Fellowship Fantastic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  Scott didn’t remember ever experiencing claustrophobia in his life. He suddenly had an inkling what it might, conceivably, feel like.

  “Junior Ashford.” The rumbling voice stroked Scott’s ears like a physical touch, husky, warm, and so unexpected out of that mouth he almost took a step backward. “I’m Chol Ghyad, Senior Investigator with the Assembly.” He extended an ungloved hand, nail beds displaying the prominent claws, fully retracted. Scott stepped forward, taking the offered hand.

  Already off balance, he realized a second too late that skin-to-skin contact with the investigator might not be wise considering his reaction to the Mor’s thoughts, but there was no polite way around it. His hand locked with the cool grip and the force of an icy ocean wave eclipsed the lightning thought flashes. Ghyad’s emotions hung closer to the surface than any Mor he’d met . . . Scott blinked, dazed, his hand squeezed in a solid, extended shake. Testing me, his mind whispered, while the rest of him got tumbled under the sweep of imagery his imagination painted out of the emotions.

  “Have a seat.” Chol indicated a chair while Scott’s brain spun with pictures of hunting and stalking; teeming, twitching excitement. Swelling pride, superiority, undercut with the softest current of tickling anger. Staring at Ghyad while he backed into a chair, Scott got a ghostly overlay of the cool being in front of him lifting his left hand and casually licking blood off his claws, then his palm and fingers, with slow sweeps of a languid tongue. It did nothing to calm his stomach. He slapped back at his imagination, trying to tune the empathy down to a dull roar and useful information. Chol’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Ashford? Are you all right? You look . . . green.”

  “I’m . . . sorry, sir. I’ve been feeling nauseated.” It was the truth ever since thinking about the Partoke talks. “I’m . . . in the middle of an assignment. I’m distracted. Forgive me.” He rubbed his hands on his thighs, aware he looked and sounded nervous, panicky, and likely guilty of something. Wedderburn gave him a strange look.

  Ghyad smiled. The velvet voice reassured where the expression did not. “I understand. I apologize, but this is important. You’ve met my aide, Jaane.” He flicked his hand back at her, where she now stood at his right shoulder. Scott’s eyes lifted and now that he was looking, he immediately found the Assembly insignia, tiny but there, on the lapel of her suit. Given it was the only Assembly sign and she was out of uniform, he guessed she was Chol’s personal aide. Ghyad inclined his head to the left. “And Junior Investigator Kevin Heard.”

  The human stepped forward, leaning over the desk to shake his hand with a genuine smile. Scott lifted himself out of his chair to return the gesture, smiling back unconsciously. It was almost impossible not to—in his diplomatic experience he’d met plenty of people with all sorts of personalities, but the open friendliness radiating off Ghyad’s coinvestigator was rare and such a welcome change from the Mor that Scott felt himself relax against his better judgment. Yanking back on the relaxation impulse, Scott shoved at the distracting mental brilliance of Ghyad and focused on Investigator Heard’s thoughts and feelings, scanning for signs of Gilly.

  The refreshing openness bloomed through the contact of the handshake as well, and Scott gave over to the pang of disappointment when one of the background thoughts colored with affection and contentment was of a partner back at home. He mentally slapped himself. Been around Gilly too long. First Jaane, now this. Not everything on two legs is potential, Ashford. He could almost hear Gilly whisper, “Exactly; why limit yourself to two legs?” He released the man’s hand on cue and sat, cataloging the gentle rush of thoughts and emotions while ostensibly turning his attention back to Ghyad.

  Kevin’s thoughts didn’t exhibit any preoccupation with Gilly, and Scott found himself breathing easier for it, though he knew that might be premature. Obviously, Chol was more dangerous as the more powerful. In Kevin’s well-ordered, if a bit creatively smudged, thoughts, Scott easily picked out the theme of the investigation. The Partoke mess offered the latest, and worst, in a string of indications that the Diplomatic Corps suffered a leak.

  Ghyad was here to turn off the leak.

