Ambassador 1: Seeing Red (Ambassador: Space Opera Thriller)

by Patty Jansen

  “Where are all these people going, mashara?” No way would there be enough room in the city’s guesthouses.

  The man shrugged, averted his eyes. His mouth twitched in an unusual way. I looked at him more intensely, and pieces of the puzzle fell together.

  Refugees.

  His native Indrahui, a world torn apart with internal conflict. Gamra had let the situation blow up; isolationist politics did that. Everyone to themselves, sort out your own problems; we won’t interfere for the sake of keeping the interstellar peace, never mind what happened on the planet. Seriously, Danziger could teach gamra a thing or two about refugee crises if he cared to try and they cared to listen.

  And my guard, maybe both of them, had once been refugees themselves.

  They’d dressed in combat gear, they’d cautioned me about going to Eva’s house, they’d stopped me making calls to Eva, they’d dragged me through the Exchange building in Athens . . . while desperate to get out themselves.

  They would have been through hell the past few hours. My face glowed with embarrassment. I should have realised this much sooner.

  “Mashara, let us go to the island. We will be safe there.” Inclusive-we, the word the meant specifically all of us present here. It was a rare enough form that I hoped they didn’t think I was making a mess of my pronouns.

  Out of the terminal, to the station.

  People queued at the ticket reader to get onto the train platform. The train waited, a sleek shape like a bullet, doors yawning open.

  The first guard slipped into a window seat, I sat next to him, and the second guard remained standing in the aisle, handing me a cloth. The air felt sticky on my tongue and smelled like tea-tree oil.

  I wiped my face. “Thanks, mashara.” I had an audience: everyone in the carriage stared at me, a thin, pale-skinned, profusely sweating excuse for a human. My stink probably offended their sensitive noses.

  At meeting my eyes, most nodded a polite greeting. Items of blue clothing identified other gamra delegates amongst them; none had security guards. Most were non-Coldi. We were all lucky and extremely privileged.

  With a hiss of closing doors, the train jumped into motion. It whizzed over the rails, almost noiselessly, as if it flew over the water. Clumps of reeds and small islands whipped by. The two suns hung low over the horizon, casting their glow through a blue haze.

  I turned my face into a cool stream of air that flowed from a ceiling vent. Breathing deep hyperventilating breaths. My heart was racing. Ceren’s air had a higher percentage of oxygen than Earth’s. It took a day and a few strong capsules of medication to become used to it. Medication that was somewhere in my luggage, which was goodness-knew-where, but hopefully on its way to my accommodation or I’d be in serious trouble.

  The train shot into the shadow of the island that housed the gamra buildings, and then shortly after into the tunnel that sliced into the artificial structure. Whining of metal on metal reflected off stone walls. A few moments of darkness followed.

  Then artificial light, greenish and bright. The train slowed. The station. Blue flashed into the windows. Security, checking the passengers’ badges. We squeezed into the aisle, one guard on either side of me. I was glad to have them close, because I was suffering dizziness.

  Out of the train, onto a well-lit underground platform, where passengers’ footsteps scuffled on ice-smooth paving. People spoke in soft voices. All so civilised, compared to scenes at the Exchange.

  The guards led me up a flight of stairs.

  We emerged into the middle of the courtyard at the centre of the complex. Apart from the entrance to the train station, it housed numerous terraces, drinking stations and other socialising nooks towards its narrower end. Giant trees spread dappled shadows over people clad in dazzling arrays of blue sitting at tables, while waist-high serving robots whirred between them.

  The buildings of the gamra complex rose around the perimeter of the courtyard. Ochre stone turned golden in the late afternoon light. Carved columns supported wide awnings; carved doors hid deep in shadows. Creepers and climbing plants trailed up trellises nailed to walls. Arched doorways, leaning pillars, mosaic paving, glassless windows, all according to the local style.

