Melin and Dar’Tan. “We will speak with this one.” The switch to Standard was rough.

  “As you wish,” Dar’Tan replied. Melin wanted to punch the smugness out of him.

  “Perhaps we shall continue these negotiations in a more comfortable setting,” the damir said in the Old Tongue again.

  “Unfortunately, security concerns will not allow my party to go into Corlay or your home,” Melin replied. She didn’t need to go through Dar’Tan to know that.

  “My people made accommodations with those considerations in mind,” he said. “Please tell your men not to shoot while mine erect a pavilion.”

  “He wants to set up a tent for us to negotiate in,” Melin told Major Dar’Tan. “Please don’t let the soldiers shoot any of his people unless they go for their weapons.” To the damir, “They won’t harm you if you don’t harm us.”

  Adorjan snorted but waved, indicating them to carry on.

  Dar’Tan touched the back of his head, and the space-armored soldiers stepped away. One knelt to the ground, rifle lowered in a posture that conveyed at ease—which was countered by the displays flicking across his face shield—while the other crouched and launched herself into the air, thrusters engaging for maximum lift. She landed lightly on top of the shuttle and turned away, an obvious overwatch. The other soldiers stepped back a pace, rifles lowered to the ground.

  When the IASS soldiers had settled, Adorjan snapped his fingers, and all but two the flagbearers dismounted. A wagon was pushed out from behind the hedges, and the people unloaded poles and thick tan cloth. Melin—and she suspected the others—watched in fascination as a tent was erected without a word being spoken. They moved as if dancing to music only they could hear with the efficient movements of practice. She’d seen a video of an Old Earth beehive once, and this reminded her of a composite hive mind—or implant linking, if she didn’t know better.

  Dismounted, the body diversity of the group was more apparent. Some were tall and thin, tall and large, short and curvy, or short and thin. She wasn’t able to discern much beyond that they all wore some sort of body protection underneath their clothing that bulked up the shoulders and prevented her from telling if they were man, woman, or nonbinary. She winced. Not that she’d know—Saturan gender identities might be different than IASS, which itself had no set standard beyond earrings indicating a person’s gender and pronouns. Maybe Saturans had something similar. Nevertheless, it was clear all the Saturans here were soldiers.

  When the tent was half up, three people split off from the main group and carried supplies into the structure. Boxes, a plank, and other rugged carrying cases were toted inside in addition to a rolled-up rug. After enough trips went by that Melin stopped counting, the tent flap flopped shut behind them, leaving the others outside to finish with the setup.

  At a soft word from Adorjan, both flagbearers dismounted and marched to what Melin assumed was the front of the tent, stabbing the ends of their spears into the ground to stand upright without being held.

  Two soldiers rolled up three sides of the hexagonal tent, revealing the interior.

  A low table sat in the middle with several carrying cases transformed into low seat cushions around them. One of the soldiers busied themselves with a teapot—there was no indication of a fire or another heat source nearby—while another placed delicate cups onto the table before each cushion.

  The entire setup had taken less than fifteen minutes.

  Adorjan dismounted from his horse, dropping the reins to the ground, the woman in red and the man in black following. The woman took up a place a respectful half pace from the damir’s left shoulder while the man entered the tent, staking a space in one of the corners, standing with his hands folded and face blank.

  The damir spread a hand toward the tent. “Shall we?”

  Dar’Tan strode decisivel
y into the tent behind the damir, the others trailing behind him. Melin followed, a little belatedly, wondering just what the hell she was supposed to do and feeling itchy from the unknown responsibility and attention.

  The damir sat first, folding himself onto a cushion near one of the tables and placing his hands flat onto the wooden surface. The woman followed, mimicking his posture. Melin’s party sat, most with their hands in their laps. Several of the damir’s soldiers twitched uncomfortably at the edge of the tent until a harsh glance from their lord sent them scrambling outside, moving with their hands exposed from their sides.

  Adorjan looked from his hands to Melin, eyebrows lifting. His irises were a bright purple. Actual purple, not deep blue masquerading as violet. The woman in red’s eyes were brown.

