It took three attempts to get the room control to turn off the light, but finally I crawled into bed.
My head spun.
My palms throbbed.
It was too hot in the room.
Acid burned in my stomach.
I was not tired.
All the while I lay on the bed staring at strips of light moving over the ceiling as trams passed on the road outside, instead seeing the sails track lazily across the Bay of Islands, visible from my father’s spare bedroom window. Midday sun, wind in my hair. Nicha’s laughter.
Damn jet lag.
Oh, damn. I had completely forgotten to ring Eva. What sort of fiancé was I?
3
SOMEONE BANGED on the door, hard.
I raised myself on my elbows, the sound still reverberating in the woolly space between my ears and my brain. Darkness.
Green letters on the bedside clock glared 6:59. Last time I had seen those numbers they said 5:31.
Bloody hell. Nich’?
The eerie silence echoed inside me. No chatter, no garbled curses from Nicha’s thoughts. The room control must have noticed me move, because the annoying male voice asked me if I wanted lights on. I swore at the man-in-the-box, and to my great surprise he turned on the bedside light.
The banging had moved further down the hall, a muffled sound, accompanied by a male voice.
I scrambled out of bed, and as I told the room control to open the door, I realised what the man had shouted: breakfast. Two lots of breakfast in fact, on a tray on the floor. One for me, one for Nicha. That really brought it home to me. Nicha, alone in a police cell, pacing around, clawing at the walls.
“Good morning, Delegate.”
The two guards stood on either side of the door.
I swallowed emotion, blinked. The tray blurred before my eyes. Blinked again. Bent down to pick it up. Pain spiked through my palms. Oh shit, my hands.
One of the men jumped into action and picked up the tray, handing it to me with an intense look of those closely-set moss-green eyes. Did he see how much I was falling apart?
“Any news, mashara?”
“No news, Delegate.” Was that a cringe?
I balanced the tray on my arm, carried it inside and manoeuvred it onto the table, awkward as hell. When I flicked the lid off one of the plates, the smell of fried eggs billowed from underneath. No bacon. The hotel didn’t offer oysters for breakfast and I hadn’t wanted to bother Nicha with the smell of the meat of a vertebrate animal, which Coldi people didn’t eat. Nicha’s presence was everywhere.
I glanced at the clock. It was too early to start ringing.
I pushed a chair back with my foot, sat down and dragged my reader by the charging cord, finding the site of the World Newspoint service with only the touch of one thumb. A single headline across the top of the page screamed Attack in huge letters. There was a live shot of the ruined window of Sirkonen’s office and another of an ambulance driving off said to have contained the president. Nothing on how Sirkonen was. At least that meant he was still alive. Let’s stay positive; although I felt that if there were any positive news, they would have published it, too.
My comm unit beeped.
I jumped up and retrieved it from the table next to the door, where it had been recharging. I pressed “answer” while fumbling with the earpiece and was blasted by a high-pitched squeak.
Ouch. A relay.
I ran across the room again, flung the unit next to my reader and, with my unbandaged left thumb, activated the wireless communication interface.
Someone from outside, off-planet—relayed through the Exchange.
The screen went white and at the top appeared the Coldi text, Sender 876735475-02 1.24 Beratha.
By then, I knew. Beratha was the second-largest city of Asto, the Coldi homeworld. It hosted a massive armed forces base. I knew only one person in Beratha: Nicha’s father.
While the bacteria in the crystalline screen worked to display the next lines of text, I scrambled under my discarded and bloodied shirt for the Coldi keyboard module, since I needed my feeder to get the thought sensor working in Coldi, and since I didn’t have my damn feeder . . . I found the keyboard projector and plugged it in while unfolding the stand from the bottom of the pen-sized device so it stood straight up, it’s “eye” pointing at the table. A small light on the cylinder activated and the one hundred and twelve characters of the common Coldi alphabet appeared projected onto the table, just as the message on the screen completed.
I hear my son is in trouble. Like a typical Coldi, Nicha’s father never wasted much time in greetings.
I replied using a fork, because my bandaged and taped-together fingers didn’t allow the level of control I needed to touch the keys projected onto the table.
Trouble would be an overstatement.
I winced and cursed with every character. Was I ever glad Coldi had one character per syllable.
Send. Wait until the dot had stopped blinking.
I should have brought my tea. A person grew impatient waiting for communication to go through, even if that communication was beamed across the continent, up into space, through the Exchange network of anpar lines and halfway across the surface of another planet. Tea would be a great thing to have. I eyed the cup on the table, steaming in the glow from the bedside light. My eggs were getting cold, too.
But the reply came back quickly. There is talk that blames Asto for this attack.
I typed, Allegations only, but knew the damage had been done. Damn that movie.
It is because of these allegations that my son has been taken into custody?
I typed, He is innocent and according to local law should be released soon.
Keeping all fingers and toes crossed of course, never mind that I couldn’t manage that at the moment—whose stupid idea had it been to tape my fingers together?
The reply shot back, How soon?