  I was swaying on my feet, not in the mood to admire the architecture, or to study the faces of those on the terraces in the hope of finding someone familiar, and a chat, normality. The guards strode across the courtyard into an arched entranceway which led into a kind of Roman plaza where the air was cool and humid. I breathed relief.

  The guards led me up a wide staircase, and another one, where we emerged at the top gallery level. A thick carpet muffled our footsteps. Couches stood against walls between apartment doors, and vases and flowering plants hung from the balcony railings. Across the cavity of the plaza, the far wall rippled with trickling water. Cool air, heavy with humidity, circulated under the domed ceiling. A central coloured glass window let through spots of sparkling colours, which twinkled and glittered in the pond at the bottom of the waterfall. The floor of the hall, two storeys down, bore an exquisite mosaic of a five-pointed star in blood-red and white stone.

  The guards stopped at a plain door, made of metal, without a handle. One of the men slid the key card through the access slot. The lock clicked and the door rumbled open.

  I stepped into the semidarkness of some sort of foyer, where my footsteps echoed.

  There was a sharp metallic sound and lights flicked on.

  The foyer was huge, for a private apartment at least, with a floor smooth as ice. Mosaic in yellows and browns formed curvy patterns near the walls, with, in the centre of the hall another five-pointed star, the symbol of Barresh.

  Carved columns ran along the walls to meet high in the vaulted ceiling.

  A cushioned couch stood against the left-hand wall with a low table before it. If this was a doctor’s waiting room, it would have had magazines. This table was empty, its polished surface reflecting light pearls set in brackets along the walls.

  Opposite the entrance, a corridor stretched into darkness; the slight angles of the walls gave it a zigzagging appearance. In true local fashion, there were no right angles in this apartment.

  Apart from the corridor, at least four doors opened into the hall. Unlike the front door, which was of the sliding type, these were the local design that rolled up sideways, like a beach mat. Space-efficient, but not good for privacy. The doors consisted of slats bound together with wire and held closed by metal blade springs. Two of these doors were closed, showing massive gaps between the slats. An open door led to an airy sunroom, giving a glimpse of a couch and a chair, a balcony full of plants.

  Inside the last door, a red light blinked in total darkness. Communications, I guessed. A really fancy apartment, with its own communications hub.

  I’d seen plenty of pictures to know that I was now in the main residential building. The other residential wings housed small apartments, one to each delegate, each of which had a bedroom, a sitting room and an office. Most of these were on the lower floors of the buildings.

  But now we’d come up two floors in the main building, where important gamra officials had their residences. Two-storey affairs with large balconies, separate offices and kitchens and accommodation for staff. Garden apartments. Of which this had to be one.

  In other words: what was I doing here?

  The two guards had remained by the door, one of them talking into his receiver. They looked not in the least interested in what I did, nor did they seem inclined to come in and introduce me to whoever I was to meet here. Calling them would be undignified.

  I dropped my bag and reader on the couch and sat down, hoping this wasn’t going to take too long. My shirt clung to me with sweat.

  There were footsteps in the sitting room and
a tall figure glided to the door, clad in an elegant gown of solid cobalt blue with gold edging. Gossamer strands of silver hair hung over knobbly shoulders.

  One look into the paper-skinned face and I jumped up and bowed, arms by my sides. “Delegate Akhtari.”

  Whose idea was it to make me face her now, in this state?

  “Well-met, Delegate.” Her voice carried a hint of hardness that belied her stately, elfin appearance. “Let us go inside.”

  She gestured me into the sitting room, which was even bigger than the foyer, if possible. The two couches I had seen from the hall stood in one corner of the carpet in a v-formation. In the far corner of the tapering room stood a large and heavy wooden table with eleven high-backed chairs. In the middle of the room water steamed in a circular pool, surrounded by cushioned benches.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows ran all along the far side, including some that slid open to give access to a balcony that might have been a garden for all the greenery.

