by Karen Lord
My heart leaped up, but only for a moment. I’d had time to ponder my offhand comment to Nasiha, and I saw the difficulties. “I’d say yes in an instant, Dllenahkh, but it’s not that simple. What I’ve done, theft of genetic material … I’m barred from working in Central Government and local government. I might be able to work on the homesteadings in a private capacity, but this is a government mission. I can’t accept.”
And there it was, that little smugness. “We are aware of this. However, the Sadiri settlement on Cygnus Beta is in a unique position. While we are, of course, subject to Central Government in terms of the administration of the homesteadings, we have been granted a unique autonomy which leaves ultimate responsibility for the homesteaders with the Government of New Sadira. We selected you for this mission. We can rehire you.”
My jaw dropped. It was too good to be true. He saw it and tried to inject some caution. “I do not have the final word. You must be interviewed and assessed before a decision can be made. I thought, if you did not object, that we might take the morning shuttle to Karaganda, a town with excellent teleconferencing facilities. The interview would take place in the early afternoon, and we would have our answer by the end of the day.”
“Then … yes! By all means, yes!” I stammered.
———
Goodness knows how I slept. I was a wreck, wavering between sweet dreams and grim nightmares about the possible outcomes. Dllenahkh and I rose early, and to my great pleasure and mild surprise, we meditated together with Nasiha, Tarik, and Joral before our departure for the shuttle station.
The journey to Karaganda was made shorter by a much-needed nap, and then it was time for a brief stop at a hotel to have a light lunch, freshen up, and change before the interview. Dllenahkh did not fuss when he came to my door to find me still scrambling to arrange my attire just so. He gravely advised me, eased my worries about the state of my hair, and even helped me arrange the wrap around my head and shoulders and clasp it into place.
“An unusual piece,” he remarked.
I realized that his hand had paused on the clasp, which was in the shape of a hummingbird. “Nasiha chose it for me.”
“Most apt.”
“Nasiha has excellent taste,” I agreed.
I took one last look at myself in the mirror, standing calm and straight as any Sadiri. Then I wrung my hands semitheatrically and shook them out from the wrists. “Look at me. I wasn’t even this nervous for my first interview for a government post.”
Dllenahkh turned me around and took my hands. His grip was gentle, very warm, and purposely reassuring. He held me immobile with only a look, waiting until he saw my frown vanish, my shoulders relax, and my lips tentatively smile. “I have the highest regard for you, Grace. I am sure that I have not erred in my assessment of your character.”
“Thank you, Dllenahkh,” I whispered.
———
The teleconferencing center was state of the art—it had to be to give such clear reception from Karaganda to Tlaxce City. It meant I had to remind myself not to jiggle my feet or pick at my nails in the mistaken belief that I was not completely in view. I stood alone at the head of the conference table and waited for the holo of my interviewer to appear. When it did, I saw that he had already seated himself, and he indicated with a nod and a gracious wave that I should do the same. I sat as gracefully as I knew how and waited patiently for him to speak first, as befitted an elder.
For he was old, aged by years and more, with a timeless sorrow in his eyes that spoke of a galaxy’s worth of loss rather than a mere planet’s. He reminded me of the monks of the forest uplands, for he kept his hands tucked into the long, wide sleeves of his tunic and his head was clean-shaven. He did not smile or frown, but there was an unusual relaxation to his face that made me wonder whether Sadiri dignity became tempered after long years of wear.
“Grace Delarua,” he said, speaking my name not in greeting but musingly to himself. “Tell me about yourself.”
“I once worked for Central Government, sir,” I said. “I’m a biotechnician by training, but recently I’ve been doing a lot of liaison work with the Sadiri. That’s how I ended up on the mission, helping the Sadiri as they research different Cygnian societies to see if anything of Sadira has survived. But I think you already know this, sir.”
“Yes,” he said, drawing out the single syllable slowly. “That was the icebreaker, if you will. Tell me, Grace Delarua, do you like working with the Sadiri?”
