by Amy Gallow
"A wise move.” Her predecessor was smiling. “Don't bother with the guest suite. I had plenty of warning. My Attaché moved the last of my things while we were away. I'll make my farewells and be gone when you return. Once again, Good Luck.” He thrust out his hand.
"Thank you.” She shook hands again and watched him depart, standing alone in the sunlight until the doors closed behind him before turning to the bustle of the Market Square. She had much to learn.
Her first lesson came as she reached the market. Everyone recognized her. Children smiled shyly, adults nodded their approval and called greetings.
"I saw him hurrying,” one oldster chuckled. “I can now see why.” He glanced over his shoulder and nodded to a hidden watcher. “My granddaughter has something for you."
A young girl, about eight years old and hurriedly dressed in her best clothes, curtseyed and presented her with a posy. Rachael squatted down to bring herself to the child's height and spoke with her for several minutes, casually straightening the blouse where it had caught in the waistband and tucking errant curls into an askew headband. She had nieces the same age and it came naturally. The smiles around her grew, triggering a thoughtful reaction in Rachael's mind. She was copying Jack's treatment of the child, jumping through a hoop he'd demonstrated. It galled her, but she continued until she sensed the child's restlessness and stood up. The child curtseyed again and fled back to the anonymity of the crowd, surrendering to renewed self-consciousness once she lost the focus of Rachael's interest.
Another lesson, Rachael thought.
One of the Elite approached, a former priest by the look of his hair, the tonsure not completely grown out. “Greetings, Madame Ambassador. Your return has bought joy to many. We need proven friends when facing so many challenges.” He wore the plain kilt and matching jacket with pride. The Pontiff had banned the traditional dress of the Elite, but she'd seen at least a score wearing it since her return. It was quite attractive.
"Thank you. The Federation stands ready to help wherever it can."
A shadow of disapproval, quickly gone, greeted her words, but he bowed low. “My greeting was a personal one. I saw your courage when I served the Pontiff."
Rachael looked at his face again and recognized the priest/scribe who'd freed her from the guardroom. “I am so sorry,” she said, stepping close and holding out her hand. “I didn't recognize you."
"You only saw me once and the circumstances were difficult.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I am your devoted servant."
Rachael sensed more than a polite phrase. “You are not here by accident."
"He thought you might find a guide useful."
"A guide or a guard?"
"You have no need of a guard here. The Commoners revere your courage, as do we of the Elite. My role is to answer your questions as truthfully as I can. He would have nothing hidden from you."
"Does that instruction extend to everyone?” It was a futile question, but she could think of nothing else to ask.
"No one fears his wrath. They will answer as they choose.” The Elite had read her meaning better. “All honor your faithfulness and condemn the Federation's tardiness in coming to your aid. They will judge whether you ask on the Federation's behalf and answer accordingly."
"Will you make the same judgment?"
"I am instructed not to."
"You haven't answered my question.” Priests were the masters of sophistry. She could afford no confusion.
"I fear the responsibility he would have us accept for our destiny. Our world has no tradition of self-determination. It will take time to create the need to do so and we will be vulnerable. The rapaciousness of the Federation is well known, and he alone will stand in their way. He believes you can be persuaded to aid us, but, much as I revere your courage, I don't. Yet, I would not bar your participation, nor do less than my best to persuade you. Therefore I must judge each occasion and respect his wishes where I can."
It was a long speech, yet, she suspected, an honest one. She was on trial here. “I think we should walk and I will ask only questions that will not cause you concern."
He nodded and fell in beside Rachael as she continued towards the market.
Now her field days were over, she'd thought herself suited to the role of diplomat, but it seemed she was mistaken. Too many loyalties vied for recognition, swaying her this way and that. Jack's efforts were admirable, the priest's doubts understandable, the Federation's role questionable. She could rattle off all the claimed advantages of joining the Federation and remain unconvinced it was best for these people. The real world was too complex for simple answers.
Yet, her feet were carrying her inexorably towards a meeting where she would declare herself the servant of the Federation and bind herself to its loyalties.
They stopped at a stall displaying carved wooden figures. There were a dozen likenesses of herself, even one in Federation uniform. They made her beautiful, strong and vibrant. It was very flattering. At the back of the stall were several examples of her face, carved in half profile on half of a flat board shaped like a trapezium with curious notches on the sides. She leaned closer, about to ask a question, when a growing murmur in the crowd behind turned her.
"He comes,” someone called and a path opened to allow him through.
He wore a fitted shirt in white silk, a midnight blue taffeta kilt and vest, knee-high white socks and brightly polished soft black shoes. His outfit could have looked effeminate on a lesser man. On Jack, it made him a king. Rachael unconsciously drew breath and straightened. Even in heels, her eyes were only just level with his.
"Greetings, Rachael. I bid you welcome and name you Feodar Friend.” He made it formal, his words carrying to trigger a wave of murmured approval.
"Greetings, Mister President. I would present my credentials."
"You are welcome in whatever guise you choose, but I will accept them gladly and name you a personal friend as well."
