by A. L. Bruno
“Why has the Kionel asked this Terran visitor to stay at the Kionel’s palace?” Those words came from Siva Dayati, the blonde Kalinteli reporter Roberts had spotted on the lawn during first contact. She’d changed into a dress that was somehow even more form-fitting than what she’d worn in public, and her makeup had been reapplied to emphasize the shape of her eyes and lips. She leaned towards her camera, one eyebrow arched, her bare right shoulder dipped conspiratorially. “What are his staff, who we all know are very fond of their secrets, not telling us?”
Boothe moved her fingers, and the Kalinteli video muted and dimmed. In its place was Hariska Chatura, the H’Tanzian reporter, still in the same torn dress from earlier in the day, staring wild-eyed into the camera. In stark contrast to the muted blues and grays of the Kalinteli set, Chatura’s desktop was painted in bold yellows and reds, with stenciled art mimicking hand-drawn graffiti on the walls. Stylized text in the lower right-hand corner of the screen identified her as “Chatura the Troublemaker.”
“It takes years for the most well-connected people to even get a meeting with the Kionel,” she said, the translator mimicking her disbelief, “but a man from space is asked to live there after shooting off fireworks and ruining his lawn?” She shrugged expansively. “If that’s all it took, I would have had Nadala Somfar on his front step every year until he adopted me!” The still of Roberts was replaced by a post-processed image of Chatura throwing what looked to be dead leaves on a bonfire in front of the Kionel’s palace door, prompting an explosion of laughter from her audience.
Boothe’s fingers moved again, and the H’Tanzian was replaced by the somber features of Tarkena Akand. Unlike the garish visuals of Chatura’s broadcast, Tarkena’s was a study of muted greens and soft grays. Even the screen-wide strip that acted as a video footer still read “News of the Day,” as it had during the past eighteen months of the Terran’s observations.
“Today, the Kionel’s press secretary announced that they have extended an invitation to the Terran named Jason Roberts.” Tarkena’s voice was measured, his delivery deliberate. “The Kionel wants him to reside in the palace in order to—and these are reported to be the Kionel’s own words—"better understand our new brothers and sisters.”” Tarkena shook his head in disbelief. “But how can we know that who we see is really who they are?”
Boothe gestured again, and the feed shut down.
“It looks like their Kionel wants to adopt you, Mr. Roberts,” Boothe said.
“I was just trying to help, ma’am.” Roberts started, but Boothe stopped him with a raised hand.
“That’s not the issue,” Boothe said. She leaned forward, her jaw set, her eyebrows narrowed. “Gentlemen, we have an opportunity here. How can we turn their fascination with Mr. Roberts into a Union base?” She cast her frigid gaze across every person in the briefing room. “So, tell me, people. How are we going to make this work for us?”
11
Kionel’s Palace
Leonathier, Tenasta
Pitraina, 13 Sardua
Avindair caught Adelisa’s eye as she entered the palace’s main courtyard. A flock of anxious reporters following in her wake like ducklings behind their mother. The sun had long since set, painting the spring sky in shades of salmon and violet, and the folds of her resplendent traditional gown reflected the dying starlight. Adelisa offered the press a gracious visage born from a lifetime of public service, at once both friendly and respectfully distant. She then met Avindair’s gaze with a smile far warmer than the reporters would ever receive. She spoke a quick word to the Elite Guard stationed by the door, then glided towards the commandant, her grin widening, while the guard politely kept the press by the entrance.
“You want me to what?” Jagrav asked, his voice pitching to comical levels. Avindair realized with a start that it was the second time Jagrav had made the query. He tore his eyes away from Adelisa and turned his attention back to his second.
“Just call me when it’s time.” His voice made it clear that there was no room for argument.
Jagrav’s eyebrows raised to what remained of his hairline. “If it’s what you want.” He shrugged expansively then slipped past the remaining reporters towards the parade ground’s postern door.
