by Pam Uphoff
Ebsa rolled his eyes. "Ignoring that other thing . . ."
"It has nothing to do with the fair. It can wait."
Xen raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, all right." Paer spread her hands. "It's just . . . I'd noticed some discrepancies in what people said about gates, and what I see, but it wasn't until a few minutes ago that I realized that everyone else wasn't just ignoring the fog I see . . ."
She broke off as Wolfson slapped his hands down on his desk.
"Paer! Do you mean to tell me that after testing hundreds of Oners for dimensional ability, one of the Oners I know best is the one I ought to have started with?"
He sat back and snatched something out of thin air and twisted and manipulated it and set it—still looking like nothing—on the desk. "What do you see?"
Ebsa shook his head, but Paer was peering at the desk.
"There's . . . sort of a blue glow. Pretty dim, almost imaginary." Paer looked worried. "What is it?"
"A test and a training tool. You have a bit of dimensional ability—the first Oner I've found with any at all. That it's so dim means that it's probably not strong enough that you can ever do anything with it. I wonder what the genetic basis is for it. I'd thought none of the Prophets had dimensional talent."
Paer frowned. "I'm, both my parents, are Ottoman Clan. We're supposed to be descended from Alexander the Traitor. Ra'd said that the Prophet Fatma was pregnant at the arrival, and Alexander was her son."
Wolfson nodded. "And maybe his father was a Telie from one of the other groups. Someone with dimensional ability. How interesting."
Ebsa followed that thought down a hole. "We underwent two periods where we, the Oners, practiced a lot of outcrossing. And while we later concentrated the insertion genes . . . we ignored, or were unaware of, the rest of them."
"Oh." Paer raised her brows. "So I've got, what? The basic dimensional genes, but not the, well, helper genes?"
Wolfson nodded. "Something like that. Tell your father, or Urfa, that I'll test anyone. The genetic basis is poorly understood, mainly because it's a mix of multiple genes and we haven't identified any that are absolutely crucial.' He poked the nothing-there on his desk. "Testing like that is about all we can do.
"But since you are going to be here for three months, I'll work with you and see if just knowing it is possible will help you focus on the ability and develop it."
Paer nodded, and this time Ebsa followed her out.
***
Outside, two people were arguing out in front of the Earth Embassy.
". . . Civil Rights for all sentient peoples!" The stout woman turned and her frown softened as she spotted the returning Black Horse Guards.
Ebsa had to admit they were handsome beasts, shining in the sun.
Lots of people turned to watch.
"How could anyone eat beautiful creatures like that?"
"Medium rare." The tall thin man behind her smiled smugly as the woman spun to glare at him, hands fisted.
"You French are the worst of the . . . horse haters. Well! Around here you'd better watch yourself, because the Comet Fall horses are smart. See that chestnut mare? We've had some long conversations . . . "
The man laughed, and turned and walked back into the Earth's embassy.
The chestnut mare trotted over to Ebsa and Paer, and Ra'd slipped off.
"Thank you, Flame."
Flame nodded and stepped over to the Earther woman.
"Really! Some people are just barbarians!"
Flame nodded.
"You should be sure and lead your people off and away for the cook-off. That man is bound to do something horrible!"
Flame snorted and twitched her ears . . . looked back at the black horses turning into the embassy grounds. Shook her head and nudged the woman toward them.
"Oh? You want me to meet someone?"
Ra'd snorted. "She can't hear the horses. But she knows they're intelligent and holds yes-no conversations with them for hours. I think she's their pet human." He'd kept his voice low, but she'd apparently heard that last.
"And delighted to be, although I prefer 'friend' over pet. I'm Emma Farley, of CRFA. That's Civil Rights For Animals."
***
Three days of cooking and storing sauces.
Ebsa checked his master list. "I do believe that I am ready for tomorrow."
Chapter Nine
30 Hija 1408 yp
Embassy World
Bzzzzzz Zap! The actinic flash of the electrical short was bright in the early dawn.
