The Occasional Diamond Thief

by J. A. McLachlan

  I feel the indent in the wall that means a door, and knock quietly. No answer. I knock a little louder. Why doesn’t he open it? He should be waiting for me. What if this is the wrong alley? What will I say if someone other than Sodum opens this door?

  A sudden, sharp hiss makes me jump. Further down the alley, a door has opened silently.

  “Come here! Quickly!” Sodum whispers in a fury. He’s dressed in black; all I can see is his white, skeletal hand on the door and his pinched face stretched over a bald skull. His archaic spectacles catch the thin light coming through the door and shine out at me with what appears to be black, empty sockets behind them. I back away.

  The hand not on the door appears, making small, rapid gestures at me as he scans the alley. “Get in! D’yu want t’be seen?”

  The hiss of his voice is creepy, but I didn’t come all this way to turn and run like a little kid. He’s the one who’s nervous. I walk to the door calmly—well, trying to look calm, just to infuriate him—and step inside.

  The store is even darker than the alley, if that’s possible. I feel my heart pounding and stand still, afraid to move, but as soon as he closes the door to the alley, Sodum flicks the ceiling panels on. He picks up a thin plastic card from the table his eyecomp is on and hands it to me. As I hold it, it becomes as flexible as a glove and follows the contours of my palm, warming to body temperature. I examine the swirl of tiny wires encased within it. The design is vaguely familiar.

  “A palm override,” he says. At once I recognize the design—it looks just like the lines in a human hand. He shows me how to adjust the wires delicately with the edge of my thumb, to fool the infra-red sensor and open his office safe. Not surprisingly, it’s empty.

  “There’s no such thing as a private safe,” he says, grinning his horrible death’s-head grimace at his pun on the word ‘safe’ as he resets the wires so I can try it. It’s trickier than it looks, setting the wires to cover my own palm and fingertip signature in order to fool the lock. When I’m able to open the safe fast enough to satisfy him, he reaches into a lower cupboard and brings out a two-foot square metal box. Each of its sides has a different kind of locking mechanism. He hands me a tiny finger comp and teaches me to break the codes and hack into the two most common types of comp locks. Over and over and over. It’s the middle of the night and I’ve been here a couple of hours at least. I’m about to remind him I have to get up and go to class in a few more hours, when he nods his head, satisfied.

  He hands me a flat piece of metal encased in a light film of moldable plastic. One edge of the metal is serrated, narrowing to a rounded end. I stare at it, too tired to care what it is. Then I recognize it as an antique key.

  “Do people still use these?” I touch the silver lock on the third side of the box with the enhanced key.

  “Usually just fer show, along with a sensor. They can be lasered off pretty easy, but that leaves evidence.” His lip curls with professional distaste. He gives me a tiny pick and shows me how to use both of them to open the ancient, mechanical locking devices on the other two sides of the box. Now I have to practice this over and over until my eyesight goes blurry and my hands shake with fatigue.

  “That’s the most popular,” he says, pointing to the palm override. “And they’re hard t’come by.” He places the devices in a bag and holds it out to me. “These’ll cost yu C30.”

  “I haven’t any money.”

  His face thrusts suddenly toward me. “Yu have C500!”

  “I used it to pay my first year in the College of Translators.”

  “Yer trainin’ t’be a Translator?” Behind the spectacles his eyes gleam. “Embassies, gover’ment offices,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his hands. Again his face thrusts forward, this time twisted into the hideous grimace he considers a smile. “Yu can owe me.” He drops the bag into my hands. “Take care o’ that palm override. I can’t get another. And if yer caught with it yu won’t be treated as a ‘young offender’, they’ll consider yu a seasoned criminal. Remember that!”

  I’m tempted to throw the bag back in his face. I hate the thought of being in debt to this horrible man. And I’m not a criminal! I’m not a thief! …just one ring, that’s not a real thief. I raise my hand—

  But how can I explain coming here, spending all this time learning something and then not take the tools to do it? There is no explanation. It would be crazy.