Even though Nicha was gamra employed, I knew in one way or another he still worked for Asto. There was a word, imayu, that described the interpersonal networks. Within Asto society, the ties a person acquired during life were never severed, and their influence reached far. You and a partner, which could be a sibling, a friend or a business contact, reported to a superior, who was then paired with another who reported to their superior, and so on and so forth, all the way up. Nicha’s father ranked frightfully high in Asto’s air force. Through his father, Nicha’s loyalty would be tied up to Ezhya Palayi himself. That was someone you definitely did not want to cross.
I typed, I am investigating his release.
Not mentioning that by Asto standards, I was relatively powerless to do so, but I did not want Asto involved in this. To them, democracy was an undesirable brand of activism. They had curious methods of justice. Writs served to perpetrators, who then had to respond within certain time or risk a retribution squad, often leading to assassination. Order and honouring imayu was more important than the life of an individual. They had plenty of individuals on Asto.
The answer blinked back, When will he be released?
Not, as I noted, outrage over the fact that Nicha had been detained. Guess it was part of what a military officer would call hazards of the job, but I didn’t like it.
I typed, Soon, I hope.
Not wanting to say “this afternoon”. Legally, the police couldn’t hold Nicha for more than twenty-four hours in absence of a formal charge. Then again, who knew if that would apply to stateless gamra citizens. Nicha had lost his European passport in the extraterrestrial citizenship case; he had been too disgusted to reapply and sit for the test the government said he needed to pass to be accepted in the country where he spent most of his adult life. And paid his taxes.
The reply shot back again, Do you require help?
I replied, equally fast, Not yet.
Indicating that help might well be called for in the future, the polite thing to do. But no, seeing “help” in Coldi terms would most likely involve soldiers with g
uns, I emphatically did not want help.
I typed, The Exchange is looking into it.
Or so I hoped.
Tell them I’m not impressed they’ve allowed this to happen.
I will convey that. I’m not impressed either. There were no untruths in that.
Thank you. I will leave it in your capable hands.
Like a true military person, he signed off without further comment. I hoped this meant disaster was temporarily averted. But, oh, someone needed to act quickly.
I dragged my comm unit over the table. The shortkey button connected to my office at the Exchange, but the junior administration assistant who answered said that the staff were in a meeting with Amarru. I could get her through the feeder network. I’m not repeating what I said then. If I caught the idiot who had made me hand in my feeder . . . The young man fell silent, possibly startled by my command of Coldi swear words—there were advantages to living with the son of a military officer. Then he said he’d leave messages.
I disconnected, stumbled to the other side of the table and started on my eggs. The toast had gone soggy. I shoved it aside and drank my tea, blowing steam off the surface.
In the street below, driverless buses splashed over their designated lanes in rain-slicked streets. A faint glow of light blue tinted the sky.
Two hours before start of business. I didn’t know if I had that much patience.
Meanwhile, I’d better look at the news. I logged onto my mail program. There were over three thousand messages, which I sorted alphabetically and scanned for familiar senders. Delia Murchison—the report you asked for. Delia again—addendum.
The history of Coldi involvement on Earth since 1961, the oldest record of Coldi presence in Athens, all secret of course, since the Coldi had only officially acknowledged their presence in 2094. Some gamra member entities had asked me to prepare this material, because they found it hard to accept that a world with such a large population had been isolated from gamra for so long and wanted to know how this had come about. There was an undertone of accusing the Coldi for keeping gamra away from Earth, but in light of what had happened, I wondered why I had ever thought this bickering within gamra important.
I shifted those messages in my work area and wondered if this meant Delia was no longer angry with me. That midnight call had been none too bright. Desperate. I realised I didn’t function well without my zhayma either, at least not on an emotional level.
There were no official messages from Nations of Earth.
That was strange, because I would have expected some sort of statement from Vice President Sigobert Danziger.
So I created a message to Danziger instead.
I slipped the thought-sensor behind my ear and half-whispered, Mr Vice President, I would appreciate if I could see you as soon as possible to clarify my position. I would also appreciate having my zhayma . . . No, correct that. The offending word vanished. . . . my assistant released as soon as possible.
Send. Surely Danziger would already be at work in this crisis?
I stared at the screen and noticed a message from Eva. Are you still coming today?
Oh shit. I lunged across the table for my comm unit. Punched Eva’s ID. It rang, and rang, and rang. I pictured her house, a large two-storey affair with a large hall and sweeping staircase. I could almost see the comm central screen on the wall in the living room. Flashing, beeping. No one answered.
I tried Eva’s personal unit. It was off. Not good. That meant she was angry and meant to make me feel guilty about yesterday. About fobbing her off, about forgetting to call her back.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been angry with me, either. At times, I hated myself for being so obsessed with my work, but mostly I was too busy to worry about what Eva thought. That wasn’t good either, but I swore when I settled in my position things would be different.
Right now I could almost hear Eva’s voice. Work, work, work, all you think about is work.
Oh Eva. Please Eva, don’t make things any more difficult than they already are.
I disconnected the call, drawing a deep breath. Mahzu. Negotiate. Picture yourself in the other person’s shoes.