Ebsa leaped for the little portable breaker box, but it had already tripped.
"What the hell? It worked just fine last night." He walked back to the range and opened the oven. It smelled of ozone and melted plastic. He ignored the snickers behind him, where the Master Chef and his minions were setting up the Ministry booth. Coincidence or sabotage? Doesn't matter, now.
"Ebsa! What are we going to do?" Epic poked the stove like he was checking to see if it was dead.
The girls circled it, wide eyed.
Ebsa braced himself. "Looks like we'll be cooking over charcoal today."
:: Hey Ra'd! You know those concrete blocks back behind the Squishies? I need about thirty of them. ASAP. ::
He fished out a couple of cash cards and checked the balances. "Split up. Start with the two grocery stores in Building Two. I'll probably need at least four large bags. And Real Foods had some little disposable aluminum grills. Two of those would be good for the veggies. Get going while I clean up here." He handed the cards to Epic and Arwen the oldest and theoretically most responsible. The little girls trotted after Epic, Arwen and Sophy followed with more dignity.
Ebsa dragged the range back further from the front of his space. It would have been nice to have the oven to keep things warm, but the racks would work for a charcoal grill.
Mike-the-unicorn-plate-guy drove up grinning. "Oh, good. I was afraid we'd miscalculated the time zone changes. Is the tape marking your space?"
"Yep." Ebsa backed off as three guys started pulling rolls of orange canvas out of the truck, and let the experts have at it.
It was a very bright orange.
More snickers from the south, where pristine white with green trim was the order of the day.
To the north, Bamboo awnings were going up, and colorful tablecloths.
I wonder what the *Zolts are going to serve?
Ebsa admired his own eye catcher, and jumped in to help unload the tables. Four rectangular work tables, five round tables with chairs for people to put their stuff down and relax for a moment.
Mike and company waved cheerfully. "See you tomorrow!" and headed out.
Ra'd showed up and poked at the stove. "Well, it wasn't new, but you've got to wonder . . ." He pulled a double rod out of his pocket and started pulling out concrete blocks.
With four meter-high walls, he had a barbeque that would take both oven shelves. The kids showed up with charcoal and the little grills, so he could cook the veggies over away from the meat. Ebsa pulled open the pencil bag long enough to grab the pile of tablecloths, then closed it again.
"We'll light the charcoal in half an hour, and start serving at ten."
Ra'd pulled out a sign. EXTERNAL RELATIONS carved into a thick slab of wood. Nice and heavy. It would sit on the ground and not blow over.
Paer showed up, dressed for the hospital, and handed Ebsa a big puffed Chef's hat. White—with a wide green ribbon around the headband. "I couldn't get one in all green, Warrior Chef. Now go beat the Multiverse!" She held out a big green spatula. "Possibly with this."
"Deal!"
***
Ten hundred hours. A few people were already out, looking around as the various contestants fired up, turned on, or otherwise starting cooking.
The charcoal was perfect and Ebsa was just throwing on the first round of meat when robed figures paraded out of the Arrival Embassy's gate. Singing, they climbed up a stack of wide wooden boxes and arrayed themselves
.
People strolling around the plaza turned that direction, as the man out front gave a brief prayer—not much different than a Christian church prayer in the more Christian parts of the One World—a generic bit of hoping for a nice fair.
Then the choir raised their voices in a hymn . . . and the heckling started. Ebsa looked over the thin crowd and spotted a trio of Oners, laughing at what they probably considered their witty insults.
Ebsa growled, and turned away to flip steaks. "Where's the God of Music when you need him, eh?"
Sophy giggled. "I don't think there is one, Ebsa." She rubbed her arms and Ebsa shivered, feeling some odd . . .
Oh good grief, this is not the time for superstitious chills!
At least the heckling had stopped. He glanced over to where the voices of the choir were carrying clearly in the morning air. A gray haired man, wearing a suit cut in the Comet Fall style, was standing at the front of the watching crowd . . . just listening, but Ebsa shifted uneasily and smoothed the hair down on the back of his neck. He cautiously lowered his mental shields, and snapped them back up quickly.