The hours since the Terrans’ ship had lifted off had been a study in chaos. Reporters swarmed the Kionel’s staff, demanding answers to questions no one could possibly know. Panicked queries were quickly followed by waves of rage as the palace announced cancellations of long-scheduled events, pilgrim tours, and diplomatic meetings, all due to “unforeseen circumstances.” The announcement only fueled the press, and they went after everyone, demanding something from each, all in search of that one nugget of information that would make their station stand out from the rest. Even Avindair, usually a man the press knew better than to anger, found himself staring down the reflective barrel of a camera lens numerous times. Everyone from local reporters to Chatura the Troublemaker herself asked the same question: “What did you say to the Terran called Roberts?”
When Avindair answered the question, echoing the Kionel’s orders, things only got worse.
He must know what he’s doing, Avindair told himself again. The thought brought him no more solace than before.
The scent of honeysuckle preceded Adelisa’s presence. Despite the weight of the day, Avindair had to guard himself from smiling. A heartbeat later she was there, grinning ear to ear, her hand up in a practiced wave to the reporters behind her.
“Please,” Adelisa said through her smile, her expression all cheer and optimism, “tell me you brought wine.”
Avindair looked down and away, a subtle smirk escaping. “I believe you have some in your office, Adishta.”
A chuckle escaped Adelisa’s throat. “No,” she replied, waving enthusiastically at a single local reporter. “That’s the good stuff.”
Avindair grinned fully now, forcing him to turn his back on the press. They can’t see me smile, he thought. Especially today.
Adelisa took his upper arm, and Avindair’s heart leapt. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, still smiling, waving with her other arm as she eased him forward. Avindair didn’t resist—why would he? Within moments they had left the courtyard, ignoring the barrage of questions until the guard let them into the executive office wing.
The corridor that stretched before them was reserved only for the highest dignitaries. Its crimson walls, polished wood wainscoting, and ornate brass lamps were complimented by an array of artwork that reached back across the thousand years of the Kionelaite. Archivists regularly rotated pieces from storage to display, partially because of limited space, but in truth, because the changes kept visiting dignitaries off balance. Only one painting was never replaced, and it dominated the far wall of the corridor: a warrior, rendered in heavy, impressionist brush strokes, stood in silhouette with his back to the viewer, sword in hand on a burning battlefield. He looked up into the night sky, his eyes fixed on nine comets that glowed vibrantly in the deep indigo sky. A’adi Retila, Avindair thought, seeing the old Tenastan phrase in his mind. The World Begins.
If Adelisa noticed the artwork it didn’t show. Her shoulders slumped the moment they were out of the public eye, and she released a ragged sigh. She fixed her gaze on Avindair, dark eyebrows furrowed over golden eyes. “What the hell is he thinking?” she asked, furious.
“You expect me to know?” he replied. It feels so good to be honest with someone, he thought, his shoulders relaxing the slightest degree. After a day of polite obfuscation, speaking his mind felt almost like an act of rebellion.
“No,” Adelisa said, pulling his left arm close to her body and placing her right hand on top of his as they walked. “I just wanted to know I wasn’t losing my mind.”
Avindair chuckled, and Adelisa leaned in closer to him. The press of her lithe frame made every nerve on his body come to life.
“I think the whole world is losing its mind,” Avindair replied. Adelisa chuckled dryly, b
ut she said no more until they reached her office.
Avindair closed the ornately carved office door behind them, his shoulders slumping with relief. Adelisa made her way to the couch situated in front of her desk, a spot usually reserved for visiting dignitaries, and flopped backwards onto its cushions. Finally, she blew out an exasperated sigh. “Did you at least try to talk him out of it?” she asked.
“Until he yelled at me,” Avindair replied. He opened a well-polished, black-topped liquor cabinet situated next to the entrance wall, retrieved a short decanter half-filled with mewtla, and poured a glass of the amber liquid.
Adelisa opened her eyes and pushed herself up onto her elbows. “That bad?”
Avindair crossed the gleaming hardwood floors and handed her the glass. “Worse.”
Adelisa threw back a swig of the liquid in one toss then remained still, her eyes closed, her head back. She has the neck of a swan, Avindair thought, transfixed.
“Don’t stare at me,” Adelisa said, her eyes still closed. “It’s creepy.”