  And what if I don’t get that scholarship? Owegbé’s face fills my mind, taunting me: sneaking home, a failure… I lower my hand.

  Sodum grins. He leads me to the back door and opens it a crack, cautiously peering up and down the alley before swinging it wide enough for me to pass through. I’m brushing past him, trying not to touch him at all, when I remember.

  I might never see him again. If I want to ask my question it should be now. He’s the one most likely to know and least likely to mention it to anyone else.

  “Have you ever seen a kind of gem that looks like a diamond but bigger? With colors, all the colors of the rainbow. And a black center.” When I say the last phrase his gaze focuses on me so intently I unconsciously take a step back and bump into the door frame.

  “A black center? Where did yu see this gem?” He pulls me back inside and shuts the door.

  “I…” I’m about to say I don’t remember but it won’t work. Of course I’d know where I saw a gem I can describe so well. “At an Immigration Investigation. I was translating.”

  “Translatin’? Yu can’t be a translator already.”

  “I’m not. But I can speak Malemese and they couldn’t afford a real translator.”

  “A Malemese Investigation? Yer lying. The Malemese don’t emigrate.”

  “Well these two were.” I’m angry now, mostly at myself for bringing it up at all. “They wanted work on a farm.”

  “And the stone?” His gaze is piercing.

  “His wife…” I falter. Where would a diamond that size be worn? And why did I mention Malem? No one from Malem would have a diamond like that, especially someone who couldn’t afford a translator. I expect him to call me on it, but he nods, as though I’ve confirmed something for him.

  “A Malemese diamond.” He says it almost reverently.

  “A Malemese diamond?” They’re only a myth, no one’s ever proven their existence. But I can’t say that, he’d know I’ve researched them. And…

  And I think he’s right. “It’s yours,” my father said, in Malemese, when I spoke to him in that language. He wasn’t speaking to me. He wasn’t giving it to me. I feel a pain in my chest, and I look down so Sodum can’t see my face.

  “I’m s’prised they let it be seen. If yu bring me one of those, little missy, yu’ll make both our fortunes.”

  “If I had one of those I’d never give it to you!” I reach for the door. I just want to get out of there.

  Sodum looks at me, his hand on the door, holding it shut. “I don’t give advice,” he says in a tone so lacking his normal sharpness that I stop trying to open the door, and look at him. “…but I’ll say this: if yu ever find yerself in possession of a Malemese diamond, yu’d do best t’get rid of it as soon as possible. They aren’t meant for the likes of us. And,” his face regains its normal avaricious expression, “it’s better t’sell it than throw it away.”

  He reaches out his hand to touch me. I shrink back and he drops his hand. “I have high hopes for yu,” he says, his expression so intent I can’t look away, “so I’ll tell yu this: if yu can’t find a way to sell it, yu’d better throw it away.”

  “I… I haven’t any such thing, anyway.” I look aside, breaking the spell of his intense gaze.

  “Shame. We coulda both been rich.” He opens the door enough for me to slip through. As soon as I hear it close behind me I break into a run and flee through the darkness until I’m panting and exhausted, within blocks of the college.

  I palm open the door to my residence room, and find my college roommate going through my dresser drawers.
>
  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking for that glitdust you borrowed last week.” She doesn’t even look up or pause in rifling through my clothes. She’s dressed in a sleeveless silk tunic which falls from a high neck rill in a suggestive curve down to her mid-thigh. It probably cost more than my family makes in a year. Her hair hangs down in a shimmering black wave, but she’s gelled the sides up in a swirl of braided rosebuds. I feel awkward and poor beside her, not to mention the fact that I couldn’t wear that dress if I owned it—it’d fall in a puddle at my skinny feet. No wonder Jaro treats me like his kid sister, even though he pays me to tutor him.

