Invader: Book Two of Foreigner

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Then thank you, Tano-ji. And thank Algini.”

  “You’ve become very well reputed among the Guild, nand’ paidhi.”

  Some statements deserved wondering about.

  But if “well-reputed” involved his staff and the dowager’s staff speaking for him, he took it for a compliment. He finished his stack of seal-signatures, and gave it to Tano with the plea to see if, with the transferred funds which the paidhi had in the Bu-javid accounts, he might hire a temporary staff adequate to handle at least the citizen inquiries—

  “At least for a few days, Tano. I’m not willing to impose on you further.”

  “One will inquire,” Tano promised him. “But, nand’ paidhi, I wonder if the letters will really abate in any number of days. They’re holding two sacks of mail down in the post office, and most are from atevi children.”

  “Two sacks. Children.”

  “Many say, I saw you on television. The children, nand’ paidhi, mostly ask whether you’ve seen spacemen and whether they’ll send down machines to destroy the world.”

  “God, I’ve got to answer that. A computer printer. If I give you my answer—God, staff.” His mind flew to the island-wide Mospheiran computer boards, the jobswanteds and jobs-offereds; but the Bu-javid wasn’t an ordinary office and it wasn’t Mospheira, and you couldn’t just bring outsiders in. There had to be clearances. “I’ve never had to have staff before.”

  “I would suggest, nand’ paidhi, if the paidhi hopes to answer sacks of mail, he certainly needs much more than the security post and a handful of household servants, however willing. He needs, I would guess—a staff of well above fifty, all skilled clericals, and a sealing machine. Most of the letters from citizens have subjects in common, fears of the ship, curiosity.”

  “Threats, probably.”

  “Some threats, but not many. —You’ve received two proposals of marriage.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “One sent a picture. She’s not bad looking, nand’ paidhi.”

  “I’ll—see if I can transfer sufficient funds. I may have to appeal to the Department.” Not a good time to do that, he was thinking, and asked himself if he could secure atevi funding and decided again that such a source of funds wasn’t politically neutral and wouldn’t be seen as such.

  He had, what?—his personal bank account. Which, lavish as it was for a man who couldn’t be home to spend his salary and whose meals and lodging were handled by the Bu-javid, couldn’t begin to rent and salary an office of fifty people for a month. “Thank you, Tano-ji. I value your advice. I’ll find out what I can do. I’ll draft a reply for the children.”

  “Shall I make inquiries about staff?”

  “I don’t know how I’m to fund it—but we have no choice, the best I can see.”

  “I’ll consult the appropriate agencies. Thank you for the tea, nand’ paidhi.”

  Tano excused himself off to that task. Bren settled to stare out at the mountains, trying to imagine how much it cost to rent an office, hire fifty people, and pay for phones and faxes.

  Which he couldn’t do. He simply couldn’t do it on his own, not if the letters came in sacks.

  He had to come up with the statement for the children. That wasn’t entirely easy.

  He had to come up with a report for the various committee inquiries he was facing, one of which involved lord Geigi, and finding some way to explain FTL for the Determinists, who had to have a universe in unshakeable balance.

  He had to have lunch with Hanks at noon—and, God, he’d asked for a call from the ship at the time he’d invited Hanks to lunch. He didn’t know how that was going to work. But it might be an escape. Feed Hanks and dive off for a private call.

  When he’d, given his leisure, like to go down to the library himself and spend the entire morning looking for astronomy references, until he felt he had some grasp of things he’d never had to wonder about. He was reaching into information he hadn’t accessed since primer school—and it might be accurate: he didn’t think astronomy had changed that much, but he didn’t think a primer-school student’s grasp of information was adequate to advise a head of state or argue with atevi number-counters, either.