Avindair looked down, chagrined, but he still smiled.
Adelisa opened her eyes as if she’d forgotten something, then shot to her feet, glass still in hand, and made her way over to the massive cherrywood desk on the far wall of her office. A single door to a private restroom—once a luxury that had been a scandal for its expense—framed one side of the wall, while the other was dominated by a smooth-lined statue of a figure reaching upwards. The barely sketched lines of its face contorted in either horror or wonder, its head thrown back at an angle. A rough-hewn title jutted out of the base, forming the word Rebirth. Avindair had understood neither the title nor the statue, but Adelisa liked it, and that was all that mattered.
“I need to change,” Adelisa announced. She set her glass down next to an inbox stacked with what looked to be a full ream of paper. “Start the vid, would you?”
“Of course,” Avindair replied. He walked over to her desk as she entered her restroom, pulled out what should have been a desk drawer, and flipped the three toggle switches within.
The ceiling above both the couch and the wall opposite whirred. A reflective white screen and yellowed, plastic-housed projector extended downward. The projector snapped into place above the couch first, the hum of its warming systems filling the expansive office.
“They can still turn us down,” Adelisa called from within the bathroom.
“They came from another star,” Avindair replied. He watched as the screen finally extended to the floor, while the warming bulb cast a soft light on its blank canvas. “I doubt they’ll say no.”
The bulb brightened, and Avindair heard the piercing whine of the projector’s electronic boards coming to life.
“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Adelisa asked, grunting as she struggled with her clothes from behind the door.
“I don’t know,” Avindair answered. He and the Kionel had argued this point after the Kionel’s message had been delivered to the one they called Roberts. “We should be worried about their military capabilities,” Avindair had said, doing his best to keep his temper in check, “not inviting them to stay with us!”
“Perhaps it would be best to get to know them before we consider shooting them,” the Kionel had replied. Avindair had pressed, of course—as was his duty—until the Kionel had unleashed a storm at him, the likes of which he hadn’t endured in years. Avindair had then been sent on his way, relegated to mingling with the press until Adelisa had arrived.
The bathroom door opened and Adelisa stepped out. The ornate gown had been replaced by comfortable, well-worn canvas pants and a baggy blue sweatshirt; the heels ditched for slim, black indoor slippers. Only her elaborately coiffed hair and makeup spoke to how she’d appeared to the world around them throughout the day.
“Where is he supposed to stay?” she asked. She reached for her glass and threw back another swallow of mewtla.
“Agrath’s Quarters,” Avindair replied.
Adelisa shot him a stunned look. “You’re kidding.”
Avindair shook his head.
“My office fields dozens of requests a year from VIPs around the world,” Adelisa said, eyes wide, “all begging to sleep in Agrath’s old bedroom for a single night, and now we’re giving this…” She struggled with the word.
“Terran,” Avindair interjected, grimacing.
Adelisa threw back another swig with her right hand and pointed at him with her left until she could speak again. “...Terran a free pass for…” She frowned. “How long?”
Avindair’s expression hardened. “Until we know.”
Adelisa stiffened, confused. “Know? Know what?”
Avindair shook his head. “That’s all he said.”
Adelisa looked away, one hand on her hip, the other placing the glass against her forehead. Then she grinned sardonically. “Agrath couldn’t stand a H’Tanzian dining at the same table. Imagine what he would have thought of this?”
Adelisa's wry smile lightened Avindair’s mood, and he chuckled. “Maybe he’ll haunt the Terran until he runs home.”
Adelisa let out a short, sharp laugh and turned towards him. “Don’t tease me,” she said.
Avindair inclined his head slightly. “Never.”
Adelisa’s cheeks flushed, and she turned away. “We better see what the jackals are saying,” she said. She reached down to her desk and twisted a single knob.
Speakers noisily hissed to life as the projector cast the local news on the floor-to-ceiling screen. Tarkena Akand’s familiar visage appeared, sitting bolt upright behind his desk. Bold red text dominated the space above his right shoulder, reading “World Reaction.”