  Heard thought well of his senior, which allayed some of Scott’s rising paranoia. If a man of Kevin’s sort liked Ghyad . . . well, like might be putting it strongly. Scott examined the thoughts and sifted their distinct flavor. Kevin respected Chol. Thought him an amazing investigator with superb talent. Thought at times he was borderline pathologically obsessive, then wondered if that wasn’t being speciesist. Worried it might be simply a Mor trait and became extra-nice to his supervisor for a few days afterward every time he entertained that thought.

  Scott knew from his trips into Mor headspace that Mors tended toward the single-minded, but also had a feeling from his foray into Chol’s mind that Kevin was picking up on more than a species imperative. He found himself wanting to reassure the investigator that he wasn’t being prejudiced.

  To Kevin, Gillian Gedrick was one name—another file, another pilot who flew missions for the Diplomatic Corps. One more name among Tzudeki, Collins, Forsythe, and the rest. Whereas to Ghyad, Gillian Gedrick appeared to be some sort of cornerstone of the—

  Scott’s breath stopped. His entire body froze, and for a moment it felt like even his heart stilled. The rest of the room grayed out and all he could see were two brilliant flashes of green staring at him out of a ghostly pale face. Lavender lips moved, but he heard nothing.

  Chol thought Gilly was the leak.

  He breathed shallowly as his lungs kicked in, employing every shred of diplomatic training to keep his face expressionless. No doubt he’d gone pale. Lucky he’d already said he felt sick. Chol’s voice reached his ears but the sense was lost. “I’m sorry, sir, could you repeat the question?”

  Ghyad’s eyes narrowed and Scott absently noticed he had the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen. He couldn’t remember if all Mor tended to have longer eyelashes. Given the light sensitivity issues, it would make sense. Focus. Bad time to go into shock.

  “—recent talks with the Partokian delegation?”

  “Yes, sir,” Scott hazarded.

  “I was asking about your personal interpretation of the mission. How you felt the talks went, right from day one.” In Scott’s peripheral vision, Ghyad’s left fingers spread on the edge of Wedderburn’s desk, his nails flexing gently. The curved, pointed tips extended with the flex, arching toward the smooth wood, then relaxing. And again.

  “Complete disaster. Sir.”

  “From the first?”

  He swallowed hard. Too many layers to protect. He was too far off his game and wasn’t the world’s best liar. Which Gilly kept telling him would make him a sucky diplomat. But he was also undoubtedly on record as commenting on having a bad feeling about the talks to more than one senior. Pointless, and dangerous, to deny it now. Besides, starting with the Partokian mess was safe. Gilly hadn’t even been there.

  “Their entire delegation was too calm. They responded to our opening as if . . . we’d asked them to dance.” His indignation at the mockery of the talks returned.

  “Surely that’s the goal of a successful diplomatic mission,” Ghyad husked.

  “Except when they know the steps better than we do and we appear to be wearing a blindfold and have never heard this particular version of the song before.”

  Ghyad laughed, and it sent a shiver down Scott’s spine. Not just for the strange tactile rumble the sound carried, but because of the lingering edge of danger Chol’s genuine amusement wafted to his extra senses. He didn’t know why it might be dangerous for this man to find him amusing, but his empathy screamed that it was. Given the way his mind had been interpreting Ghyad’s mind, he was inclined to listen.

  “—admit, an appropriate analogy,” Chol was saying, grinning up at Jaane, who smiled. “You spoke to your superiors about your concerns.” It wasn’t a question. “They did nothing. You did nothing more?”

  Scott shifted uncomfortably. “I’m a Junior Diplomat, sir. I di
dn’t know what else to do.” Conscious of Senior Wedderburn sitting just to the side, he tried to think how to phrase this appropriately. “I only had this . . . sense that everything seemed too smooth from their side of the table. Nothing tangible.” Nothing but incredibly solid, illegal, inadmissible information I couldn’t possibly admit to without getting arrested, imprisoned, and possibly vivisected.

  Ghyad nodded. “Say nothing of the fact that you were doing exactly what diplomats are supposed to do,” he drawled in that silky voice, drawing one finger along the edge of the desk. “Using your intuition, reading the beings, trying to ascertain the situation from their side of the table, noting when the proceedings seemed to be going too smoothly, notifying your superiors of your suspicions.”