  He was drowning in details, none of which he seemed able to get to because of all the others, all of which argued he should have staff—but even having staff wasn’t going to put enough knowledge into the paidhi’s head to know where the ship might have been and how far it might have come or how he was going to explain it all to a province ready to erupt in disorder. The failing was in himself. He could use help from somebody like Deana Hanks, if Deana weren’t an ass—which was an irrefutable condition.

  He felt a mild headache becoming worse and called for another pot of tea.

  And sent one of the servants, Dathio, on down to the library looking for references. The air didn’t stir. Sometimes, in his experience of Shejidan summers, that heralded a hell of a storm.

  But the one he expected at noon was sufficient.

  Another bout of tape, a shower, a meticulous braiding of the hair—two servants to do that, who spent more time fussing than Tano would do, but Tano was clearly busy—Banichi and Jago the staff alleged to be awake, but both of them were immediately off somewhere about business. Algini was back, sore, stiff, preparing to take over the security station from Tano, who was off, Algini said, seeing about office space—so Algini had the post, and security had to be on duty if strangers were due in: Algini had certain inquiries to make just getting Hanks onto the third floor.

  All of which left the paidhi alone and at the mercy of the staff.

  If the paidhi had modesty left, at this point, he’d forgotten where he’d put it. He suffered the tape-up at the hands of pleasant and not entirely objective women, he had his shower, and thereafter abandoned himself to a pair of servants who thought his hair a complete novelty and argued over the job of braiding it; then a trio of dressers who, learning he was going to meet Hanks-paidhi, insisted on his best shirt, insisted on a little pin for the collar.

  Last of all madam Saidin came to survey the result, disapproved of the pin and installed a larger, more expensive one the provenance of which he had no idea.

  “That’s not mine, nand’ Saidin,” he protested, viewing the result in the mirror, asking himself whether that jewelry was Damiri’s, or some antique Atigeini motif he was going to catch hell for if someone saw it. He’d no reason to distrust Saidin. He’d reason not to trust all the staff, counting rumors that had drifted out to the dowager’s household, but he’d hoped Saidin herself was Damiri’s and not serving any other interest.

  “It’s perfect,” Saidin declared with senior authority, and he was left with a feeling of being trapped into Saidin’s judgment, once she’d taken a position contravening three others of the staff.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t be so naive or so accommodating. But it was only Hanks, who wasn’t likely to discriminate a pin he owned versus one he’d borrowed illicitly.

  So he let it stay and paced the sitting room, waiting for calls from space or an explosion from Hanks, he wasn’t sure which. He’d drafted a letter to Mospheira, a letter to the President, which said, in sum, that atevi unease over the appearance in their skies had generated a flood of mail which was being directed to the paidhi, and which consequently required the paidhi to answer, and which the Mospheiran budget should pay for, as otherwise it compromised the Mospheiran nature of the paidhi’s office.

  The President was going to read that one several times before he figured out it wasn’t a joke, and the man who’d just broken Departmental regulations, defied an order from the Department’s highest officers, and revealed privileged and sensitive information to the atevi leadership in a nationally televised speech, was asking the Mospheiran government to fund an expansion of his office.

  He heard the front door open. He forbore to go out to the foyer. He strayed deeper into the apartments, hearing the to-do he could detect as Deana Hanks, Deana’s Tabini-imposed security,
Algini laying down the rules of the house. Servants passed him at a fair clip, delaying for the bows that were the rule of this house, on their way to the kitchen.

  He’d decreed the lesser dining room, an intimate lunch, a small staff, though he’d been tempted to install Hanks at the opposite end of the state dining table. And, coward that he was, he hoped Saidin’s unflappable courtesy could at least take the edge off the woman—his nerves were not at their steadiest, he had too much on his mind to spare attention to a fool’s bad behavior, and he thought Hanks might behave herself civilly, at least, without the provocation of his oversight.

  So, having walked the length of the hall down to the library and the pleasant view from the windows, he walked the slow course back again, judging by the flow of servants, this time to the lesser dining area, that Hanks had made it that far without destruction of the porcelains and the bouquets.