A Sadiri elder talking about icebreakers? I was so baffled at this effort to put me at ease that it almost had the opposite effect, but I went on bravely. “Yes, sir. They’re efficient, no-nonsense types and easy to work with because of it.”
“So … you don’t simply feel sorry for them?”
“Sorry for them—oh!” It had actually taken me a split second to realize he was referring to the disaster. “Well, I’m sure we all want to help as much as possible, sir, but I don’t think that’s my main motivation. I’d work with them even if Sadira hadn’t been destroyed—but then of course they’d hardly have any reason to put up with me.”
His lips twitched, but where Dllenahkh’s would have quickly returned to a disciplined line, his retained a slight upward curl of humor, then leisurely came back to the default professional position.
“About your actions on Kir’tahsg, how would you assess them now?” The words were delivered with perfect neutrality, but the atmosphere grew tense. I realized that this was, in a way, the question I had been brought there to answer. There was no other option but honesty.
“A friend once told me that feeling invincible leads to the mistake of not asking for help. It seems to me I’ve made that mistake more than once, and I may have done it again. I understand the Commissioner’s disappointment that I didn’t have faith in her ability to take care of the matter in the usual way. I could have asked for help, or advice, at an earlier stage when things were still salvageable. I didn’t. I acted as if I was the only one who could get the job done. That was, in hindsight, a mistake.”
The grave nod of acknowledgment gave nothing away; it was as perfectly neutral as the question had been.
“But,” I said slowly.
An eyebrow quirked silently, inviting me to continue.
“But I’m mostly Terran, which means sometimes I don’t do what’s sensible and methodical or even appropriate. Sometimes I listen to my intuition. I’m sorry, sir, but that’s who I am, and at the end of the day all I can do is take responsibility for the consequences.”
I miss a lot of cues by holovid, something about unconsciously relying on empathy when in proximity to others, but I couldn’t miss the warmth in his eyes. “Thank you, Grace Delarua. That will be all. Would you please ask Councillor Dllenahkh to join me for a moment?”
I stood and bowed, then went out in a daze to deliver the message to Dllenahkh. He was in there for much longer than I had been. When he emerged, he looked extremely pensive and not a little disquieted.
“What took you so long?” I demanded anxiously. “Did he change his mind?”
“No, no,” Dllenahkh assured me hastily. “We did not discuss you at all. The Consul is … an old friend. We were talking about other matters.”
I eyed him closely. “Ah … Dllenahkh, I can’t help but notice you look a bit … unnerved. Are you sure everything is all right?”
He nodded firmly, though his eyes were distant and his mind clearly elsewhere. “Yes. Everything is perfectly fine.”
That kind of certainty sounded very familiar. I had often employed it myself. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t think …” he began, then trailed off and finally looked at me properly. “I will if I can. Someday, but not now.”
“Fair enough,” I agreed. It helped that he looked more startled than upset, as if whatever news he had heard was surprising rather than distressing. “Now,” I continued, changing the subject, “how are we going to distract ourselves till evenin
g?”
It turned out that Karaganda also had excellent museums and art galleries. We wasted a pleasant two hours before Dllenahkh’s comm went off just as we were in search of a café. He paused on the pavement, gave me a quick glance, and opened it to answer. His responses were terse and not at all illuminating, but something in the way his spine lengthened and his head went up, something in his slow intake of breath and the expansion of his chest—it all added up to a positive result.
“I’m in?” I asked lightly as he closed the comm.
“They have consulted with Central Government and with the Commissioner, and although you are barred from conducting any scientific research whatsoever … yes, you’re in. You have been assigned as my cultural attaché for the duration of the mission. After that … we shall see.”
I ducked my head down and laughed a low, long laugh of sheer relief. “So here I am, back where I started, working with you again.”