“...a global event,” Tarkena said, his voice calm as always. “Our TransOcean news team has more.”
The image changed to a static-filled, transoceanic cable-fed shot of a reporter standing in front of the familiar wooden columns of the H’Tanzian Ministry building. Shasja Aldita, H’Tanzia’s First Minister, faced the reporter with a practiced smile so easy that it nearly convinced Avindair. The wind whipped his salt-and-pepper hair, while his friendly gray eyes were fixed on the reporter’s own. Aldita’s self-possessed body language confidently assured her, I’ll listen to anything you say. The reporter, seasoned though she was, melted before him.
Avindair couldn’t stand Aldita. Nobody could be that friendly, that empathetic without something very dark crawling around in his skull. We’re going to find bodies in his basement, Avindair concluded. A lot of bodies.
“This is a cause for celebration,” Aldita said, his H’Tanzian accent nearly butchering the last word. “We are not alone in the great night sky! We have brothers and sisters that built their wonders with the same minds, the same hands that we have. This only proves that with the proper support our potential is unlimited!”
Have you paid attention to what we do with our minds? Our hands? Avindair thought, glowering.
“This is a great day for all peoples,” another voice offered. The image cut to a shot of Ayasha Prassan, Tenasta’s First Minister, standing in front of her public address column. Her eyes practically sparkled under the camera’s lights, and she gripped the top of the column like a drowning man grasps at a safety line. “They can advance our world by centuries. The possibilities…” She laughed, her long chestnut hair shaking like a mane around her heart-shaped face, “...they’re endless.”
Flashbulbs hit Prassan like a thousand close-range lightning strikes while Akand’s voice cut over the video.
“Of course, not all world leaders were happy with today’s news.”
“Here we go,” Adelisa said. She finished another glass of mewtla with a single toss.
The image shifted to reveal the pinched gray features of Matik Harmmani, the Kalinteli Arhat. He sat at a simple wood desk, his comically long fingers woven together, while he stared-down the camera with a pair of soulless golden eyes.
“Why should we trust anything they say?” Harmmani asked, his accent so th
ick as to need subtitles on the screen. “How do we know they really look like what they have shown us? If they have the technology to travel across stars, why wouldn’t they have the ability to mimic our appearance?” He leaned forward, which only emphasized the shine on his balding pate. “They must earn our trust, not the reverse.”
“Harmmani is the only honest one among them.” Adelisa said, her voice a flood of disdain.
Avindair turned to her, confused. While he deeply distrusted Harmmani—the man was an authoritarian monster, who used his secret police to eliminate political dissent with the same ease as some men used toothpaste in the morning—his ire was a pale shadow of Adelisa’s. “Loathing” was too weak a word, and “disdain” lacked the right amount of vitriol. Even “hate” seemed insufficient. Adelisa agreeing with Harmmani about anything was nearly as upsetting as the arrival of people from another planet.
Adelisa’s left shoulder dropped. “They’re all terrified,” she explained. “I was on a conference call with all of them not two hours ago. Everyone is scared.” She walked over to her liquor cabinet again and refilled her glass. “I’ve never heard any of them this rattled.”
Death will arrive on quiet fire, and in its wake will follow disease, pestilence, and subjugation.
The words intruded on Avindair thoughts, and he looked away. Adelisa’s brows narrowed at the sight.
“You, too?” she asked, incredulous. “Is there something I don’t know?”
So much, Avindair thought. You should, but he wouldn’t allow it.
Adelisa stepped forward, frowning. “Av, what are you not—”
A sharp rap interrupted them, and the office door swung open less than a heartbeat later. Avindair snapped his head around and spotted the slim figure of Nashita Darra, Adelisa’s personal assistant, striding in, a clipboard clutched in her left hand like a combat shield. She was clad in a close-fitting red dress, heels, and just the right amount of tasteful jewelry to make it clear that she was a person of some influence. Her hair—lustrous when she wore it down—was pulled back into a silky bun, while her makeup accented both her olive skin and the H’Tanzian tattoos on her face and arms. A striking woman in any circumstance, she commanded any room she entered so effortlessly that even Avindair was impressed.