  Chol flashed a dazzling smile, and Scott had to fight to catch his breath. Then the laser gaze shifted to Wedderburn. The low voice took on a subtle, menacing quality. “One would think the Diplomatic Corps would be in the habit of listening to the young up-and-coming they employ. Rising stars are rising for a reason, after all.” Chol’s smile stretched as a dull flush climbed Wedderburn’s cheeks, but he cut the man off when his mouth opened. “Something tells me Junior Ashford has what it takes to go far in his chosen field.” He refocused his attention on Scott.

  “Let’s talk about your colleagues. Heard and I have a number of individuals we’d like to discuss. We’ll move as quickly as we can, understanding you’re not feeling well, but we’d like your honest, candid opinion on each. And Mr. Ashford?” Ghyad leaned forward on his elbows, gaze locked on Scott’s, right hand extended to lie flat on the desk between them. The nails flexed again, Scott guessed unconsciously. “Unlike your direct superiors, I find listening to individuals with good instincts to be extremely . . . useful.”

  Gilly half rose to wave Scott to her table, intending to settle back down with her drink. Catching sight of his pallor and expression, she kept rising and met him instead, gripping his arm and supporting him the rest of the way. “What is wrong? You look like death warmed over.” Depositing him in a chair she waved a server over and ordered him a chocolate martini. Something with a punch that he wouldn’t even taste. He looked well past his usual strawberry daiquiri.

  Scott sucked in a breath and started babbling. “Gilly, I’ve been with investigators . . . they’re looking for a leak. Not that they said that, but I read it in their heads, and they’re awful, well, not both of them, one of them is actually really sweet, but the other one is, and he thinks it’s you, and—”

  Pausing only long enough for the drink to be set down, Scott recounted the experience in his rambling version of highlights. Gilly listened and sipped, biting her tongue at the urge to command him to summarize, knowing it wouldn’t help. Exhaustion stood out plain on his face. Given the topic, she wanted whatever details he felt he needed to add.

  She could already hear the plaintive undertone. Tell me it’s not true, Gilly. Convince me he’s wrong.

  Right. Next topic please.

  He wound down and paused for breath. “Mor, eh?” She shuddered. “They’re so cold. No pun intended. Is he good-looking . . . given species-differentials?”

  Scott looked horrified. “You’re not thinking—”

  “You’ve just described an investigator who believes I’m a leak, and is therefore a danger to me. Obviously, I need to ascertain his weaknesses. You described a male of a species; ergo, we begin with sexual weaknesses.”

  “Gillian, you are such a sexist.” He sat back with an offended glare.

  “Realist.” Inwardly she breathed a sigh of relief, his ire distracting him from the question of guilt or innocence, calming him down through sheer familiarity. “Weaknesses. We need weaknesses. We need to know why he’s looking at me. You say it was just in his mind that I stood out. Not in anyone else’s?”

  “Exactly. Wedderburn just thinks you’re a crack flier—oh, and that you have a great ass, by the way . . . ewww. The two Assembly Internal Affairs reps just have you as another name, and that’s all you are to the junior investigator.”

  “So why am I more to the Mor,” she mused. “Chol Ghyad . . . Ghyad.” Her finger tapped against her glass. Nothing. No links to her father that she could think of. She’d been careful. Why? Was he just that good? “Tell me more about them in general.”

  “Um . . . he has a gorgeous aide with him. She’s Morish, too. She looks human. You know as soon as you actually look at her, but . . . wow. Oh, and the junior I was talking about? The genuinely nice one that almost makes it seem like they’re doing good cop/ bad cop, except he’s not thinking that way so I know they aren’t? He is adorable.” Scott suddenly straightened in his chair and she realized her eyes must have shown something. “Stay away from him. He’s taken, and he wouldn’t be interested.”

  Gilly arched her eyebrows. “How can you be so sure?” She snorted when he tapped his temple meaningfully. “So now that means you can predict the shifting sands of sexual interest?”

  He sipped his drink. “You know some people are more set in their ways.” He sipped again and choked, his eyes widening as he scraped his chair backward, flattening himself to the wall. “And don’t turn around because he’s here.” He pushed back into the shadow of the potted tree that stood beside their table as she ignored his protest, followed the direction of his gaze, and spotted the new arrival. Nearly Scott’s height, broad-shouldered without being overly imposing, the Junior Investigator didn’t actually look the part of his intimidating position. A teddy bear of a man with short dark hair, a sweet smile, and the kindest face Gilly had seen since meeting Ash, she would have been inclined to introduce them if she’d run into Kevin on her own.

