I look around for anyone wanting my services. At least half of the people here are wearing electronic devices, most small enough to fit inside an ear. No one important relies on them, though. Only a human interpreter can get the nuances right, the colloquialisms and cultural connotations conveyed by word choice, gesture, and expression which can change the meaning of a phrase completely. Detecting irony, appreciating humor, are crucial to making political or business contacts. I spend as much time learning the social cultures of different worlds as their languages.
Across the crowded room I notice a certain shade of blue. My excitement drains away as I slip between the people to get a better look. Yes, I’m right, it’s the blue and white habit of a Select of the Order of Universal Benevolence. I turn and walk casually in the opposite direction, swearing under my breath. I don’t dare steal anything here now.
I’m so upset I almost miss my first summons. A tall woman is signaling me with an imperious gesture. Her thick white hair is curled and piled on top of her head, making her even taller. Strange that she’d let her years show in her hair while she’s obviously had every sign of them removed from her face, I think as I hurry toward her. The black on blue of her flowing kaftan identifies her as Coralesian, and she’s wearing the small planetary symbol of an ambassador: a very important woman. There’s a translation implant above her left ear. As an ambassador, she already speaks several languages herself. But she’s surrounded by a triad of Salarians, the most easily offended people in the galaxy. I feel myself start to sweat under my jumpsuit.
A male translator is closer, but she waves him off when he steps forward. He should know better. The Salarian women would be insulted to have a male translate for them. I think of that 100%, and breathe a quick prayer. I’m so nervous I’d claim not to know Salarian if the flags weren’t sewn onto my left shoulder.
*****
I lean against the wall just inside the reception hall. I’ve been translating for three hours now, for five, no six dignitaries, three of them ambassadors. I think they’ve adopted me as some kind of pet, the way they keep calling me over, even when there are other translators closer to them. At least I haven’t started any wars. I may be about to, though.
I’ve decided to do it, after arguing with myself all afternoon. It might be weeks before I get another chance like this. Owegbé—my mother—could be dead by then. I hate that I’m in my new uniform, that if I’m caught I’ll bring shame on it, and even if I’m not caught, every time I wear it I’ll remember this. But I can’t let her die, knowing I could have prevented it. I can’t kill both my parents.
I take a sip of punch, glancing over the rim of my cup to make sure no one’s watching, then slip through the door and around the corner out of sight. I make myself walk slowly up the wide stairway. There’s no reason to be nervous. No one saw me leave the crowded reception. There’s only one Select there and I was never anywhere near her. If someone sees me, I’ll say I’m looking for a restroom. But no one will be up here; they’re all downstairs enjoying the party.
My arguments convince me; I reach the top ready to do what has to be done. I pass the first guest room—too close to the stairway. The second is double-locked and I don’t want to stand outside picking the second lock unless I have to. The third guest room opens at once when I press my palm, covered by the thin, wired-plastic override, against its sensor. Whoever is staying here was in too much of a hurry to join the party, to use the double lock. I hope they made the same mistake with the safe.
It makes me a little nervous when the safe opens to the palm override as easily as the door did, like this is too good to be true. But as Sodum told me, the more well-guarded the premises are, the more lax the guests become. If you can get inside—and a good translator can—the rest is easy. I shrug and reach inside.
I’m admiring a diamond necklace when I hear a soft cough behind me. I freeze. At the corner of my eye I see the Select. She looks at the open safe and then down at the incriminating evidence in my hands.
I don’t say a word. I don’t move. I can’t bear to do anything that will start what I know will happen, happening. I wish it was me with the failing heart, and I could die right now. How did I ever imagine I could get away with this while a Select of the O.U.B. was here? Embassy Security, even the Planetary Police, are nothing compared to them.
“What have you taken?”
Nothing. I haven’t taken anything yet. I can still put it back, we can pretend this never happened, because it hasn’t yet, not really… I open my mouth—and close it again, because there is the palm override, on the table under the safe, and beside it the little finger comp, and there’s nothing I can say. I open my hand to reveal the stunning necklace. Even in the darkened room, its diamonds sparkle.