“Would you like to tell Nasiha, or shall I?” he asked in a whimsical voice, as giddy as a Sadiri could get. “If you choose your words carefully, you might get her to start planning our wedding ceremony or perhaps even arranging for our children’s betrothals.”
“Nasiha does scare me sometimes,” I said wryly, then laughed out loud again, unable to help myself. It was okay. I didn’t have to leave. I didn’t have to tell him good-bye.
What he did next was almost, but not quite, a rolling of the eyes. It was more of a flash upward to heaven in a give-me-strength kind of way followed by a sigh and a rueful smile. “She is very eager to see the new generation of Sadiri.”
I’m sure he felt the euphoria of the moment, same as I did, but out in public, on a street with people walking by, it was easier to express it with quiet laughter and gentle quips at our colleague’s expense. Displacement behavior, Qeturah would have called it, and Nasiha would have agreed, but I could hardly throw my arms around him and kiss him. That would have been even worse than hugging Joral.
And yet … the day was shading into twilight, we were on a tree-lined avenue below a street lamp that had just flickered on, and for an instant I felt as if I were in a holovid at the point where the Ella Fitzgerald music starts to swell. I stepped up to him, hovered on the edge of his personal space, then came closer. He eyed me warily but did not move, held, I think, by a curiosity stronger than any decorum. I stretched up on tiptoe, careful not to touch any part of him, half closed my eyes, and deeply inhaled the scent of him at the join of his neck and jaw. Then I stepped back and smiled sweetly.
His eyes followed me, still wary but also alight with a sort of intrigued amazement. “If I may ask, why did you do that?”
I felt—let me confess it—a little feminine thrill at the deepened tone of his voice. “Just checking, Councillor,” I said smugly. “I wanted to confirm that I was correct in telling Nasiha that I do not find you objectionable in any form or fashion.”
Zero hour plus one year seven months fifteen days
Lian rarely spoke to him, perhaps in part to avoid Joral, perhaps still conscious of that time he had needed the persuasion of a pistol to follow instructions, but Dllenahkh was not offended. Lian was perfectly professional and mostly kept to the Commissioner’s side, with Delarua and Fergus being the only social exceptions.
(He did wonder once if Lian’s distant attitude might stem from a mild bias against Sadiri, but he quickly rejected the unwanted thought.)
A few days after the upheaval in the team’s roles and allegiances, he went into his shelter to find Joral staring in fascination at a plainly wrapped box on his small desk.
“What is it, Joral?” he inquired.
“Corporal Lian brought it for you,” Joral said, still staring at it.
Dllenahkh frowned in puzzlement, shifted Joral gently to one side, and opened the box. Inside was a small card atop a quantity of springy padding. He read the card.
To Councillor Dllenahkh
with thanks
Lian
He cautiously parted the packing wool.
“Oh—” Joral began, and fell silent.
“How did Lian find this?” Dllenahkh asked in amazement. It was a bottle of Sadiri spirits, only three years old, which was young for that particular brand but still incredibly precious as the last from a now-extinct distillery.
“I … may have mentioned something,” Joral said.
He sounded miserable. Dllenahkh looked at him in surprise, but in an instant it was terribly clear—Lian, talking to Joral, asking questions, showing interest for the first time, and it was only to get information out of him.
He cleared his throat. “A kind gesture, no doubt connected to our managing to retain Delarua as a colleague. We should …” He paused and rested a hand on Joral’s shoulder to better transmit his concern, regret, and reassurance. “We should have a little now and save the rest to drink at your wedding.”
We’ll drink at your wedding. The phrase was a common Sadiri jest said to young and old, married or not, as a roundabout way to wish them well. It sounded hollow and strange.
“Or yours, Councillor,” Joral replied bravely. “That seems more likely to happen.” There was no bitterness, none, only mild teasing.
“Yours and mine, then,” Dllenahkh said, playing along. “After all, I must set a good example, mustn’t I?”
“Yes, Councillor,” Joral agreed, sounding more like himself.