  Carefully, Melin copied him, splaying her fingers across the smooth wood, and glared at the major until he broke his own stare down with the damir. He gave a half grin as if to go what the hells and put his hands on the table. The others followed and the tension in the tent released.

  “So,” the damir said, in Standard. “The treaty.”

  Temir whipped his case out from his side—the man in black shifted from his corner but settled into place as the aide pulled out an implant-activated data cube and set it on the table. Temir’s mouth twitched, and the previous treaty blossomed into hologram form centimeters from above the data cube.

  The Saturans stared at it impassively, and Temir deflated, clearly having expected an awed reaction from seeing such great technology.

  “This is in Standard,” the damir said. His voice was cool without expression.

  “Yes. As it was written ten years ago.” Temir’s voice was loud and overenunciated. He puffed his chest and flattened his palms onto the table, taking control of the diplomatic proceedings from the major. “Our notes say you had a translator last time.”

  “She was reassigned.” The damir flicked his fingers in what was suspiciously similar to a too-bad-so-sad gesture. “My people do not read your language.”

  The man in black drifted closer to the holo and leaned over to inspect it. No one, including the other Saturans, paid him any attention. Melin watched him curiously, fingers clenching into fists in case he launched himself over the table and attacked Temir. The headache returned as she stared, making her want to look away. She blinked harder, focusing. The man’s eyes darted left to right as if he were reading the text instead of admiring it.

  “No one reads Standard?” Temir blurted. The man in black retreated to his corner, lips twisting.

  Melin opened her mouth, about to point out that one Saturan clearly could, but the damir beat her.

  “Such is the galactic education we receive,” the damir replied, stumbling over some of the words. His gaze passed over each of them in turn, paused to regard and dismiss Kubicek, then settled on Melin.

  “Can you read or write?” he asked, dropping into the Old Tongue. His tone changed from tainted belligerence to delicate courtesy. He seemed genuinely curious.

  “Not in Saturan,” she replied in the same language. She glanced at the man in black even though it was hard to look at him.

  “Interesting.”

  At a hidden cue, one of the damir’s soldiers placed a steaming teapot before his lord, gave a slightly bow, and joined his companions.

  Adorjan poured himself a cup of tea. “In my culture, we share a drink before settling business.” He spoke in the Old Tongue still, his tone morphing into courteous. Melin translated, growing uneasy.

  Once he finished pouring, he handed the teapot across the table to the major.

  The rest of her party poured themselves a cup, the heady scent familiar, teasing something from her mind that had only been sensed in a long-buried memory.

  Or a dream.

  She recognized the scent as she passed the teapot to the woman in red, fumbling the exchange in shock. Hot liquid splashed from the spout onto the wooden table.

  The other woman took the teapot with a serene smile, deftly pouring herself a cup of the tea before setting it on the other end of the table. Steam drifted from its dragon-mouth spout, coiling into shapes and images that danced in her memories, mixing reality with imagination. Melin held her breath as a steam dragon formed and beat its claws against the air before dispersing with a wave from the woman in red. She met Melin’s gaze, winked, and turned dutifully toward her leader.

  The damir raised his cup with Dar’Tan and Temir following a second later.

  “Sir,” Melin murmured, “before you drink you should know what that tea is.”

  Sorem glared. “It’s clean. Our implants picked up nothing.” She stressed implant.

  Melin shook her head. She knew they would have analyzed the contents with their implants, just as she knew they would have detected no impurities or poisons unsuitable for human consumption. “It’s a tea used specifically for peacemaking. It promotes truth-telling.” She paused, keeping her attention on the Saturans. The damir’s eyes widened a fraction. “It’ll make your words flow a bit more freely than normally.”

  “As I said, a custom among my people.” The damir pointedly put the cup to his lips and took a long sip. His throat bobbed, but when he set the cup down the level remained the same.

  Dar’Tan shot her a relax this is fine look and drank. The other IASS members followed suit. Melin hoped the major had the common sense to spit the damn tea back into the cup. She knew she was right. She knew with the gut-deep instinct she had relied on as a soldier. She kept her hands flat on the table, certain she’d accidentally on purpose knock over her cup and ignite a planetary war.