“Oh no, no. Not that one. Of course, I do admire your taste. It is exquisite, isn’t it? But I happen to know it’s a family heirloom, and one of the few Lady Khalida owns. You see, she’s the youngest daughter, and not her mother’s favorite. If it hadn’t been for the intercession of her paternal grandmother, who, I might add, has no more affection for the girl than her mother has, but a better sense of propriety… that’s beside the point, isn’t it? I get sidetracked, you’ll have to forgive me. The point is, Lady Khalida has only three pieces of jewelry she really cares about, and that is one of them. You mustn’t take it. Put it back, and let me help you choose another.”
She lifts the necklace out of my hands and returns it to its velvet box. I’m too stunned to say anything, I just watch her replace the box in the safe and lift out three others, all the while continuing her chatter as I stand there going over everything I ate and drank downstairs. Maybe I’m really lying on the floor in the reception hall and they’re trying to revive me and I’m going to get a terrible lecture from the Dean about not drinking anything anyone gives me—I hope so, oh I hope so!
She stops talking and looks at me. “You’re not going to faint, are you?” she asks.
I don’t think you can faint in a dream, so I shake my head, even though I’m feeling dizzy and my knees are weak. I recognize her now. It’s Agatha, the Select I met at my father’s funeral. She’s still as strange as I thought she was then. When I think that, I really start to shake because if this is Agatha being weird then I’m not hallucinating and I’ve been caught stealing by a Select.
“Let me see. She’s a bit of a magpie, you know. But then, perhaps you understand that better than I?” Agatha chatters on and now I try to listen, to figure out where this is going, because I’m really shaking now and when I grab onto the table to keep from falling it feels very solid and wooden and real, not like a dream at all.
“Look, this one’s about the same value as your original choice. The design is less intricate, but the stones are larger and very nice… Ahh, no, she still sees this gentleman occasionally. We don’t want to embarrass her, do we? What’s in here?” She opens the second box.
“No, this won’t do at all. It’s not nearly as valuable as the others. I don’t want to cheat you. You believe that, don’t you?”
She looks at me earnestly. I nod. The whole episode has taken on a surreal quality. I risk a glance at the open bedroom door and clear my throat. “Perhaps…” It comes out a squeak. I clear my throat again and try for something more like a human voice. “Perhaps we should just forget this?”
“Here’s just the thing!” From the third box, Agatha takes a heavy gold bracelet, studded with diamonds.
“The stones are quite nice. I think you like diamonds, don’t you?” She pauses till I give an embarrassed nod. “It’s about the same value, and the work is so plain it’s almost a crime not to melt it down and see if someone else could do better.” She lifts one of my hands from its grip on the table and puts the bracelet into it. “Best of all, Lady Khalida no longer sees this suitor. Perhaps because she doesn’t like bracelet. She won’t even notice it missing for quite a while.”
She closes the empty box and puts it at the back of the safe wit
h a pleased smile.
“That’s enough, isn’t it? You aren’t greedy, are you?”
I shake my head vigorously.
“Good, I thought not. You must watch out for that. You don’t want to end up like Lady Khalida. I shouldn’t say it, but I’ve never liked her very much.”
Suddenly I get it. She’s testing me. The O.U.B. are known for that. I should have caught on sooner. I drop the bracelet onto the table. “I don’t want it.”
Agatha looks at me sadly. “I can’t give you the necklace,” she says. “I really can’t.”
“I don’t want either of them. I don’t want them.” I wish I could be more eloquent, tell her I’ve learned my lesson, I didn’t know what I was doing, whatever she needs to hear from me. But I’m better with other people’s words, not making up my own. All I can do is repeat, “I don’t want it.”
“Of course you do. You’re not the kind of person who would take something for no reason.”
