Rogue Stars

by C Gockel et al.

  I have been given a very large apartment here overlooking the water . . . and I carried on a bit about the accommodation and the city, and imagined she would still like to come, but had no idea how that would ever come to pass, or at least not in the near future. Not unless I could convince Danziger that continuing the position would be a good idea, and he didn’t seem inclined that way at the moment.

  I sat back and read over my efforts, intensely dissatisfied. I was dying to ask her what was going on with Danziger, but that would upset her and would make me look desperate. People were watching this link. The whole section about the apartment felt like crap. The apartment wasn’t mine; I couldn’t even pay for it. Maybe the people watching the link would get the message and transfer the money.

  Wishful thinking.

  I concluded with Love, Cory and then sent it before I could change my mind. And then I felt awful because I should of course have asked if she had looked at wedding dresses yet, since that would be the most important thing on her mind. It was just that . . .

  Get married? In a madhouse like this?

  I couldn’t offer the kind of life I wanted to give Eva, and I surely wasn’t going to rely, no matter how temporarily, on her father’s charity, suffering his I told you those chans are bad news looks.

  Nor was I going to take a desk job at Nations of Earth.

  But to stay here, I needed money. With the code I’d been given at the Ledger, I logged onto my account, not that anything had changed there. As soon as the bill came for this apartment, I’d be in deep trouble. Either I would have to borrow money, or acknowledge that I was indebted to whoever owned the apartment, whoever they were and whatever leverage they would hold against me.

  No, I’d best try to pre-empt that situation. I’d look for work independent of my position, so that if Nations of Earth wanted to play the standoff game, I could hold out.

  A job.

  Surely, gamra had a fair share of rich people in need of a translator to iron idiocies out of mechanical efforts.

  The Trader Guild for example. I had a vision of myself sitting at a desk, writing a letter. Dear Kazakhstani rebel leader, the shipment of arms ordered by you is now underway. . . .

  I buried my face in my hands and groaned.

  And yelped with pain. It was as if someone slashed a knife across my left palm. For a while I sat there, breathing deeply.

  When I looked up, Thayu stood at the door. She said nothing while she came out, crossed the balcony and sat down in the sun, her legs flat on the hot pavement. I remembered painfully how Nicha did this, too, soaking up heat. A very Coldi thing to do. Nicha said it made his body temperature rise by a few degrees. He said it was pleasant. Coldi could drop their body temperature to as low as 40 degrees, but Nicha said that around 45 degrees was much more comfortable.

  Sunlight caught in Thayu’s glittering hair, leaving her face in shadow. Her gaze flicked to the reader on my lap. “She is the woman of your contract?” We were back to friendly pronouns.

  “Yes.”

  As far as I knew, Coldi female officials who had a male zhayma usually had a contract with the same person. Someone like Amarru, whose “husband” worked in permit processing. People at the Exchange had gossiped about their relationship a lot, since Amarru had re-signed for no less than ten years. Heavens above, could they actually be in love with each other?

  “Eva is . . . worried about me.”

  “When does your contract with her start?”

  “When I was scheduled to visit.”

  “After that, would she come here?”

  “That was the plan.”

  I stared at her arms, soft and yellow-skinned, trying to decide if her voice gave away any emotion. I had no doubt she had come into my apartment expecting a sexual relationship with me. Was she disappointed or glad that it was not going to happen?

  “What were the conditions of the partnership?”

  What a typically Coldi question. “There are no conditions.” Other than do not fool around with others. “Our partnerships are for love, and for life.”

  “You must care a lot for her, then.”

  The lack of emotion in her voice disturbed me. “Do you have any family?”

  “My father.”

  “What about. . . ?” I couldn’t help my gaze straying to her breasts. She had a child, somewhere.

  She shrugged. “He lives with his father.”

  “How old?”

  “Four.”

  That would make her about my age, counting in gamra years, unless she meant four in Asto years, which meant that either she was older than me or she had been very young when she gave birth.