  Looking back at the man cowering under the potted plant, Gilly inquired casually, “What are you doing?”

  “We don’t want to look suspicious,” he said from the shadows. “Like I immediately came to you.”

  “I’m sure they already know we know we’re friends, and spend time together.”

  “Still,” he whispered, though how he thought Kevin would hear him across the crowded restaurant bar, she wasn’t certain.

  “All right then,” she whispered back, picking up her half-empty glass. “I’m going to go chat him up. I’ll see if you’re wrong about his interest and find out if I can’t . . . compromise his investigation.”

  “Wait! Don’t . . .”

  Given his absurd antics, she took great delight in ignoring the final exhortation, walking away to the sounds of “has a boyfriend.” Dodging various people, she eased up to the bar and slid in beside Kevin. His height meant she needed to look up . . . and up . . . but she tossed her hair just right and used it to her advantage as best she could. “Hello. Noticed you arrive.” He looked surprised to be approached, even more surprised when she laid her hand on his arm. She kept her smile friendly, swallowing her amusement. Yes, he and Ash were a match. She carefully placed her drink down right next to his glass of wine. “Buy you a drink?” She let her finger run down his arm, smiling up at him in open invitation.

  He blinked, flushed, and shook his head, picking up his wine glass. “Oh, no. Thank you. I’m just . . . having this one.”

  “What a shame. If you change your mind . . . I’m Gilly,” she extended her hand, necessitating him setting his glass down again as he shook it. He set his glass as far from hers as he could. She sighed internally.

  “Gilly? Would that be Gillian? Gillian Gedrick?” He smiled and took her hand in his, as she nodded. “You’re a pilot, aren’t you?”

  “I am.” She reassessed her opinion of his suitability for his job when his expression didn’t hint at anything beyond general name recognition. “Now, how did you know that?”

  “I’m here with a team conducting an investigation of some matters for the Diplomatic Corps, and we were apprised of the pilots flying for the Corps. Your flying record speaks for itself. You stand out.” He inclined his head and toasted her.

  She smiled and lifted her glass in turn. “But no
t enough,” she teased.

  He flushed again, but smiled as he averted his eyes. “I have a partner back home, Ms. Gedrick. Thank you, though. I’m . . . flattered.”

  “Ah well. Have a lovely . . . investigation.” With a final flirtatious wink, she pushed off from the bar and sauntered back across the room, knowing full well his eyes were not following her. She flopped back down in her chair. “You win. I’m not his type. Which means . . . ” She directed a finger across the table at Scott.

  He gave her a panicked look. “What?! No! Absolutely not! I don’t do that! I don’t just . . . for information . . . or . . . whatever. And . . . no! He’s got a boyfriend, and he’s happy, and he wouldn’t be interested.”

  She blew hair out of her face impatiently. “Just give it a try. You wouldn’t be doing it just for information. You already said you like him and you think he’s hot. That means you’re doing it for honest reasons.” She smiled brightly. “You’re only doing it for ulterior motives if you don’t actually want to.”

  He blinked at her. “Oh.” The confusion on his face turned thoughtful.

  She smiled in triumph. I am so fucking lucky he can’t read my mind. “This way, you’re just also getting the extra benefit of compromising an investigation and helping out your best friend. At least go talk to him.”

  The chocolate martini undoubtedly made him easier to convince. She watched him step up to the bar, then turn and express somewhat overdone surprise at seeing the investigator. Oddly, some instinct coiled inside her. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Kevin smiled, honestly pleased to see Scott. Hands extended, they shook . . .

  Scott’s left hand went to the bar, catching himself as he staggered. Gilly watched, frozen, as all the blood drained from Scott’s face. Concerned, Kevin caught him by the elbow, helped him sit on a bar stool as his knees gave out. The instinct uncoiled like a whip, snapping out through her nervous system and she ran her identcard through the table, paying for her drink and Scott’s, pushing her chair back. Scott’s head lifted and turned. Their eyes locked.