Eva was in love with a man who was about to leave for a place where she couldn’t meet him, and talk to him only over the Exchange network, which she hadn’t used much and which wasn’t exactly private. A place unspeakably far away, where the previous person in that job had gone crazy and vanished without a word.
She would think, what if something happened to me? And no one she knew or trusted could go and find me? Only strange people with strange names who spoke strange languages.
Coldi society made distinctions between those who travelled and those who didn’t, like the dichotomy that marked their society, two sides evening each other out. I was ichi, one who travelled, and she was ata-ichi, one who didn’t. Balancing me. I shouldn’t hold that against her. After all, I hadn’t encouraged her to come. It could be dangerous, and she would be lonely in Barresh. I said I’d review the matter in six months’ time, when I returned for my first report to the Nations of Earth assembly.
The Nations of Earth half of my contract might be for two years, but gamra appointed people for life, and I . . . let’s just say I had no intention to return here for an office job.
It would be up to me to make life in Barresh pleasant for her.
Flowers and chocolates it was, then.
I scrolled over the message, and hit reply Yes. I’ll come as soon as I can get out of here. Definitely no promises about the time. In a job like mine, something always came up at the last minute.
Danziger finally replied a bit after midday, in a curt message, Please see me at the office immediately.
My mind flashed, News about Sirkonen.
I replied, On my way.
I grabbed my jacket and left the room, collecting my security in the corridor. They greeted me with serious faces. Very serious.
The two men must have slept in turns and bathed, because they looked fresh and smelled clean. They wore close-fitting trousers and jackets of a thick dark grey, not-quite-black material, not leather, not plastic but something smooth and soft. Open buttons at one of the men’s chests revealed a glimpse of body armour. Both wore charge guns strapped in brackets at their upper arms. Two guns each, clearly visible. Great. Battle dress today.
A taxi already waited at the hotel entrance, a regular driverless vehicle.
One of the guards sat on the front bench, while I and the other guard took the back.
No one spoke as the car splashed through puddles, trundling in its predestined path painted in yellow on the road, following trams and buses. The guard next to me kept glancing over his shoulder. A tinny voice drifted from his earpiece. A red tram followed the taxi, but behind that was a white car.
I met the man’s eyes. “Mashara? Are people following us?”
“Special Services,” said the guard in the front seat with absolute certainty.
“Is mashara aware that my status requires special consideration with Special Services?”
“Mashara advises not. Special Services have received our request for information.”
“Received but not replied?”
“Not replied,” the man repeated, meeting my eyes, stiff faced, prim and proper.
The taxi stopped at a crossing. I looked again—the white car waited a little distance back. I told myself not to worry. I was a witness to a major crime. Sure, Special Services were here to protect me and had better things to do than reply to poorly-worded questions from my inexperienced companions. If they wanted to spy on me, they’d have less conspicuous ways than following me like this. I still didn’t like it. No one had told me anything about protection.
The main gates to the Nations of Earth compound were closed. Police and Nations of Earth guards had set up shop at the entrance, where a crowd gathered under a sea of colourful umbrellas. As soon as the car stopped, the media sharks went into a feeding frenzy, flashing cameras,
yelling questions.
I opened the window, showing the guards my Nations of Earth identity pass. I had to shout over the voices. “Cory Wilson to see Vice President Danziger.”
The guard studied my card for a moment, then glanced inside the car. His gaze rested on the Indrahui guard in the front seat.
“Excuse me, Mr Wilson.” He gestured for me to come out, and after I had done so, spoke in a low voice. “I don’t think they will be allowed inside.”
I nodded, although I began to like this attitude less and less. I bet that if I had come here with a private, Earthly-looking guard, I would not have had the same trouble. “I think they would be happy to wait—”
The front door of the taxi swung open and the guard rose from his seat. He was almost a head taller than the police officer, and in his tight outfit, skin dark as obsidian, wiry bronze hair in a tight coil at the back of his head, he was truly imposing.
“We have orders. We protect the Delegate.” He spoke with a heavy accent, and the simplicity of the words lent them added menace.
The officer took a big step back, and almost tripped.
I switched to Coldi. “Mashara, please, there is no need—”
The guard turned to me, fixing me with moss-green eyes. Rain drizzled on both of us. He inclined his head, diamond-drops of water in his hair.
“With respect, Delegate, the events of yesterday have shown that there is a need.”
“I’ll be safe inside the gates. These men are police—”
“The Delegate must be protected at all times. Chief Delegate Akhtari’s orders.”
That was Chief Delegate Akhtari, leader of gamra. What did she have to do with this? Wait—was he suggesting that gamra thought that the attack had been aimed at me?
That was ridiculous. There would have been much better opportunities to kill me. Besides, my presence in Sirkonen’s office at the time of the explosion was coincidence and had been the result of a change in plans. On the other hand . . . there was no conspiracy regarding Kershaw’s disappearance. There was no gamra faction wanting to get rid of Sirkonen. To them, one president was the same as the next. If an Earth-based group had been responsible for this attack, they would have already grabbed the headlines; Flash Newspoint bought all stories, including those from criminals. Besides, if someone really, really wanted to derail the relationship between Earth and gamra, Sirkonen was entirely the wrong person to shoot.
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