  “Do you ever see him?”

  “No.” She gazed out over the marshlands. A muscle twitched in her jaw.

  Damn, I shouldn’t have asked.

  When I had been with Inaru, I had always felt that our relationship wasn’t serious for her, that Coldi treated family relationships like paper wrappers: useful until you got to the lolly in the middle. Even in Nicha, I had never felt he actually loved his mother, nor had I felt Nicha would form a steady relationship with a woman. I hadn’t thought Coldi had a need for this sort of thing.

  I had been wrong.

  I rose from the bench, and put a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “You have the right to have one more child.” I was not so foolish as to suggest that she contact the father to see her son. The contract was finished; he was out of her life. That was the Coldi way.

  “No. My father has already arranged a contract. It’s worth a lot. I wouldn’t have the funds to . . .”

  I swallowed hard. That was where my relationship with Inaru had faltered. I could keep her, she had said, if I paid out the other man. To which I had replied that I wasn’t about buying people and she could either come with me if she loved me, or not at all.

  And she had run away.

  I stared unseeingly over the marshlands. In my mind, I saw her on the beach of a Greek island—I had forgotten which one. She laughed at faces I pulled after eating bits of mushroom from her picnic basket. I could still feel the burning on my tongue from trying just that tiny little piece of red-coded mushroom. I could smell the hot-stone scent of her skin, hear her deep-voiced laughter. Feel her heat on my naked skin.

  Inaru.

  Had she been serious? Had she thought I was more than a game? Had she thought because I wouldn’t pay, I didn’t love her?

  What did it matter? It was too late. She had gone to honour her contract. By now, she would have her money and the man would have his children, and I had no doubt that, being from the Palayi clan like Nicha, she would occupy a plum position somewhere on Asto.

  And in six months’ time, I would marry Eva.

  Thayu said, “I came about something else. You asked me to find out about the person who owns the apartment?”

  I shook my thoughts free of times I would do better to forget. “You found something?”

  “Come and have a look.”

  I followed Thayu inside. It was a lot cooler inside the building, and cool air stroked my sweaty skin.

  But when I sat down, I made the mistake of putting my left palm on the seat. Something snapped under the bandage and white hot pain seared across my hand.

  I cried out; black spots danced in my vision. I sat there, breathing deeply.

  A hand came into my field of vision. “Let me have a look.”

  Trembling, I extended my hands.

  Somewhere on the instrument panel, she flicked on a small light that showed a wet patch of yellow ooze seeping into the bandage.

  Thayu gave me a sharp look. “Why haven’t you seen a medico yet?”

  All of a sudden, fatigue and pain overwhelmed me. I leaned back in the bench. My head spun, and when Thayu reached past me to a control, the heat radiating from her body made me shiver.

  “I’ll arrange it right now.” Thayu slid an earpiece over her ear.

  I sat there, fighting dizziness.

  A little
while later, she said, “That’s arranged. Are you all right to continue?”

  I desperately wanted to say no. I wanted a hot mug of manazhu, to crawl into bed and ignore the world around me. But I nodded. “Show me what you found.”

  Her hands moved over the panel and dragged a projection forward. “I came across this.”

  I squinted at a piece of text. I could just make out that it was in the local keihu language, which I couldn’t read. The translator had made a copy in Coldi next to the original document, and had done its usual job at mangling up the sentences. Something about a meeting. Thayu had highlighted one sentence. It is said that representatives of Amoro Renkati came to the meeting.

  And a memory came to me.

  Like this, with the two names together, I remembered where I had seen that name before: in the credits of the movie on Seymour Kershaw. The same person who owned this apartment?

  “This . . . Amoro Renkati . . . is he a local?”

  “I don’t know. I checked the population register, but nothing comes up under that name.”

  But this person could be an unregistered local, not a gamra citizen.

