The Absconded Ambassador

by Michael R. Underwood

  “Lots of options. How will we run them all down?”

  “We won’t. We’re going to find out what’s going on from Commander Bugayeva, or Roman and King will squeeze it out of some low-grav lowlifes.”

  The server came by and delivered their drinks. Shirin’s looked for all the world like a Tequila Sunrise, while her own was a blissfully familiar Manhattan, complete with maraschino cherry.

  “Is this how missions usually go?” Leah asked.

  “Often enough. I’d rather schmooze my way through the station than spend days crammed in a prop ship or gathering intel at the end of my fist.”

  “Schmoozing sounds like more my game.” Leah raised her Manhattan for a toast.

  Lots of toasting and drinking in this job. Mom would approve.

  Leah took a sip of her brilliantly mixed drink and went back to the briefing. She devoured the material, happy for the years of improv practice and LARP experience. It was like diving into an ongoing game half a world away. The rough sketches were familiar, thanks to a lifetime of SF reading and viewing, it was just the particulars that were different. Names to learn, specific cultural biases to apply. Faction A hates Faction B because Reason 1, Faction B distrusts Faction C because Backstory.

  And so on, and so on. Until Shirin said, “Eyes front, Probie.”

  Leah looked up to see a muscled bombshell in a black-and-silver uniform walk into the bar, a waterfall of hair thrown over one shoulder, wearing makeup that was both more excessive and more dynamic than hers or Shirin’s put together.

  “Game face,” the older woman whispered.

  Leah gulped.

  * * *

  Shirin slid out of the booth to stand and greet the commander. Bugayeva was one of her favorite on-world contacts—smart, sharp, if unforgiving of slights. She was a real intelligence operator, though her official position was Executive Officer.

  “Oksana, it’s been too long,” Shirin said, throwing her arms open. The two hugged collegially, then Shirin turned and offered the woman a space in the booth. Leah slid out and extended a hand.

  “My new apprentice, Leah Summers. Leah, I give you Commander Oksana Markovna Bugayeva, Executive Officer of the Ahura-3.”

  “A pleasure, ma’am,” Leah said. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like the Ahura-3.”

  Good, Shirin thought. Polite and concise.

  The woman met Leah’s handshake with firm strength. “Thank you, Ms. Summers. We’re very proud of the old girl.” The women resumed their spots in the booth, Commander Bugayeva sitting opposite the Genrenauts. “Nothing like her in the system. Some of the Plutocracy stations are larger, but nothing beats the Ahura for productivity and diplomacy.”

  “I’ve been bringing my assistant up to speed. How is everything going with the Alliance talks?”

  “Speaking of which—” The commander raised a hand, and the Jenr server appeared as if conjured. “Dirty martini, two olives. And a Red Stripe back.”

  The server nodded and vanished as quickly as she’d come. Impressive. As a rule, the Jenr were light on their feet, but this woman was a step above.

  Oksana spread out, her presence unfolding until she filled half of the booth. Shirin had seen Oksana stop a turf war between Gaan and Nbere, browbeating each of the leaders until they all put their weapons away and then spent a half hour cleaning up after themselves. She was The Impressive Woman to a T—cast in the mold of characters like Honor Harrington, Commander Janeway, and so on. Not as hands-on as an SF version of Strong Female Character™, but all the more formidable for her choice to command socially rather than physically.

  “It’ll get sorted out,” Oksana said. “The Alliance will move forward or they won’t. Get that group together and there’s so much waffling you might as well call it a brunch party.” Then Commander Bugayeva waved the topic away. “I didn’t come here to talk shop, no matter what you might have thought. Tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself. And how is Mallery?”

  Shirin leaned back in her seat, gesturing with her drink like a practiced socialite. “She’s a lunar moth, here and there and back again.” Had to keep up appearances. If she let slip that Mallery was still in traction after her last mission, they’d never get anything out of the commander; the conversational thread would go too far out of her control.

  The commander’s face darkened, betraying more than Shirin imagined she meant to let on. “Well, please give her my best, and tell her to not be a stranger. I’m just an Ansible away, after all.” Then the commander held her drink out in a pose for the question, “So what brings you to our humble little station?”

  “The same old same old. I wanted to show my new apprentice the sights, and no diplomatic tour is complete without a visit to Ahura-3. Plus I figured I could pick up some work and top off the gossip tanks while I was here, what with the treaty signing and all.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty getting nibbles. Everyone’s scrambling to be in the right position when the Alliance is solidified or blows up in Reed and Laran Do-Ethar’s faces. Do-Ethar is wound so tight on this she’s likely to go off like a grenade of mysticism and metaphors.” The commander leaned forward, her voice dropping. “And I’m pretty sure the Ethkar can actually do that with their battle-songs. You want work, show up on her doorstep and tell her I sent you and you’ll be set.”

  “I’ve already beamed her a message. Just waiting to hear back.”