What can I say? Yes I am? I don’t know what to say so I just blurt out, “My mother’s dying.” And for no reason I can imagine, I start crying. I don’t want her to die and I don’t want to disgrace my uniform and most of all I don’t want to cry again in front of Agatha. This is the second time I’ve cried to keep something from her and I don’t want to be someone who uses tears to gain pity, so I make myself stop right now.
She leans her eye toward the small seal at the side of the door, and murmurs something into the tiny retinal-voice scanner. The door of the safe slides shut.
“It’s very complicated, isn’t it dear?” She says. “Now, wouldn’t you like to hide that bracelet and get back to the party before either of us is missed?”
Chapter Seven
Messer Sodum stands in the doorway. He doesn’t move aside to let me in, which is odd. Usually he can’t wait to pull me out of sight. Finally I squeeze in past him.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask. He closes the door slowly and turns to face me with none of his usual abruptness. He doesn’t activate the ceiling panels.
“Show me what yu have.” His voice is lifeless, as though he doesn’t care. I feel a prickle of fear at the back of my neck. Last time he was so eager to examine the glittering prize he snatched it from my hands. I stand still, looking at him, trying to guess the reason for his strange behavior.
He holds out his hand. “What’ve yu got?”
“What’s wrong?” I glance at the door.
“Nothing’s wrong.” His voice trembles, betraying him.
I should leave. Sodum sees me look toward the door and says, with a return of his customary sharpness, “Don’t question me, Missy. Show me what yu’ve brought. We don’t have all night.”
He’s right. Whatever’s bothering him is no concern of mine. I reach into my pocket and pull out the bracelet. He makes no move to take it.
“Who’s is it?”
“Lady Khalida’s.” Even as I answer I’m wondering, is? Not was? He always asks who owned a piece in order to sell it discreetly elsewhere, but this time the question sounds different.
“And how’d yu come by it?”
I stare at him.
“Out with it, girl. Did she give it t’yu?”
“No.” I step back, toward the door.
Sodum looks exasperated. “Did yu find it lying on a table, p’rhaps? See it in passing and take it on impulse? Regretting it already, aren’t yu?”
There are beads of sweat on his brow. Messer Sodum never sweats. For a man who’s always nervous, this is remarkable. I think of him as a lizard: quick metabolism, cool skin. But now he’s sweating. I take another step toward the door.
The lights go on. Blinking in the sudden brightness, I don’t at first understand what’s happening. Then the blue and white robe registers.
I drop the bracelet. It hits the clay tile floor with a harsh, accusatory report, clattering angrily for a moment as it settles. I’m reminded of Owegbé in one of her rages.
Then the silence is absolute.
Is it too late to run?
“Kia Ugiagbe,” the Select says calmly, destroying any thought of escape. He bends down and lifts the bracelet from the floor. “I believe you were bringing this stolen jewelry to Messer Sodum?”
“I want none o’ this!” Sodum cries shrilly. “I’ve done my bit. Yu said it would clear the past an’ I’d be done.”
The Select doesn’t even glance at Sodum. “You may go now, Kia Ugiagbe,” he says. “You will come to Number One Prophet’s Avenue in two days at ten hundred hours. Please be punctual. An Adept’s time is precious.”
I turn and open the door, too numb to do anything but obey. Behind me, I hear the Select addressing Sodum. “You will no longer accept stolen property. We will know if you do.”
“No, no! Never again! I was tempted but I see the error now—”
I close the door on his pathetic protests and stand there, frozen in the dark street. I’ve been ordered to appear before an Adept—I alternate between disbelief and utter terror. Why didn’t they just turn me over to the pols? What will the Adept say, what will he do to me?
I start to run. When I reach the transit strip I leap on without waiting for it to slow, and race down the middle of it despite the rush of wind caused by the strip’s speed. You’re not allowed to walk, let alone run, in the accelerated center of the transit strips, but I tear down it, risking my life and anybody else’s who might be on it. I have to get away, that’s all I can think: Get away!