Rachael covered the distance between them and took her credentials from her shoulder bag. “My credentials as Ambassador appointed by the Federation to Feodar's World."
"They are accepted.” He took the papers, gave them a courtesy glance and passed them to a functionary who'd appeared at his shoulder. “Take my hand. I've begged a table outside the inn. We can sit and take refreshment.” He extended his right hand and Rachael rested her fingers in his palm.
His fingers closed around them gently and he turned to lead the way, her hand held just below shoulder height in an overt display of friendship.
"Watch out for the cider. They bring it in by schooner and it's got a kick like a mule.” He spoke softly, his words private. “They serve a house white that's close to a late harvest Riesling."
"It sounds perfect to me.” She matched his pace and his tone.
The crowd fell back. Turning away now the show was over, granting them privacy in a show of genuine affection.
"You're looking well.” He seated her at an open-air table separated from the rest and shaded by a white canvas umbrella. They were alone in the midst of a crowd.
"Thank you. I could say the same.” The wooden swivel chair was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, polished until it gleamed, while the table was its match. Her fingers tested the satin of its surface without conscious volition.
"They built these for my use,” he said. “I find the inn convenient. It allows everyone access without protocol."
Rachael turned to consider the building. It was new, built against the inner side of the wall sometime in the last twelve months with stones taken from the demolished section. Two stories with a roof garden at this end, its forecourt was crowded with relaxed laughing groups.
"It must get noisy at night."
He smiled. “I stay up late."
She had to admire the simplicity of his arrangements. There could be twenty clandestine agents in the crowd and no one would be the wiser. He'd made monitoring his contacts impossible by the simple expedie
nt of swamping any attempt at surveillance. She could see a dozen Federation personnel from where she sat, all part of larger indigenous groups. Any one could be passing information to their contacts.
The innkeeper attended them, took their order and returned with two tall chilled glasses and an insulated carafe. “I put in refrigeration when I built the place,” he explained, as he filled her glass with white wine. “Solar powered. The cold drinks bring the customers."
Rachael sipped her wine. Jack's description was accurate. “Perfect,” she said and the innkeeper beamed as he poured a second glass for Jack.
"Plenty more where it came from. Enjoy.” He backed a couple of steps and then turned away.
Rachael watched him thread his way through the crowd, buying time before she turned back to Jack. Her nervousness was intensified by the adroitness of his switches from formality to informality. It was like trying to capture quicksilver with her fingers.
"I'd forgotten how beautiful you are.” The admission turned her sharply and she faced him as he raised his glass in a toast. “To the Federation's newest Ambassador. May her first posting be crowned with success."
"To your Presidency,” she responded. “Already a success."
They touched glasses and drank deeply as guarantees of their sincerity.
"I miss sitting with some one merely to enjoy their company.” His tone was musing. “It's nice. Having you here makes the rest worth it."
He had to be lying, but Rachael couldn't quite still the rush of pleasure his words triggered. This man was good. She would have to be very careful. “Thank you, Mister President. You do me great honor.” Keep it formal, girl, her mind warned. Don't let him seduce you. Her body reacted to the possibility and she had to force herself to sit still. This was worse than undercover work. There it was simply a matter of retaining one loyalty while pretending another. Here opposing loyalties struggled constantly for supremacy. Damn.
Jack's chuckle caught her by surprise and she shot him a look of inquiry.
"The fool behind you almost poured his cider down the jacket of the man next to him."
Rachael turned, but the incident was over and a man was just seating himself clumsily at a crowded table. This wasn't fair. Jack was relaxed enough to be amused by nearby antics while she was struggling to remain calm.
"That's not very flattering, Mister President,” she said. “You use pretty words to distract me and look elsewhere for amusement."
"I stand rebuked.” Mischief flared in his eyes. “From this moment you have my undivided attention, but there's a price."
"Oh?"
"Call me Jack. My title defines my role, not me."
Rachael sensed the trap. Discard the constant reminder of their roles and her vulnerability to him as a man increased. He had nothing to lose, but she did. Yet, insist on formality and she branded herself incompetent. Her predecessor had named Jack a skillful negotiator and this was proof he was right. Damn, Damn, Damn.
Rachel bought time by raising her glass and draining it. The wine caressed her palate and ignited a glow further down, its sweetness disguising the high alcohol content.
"This wine is very deceptive,” she forced herself to concede gracefully, “...Jack."
His smile deepened. “Have some more. It grows on you.” He reached across to refill her glass. “You are among friends here. There's nothing to fear and no tricks."
A ridiculous idea surfaced in Rachael's mind, drawing sustenance from the number of times he'd answered her thoughts as well as her words. Could the First Family be telepaths as well as immortals? She shook her head at her flight of fancy. In his place she would have made the same guesses and been right just as often, especially if she were controlling the tempo of the exchanges as skillfully. He was no more a mind reader than any good salesman.
What was he selling? Rachael smiled. If it was sex, she should be in the market. The celibacy of the last year wasn't normal. She picked up her refilled glass and sipped deeply, eyeing him across the rim. Dare I go further? She took another sip.
