Ambassador 1_Seeing Red
Page 32
Where had I heard this before? Out of the mouth of a much-too-young, much-too-cocky wannabe diplomat, facing the full Nations of Earth assembly, most of whom were at least twice his age? A young man full of ideals. Look where it had got me.
“There are many other issues that need clearing up,” I said.
“Agreed.” A small silence. Then, “Such as this belief issue.”
I cast him a sideways glance. Was I hearing this correctly?
“I have a theory. I think belief is a bloodline issue. It is bred, not taught. I have studied the reports from early discovery missions.” The ones that had re-established contact between the various parts of humanity. “By far the majority of peoples have in their population both people capable of supernatural beliefs, and people who are not capable of such. Sometimes the believers dominate, sometimes the non-believers do. It’s taken me some time, but you can track it down through bloodlines, recombinant characteristics, if you get the analysis of the characteristic allocations on the chromosomes. If you know the codes, you can tell by a blood sample whether or not a person is a believer or not. I have a diagram. I can show you one day.”
Never underestimate this man’s intelligence. “What about people who change their mind later in life?”
“They were always non-believers, or believers, but were forced into circumstances by their environment. They were people, like the ones on this world, who grew up with strongly believing families, but only believed by rote themselves. Because everyone else did. You can control such person when they’re young, but there comes a time they will acknowledge the truth, or maybe not, but they will never believe. They’re not that way inclined.”
“All right. . . .”
“The Coldi are the only type of human who do not possess the believing characteristic, at all. That is not a fault. That is the way we are.”
And that was pretty much what Kershaw had said, but still I saw no reason for this wonderfully diverse humanity to split.
I was lost in thought when Ezhya asked, “Would you be interested in a position as negotiator? A full gamra stipend, the apartment, six staff and a generous travel allowance.”
That brought my attention back. “Me?”
“You’re on speaking terms with everyone. Your imayu reaches in places I can’t go. I’ve not heard a single person within gamra say a word against you. Even Marin Federza talks to you. Seeing what you’ve gone through, it’s obvious you can function under pressure. Besides . . .” Black eyes fixed mine. “Do you ever lose your temper? I admit, I tried very hard at that first meeting in my apartment to crack you, but I’ve been unsuccessful. Do you ever try to intimidate someone by raising your voice? Do you ever let personal discomfort get the better of you?”
I thought of that afternoon in Ezhya’s apartment, when I had nearly collapsed from heat stress.
“I will now; if I don’t get anything to eat soon, I’m going to faint.”
But I recognised a good offer when I saw one. Get a paying job that didn’t depend on Danziger’s goodwill and whims? Tick.
23
IN THE NEXT HOUR or so, I discovered that Barendrecht was one of those new social-experiment, high-tech, low-impact suburbs that replaced older centres which had fallen victim to the rising water levels. Built in a pentagon design around a central square with bus shelters and a tram station, and surrounded by shops. Or so the map on Thayu’s reader said. Barendrecht had no train station on the main line and rather than wait for a taxi in the cold and wet, the group declared it was safe and less conspicuous to use the tram. It was only two stops along the line.
As to inconspicuous . . . when I stepped aboard, with two obsidian-black guards much taller than myself and four guards much wider than myself, a sole puny human in an unearthly blue outfit surrounded by a wall of flesh and body armour, passengers stopped talking. A mother yanked a toddler out of the centre aisle; the boy started screaming.
My old transport card of course had been left in Athens, but Thayu had given me a new one. I had no idea how she arranged these things out of thin air. However, when I slotted it in the ticket machine, the screen said ticket malfunction. Oh great.
I took the card out and tried again. The same thing happened. I muttered a silent curse. Where was technology when you needed it? We were about to proverbially save the planet and a ruddy machine was going to stop us?
As if to rub it in, a mechanical voice said, “An entry has not been detected. Please insert your EuroTransport Card to begin the transaction.”
I yanked the card back out, fighting an urge to slam my fist into the screen.
The voice said, “Please leave this car and contract EuroTransport to report any difficulties.”
Oh, for crying out loud!
“Excuse me,” said a young voice in Isla.
The girl was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, thin as a broomstick, pale-skinned, with her hair dyed violent pink, and piercings in her eyebrows, nose, lips and all the way down both ears. She squeezed herself between Evi and Ezhya—the guards tensed—and held out a hand so be-ringed that I wondered why her fingers didn’t fall off. “Sometimes you got to put the card in upside down. Some machines are funny like that.”
Long fingers with black-painted fingernails took the card from my hand and put it back into the machine.
The screen said, “Welcome to EuroTransport. Please state your destination.”
Phew. “Thanks.”
“No prob.” Quick as she had come, she sat back down.
I paid for the fares and settled between Thayu and Evi. The girl had gone back to listening to music, unfazed by, perhaps used to, our strange group. Some of the older passengers still stared. That was, I thought, the division I was trying to overcome, between young and old, between people upset by “chans” and people who didn’t mind them. People who had watched Ezhya Palayi’s first official touchdown in Athens, and had marvelled, and hoped, and people who just accepted Coldi as part of the scenery.
