by Karen Lord
“You know I would,” I breathed just as quietly.
“Good,” he said, and turned to his colleague. “Lian, if the Commissioner needs anything, cover for me. I’ll be back soon.”
Lian looked disapproving but merely went into position beside the door in reproachful silence.
Fergus looked me up and down, assessing my appearance. “Take off the white robe. The blacks will pass for ordinary wear.”
“What about Joral?” I asked, removing the garment and pressing it into Lian’s hands. “Shouldn’t he come too? I might need help.”
“He can’t come. He looks too much like them,” Fergus muttered as he started off.
“Okay,” I said, following his long stride with some difficulty. “What’s going on exactly?”
“Lian and I discovered a few things yesterday that we thought should be brought to your attention.” He ducked down a small staircase.
I was just about to ask him why he hadn’t simply spoken to Qeturah when he came to a closed door, knocked, and said something unrecognizable.
“What language is that? I don’t know it,” I said.
He gave me a somber look. “I’d be very surprised if you did.”
The door opened, a few centimeters at first and then wider. Inside was a small group of people seated around a table, a very mixed company indeed. Fergus drew me in while I stared, reading the social language of their attire. There were higher-ranked servants and lower-order domestics. There were also menials I had not seen before, with rough plain garments, shaven heads, and skin that gleamed in the dimly sunlit room.
Fergus broke the oppressive silence. “Tell her, and speak quickly. We don’t have much time.”
A tall man with pale eyes and shining skin stood up. “I am Elion. These are some of the people who have been told to disappear for the duration of your visit. Let me show you why.” He indicated himself. “Zhinuvian, you’d think, by the look of me, but my father was a noble. But with these eyes there’s neither status nor work for me within the Master’s household.”
He moved on to a beautiful woman with dull olive skin, brown eyes, and long, shining locs that fell over her face. Surprisingly, she was wearing the clothes of a higher-ranked servant.
“My half sister. My mother had such hopes! She was the first of our family to rise above the servant class. But none of her children have lived longer than a week. The first had no eyes, the rest had deformed hands and feet, all of them had weak hearts. Now they fear to allow her to bear more children, hence the demotion—and the warning.”
He drew aside her hair so I could see the brand that marred her face from temple to jaw, a broad featureless scar that had neither letter nor symbol and served no other purpose but to make her ugly. She kept her head lowered, blushing ruddy with shame.
The next woman at the table was a little darker of skin than Qeturah, but with hair so brightly black that it glowed with an iridescent green, clearly unlike the glossy browns and blue-black common to the Sadiri.
“Zhinuvian and Terran. You’ve met her son. You helped him when he cut himself. No matter. He’s been punished since in a place where they don’t mind if the blood flows.”
“What—” I began, then faltered at my rudeness in interrupting. “I mean, I think I understand what you’re telling me, but what do you expect me to do about it? Our Sadiri colleagues are already aware that they are not being shown all of Kir’tahsg. They’re not easily fooled. And if you’re worried about how the boy is being treated, why not simply go to the local authorities?”
A Zhinuvian-looking woman who had not yet been introduced spoke up, worriedly addressing Fergus in that strange tongue. He replied in a reassuring tone.
“This is Karya,” said Elion. “She is a new arrival to the household. A Zhinuvian slave—bought, not Citadel-born.”
“Slavery doesn’t exist on Cygnus Beta,” I said sharply, not keen on being played for a softhearted fool. “Aren’t you paid wages? Every one of you must be registered on the Revenue and Pensions system. There’s no way the Master could get around that.”
Elion’s mouth curved up in a cynical smile. “All you have to do is claim the credits appropriately. The cost of our food, our shelter, our clothing—somehow it all balances out perfectly.”
“Impossible. The government looks for that kind of dodge.”
“Oh, there is an excess of credits. But it doesn’t come to us. It’s paid in installments to our former owners.”
“The Master has ties to a cartel on Zhinu,” Fergus said quietly. “They’ve been buying from them for generations, and when there’s infertility, or birth defects, or rebellion, some selling happens too.”
“You don’t have to believe us,” said Karya proudly, “but take our genetic data. Someone might still be registered as missing. You’ll get the genetic profile you want, and we’ll get the chance to be found.”
People always think genetic analysis can do miracles. There was no global database yet. We were not connected to any galactic database. There was no guarantee that we could find a missing person file with matching DNA. I shook my head at the folly even as I heard myself saying, “Yes.”
The data that came to me was disturbingly thorough. They did not only provide samples of their own DNA. The nobility of the Citadel was well represented as their maidservants, valets, and cleaning staff ransacked their rooms and personal effects for genetic traces. Lian gave me a slightly anxious frown as I accepted the first of the stolen samples, but I replied with silence and Lian acknowledged with a slow, still-worried nod. I could not leave Kir’tahsg without answers, ethics or no. I left Fergus and Lian to see to the collection of the rest of the samples so I could get started in the lab, but I was still forced to press Joral into service to get the analysis completed within three days. The results were all too clear.
Joral was puzzled. “I do not understand. Have we not encountered three genetically distinct groups on Kir’tahsg: taSadiri, Terran, and Zhinuvian?”