  He walked into the dining room—which forced Hanks, already seated, to rise, in strict atevi etiquette. She sat, which the servants couldn’t but remark, her human face and pallid complexion in stark contrast to the whole world he expected to deal with. The dark coat did nothing to diminish the effect; dark coat, dark hair—in the requisite and modest braid.

  He bowed. She didn’t so much as nod, just sat there, sullen and sober.

  “FTL,” he said, still standing. “Shall we dispose of that, in Mosphei’, and say we’ve said you made a mistake? Or have you an excuse for that, too?”

  “What about it?”

  “You mentioned it? Or did Geigi just add figures you gave him?”

  Hanks’ face remained impassive. “So?”

  “So. Is that your excuse? So?”

  “I don’t have to stay here.”

  “You can go home in a box if you act the fool much longer. I’m still trying to save your neck.”

  “From a situation you created.”

  “I created.” A line of servants was piling up at the door, bearing plates. One had to toss the fool into the outer hall or sit down and let the servants do their best to put a social patch on the event. He smiled. He sat. He gathered up all the calm and social grace he had. “Deana, you are amazing. I don’t suppose you’ve devised a universe construct to go with it.”

  “With what?”

  “You can only go so far on bluff, Deana. You’re scared. Or you should be. I’d be, if I knew as little as you do. You’ve not made yourself popular and the servants in this house haven’t received a good first impression, so smile.” He changed to the atevi language. “Nice weather. Isn’t it?”

  There was no smile. “I don’t have to stay for this.”

  “No, you can whimper your way home to your apartment.” The servants were setting out the plates. “Ah, we’ve changed seasons today. And the kitchen is doing its best. I am sorry about the phone, Deana. I didn’t intend that, but it was my fault.”

  That only seemed to make her madder. At least the frown deepened. But she stayed put, smiled grimly at the servants who offered her condiments and, the initial flurry of serving out of the room, filled her mouth with the kitchen’s not at all bad cooking.

  Certainly fancier than the Bu-javid kitchen’s fare.

  “I wanted actually,” he said, “to get a list of persons you’ve dealt with and what promises you think I should honor. By the way, where’s the seal?”

  She laid down her utensil, reached into her inside pocket, and pulled out the small metal object. Tossed it at him, on the casted side.

  He didn’t even try to catch it. He heard it hit the wall. A servant left the doorway to retrieve it, and having looked at it in some dismay, offered it to him.

  “Thank you, Madig. It’s quite all right. Hanks-paidhi is a little on edge today. Would you deliver that to Algini and tell him what it is?”

  “Yes, nand’ paidhi,” the servant said in a very quiet voice.

  “You seem to have quite the life here,” Hanks said sweetly.

  “Yes,” he said, in the atevi mode, unadorned, the sort of thing Jago was wont to do to him. “Quite frankly speaking, Deana, I’m sorry about the phone. I hadn’t meant that, but it is my fault. If it were possible for us to ignore the politics that divide us—”

  “Mosphei’,” she said sharply.

  “No, Deana-ji, I don’t think our hosts can make sense of us without that critical point of information. I’ve made it clear we have political differences, I’ve some hope that after all our interests are the welfare of Mospheira and the Western Association, and I hope that we can manage to do some work together. As long as you’re here, I’d like to offer you the chance to patch up our differences.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m quite serious.”

  “So am I.”

  He looked down the table at a very nice human face with a very reserved and inoffensive expression, the sort you practiced along with the language.

  “Fine. Do you know anything about the ship that I don’t know?”

  “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “Deana.”

  “Bren, I don’t know. I know you’re in contact with them.”

  “Your sources keep you well posted?”

  “I’ve no sources. Just occasional contacts.”

  “Like hell, Deana. But let’s be pleasant. And let me tell you, if you embarrass the people who are dealing with you, you can make very, very serious consequences for them, not to mention yourself.”

  “Don’t talk to me about dealing against regulations.”