Whoever that is, he's very powerful.
And I don't really want to know why those heckling idiots are grimacing and rubbing their throats. Because I'm quite certain that I cannot summon a Comet Fall baby god!
The choir stopped, the fellow directing them turned to bow to the crowd as the Fallen gentleman started clapping, with the crowd joining in enthusiastically.
Ebsa concentrated on getting ready for what he hoped would be a bunch of hungry people. Steak, on the rare side of medium-rare, charcoal grilled chicken, and across on one worktable, the veggies were hissing on a little aluminum grill. He got the first jugs of still hot prepared sauces out, vegan almond milk with poblano peppers and cilantro sauce for the vegetables, wine reduction for the beef, and creamy mustard seed sauce for the chicken.
He cubed the first steaks and chicken, and as people started edging toward the stall, he showed the kids how to load the plates assembly line fashion.
He waved a welcome to the hovering people, and got back to work.
Sophy and Arwen had the veggie line under control, and Epic loaded trays and supervised the younger girls circulating to give out samples. Tiger and Goose were walking carefully, balancing small trays.
"The souvenir plates are yours to keep, enjoy the fair!" Epic’s cheerful friendly voice paused as a . . . wheeled sailing ship swooped around the corner.
Surely there's a motor. They can't actually be sailing . . .
The HMS Cove Islands, sails billowing in the light breeze, sailed majestically past, curving to sail past the Arrival and Comet Fall West embassies. It heeled over to make the turn past Disco, and tacked past the Earth Embassy, and around the southeast corner to drop anchor along the southern side of the Plaza.
Nice. But can they cook?
***
"So, a Closey Upcomer thinks he can represent the Empire. Represent the Directorate!"
"Funny how that worked out." Ebsa glanced over at the speaker . . . froze for a moment . . . then nodded politely. "Director Agni."
"Ex-director. But I suspect you're glad of that."
Ebsa nodded. "Absolutely."
A nasty sharp smile from the big man. "Because you'd never have been allowed on a team if I'd been in charge."
Ebsa flipped the last steak off the grill and onto the cutting board. And turned to lean into Agni's space. "Do you know, I asked Rael once why she didn't kill you when she had the cover of a priest's orders."
Agni leaned and made it clear that he was doing the invading of personal space. "Oh, really? And what excuse for disobeying an order did she give you?"
"She said that when the assassination attempt erupted, you jumped straight in to protect the president. You didn't calculate the political advantages, or check what the other War Party people were doing. You did the right thing." Ebsa stepped back and leaned on his work table. "What happened? Did the War Party survivors blame you? Hate you? Make you toe their line to get any party support for your presidential run?"
Agni growled through clenched teeth.
Ebsa eyed him. "Are you angry at us . . . or at your own party's vicious hunger for power . . . no matter how they get it? Are you angry that they're forcing you to push a war against Comet Fall . . . that no one else has wanted for a decade? Angry that they don't have a better plan for the future, that there's no actual statesmanship, just a lust for power?
“Or angry at yourself because you are dancing to their tune? What happened to doing the right thing for the Empire?" Ebsa shoved himself away from the table and filled a little plate with beef chunks.
Glanced back at the man. "I hadn't thought anyone could force you to do anything you didn't want to do. Was I wrong?"
He poured the wine reduction sauce and stabbed in a few toothpicks. "Bon Appetit!"
Agni gave him a smoldering, narrow-eyed glare for a long moment. Then took the plate and walked away.
Ebsa released a slow breath. Lost a bet with myself, there. He didn't throw it in my face.
He turned back to the cutting board and started filling plates. His assistants reappeared from wherever they'd wisely hidden, as the vacuum that had formed around Agni filled in with hungry fairgoers.
***
Did I just see Agni being lectured to by a Clostuone? And listening? I don't know if I'm underestimating Paer's young man—or Agni.