“Looks are deceiving, Joral,” Lian muttered dourly.
“Exactly,” I snapped. “You could choose a mirror-skinned, pale-eyed, dull-haired servant and you’d have the same chance of getting Sadiri characteristics out of the brew as with any of those shiny-haired elitists.”
“But we have seen this before. What has made you so angry?” Joral queried.
“Besides the borderline slavery, you mean?” said Fergus, his tone caustic.
“Easy, man. He didn’t see what we saw,” Lian said, trying to pacify him.
“We only have Elion’s word for the wages setup,” I cautioned. “Let’s not fling accusations without a proper inquiry.”
Fergus gave me a stare. “Not you too,” he snarled.
“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning.
“The Commissioner. She told me that we’re not to interfere, that it’s not our job.”
“Well, like it or not, she’s right!” I exclaimed. “You planning to be a one-man army? You think you can bring down the local government?”
His face set in a determined mask. “The army’s already there. All they need is a little leadership and some key bits of intelligence.”
“Oh, no.” I laughed hollowly. “That’s not going to happen, Sergeant.”
“Not feasible,” murmured Lian, though a touch regretfully.
He grinned fiercely at Lian, part gallows humor, part warning. “That field promotion you got is just for decoration. I still outrank you, so if I say we go—”
“You’ll say nothing of the sort,” I shouted. “If it comes to that, I outrank you, and we’re not doing anything so stupid just because your head’s all tied up by a pretty Zhinuvian!”
Fergus turned on me, and for a moment I honestly thought he was going to hit me. “I was enslaved by the Zhinuvians,” he said.
“What?” I said, my fury erased in an instant by utter shock.
“They’ve got the best merchant fleet in the galaxy. Do you really think all their cargoes ar
e legal? This kind of setup? Too familiar. I know Elion spoke the truth. That’s how they work. Ironic, isn’t it? Terra gets more protection from the Zhinuvian cartels than the rest of us. Makes you wonder if there’s any point to the Caretakers dragging us here.” His voice vibrated deep and low with pure hatred.
I suppose up to that point I had wanted to disbelieve. The idea that trafficking could take place right under the nose of the Cygnian government, that we were no more immune from oppression than any other planet—it shook me. I had been holding on to the possibility that Elion had exaggerated, misunderstood, hallucinated, lied, but now I had to consider it as truth. I saw Lian’s calmly sympathetic face and realized that this was not news—at least not the bit about Fergus’s past. I looked at Joral, and he was visibly appalled, considering not only who was selling the slaves but who was buying.
“Continue to follow your orders,” I mumbled. “I have to speak to the Commissioner.”
Fergus’s anger radiated from his glare and from the tension of his stance, scalding me even at a distance. I stumbled, set my shields stronger, and left the shuttle in a daze.
“Wait!” Joral called.
I slowed my pace so he could catch up, but I did not stop and I did not look at him.
“What do I say to the Councillor?” he panted.
“You tell him everything. Everything.” I stopped for a moment, hung my head, and admitted, “I’m sorry we didn’t do our research more thoroughly before coming here. We’ve been wasting your time.”
“Delarua!”
It was the first time without chemical influence that he had ever addressed me by name and without title, so I paid attention and looked into his eyes.
“You cannot blame yourself for this. We want to search out any and every aspect of our culture that has survived. We have learned much, both optimal strategies and pitfalls, concerning the future preservation and development of our society. We are grateful. Truly.”
Joral was so endearingly earnest that, not for the first time, I had the urge to hug him. I restrained myself and settled for a half smile and a pat on the arm. Then we hastened on our way to brief our superiors.
I suspect his conversation might have been a lot more straightforward than mine, though difficult in its own way. Qeturah listened to what I had to say, and then she got that expression on her face, the same one I had given Fergus: the one that was weighing the pros and cons of action and trying to work out not simply what was right but what was possible. She went to the window, looked out for a moment, and then began to pace the room slowly.
“You know,” she said sternly, throwing me a frown over her shoulder, “unauthorized acquisition and testing of genetic material is a chargeable offense.”
I knew it. I had known it when I did it. I said nothing.
“And besides one man’s word, you have no actual proof.”
“The results of the analysis—” I began, my hands open and pleading.
“—only prove that they have an ugly class system based on phenotype,” she cut in, stopping for a moment to face me before resuming her slow, troubled pacing. “Some Cygnian societies do. It may not make them desirable, but it doesn’t make them criminal.”
“Qeturah,” I tried, coaxing slightly, “I think this one crosses the line.”
“Unless we can prove human trafficking, the most we can do is submit a report and let Central Government determine in due course whether an inquiry is needed,” she said sensibly, correctly, and disappointingly.
“Qeturah—”
“Grace! Look at this place. They don’t call it invincible for nothing.” She sank back into a chair as if exhausted in both mind and body, all considered paths leading to a dead end.
My heart sank. I had been holding back one last card, something that could destroy the ruling class of Kir’tahsg. Now I had no choice but to play it.
“I have proof of something that is criminal,” I said softly.
She stiffened. “Why didn’t you say—? Oh. It’s based on the material you obtained illegally. Well, that’ll be a lot of help.”