  Delegate Akhtari made a gesture with her hand to indicate that I should sit.

  I sank down on one of the couches. She settled opposite me, clasping her hands and looping them around her knees. Her back remained ramrod-straight.

  “The establishment regrets the haste with which the Delegate had to come here. The Delegate’s trip was pleasant enough?” Oh so formal, she used only the most distant of pronouns.

  “Concern appreciated, Delegate. It was.”

  Never mind what happened before my travel started. Never mind the chaos in Athens and at the refugees at the Barresh Exchange. But then I decided to mention it anyway. The swifter the issue was dealt with, the better. “The Delegate was caught in an unfortunate situation.” How about: the Delegate caused an unfortunate situation?

  “Unfortunate indeed.” She fixed me with her azure blue eyes. “What is your new president’s business, accusing gamra of these crimes?”

  She used the Isla word for president, as if it were a title, as if presidents were disposable; Danziger wasn’t even officially sworn in.

  “I apologise profoundly for his actions, Delegate. The man is . . . not familiar with gamra protocol.”

  “Was it not the Delegate’s task to inform the president of these issues?” Those piercing eyes met mine again.

  “It was, and I did inform him, but the president chose to ignore my words.”

  A small, cold silence. “So it seems.”

  What else should I have done? Why had Danziger cut me out of all decision-making?

  “Again, I apologise, Delegate, but protocol aside, I believe that Nations of Earth had some of the facts on their side—”

  “Facts? Like the allegations that some gamra entity was involved in the disappearance of the previous envoy?”

  Shit. Next time I was on Earth, I was going to kick that movie producer’s arse all the way to the Moon. “Please, Delegate, this is a misunderstanding. These are not true allegations. It is a movie.” That didn’t translate into Coldi of course, and she raised her eyebrows at the Isla word. “A form of entertainment. I will explain this in the assembly, but the most important fact about a movie is that it is a story, not real.” And even the word story didn’t translate well. “Recount” was obviously out, because it wasn’t a recount or history. The closest other word was semayi which meant fabrication, and that was too close to lie.

  “Entertainment? Provocation of gamra entities? Is that entertainment? Hurling abuse at this establishment and see who gets angry?”

  That just about showed how much of an uphill battle I faced. “As I said, I will explain.”

  Damn, I really needed Nicha.

  Another cold glance. “The establishment shall await the explanation, then. The assembly sits in five days. That will be the time to explain. Important primary delegates will be in attendance.”

  Primary delegates were heads of state of entities normally represented by their envoys, who were secondary delegates. I was a probationary tertiary delegate, someone representing an organisation which represented the heads of state. Not high in the importance stakes at all.

  I wondered who was coming to listen to my speech.

  She strained her legs to get up, but I wasn’t finished. “Delegate, is it known to gamra who was responsible and what they wanted?”

  Much too direct for gamra protocol of course, even though I used the right pronouns.

  A small silence. Was she shocked at my lack of manners? Never mind; I refused to be intimidated.

  “Regretfully, the establishment has no indication who was responsible.”

  “Delegate, in that case, it would be wise to send Nations of Earth a formal statement that no known entity of gamra had a hand in this attack. I believe Nations of Earth is justified in at least some of their opinions—even though I don’t agree with their actions. There is considerable proof that non-local weaponry was used. A statement would definitely help; at least some of the tension would be allayed.”

  She nodded. “That, it would.”

  But she mentioned no more. Not that she would send a statement, nor that she would formally deny Danziger’s accusation.

  That didn’t sit well with me at all. Was she aware of some plot? “Please, Delegate, that is my strong belief. The Coldi population on Earth numbers about two hundred thousand. They have become hostages, with my zhayma Nicha Palayi as example. Their houses are under attack, their shops are being looted, their families are threatened. They will . . .” I thought of Nixie Chan and her plans for strikes and shutdowns, and of Nicha’s father, who must right now be thinking about taking action to free his son. “. . . They are already taking hostile action. Lives are at risk.”