No one spoke during the short tram ride; the atmosphere in the carriage was tense. I tried to look around casually, and studied advertisements above the windows and on the ceiling. Brand names that meant nothing to me. Advertisements that puzzled me so much I didn’t even know what they were for. Directly opposite me was an advertisement for, of all things, a cosmetic clinic. It mentioned skin-resurfacing, hormonal hair loss treatments, foot and heel abrasion—whatever that was. The things people did to themselves. But it also offered unwanted hair removal—
My mind did a monumental shift sideways. I could almost feel the sting of the blunt razor on my skin.
Damn. Now there was an idea.
As if on cue, rain stopped and the sun flashed out, even though the wind chased brightly-lined clouds through the sky, many of them a dark shade of lead-grey.
Barendrecht Plaza, as it was imaginatively named, glittered with puddles and drops of water on stainless steel bus shelters, like something out of a crystal shop. After two days of gloom, it hurt my eyes. The biting wind, as we stepped from the tram, hurt the rest of my body and dislodged half my hair from my precarious ponytail.
The Plaza looked like it might be a pleasant place—in summer. A ring of now-leafless trees surrounded a central parkland in which stood a quaint old church with a squat tower of dark bricks—salvaged from before the rising of the sea levels? There was also a kiosk, a playground, a fountain—the basin empty in preparation for winter—and various seating arrangements, glaring wetly and startlingly in the sudden burst of sunlight. The tramline circled the park like a giant roundabout. Shops and terraces occupied the perimeter of the plaza, and above those shops rose several storeys of apartment blocks in a pyramid formation.
The Station Juice Bar was located—unsurprisingly—opposite the tram station. It had a large glass-covered seating area. An open fire glowed invitingly in a decorative bowl-like hearth in the centre of the room. More inviting still was the serving counter on the far side.
Food! Coffee!
He was dressed entirely in black, the lush veil of silver-blond hair hanging over his shoulders. The hair reminded me uncomfortably of his father, but his eyes were grey rather than blue.
He nodded formally and shook my hand. “Mr Wilson.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Thayu came behind me silent and soundless like a cat. The others were settling on the next table, effectively cutting the corner off from the rest of the room. A young serving girl behind a counter that led into the main part of the building looked on, wide-eyed. Ezhya took the chair facing away from Michael.
“My zhayma, Thayu Domiri. The others are my bodyguards.”
Michael raised an eyebrow and shook Thayu’s hand formally and bade us to sit down.
“I’m sorry to ask you to come all the way out here.” Michael spoke just loud enough to be heard over the rumble of a tram outside the window. It occurred to me that he looked tired and his face appeared older than it should.
“Has anyone been harassing you?”
Michael snorted. “Where do I start? All the time. I’ve been staying with friends since my father died.”
“I’m sorry. My condolences.” I could not begin to understand what a circus his father’s funeral must have been, and how he would have been thrown in the limelight through no wish of his own.
“Excuse me, what would you like?” The serving girl stood at the end of the table.
“Oh. I haven’t looked at the menu yet.” Fancy place. I had expected to order through the table screen. “I need something solid to eat.”
“A salad roll?” she asked.
“I guess. I’m dying for a coffee.”
“Sure. Do you have any vouchers?”
“Vouchers?” I frowned at her.
“Health Authority regulations, sir, since coffee was declared a drug.”
Oh, for crying out loud! “No. I don’t have any vouchers. Does this rule apply to visitors? I normally live in Barresh.”
“Yes. You need the vouchers all over the country.”
I clenched my jaws so tightly my teeth crunched. What had Ezhya said again about my temper? “Is there anything else you can recommend?”
“We have the orange mix on special today. It’s one of our favourite drinks. It has orange juice, avocado, honey and cinnamon.”
That sounded perfectly . . . disgusting. “No thanks, I’ll just have water.”
I ordered a vegetarian roll for Thayu, then the girl took Michael’s order and left.
I shook my head. “Tell me, am I so out of it?”
Michael grinned, but said nothing. I knew the truth. Life on Earth had moved on without me. Orange juice mixed with honey and avocado. I felt sorry for the oranges.
“Now, let’s get started. Your father.”
“Did you get the message about the vodka?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got it with me.” Michael glanced at the empty seat next to him. A flat bag lay there, of the type that normally contained a reader. “He had dinner with me, the night before . . . He asked me if he could leave it with me.”
Yes. I had struck gold. “How was your father that night?”
“To tell you the truth, Mr Wilson? Nervous. They both were.”
“Both?”
“He and Elsi.”
Ah—I had been right. Things were starting to make sense to me now, including Dr Scott’s hostile behaviour.
“You asked what was bothering him?”
“I did. He said he got carried away by something and he’d been wrong, and he was trying to sort it out.”
“Did he say anything about danger?”
“Danger? My father?” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, he was good at delegating, but he kept his private life close to him. It never does any good to trust a journalist with a personal feeling, he used to tell me. I bet you didn’t know he and Elsi were an item.”