Xen strolled along invisibly in Agni's wake, dodging the other people strolling in the plaza. The man stalked off and stood glowering out over the plaza, not at anything in particular, but . . . thinking?
I wonder if Ebsa's brief encounter triggered something. Knowing Agni . . . well, I don't know.
Xen watched as the man finished his steak, and wiped the little china plate with his napkin. Stared down at the golden unicorn for a long moment, then pocketed the plate and strode off toward the Oner embassy. And took the next bus back to the One World.
I haven't a clue what he's thinking. Or planning.
***
Uh Oh, Angry woman, glowing like a Princess. Ebsa didn't know who she was, but he recognized trouble when he saw it.
She stalked up to the serving table and glared. "Everyone says you used that Comet Fall potion on Dystopia. I want it."
"Uh . . . everything I own is in quarantine, two gates away." Ebsa looked away from the woman's glow, and nearly glowing red-brown hair. Behind her, over on the sidewalk in front of the Arrival Embassy, he spotted two other Princesses. Qayg and Puur. Being accosted by a man in a grubby trench coat. Holding out a glass of wine.
Oh, please tell me that's not the Dirty Old Man. I don't believe those ridiculous stories from Comet Fall.
"You. Are. Going. To. Get. It. For. Me!"
Ebsa swung back in shock as he shrugged off a compulsion spell. Oh, you want to play dirty, Princess? Try this! He nodded over to where two Princesses were laughing and walking past the trench coat guy with a dismissive wave. "See that guy?" Ebsa nodded toward the man who appeared to be flapping his trench coat after his escaping targets. "Comet Fall Magician. He'll have some. Might even be what he's got in his glass."
She swung around and stared. "Ew!" Turned back at Ebsa, rolling up another spell. "Go get it for me."
He slapped down the spell she threw, and dropped his shields to outgoing power and glowed at her. "Do not ever use a compulsion on a Directorate Agent. Go. Away. Before. I. Kill. You."
She staggered back a few steps, turned and fled.
Ebsa cursed and grabbed a spatula. "Dammit. That's a bloody well done steak!" He set it aside, in case he ran out of properly cooked medium rare steak. And vowed to pay attention to the important things.
Ra'd drifted by. "Did you see the Scoone embassy's lynch mob parade? Very well done, with two straw stuffed dummies—a witch and a wizard—that they hauled back to their Embassy and burned at the stake."
"Umm . . . I'll bet the Earthers enjoyed that."
"
No. Very much to my surprise, they were horrified and called the Scooners the Kay Kay Kay and Nazis. I'll have to research the terms."
"Huh." Ebsa stripped off gloves and apron, donned the Vegan set to catch up on charcoal grilled vegetables. “Were they serving food?”
“Roast goat. I didn’t try it. Just in case.”
***
"Wow! Why don't you guys export this stuff!" Ebsa stabbed another morsel.
"Oh, the Extinct Species Act. Every single dead specimen has to have paperwork. And if we import them live, it's a criminal offense to kill them. The new gate direct to here is going to be a real game changer for the fishermen."
“Oh, is it open already? I thought new roads for access on the other side would take longer.”
“We stole an old freeway off ramp that wasn’t much used.” The *Zolt handing out little bowls of trilobite in lemon garlic butter grinned. “!Tok’s got everyone together for a major new advertising campaign targeted at all these worlds. We’re going to make a killing.”
“No kidding. This beats lobster all to heck. How big are they?”
“Oh, there are tens of thousands of species, different sizes and subtle flavor differences. Today we’re showcasing one of the larger varieties, they run two to three kilos.”
“So, large lobster tail size.”
“Harder to clean.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t let it out, but the damned things are easy to catch, cheap to buy, and we’re all sick and tired of eating them.”
Ebsa laughed and stabbed his last lump of meat with a toothpick. “You are going to make a killing on these things. They’re delicious.”
He glance back at his booth, next door. The kids had whittled down his pile of cooked and cut meat, the next round of charcoal was probably ready . . . he got back to cooking, sent his helpers off to see the sights, and kept filling plates.