  “The Delegate can discuss this in the assembly.”

  “With respect, Delegate, I think action is needed sooner than that. The Barresh Exchange is full of refugees.”

  Five days? By that time war might well have broken out.

  “The establishment is aware of the situation.” She made to get up, but sat down again. “Oh—it’s necessary to mention—the establishment has appointed a new zhayma to the Delegate.” She snapped her fingers.

  Someone came to the doorway. Stocky, broad-shouldered, glistening hair with peacock-colours tied back tightly. A face that would have looked carved out of marble if the skin had not been yellow-tinged.

  A formal nod of the head acknowledged Delegate Akhtari. I received the same attention, plus a glance of eyes so perfectly almond-shaped I found it hard to look away. “Delegates.”

  Coldi. Impossible to tell gender even by voice. A feeling of constriction lodged in my chest. I could only see Nicha’s smile. Nicha, who had grown up on Earth and knew me so well. My zhayma, a person close to me no one could replace. It wasn’t marriage without the sex. It was more, much more.

  Delegate Akhtari acknowledged the Coldi person with a wave of her hand. “This is Thayu Domiri, who has kindly agreed to take the position at very short notice.”

  Domiri. There were only thirty-two Coldi clans, and each had a different specialty. On Asto, Domiri spelled security, paid fighters, officers and generals in the army. Nicha’s father was a Domiri.

  Thayu was a female name. I met the eyes again; so perfect, they spoke of exotic holiday destinations, of black-lined eyes drawn in perfection on ancient Egyptian papyrus.

  She bowed. “Delegate.”

  She sized me up, briefly. Her hand twitched. Oh shit.

  My legs tensed, ready to spring. This was the moment when dominance would be established, if her instincts triggered.

  I saw Nicha when we first met. He’d done the same: looked at me, and twitched. Then he’d walked up to me, grabbed me by the shoulders, while staring into my eyes with unbelievable intensity. He lifted me cle
ar off the ground, and could easily have thrown me through the fifth-floor window . . . and then set me down, still meeting my eyes. It had been a dangerous moment, but I only understood that later.

  Rimoyu, balance. Not, as some people thought, a balance of equals. It called to mind Danziger’s crude joke: If it doesn’t eat you, you can’t defeat it, can’t fuck it, you must kill it. Only a zhayma could be equal in rank. All other relationships had to be unequal, and it had to be established who was superior. Amarru was my superior; my office staff, inferior. I had to constantly remind myself of this fact, and act the part; for a Coldi person, this was a matter of instinct that triggered upon the first meeting between two people. If the two people were completely unconnected through their respective loyalty networks, there could be fights. Nicha said that he had felt something stir when he first met me, even though the instinct didn’t usually trigger when facing people from other species.

  She didn’t move. My heart was still going like crazy, and I was sure something had just happened in that look.

  Delegate Akhtari continued, “The establishment has acted quickly and placed you under guard. I have consigned the two agents specifically for your security.” Right. I had thought as much. “Until we find out who is guilty of this cowardly attack, they will accompany you everywhere outside this apartment.”

  “This apartment, Delegate?” Nations of Earth and gamra had agreed to each contribute a set amount to cover my costs. While the allowance was generous, I didn’t think it would cover a third of the cost of this accommodation.

  “Yes. Is it not to the Delegate’s standard?”

  “It is. To the contrary, Delegate. I’m alone. This is much too big for me.” I imagined myself sitting at that enormous table at dinner, by myself, facing a dozen-odd empty chairs.

  They toy with us. Melissa Hayworth’s words.

  Oh hell someone was definitely having fun with me.

  But there was mahzu, calm, control. This was not the time or place to raise objections. I’d have to do that officially. Tomorrow, after I had slept, when my adaptation had balanced and when my hands didn’t throb so much and I didn’t feel quite so likely to say things I would regret.