“I suspected.” Yet it pretty much echoed my experiences with Sirkonen. “So—do you think he was in trouble?”
“In hindsight? Of course he was. But then again, he’d been in trouble for most of his presidency. It goes with the job. Someone is always trying to take a swipe at you, he used to tell me.” His voice sounded unsteady.
The serving girl returned with a tray from which she unloaded three plates with bread rolls—the outside covered with seeds—two glasses of water and a tall glass of orange-browny goop. Michael took a long swallow from it and set it down.
“You actually like that stuff?”
“It tastes a lot better than it looks.”
Thayu gave it a disgusted glare that echoed my feelings. Somehow, I preferred deep-fried worms. And manazhu.
I bit into my roll. At the next table, the girl had brought a veritable mountain of bread. It was the first time I’d seen the guards eat anything. Ezhya’s female guard was pointing to cheese protruding from her roll and asking Evi what it was.
“So . . .” I glanced at the reader on the chair. “Have you looked at it?”
Michael shook his head. “He told me explicitly not to do so.”
Smart man. Sirkonen had known about the protection then.
“But he told me a few things.” He swallowed his bite and leaned closer. “Did you know that Seymour Kershaw is still alive?”
“I do. When was your father’s last contact with him?”
“About six months ago. I read the messages. They were discussing political ideas. Then about a month or so before he was killed, my father tried to break with Kershaw. He said something about Kershaw’s claims not being true, and Kershaw was angry.”
“Did he . . . did Kershaw make any threats?”
“None that I saw.”
But the picture was clear now. I had been right. Amoro Renkati had killed Sirkonen, because he refused to cooperate.
“May I?” I reached for the bag.
He nodded. I pulled out the reader, set it on the table and gestured Thayu over. She pulled my datastick out of one of her many pockets and slid it into the reader. I turned it on.
A few nervous heartbeats later, the menu came up on the screen. I navigated the directory.
The guards on the next table were laughing, but I was sure at least some of them would have an idea what was going on. I didn’t want Ezhya Palayi to see this. Not yet.
I found the copy of the file that was also on the datastick.
It opened normally.
Phew.
When I moved to scroll down, Thayu batted my hands away.
Make a copy first.
Yes. Indeed. The key was on the datastick. It was more valuable than the reader. A few seconds later, it was again complete in the breast pocket of my shirt under my armour.
Now for the information itself. I scrolled through.
The maps, Elsi Schumacher’s report—I knew what was in there. I didn’t know that the person who had passed it to Sirkonen wasn’t Elsi, or even remotely Coldi; there’d been a leak in the Dawkins Centre computer.
A transcript of a meeting between Sirkonen and a couple of people unknown to me, representatives of a travel consortium with the aim of setting up a second Exchange node on Earth. Highlighted passages contained carefully veiled advice to Sirkonen not to involve me, because, they said, I didn’t have the authority. Hell, I didn’t, neither did they. No one decided about new Exchange nodes except the full assembly of gamra. It was a grave error of Sirkonen’s judgement. I knew he wanted to be rid of the stranglehold Athens had over off-Earth travel. He wanted it too badly—
But after a few such meetings and conversations—I scrolled through scanning the highlighted passages—Sirkonen had his doubts about the consortium. He’d kept them at a distance; he’d conversed with Kershaw directly, still keeping him at arm’s length.
Representatives from Asto had heard he was in possession of th
e weather data and had harassed Elsi; Sirkonen had been about to send his private jet for her when she disappeared—
Conversation at the next table stopped. Thayu’s hand rose a fraction to her upper arm. Someone else wouldn’t have paid the movement any notice, but I knew that she kept the charge gun there, under her jacket.
All guards turned their heads towards the street.
A couple of people waited in a bus shelter. A few others lined up at the drinks kiosk in the middle of the park. Steam rose from the cubicle’s counter, while the vendor, dressed in cheerful orange, moved inside. A few more people waited at the crossing, wind whipping their hair. The sun had long since vanished.
Thay’?
Thayu moved her hand higher up her arm, and spoke, not looking at me. “It might be prudent for us to move to a less exposed position.”
She had spoken in Coldi. Michael looked from her to me and back, frowning.
“She says it’s probably wise to go inside.”
Thayu urged me, “Quickly.”
I thumbed the reader into hibernation, slipped it into its bag, pushed myself up from the table, still studying the square and not seeing anything out of the ordinary.
The young waitress crossed the room. “Do you want the bill, sir?”
“No, thanks, we’re cold. We’d just like to move into the warmer part of the cafe.”
“Fine. I’ll prepare a table. That’s . . .” She glanced around at all the people standing, which included the guards. “. . . a table for eight—”
A flash of light hit the window. The glass exploded.
People screamed and dived for cover. Evi shouted a sharp command in Indrahui and pushed me onto my knees under the table. Thayu unclipped one of her charge guns and tossed it to me through the forest of table and chair legs; I missed. A veritable light show broke out over my head, the crackling of charges ringing in my ears. On my hands and knees, I fumbled for the gun, cursing. My palms had just healed from my last encounter with broken glass.