  My roommate pulls open the second drawer, and my heart lunges into my throat. The leather pouch is in there. I rush forward and give the drawer a hard shove.

  She yanks her hands out just in time, with a yelp, and turns to me, outraged.

  “If you ever go through my things again, I’ll call a pol.”

  “Where’s my glitdust, then?”

  I push past her and cross the narrow room, stepping over her things littered across the floor. “On,” I say to the comp workstation on my side of our joint desk, and I swipe my card through the side slot.

  “Here, buy a new one.” I punch in my pass and account and step aside, nodding to her to complete the transfer. I rarely refer to her by name, even in my thoughts. As if to mock my attempt to escape my family, I’m stuck with a roommate who has the same name as my sister.

  “I don’t need your creds.” Even frowning, my roommate is beautiful. She has the same black skin and wide brown eyes as I, and everyone with a long ancestry on Seraffa, have. But she’s tall, with high cheek bones and a straight, slender nose. And she’s two years older than me, with a shape that makes every guy she passes stop just to watch her walk. Every time I look at her, I hate my round cheeks and short, turned-up nose which make me look even younger than I am. People have asked if I’m her kid sister visiting her at college. Last time someone asked that I said, “no, I’m her illegitimate daughter.” When she protested I said, “Oh, sorry, I’m not supposed to tell. She thinks it ages her, but she’s so pretty, what does it matter she’s twice your age?” The guy left so fast you could feel the wind suck into the space where he’d been. Oghogho didn’t speak to me for a week, which was really stretching how long she can remember to be mad.

  “Just give me back my glitdust,” she says, looking bored. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I used it.”

  “All of it?” Her pouty lips open in surprise.

  I feel myself flushing but I can’t stop it. I’d intended to add a soft glimmer to my skin, like she does, and ended up looking like radiation in the club’s infra beams. Fortunately, no one who knew me was there, including Jaro, who was the point of my using the stuff in the first place.

  “It spilled,” I lie.

  The comp beeps, ejecting my card. “Transaction time exceeded,” a regretful feminine voice informs me.

  Her lips twitch. “You must have been quite a sight.” She’s laughing as she palms the door open.

  “Go spread your joy,” I mutter over my shoulder as she leaves. Her name, ‘Oghogho’, meaning ‘joy,’ is a popular Edoan girl’s name. The minute she introduced herself I knew she hated the commonness of her name as much as my sister does. I immediately decided to keep my totally uncommon name, and introduced myself as “Kia,” knowing an exotic name would be the only advantage I’d ever have over my glamorous roommate. The next day I went to the birth registry and made it official.

  She made me pay for that advantage.

  “How many languages do you speak?” she asked, as though it was an afterthought.

  “Three,” I said without thinking and regretted it instantly. I should have realized this was the real status question here, more important than money or clothes or good looks. “Fluently,” I added. But I knew it was too late.

  “I thought Traders would know more.” She smiled.

  “I’m on my fourth. I don’t count them till I’m perfect.” It’s the truth but it sounded defensive even to me.

  “Perfect?” Oghogho laughed. It was a lovely sound, like a singer hitting a difficult note perfectly. “No one is ever perfect in a second language.”

  By the end of the week I became “Perfect Three” to half the students in our year, “Three” for short. The other half said I was lying. Apparently, no one’s ever been admitted to the College of Translators with only three languages before.

  Chapter Five

  “Kia! Kia Ugiagbe!”

  I ignore the distant voice. I’m balanced on my tiptoes, trying to see the student compscreen around the heads of the students in front of me. The college concourse is crowded with kids, all taller than me, inching their way toward the wall monitor to see their grades. It’s so noisy I’m not even sure I heard my named called, until a hand grabs my shoulder.

  “Didn’t you hear me, Perfect?” Jaro grins at me when I turn.

  I frown, damping down the queasy feeling his grin always gives me, not to mention the way he shortens my nickname to ‘Perfect’ instead of ‘Three’. “I’m trying to see my grades,” I say, turning back toward the ’screen before my frown turns into the dopey grin my face wants to wear.