  A local, who was spying on me, who funded movies that told lies about my predecessor.

  Renkati sounded awfully like Akhtari; I was sure it was an Aghyrian name. The Aghyrian section of Barresh were rich; they were high up in politics, or in business.

  Was it really as simple as that? A businessman in Barresh discovers the glamour and money of the movie industry on Earth, supports a movie about a subject that is close to his heart—and vilifies the much-maligned Coldi in the process. Sirkonen tries to stop the release of the movie, and in return the businessman—not understanding the nature of free speech and democracy—thinks his investment is at risk and orders the attack on the president?

  A possible motive, but I didn’t think the potential loss of income was serious enough for murder, not by any gamra entity’s understanding. But it was a start.

  And I had an idea. A stupid and risky idea maybe, but one that might answer some questions.

  “Right,” I said, “let’s see if we can find someone to give me paid work.”

  If Thayu was surprised at the sudden change of topic, she didn’t show. “What do you want me to do?”

  “If you could take down what I tell you.” I cringed, holding up my useless hands. I hated being dependent, but could only get the auto-type feature in Coldi to work through my feeder, and since I didn’t have one . . .

  “That’s what I’m for, to help you.” While she clipped on her thought-sensor, her eyes met mine in an intense, almost accusing stare, but she said nothing and calmly took down the text. The lines of curly Coldi script grew in the projection.

  Finally, she read it out. “My name is Cory Wilson, delegate of gamra. Unforeseen circumstances in my home entity have necessitated that I seek temporary alternative funding. I have completed training in gamra law and am familiar with Trader law. Besides Coldi, I am fluent in Standard, the language of my home entity, and proficient in Damarcian, Kedrasi and Indrahui. I am willing to take projects as translator or negotiator. It is my hope that your organisation can help me.”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “It’s very . . . unusual.”

  “Anything wrong with it?”

  “It’s very direct—for something coming from gamra.”

  Yes, I knew the pronouns were too direct. But gamra was the only place where such archaic forms of Coldi were used. “This won’t be sent through gamra. Not officially anyway.”

  “You want to send this—to whom?”

  “Anyone I can think of. Marin Federza and the Trader Guild and the Ledger, but also the Damarcian master builders, and local businesses in Barresh.” If Amoro Renkati was such a rich man and wanted to keep close watch on me, he might bite; I was sure that if I were in his position, I would bite. “Do you think anyone will be upset?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I spread my hands, frustration welling up in me. “What do you do when you’re stuck for a job?”

  Her look was blank.

  Of course. That didn’t happen in Asto. When Coldi children were thirteen, they went into schooling and moved up through the ranks by completing tasks and exams until they reached a level they couldn’t attain. At that stage, authorities matched their abilities with a position, where they remained for life. It was easy to plan for a government which operated on strict population control.

  “Well, I’m going to send it, whether it’s polite or not.”

  13

  “DELEGATE, THE MEDICO has arrived.” Eirani stood at the door, a washing basket on her hip.

  I stopped my transcript mid-sentence, thoughts of flowing sentences fleeing my brain. For a while, I had almost forgotten the throbbing pain in my hands, since it had become less after the popping feeling, but now, with treatment in sight, it returned in full force. I did not like doctors and hospitals.

  Thayu gave me a small nod. “Go. I’ll keep working on this.”

  I rose, reluctantly.

  A woman waited in the hall. She towered almost a head over me, yet held her back straight. Wide but bony shoulders made me think of an athlete thirty years after Olympic glory. An orange robe hung from her thin and knobbly shoulders, leaving bare thin arms with skin wrinkled as an elephant’s hide.

  Dark eyes met mine from a face with a sharp nose and high cheekbones. She wore her greying hair in a tight bun.

  She nodded a greeting. “Delegate.”

  Eirani returned a tiny bow. “There are benches and a clean table in the bathroom.”

  The woman gave a short reply in a language I didn’t recognise but presumed was keihu, after which Eirani bowed again and shepherded us to the bathroom.