"I owe you a lot.” Jack caught her with the glass to her lips. “My epic voyage would ended early, were it not for you."
"It wouldn't have happened at all if I hadn't had your ship sabotaged."
He waved her confession aside. “You were doing your job, just as I was.” His smile grew reminiscent. “Whenever things got tough, I promised myself I'd get back to the Treaty Port and paddle your backside. The thought kept me going."
"I'm not sure if I'm flattered by that.” She was lying. The admission sent a delicious tingle down her spine to the threatened area. “Men always make promises they have no intention of keeping."
"I still intend to keep that one. Perhaps not in public, but my time will come."
"Promises, promises, promises.” She drained her glass and reached for the carafe, but he beat her to it.
"This stuff has a kick too,” he warned. “It's more insidious than the cider, but just as effective."
"Nonsense.” She pushed her glass towards him. It was time to throw caution to the wind.
He shrugged and refilled it.
Something he did quite frequently in the hours that followed.
Chapter Two
Rachael woke with a hangover and a blurred memory of the final stages of the evening. Trying to match an ex-Spacer in drinking was doomed to failure and she was paying the price for thinking she could. Her last coherent memory was of Jack carrying her draped across his shoulder like a sack while she attempted sing the verses of a bawdy ditty taught to her earlier in the evening by the sailing master of one of the trading schooners.
She was in bed in the Ambassador's quarters and alone so she'd got home somehow.
"Good morning.” Jenni, her personal assistant, sounded obnoxiously bright. “Coffee, orange juice, aspirin. What order do you want them?"
"Aspirin, then a coffin,” Rachael croaked.
"I'll put the undertaker on standby.” Jenni's voice was devoid of sympathy. “Was that the President who brought you home?"
"I don't remember."
"I'm not surprised. You kept insisting he find somewhere private and fulfill his promise.” She didn't attempt to hide her curiosity. “He just patted your backside, which was convenient seeing you were draped across his shoulder, and said something about you considering it as interest until you could appreciate the experience."
Rachael groaned. “Not a good first impression."
"I'm not sure. Your dancing on the inn table would be hard to top according to witnesses."
Another memory surfaced in Rachael's mind and she groaned again. “If I live, I'll kill him."
"You'll have your chance soon. He was here an hour ago and said to remind you he'd pick you up at eleven for the inspection tour."
"Oh, God.” Another memory had surfaced. “What's the time?"
"It's nearly ten. You have an hour."
Rachael groaned and rose unsteadily. “Point me in the direction of the shower."
The hot water felt good and she stood under the flow for several minutes while the aspirin did its work and emerged feeling vaguely human. Her clothes were all hanging in their proper places and she selected a casual outfit, teaming it with high wedge sandals to offset his height advantage. She'd already lost ground, any further diminishment must be minimized.
"He's here.” Jenni was back. “Right on time."
"I'm coming.” Rachael lingered for a last check of her appearance. She looked like a corpse.
"Hi. You look gorgeous.” Jack was a picture of smiling health.
"Liar.” She forced herself not to squint against the light.
"You up to walking?"
She nodded gingerly.
"My flyer's parked on the other side of the wall to the inn. Two hundred yards at the most, if you can make it there, I've got something that will help you feel better."
The pain in her eyes had diminished a little and she could see the smooth paving of the path. It shou
ld be manageable. “Let's go,” she said, stepping bravely into the full sunlight and staggered at its impact.
Vampires must feel like this, every instinct demanded flight, a return to the cool darkness she'd just quitted. Somehow, she forced herself to keep walking,, one foot in front of the other.
"These might help.” He handed her a pair of wrap-round sunglasses, the mirrored type Spacers favored.
"Thank you.” She settled them in place by feel and opened her eyes. Blessed relief. She could see.
"Care for a hair of the dog?” He was obscenely cheerful as he offered a hip flask. “I can't drink and fly, but they say it helps."
Rachael's stomach revolted at the thought and she waved his hand away as she concentrated on walking.
His flyer was an ancient VTOL with the cockpit a clear bubble under a delta wing, the type often used in the early planetary surveys. It was close to a museum piece.
"We don't have the technical personnel to maintain anything more modern and it does the job."
She nodded gingerly, more concerned with reaching the shade of the wing.
"You go up first,” he said, indicating the retractable ramp leading up to the rear of the cockpit nacelle. “Take the right hand seat."
She entered the cockpit, passing through a small galley and seating herself as instructed in the right hand seat. Jack followed and reached across her to open a small panel set flush in the side of her seat. “This is an oxygen mask. Put it on and breathe deeply to trigger the flow."
Rachael had nothing to lose. The exertion of the walk had returned her hangover to its full virulence and she would have embraced death had it been offered. She held the mask to her face and breathed. The first breath did nothing, nor did the second, but the third was a miracle as the chilled flow of pure oxygen reached her lungs. The sensation was akin to plunging into a chilled mountain pool on a hot day and she took another deep breath. In less than a minute, she felt human again and, five minutes later, healthy enough to remember she was sitting beside a man both attractive and powerful.