  “Like there’s any question how you did. I’m the one who should be worried.”

  What does he want me to say? Despite my tutoring—for which he pays well—he’ll be lucky to get a C+. At least he’s no longer failing. I’m still trying to think of a response when I feel him lean in close behind me.

  “Anytime now, you should smile,” he whispers. His warm breath tickles my ear. I feel myself grinning, and hope I don’t look as foolish as I feel. He nods and leans in close again. “C+,” he whispers.

  That makes me laugh. The second time he came for tutoring, he told me he’d decided to pay me in more than creds; he was going to tutor me, too—in social skills. By then it was known I could speak the three languages I claimed as well as our professors. Not that I ever said so: I only antagonize my peers. So I told him, “I don’t need to be liked.”

  “It’s enough to be admired, is it?” He was close enough to finishing my thought that I blushed. He just waited, let me think it out. Jaro is popular. People want to do what he suggests. Not necessarily me, but other people. It would be useful to learn how to do that.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Your skill for mine. You pay me for the first hour, I’ll give you an extra half hour each session and in return, you make me popular.”

  As soon as I said it I thought he was going to make some joke about doing the impossible, but he just grinned and said “Good for you!” Which admittedly was a little patronizing, but the way he said it, and the look on his face, made it hard to be annoyed with him—just what I wanted to learn. He’d kept to his bargain, and he didn’t tell anyone, which I hadn’t had the sense to make him promise at the time. Since then, every time he sees me, he grades me. It took me a long time to move beyond an F.

  So even though I’m sure I look like another idiot girl in love with gorgeous Jaro, I smile at him now. He grabs me and lifts me up high. I’m about to kick him to make him put me down, when I realise I can see the compscreen above the sea of heads. I shut my mouth and look for my courses.

  A+ in three of my languages and two of my four cultural linguistics, A in the other two. The two A’s are disappointing but I can bring them up. It’s the place where my fourth language mark should be that worries me. It should be my best mark, but instead there’s no mark at all, just the Dean’s office number.

  Did they lose my exam? I froze it in time and date and posted it to the prof before leaving the exam room, so there should be a back-up on the exam comp. My login will prove I wrote it. How could he not have got it? Then I think: they don’t post failures.

  Impossible. I know that language now as well as I know Edoan.

  “Hey,” Jaro says. “My grades?”

  I know his student number from tutoring him. He
gives a Whoop! when I tell him, even though they’re mostly C+ and two B-’s. He looks like he’s going to swing me around but the crowd’s too tightly-packed.

  “What is it?” he asks as he lets me down and sees my expression. “Missing an A+?”

  “Yes,” I snap. I push my way through the crowd toward the exit.

  “Back to C-,” Jaro calls after me.

  *****

  Dean Harris opens the door on my first knock.

  “Kia Ugiagbe, Sir. I’ve come about my grade.”

  “I know why you’re here.” He motions me into a chair in front of his desk, closes the door and returns to his chair across from me. I’m too nervous to sit, but he looks at me until I do. After rummaging through his top drawer he finds a holodisc and tosses it on the desk. “Professor Brecher gave this to me.”

  I click it on. Across the top of the first page I read: 100%. I look up with a grin that dies under the Dean’s stare.

  “Professor Brecher tells me no student has ever achieved a perfect score before.”

  I attempt a winning smile, but he’s still frowning. I should have paid more attention to Jaro’s lessons.

  “How did you do it, Kia?”

  “I studied, Sir.”

  “There are three questions on this exam that weren’t covered in the lectures. They’re not in the textbook. They’re not even on the language disks in the college library. According to Professor Brecher, only a native Salarian could get a perfect score on this test. Are you a native Salarian?”

  He knows I’m not, but I shake my head anyway.

  “Do you know a native Salarian?”

  I shake my head again.