  The medico woman followed me into the cavernous room. Without looking at me, she gestured at one of the couches that lined the wall. “Sit there.” Right. Someone who didn’t adhere to the gamra formality.

  She plonked a metal case on the table next to the couch, and dragged the table until it stood between me and her. She flipped open the lid. From within the depths of the case, two telescope arms extended, and lights flicked on at their ends. Then the front and back of the case clicked open and panels unfolded into a working table, while a fine mist sprayed from nozzles hidden in the remaining side walls of the case.

  I stared. I had never seen anything like this.

  “Put your hands here.” She pointed at the pool of light on the treatment table.

  I did so. In the brightness, the bandage looked positively disgusting.

  “This is not good. Why not come earlier?” She met my eyes with deep black ones.

  I shrugged, feeling both hot and cold at the same time; I had left this far too long and I knew it, but I didn’t need this abrupt woman to tell me that.

  From the sides of the medicine case, she unfolded another panel which held a neat row of metal instruments, many with pincer-sharp points that would put a dentist’s pick to shame.

  Squinting, she selected a tweezer-like gadget with knife-sharp points.

  I focused on the languid steam rising off the water in the bath past the woman’s back. I didn’t want to know what she was doing but, at the same time, I felt a morbid fascination. Just what had made that popping sound under the bandage?

  She used the implement to alternately pull and cut the bandage away from my palm.

  Like Nicha’s, her skin carried not even the faintest fuzz of hair. Yet she wasn’t Coldi.

  Aghyrian.

  She had all the aristocratic features. The height, the wide shoulders, the straight nose, the high cheekbones, the long fingers.

  It was the first time I had heard an Aghyrian speak with an accent, staccato, snappy, as if she really hated Coldi.

  By now, she had removed most of the bandage. The skin of my left palm, red and shiny, strained against strips of tape which the doctors in Rotterdam had applied to keep both sides of the cuts together. One had c
ome loose, leaving a raw and gaping wound, red rimmed and oozing pus. The faintest breeze of air stung like acid.

  A drop of sweat rolled down my stomach.

  “Hold still.” She put one hand across both my wrists and with the other picked up an instrument, with what looked like a small light bulb at the end. Something, a spark or a light, flew from the glass bulb. It hit my palms with a sharp stab of pain. It crackled along my fingers . . . and then . . . nothing.

  The pain was gone.

  “What . . .” I stared.

  She gave me a withering look, while putting the instrument away, nothing more than a metal rod with a little piece of glass at the end, a simple thing, a . . . conductor.

  On second thoughts, I had heard of this. It had something to do with the ability to store energy in the body, like static electricity. All three races native to Barresh had this to some extent. It had a name—which I had forgotten. I had read a report written by someone, a Coldi author I seemed to remember, who was quite scared of the ability, calling it a regrettable abomination.

  I wriggled my fingers. “Could you show me how you do that?”

  “Is not for fun.”

  Talk about grumpy. “You are Aghyrian, aren’t you?”

  She gave me a piercing look, but didn’t disagree. “Aghyrians are locals, aren’t they?”

  “Not by choice, we’re not.”

  Heh, my probing had struck a raw nerve. All those years ago, a meteorite strike had made Asto, the Aghyrian home word, uninhabitable for them. Through the ages, the once-brilliant Aghyrian race had clung onto survival, but only in the last hundred years or so had their numbers increased substantially. There were rumours of a hard core within that group, who believed it was time for the Coldi race, their temporary place holders, a people created by them, to relinquish control of gamra, and of their home planet.

  Never mind that these days Asto was too hot for any species except the Coldi.

  “Do Aghyrians all live in Barresh or are there concentrations somewhere else?”

  Another sharp look. “You have a lot of questions, young man.”

  “It interests me.” I could hardly say that I was hoping to pave the way for a question about Amoro Renkati.