The strip turns into a curve. The force of the wind, suddenly hitting me sideways, knocks me into a pole. I grab it going down and hold on, banging my legs against the seat I should have been in as I fall. My hands, slick with sweat, slip on the pole, and for a second I think I’m going to be thrown off. Clinging desperately to the pole, I manage to brace my battered leg against the bottom of the seat where it meets the strip, until the transit straightens out and the wind dies down. I crawl up the pole and fall into the seat.
I sit there gasping for breath. My hands are sore and my right shoulder is on fire, I can barely move that arm. My left ankle screams with pain, I must have twisted it going down, and my right knee throbs; both legs feel sore and bruised, but nothing feels broken.
The near-catastrophe clears my head. What was I thinking? That I could run away from an O.U.B. summons? Where did I think I could hide from them? They’re on every settled planet, with an information network that rivals any government’s. Not that there’s any rivalry; they work harmoniously with every world’s pol force. I’ll stand in front of an Adept one way or another; trying to run will only make it worse. I get up and hobble to the edge of the strip, holding the poles with my left hand and trying to put as little weight as possible on my left ankle as I reach for the pull that will slow the strip. I grit my teeth to keep from crying out as I swing off the strip and hobble across to the one going the opposite way, back to my dorm at the college.
I spend the first day at the college library listening to every flash I can find on the O.U.B. Most of them are about religion. I skim the explanation that the O.U.B. was created in the 23rd century as an amalgamation of the six major Earth religions at the time, that their goal was to bring order, faith and peace to the planets being colonized by a mishmash of cultures from over-populated Earth. Yada, yada, yada, basic history. I fast forward in nervous jerks, searching for something on punishments. When I exhaust the college library, I go to the Trader’s library, but there’s even less on the O.U.B. there, and next to nothing about their judiciary role. There’s only one flash on which Adept hearings are even mentioned. They’re referred to as a “rumor”; yet they’re on an authorized learning flash, which means that they can neither be doubted nor proved. I run it again.
“Rumor has it,” the disinterested voice on the flash states, “that the O.U.B. might, on occasion, approach a person and ask him or her to appear before an Adept. The Adept will hear the evidence, examine the accused, and possibly offer a “path of atonement” as an alt
ernative to civil justice. These judgments, if they occur, do not appear on any public record.” That’s it. I play it until I’ve memorized it. It’s no use at all.
I widen my search and find a few people who mention in their memoirs being approached by the Order. They all played some role in the history of a world by accepting an Adept’s request. Perhaps they’d been caught in some wrong-doing, perhaps not: they don’t mention that. And there’s no one like me—an ordinary person, a nobody. But then, ordinary people don’t write memoirs.
A few convicted criminals claim to have been approached by the O.U.B. before their court appearance, but they have only the haziest memory of their interrogations and don’t mention refusing any ‘atonement’. If it’s true, what must they have been asked to do, for them to choose public disgrace and internment instead? They knew they’d be found guilty. When the Select hand someone over to the pols there’s no doubt of his culpability; the proof is delivered along with the culprit.
Or maybe they didn’t get a choice. Maybe the Adept examined them and they failed whatever test was put to them?
What an idiot I was to take that bracelet from Select Agatha. Of course a Select wouldn’t help me steal—and let me get away with it. But I’d been so sure of her sincerity. Dumb, dumb, dumb! What made me imagine I could read a Select? I shouldn’t be tried for theft, I should be tried for stupidity!
I give up my search and go to bed, but I can’t sleep. Oghogho snores across the room while I consider my options. Could I make use of Agatha’s complicity, even if it was fabricated to trap me? They wouldn’t want one of their own exposed as an accomplice to theft. Imagine the newsreels: Select jailed for theft. But the thought of Agatha in jail doesn’t give me any comfort, it makes me feel worse. Owegbé raised me to revere the O.U.B.; my father to distrust them. Neither would give me a good reason why, so I settled on indifference. Indifference is a little hard to maintain in my current circumstances. Owegbé would be pleased by that, at least.
The Occasional Diamond Thief Page 6