“Such proof is admissible once the crime is sufficiently severe and the officer who obtained the proof is suitably reprimanded. After all, you weren’t planning on letting my lapse in procedure slide, were you?”
Qeturah sat up. I think the look on my face was beginning to worry her. It certainly worried me, because my facial muscles had no memory of that particular expression. It was anger, contempt, and grim resignation of the kind that proclaims “Those who are about to die salute thee.”
“Analysis proves that the Master of Kir’tahsg is the genitor of over ten percent of the domestics of his household,” I said coldly. “The Heir, who is yet young, has only managed to contribute two offspring to the general roll of servants. I cannot give you precise numbers. Some of the kinship lines were … complicated.”
Qeturah blinked and turned her face away. “You would have had to run analyses on individual identified data to get that information,” she said quietly. “As civil servants and scientists we are only allowed to give aggregated results on genetic data unless there is a specific medical cause. This is a direct violation not only of our mission protocols but of the General Code and the Science Code.”
Again I chose to say nothing. I was too angry and miserable to speak.
“Of course, any genitor who refuses to acknowledge and provide for offspring at the appropriate social and economic level is guilty of an indictable offense. And if sexual coercion is also a factor …” She trailed off, rubbing her temples.
“I have noticed that the Child Protection Division tends to move with greater speed and efficiency than the Department of Internal Affairs,” I said derisively. “Since we can’t make the accusation of slavery stick, do you think this charge might do?”
She regarded me sadly, overlooking my misdirected bitterness. “It must. You’re ending your career for it.”
“Well,” I said. “I can live with that.” I almost hiccuped over the lie.
She continued to gaze at me steadily. I looked back without wavering. After a few seconds of this, she gave up and tossed me a handheld. “I’ll be needing a full report and confession.”
I caught it, sat down, pulled out a stylus, and began.
Our courteous but cold farewells on the morrow gave no indication of what was to come. In fact, it wasn’t until our mission debriefing in a quayside inn back at the mainland port that some members of the team realized the full scope of what had occurred and what was going to be done about it. Even Fergus looked a bit startled when Qeturah said that I was relieved of my appointed post forthwith. Lian, who knew everything, looked angry. Joral seemed confused and started to whisper something to Dllenahkh, who merely nodded and spoke a few words that appeared to satisfy him. The two Science Council officers looked grave, but Nasiha caught my eye and gave me a small nod. I kept my shields up and my expression blank. I must have looked more Sadiri than the Sadiri.
Of course, the moment Qeturah dismissed us, I immediately left the inn’s meeting room and walked out into a dim twilight of sea mist. I was too angry to cry, so I started to run, my boots pounding the flagstones of the quayside. I ran past the end of the harbor, reaching a small bay with moored pleasure craft dimly visible offshore. Flinging stones from the pebbled beach into the water helped relieve my feelings, but then I accidentally struck a boat in the growing darkness and a startled shout made me realize that this was no time to act like a delinquent adolescent. I slunk back to our lodgings at the inn, feeling more surly than ever and hoping to slip in quietly, but that was impossible. Dllenahkh was seated outside in the inclement, unwelcoming murk, a cup and a steaming pot of tea on the table beside him, a similarly steaming cup in his hand, and the light from a lantern above making the scene all golden and dreamy, like a Turner painting.
I stared. He glanced at me, then set down his cup to pour tea into the other cup. I sat down before it, picked it up, and sipped in silence for a
while. He offered no conversation, merely sat peacefully in the lantern light and let the steam from his tea wreathe around his face as he drank leisurely.
“Ever wonder if you’ve done the right thing?” I asked him finally.
“Frequently,” he replied. “Legalities notwithstanding, to not wonder indicates a dangerous lack of awareness of the nearly infinite array of choices presented by life. More tea?”
I held out my cup in mute assent. His fingertips brushed mine as he took it from me, and I felt a wave of … something. Approval? Affection, perhaps? I looked at him, startled, and he held my gaze for a second before focusing on pouring.
I spoke simply to have something to say. “I’ve just torpedoed my career, and all you can do is offer me more tea?”
“Yes,” he replied, handing me back my cup. “It appears to be having a calming effect.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Thank you, Dllenahkh, but y’know, I think that’s you, not the tea.”
A faint smile curved his lips as he looked at me. For a moment, I saw … I don’t know how to explain it, but I saw just a man—not an offworlder, not a foreigner, nor even a colleague and a friend but just a man, relaxed, smiling, glad to be in my company. I felt an odd, fragmenting sensation of suddenly perceiving something differently and having the whole world change as a result. My smile faltered, my breath caught, and I lowered my eyes briefly before glancing back up again, unsure of what I had seen.
He was still gazing at me, his face now inscrutable, but his eyes were not distant. They were curious, as if he too were questioning something he had just glimpsed.
“Drink,” he said softly. “Do not let your tea get cold.”
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
“Enter,” I said dully.
Nasiha came into my room. “You are late for your meditation practice.”
I was sitting on my bed in my underwear, surrounded by clothes—Civil Service formal blacks, Forestry greens, various bits and pieces that were no longer relevant to my life.