  Dar’Tan finished his cup and set it onto the table. It was empty.

  Melin’s jaw clenched. Well, fuck.

  “There. Cultural customs satisfied,” he said. “Sera Grezzij, if you would translate the first paragraph of the treaty.”

  Melin leaned forward to see the text better and read aloud. Like it always did when tech was up, the font wiggled and squirmed, and her translating back and forth from Standard to Saturan only added to the complexity. She didn’t know the right words or phrases for many of the transitions, but the Saturans were remarkably patient. Even so, she felt Kubicek’s rising irritation like a specter on her shoulders, the weight of his disapproval and outrage growing heavier with each word.

  *

  The words did come easier as the afternoon wore on. Sometimes, the Saturan woman corrected her pronunciation, breaking her otherwise stoic silence, but mostly the Saturans listened, pausing Melin often to debate with Temir over changes and relationships.

  Adorjan led the conversation in Standard, although he frequently listened to murmured asides from the woman in red. The constant shifts from Standard to the Old Tongue to modern Saturan made Melin’s head swim, and she had no idea how the Saturans managed.

  Tapped out mentally and emotionally from the main translation of the treaty, Melin tuned out most of the chattering and arguments between the two parties. Her mind drifted in and out, checking into reality occasionally if another passage needed to be read. Her gaze caught on the fascinating pattern of the carpet and the intriguing tapestries lining the three cloth walls of the tent. Whereas the outside of the pavilion was a drab beige-gray that looked like it could blend in with anything from desert to forest, the tapestries inside depicted either folk scenes of the history of the province.

  Her fingers ran over the table as the debate—now on tributes and annual tithes and taxes—continued, feeling the smooth grains of the wood flow under her skin. Wood, real wood was rare in space, a luxury saved for ship captains and senior enlisted, or maybe confined to a small box or ancestral pendant worn by a soldier or squib.

  The table was made of old, dark-chocolate wood, stained with a red finish that might have been blood or berries or some other sort of dye. Her finger spun around a whorl. Imperfections and irregularities were never seen in manufactured faux wood.

  This was a damir’s hosting tent, meant for quick setup and
take down with all of the finery expected of his station. The table, the rugs, the pottery, and ceramics were all exquisitely crafted, probably by the best artisans in the province, and no one in her party had acknowledged it. She winced. The oversight would have been one more veiled insult to the Saturans, and no one on her team had caught it. She should have said something, but she had only just noticed, and it would have exacerbated the insult.

  Her gaze wandered to one of the tapestries. It had caught her attention earlier for being different than the other two, which depicted white rampant unicorns on a field of woodlands.

  This tapestry was delicately embroidered in green-and-gold swirls, creating a court scene with a man and woman on two thrones. They both wore crowns and long green robes. A knight dressed in black knelt before them, offering up a sword in fealty with both hands.

  Something about that sword jostled her memories.

  From this distance, the blade appeared to be multicolored instead of gray or silver, although that could have been from the tapestry’s age or the shadows from the tent.

  She squinted, wishing she still had her implant and its wonderful optics.

  The rustle of bodies and clothing moving brought her back to reality, and she scrambled to her feet a second too late. No one seemed to notice she’d been daydreaming, but she cursed her absentmindedness. She’d never used to wander off like this, not since—she shook her head. No use moaning over what was already gone. Long gone.

  “Until next tithe, Duke Adorjan,” Temir said, holding out a hand to shake.

  The damir hesitated, then clasped the other man’s forearm.

  Melin stopped Dar’Tan as everyone shuffled out. “Do you mind if I hold back a minute?”

  He opened his palm in assent, and paused at the tent’s exit as she walked toward the tapestry that had caught her attention. It drew her in, that familiar sword pulling her attention. The tent flap closed behind Dar’Tan, leaving her alone.

  Closer, the detailing in the weaving and embroidery revealed the tapestry as a work of art, even to her ignorant eyes. The people’s faces were indistinct, but the sword in the knight’s hands was finely detailed. The blade was multicolored with small marks running down the blade, just dots in the tight weaving. The pommel had a blue stone. The familiarity was like a punch to the stomach.