“Good. And tomorrow … tomorrow we will both register with the Ministry of Family Planning and Maintenance. Fetch the glasses and let’s drink to that.”
FALLING
I yawned widely, raising my handheld to my face to hide my weakness from my Sadiri colleagues. The late nights were killing me.
I’d had some vague idea that since I was in effect an addition to the Sadiri team, I would have less work to do than I’d had when I was with the government. After all, Joral was there, Nasiha was still going strong, Tarik remained as quietly diligent as ever, and Dllenahkh led from in front as always. Surely the work would not multiply in order to accommodate the number of persons available to do it.
Yes. I know. You’d think I’d never worked in the Civil Service.
When Dllenahkh said he had the highest regard for me, it wasn’t just a consoling compliment. It was myriads of reports and manuals downloaded to my handheld for background knowledge, attending all Sadiri-led meetings, writing my own contribution to the mission report being compiled for the Sadiri government, and speaking the Sadiri language on every possible occasion to “strengthen understanding of the nuances of the vocabulary.”
Do you know that there are about ten variants of the Sadiri word for “the right thing to do”? There’s the thing that’s right to do because it’s beneficial to all concerned. There’s the thing that’s right to do because it’s been done that way for the last seven generations. There’s even the thing that’s right to do because it will impress your superior. And they mostly get translated as—you guessed it—“appropriate.” I think there’s a particular inflection that means “this may or may not be the right thing to do, but if I say that it is, you might shut up and get on with it.” I knew I was in deep trouble the day Dllenahkh said to me, “It would be appropriate if you completed the Advanced Grammar module by the end of next month,” and he managed to combine two variants and that tricky little inflection with just three syllables, a rising tone, and an encouraging little smile.
I have never worked so hard in my entire life.
Of course there was no way I was going to let them down. They’d taken a risk bringing me back onto the team in a nose-thumbing gesture to Central Government—although, to be honest, it was less of a nose thumbing and more of a “we are continuing to experience the traumatic aftereffects of the disaster and would welcome any concessions to maintaining stability and familiarity in our interactions.” For a people who claim that deception is inappropriate, the Sadiri know how to spin a manipulative sentence or two, let me tell you.
Failure would be an em
barrassment not only to myself but also to the people who had bailed me out. No way was I going to let that happen, but there were never enough hours in the day. Qeturah’s carefully suppressed pleasure at my return transformed into mild alarm, and finally, after nearly two solid months of watching me run myself into the ground, she pulled the doctor thing on me and took me aside.
“You look like hell,” she said callously.
“Well, don’t spare my feelings,” I retorted. “Instead of flattering me, why don’t you do something helpful like writing a small prescription?”
She gave me a very long look, then handed over a packet of the small adhesive patches I remembered all too well from my university days. “I’m only giving you a week’s supply of these. Use them sparingly and do not come back for more. If you haven’t adjusted to your new duties without chemical aid by the time they run out, you’ll have to find another solution.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
It made sense. I didn’t want to build up a tolerance to them, and in truth I only needed a little extra time to bring myself up to speed. I used nearly all of them, but only at most dire need. I was almost in the clear, but then … there was a visit coming up, and a rescheduling of another visit, and a possible insertion of a new visit on the schedule, and suddenly more work appeared to fill up the space that had been cleared on my handheld.
Which led to the present scenario: me fighting sleep during an interminable late-night meeting.
I fished the last patch discreetly out of my pocket and pressed it gently to my side, letting the warmth of my skin activate the adhesive. The kick was palpable but muted. I’d be good for another two hours, nothing more. Better make it count.
“May I collate the pros and cons that have been laid out thus far?” I volunteered. “We might find a decision easier to arrive at with a visual representation of the matter.”
Two hours later, the meeting was wrapping up and I crashed. I don’t mean it figuratively; I literally got up, stumbled, and fell over. I lay there on the ground, miraculously unhurt in any way, thought, “How comfortable,” and closed my eyes for just a second.