  “I hadn’t mentioned regulations. Regulations aren’t what’s at issue here.”

  “Damned right you don’t want to talk about regulations. Let me make a proposition to you, Mr. Cameron. You get me contact with Mospheira and we’ll see what we can work out. You get the guard taken off my hall. You get me a meeting with Tabini.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I could get that. You’ve offended the man, and there’s no patching that without action on your part, not mine. I might relay a message of apology.”

  There was no greater friendliness. There was, however, sober thought.

  “Tell him I regret anything that may have offended him. I was afraid he might have done away with you.”

  “I’m touched.”

  “Which is the truth, damn you. I didn’t know when I came over here whether you were dead, delirious with fever, or held hostage. I did the best I could under the circumstances. I talked to people who might give me other than official information. I tried to get you out of whatever you’d gotten into, in addition to doing your job.”

  That was at least plausible. Even a reasonable answer. He stared at her, unable to figure if it was something she’d only just thought of or actually the course she’d followed.

  “Meaning,” he concluded, “you wanted to be a damn hero. The service requires the job, Hanks-paidhi. Just the job, adequately done, nothing flashy.”

  “So where in hell were you? Malguri? Hunting in the hills with the dowager? Playing the damn hero?”

  Nailed him. He didn’t flinch from her level stare, but he didn’t find anything to say, either, but, “Yes.”

  “So?”

  “Point taken.”

  A tone of contrition. “I’m terribly sorry I tried to save you.”

  “I have it coming. Thank you for trying. Now can I persuade you to fly home? I might be able to get you a travel visa.”

  “I don’t think you can, point one. I think the aiji is keeping me in reserve in case things blow up with your negotiations, or in case the next assassin is on target. And, point two, I’m no use there to anyone.”

  “It’s a fairly accurate assessment. I still think I could get you out as a personal favor.”

  “Don’t use up your credit on my account. There’s still point two. I’m not going.”

  In Mosphei’: “It’s your funeral.”

  In Ragi: “Funny. Very funny, Cameron.”

  “If you’d make yourself just halfway useful—”

  “Oh, tell m
e how.”

  Assign Hanks the mail. Let her affix her name to it, as if she had the office he was bound and determined to see her out of? Not likely. There wasn’t damned much else she could touch without being a security risk to Tabini.

  “You could write the everlasting reports.”

  “I could make the television speeches.”

  “I’m sure you could. But you do have areas of expertise—”

  “I write them, you put your own gloss on them and look good.”

  “You write them, I delete the nonsense and the speculation and if they’re useful I may moderate the report I’ve already sent in on your actions.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “That’s ruder in Ragi than in Mosphei’. You really should watch the cultural contexts.”

  “You just can’t say a pleasant word.”

  She was quite serious. He had to laugh. The servants took that for a moderately safe cue to refill the teacups.

  “I tell you,” Hanks said, in Mosphei’, after a mouthful of paté and wafer, “high scores and all, I think there’s a reason you’re such a miracle of linguistic competency. I think you dream in Ragi.”

  It happened to be true, increasingly so. He found no reason to say so. Hanks was heading for some point of her own choosing.

  “Did you know Barbara was going to marry?” Hanks asked in Ragi.

  “No. It wasn’t one of those things we discussed.”

  “What did you think? She was going to be there whenever you chanced in, for the rest of her life?”

  “Actually, we’d raised the question. But that’s Barb’s business, not yours.”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “I know you are.” He had a sip of tea. “You’ll have to stay in that condition.”

  “You know your face doesn’t react? Even when you’re on Mospheira, you’re absolutely deadpan.”

  “You lose the habit.”

  A tone of amazement. “You’ve really adapted, haven’t you?”

  Nothing Hanks meant was complimentary, he had no doubt. He didn’t like this sudden pursuit instead of Parthian retreat, but he had a notion he was about to get an opinion out of Hanks, and maybe an honest one.