  * * *

  Leah watched the poised women talk like it was a tennis match. But instead of a ball, they played innuendo and subtleties between them, body language and tone their forehand and backhand forms, questions and intimations their rackets. Back home, she’d be paying master class prices to study these women and their verbal fencing, friendly banter over deeper agendas, power plays back and forth from rough equals still jockeying for position. Bugayeva was a straight shooter, responding well to Shirin’s polite but direct questioning.

  “We’ll want to talk with the Enber first. They’re dealing with a miner’s revolt on Greyen-7, and a trade deal with the Yai and Nai would help them settle things down. They’ll be Reed’s staunchest allies outside the Ethkar,” the commander said, clearly offering an olive branch or trading a favor.

  “And if the Enber can get the Nai on, the Yai won’t be left out,” Shirin said.

  “And once both of them are on board, the writing’s on the wall. You’ll need to run rumor control about the Ra’Gar. Linnan’s the gossipmonger there. Calm her down and the proceedings will be much more steady.”

  Shirin set her glass down and asked, “How is the ambassador holding up through all of this?”

  Bugayeva flinched a bit, eyes looking slightly up as she responded. “Tired, but determined. The Alliance will be the capstone of her career, and she will see it through.”

  Nope. Don’t like it. Years of improv and reading the crowd at stand-up shows told her that something was fishy, and it sure as hell wasn’t the food. Shirin and King had told her to trust her instincts.

  Leah glanced sideways to Shirin, who shifted, eyes locked on the commander. Leah wished for telepathy, or another few months of working together to be able to read her senior colleague better.

  Well, Bugayeva liked it straight, so Leah’d give it to her straight. Breaking her silence, Leah said, “Sorry, but you’re hiding something. Is this just about stability, trade traffic through Ahura-3, or is there something else? Who’s driving the Alliance? Reed, Terran brass, what?”

  Bugayeva smiled a predator’s smile. “That’s a bit direct. But I appreciate the ovaries.” The commander took a long sip of her drink, then set it down on the table, making a too-loud clink. “But next time, do me the favor of getting to that answer without breaking your boss’s flow. We were having a conversation between adults, and I don’t need a knobby-nosed adolescent bumbling through to ask the question that might as well be spelled out in the constellations.”

  Leah flinched as if hit. Daaamn. Harsh. Too harsh
.

  Commander Bugayeva gestured to the station. “This place is a complex system of interlocking parts. Millions of them. If I can get a few thousand of those parts to start using the same time signature, start working in direct relation to one another, it makes everything else smoother. Smoother operation means freeing up resources for other tasks, means a chance to take this station to the next level, start to think about things outside our system. And that, that will get back to Terran High Command. The Alliance is Reed’s baby, but I’m happy to be its godmother. You read me?”

  “I read you,” Leah said.

  The commander downed the rest of her drink, then slid out of the booth. “I should get to bed. Duty rotations are accelerated with the Code Orange during the negotiations. Look me up before you go, preferably without Junior here.”

  She set her drink down, along with a circuit-chip the size of a quarter, then strode out of the bar.

  “What just happened?” Leah asked once the woman was out of earshot.

  “You made the right guess, but in the wrong way.” Shirin took a sip from her drink. “Next time, hold your questions for the end. But for now, get Roman on the line. We need to download this to them ASAP. I was hoping Oksana would tip us off to what’s gone south, but it looks like she’s passed that hot potato to the ambassador. Might be a plausible deniability thing.”

  Not two hours on-station, and she’d already screwed up. Fantastic.

  Three: On the Job

  AFTER A HALF HOUR of trolling the bar for tidbits about the ambassador, Shirin’s wrist-screen got a ping. She called Leah back to their booth.

  “Finally got a beam back from Laran Do-Ethar. We’re off to meet her in the diplomatic wing.”

  Leah set down her drink, number two for the evening and thankfully not more. There’d been no side-eyes from Shirin or the commander when she didn’t keep up with their cocktail-pounding, so she was still on this side of tipsy, probably good for meeting alien dignitaries.

  “What do I need to know about Laran, then?”

  “First, it’s Lah-ran, not La-ran,” Shirin said, the difference subtle enough that Leah uselessly narrowed her eyes trying to process it. “And second, expect bluntness and evasion in equal quantities. The Ethkar are one of the most culturally alien species in this story world, as far as humanity’s concerned.”

  Shirin swiped a credit stick for the server, and then tossed the bags to Leah, who struggled to rearrange the weight while Shirin made for the lift.

  “Their value system works deeply off of personal conviction and mystic communion. It’ll be like talking to a zealous recent convert,” Shirin said, a wake forming ahead of her as she strode, one of those tricks of presence that some people (not Leah) could just make happen.

  Leah watched the scenery and little moments playing out in the bazaar as best as she could while also keeping up with Shirin, both physically and verbally.

  “The Ethkar don’t take slights well. This time, we will want me to do all the talking, but I want you to study her as best as you can without staring too much. Laran is an easier read than some of her colleagues, she’s a good Ethkhar to meet first. And ultimately, she’s on our side. Let’s keep it that way.”

  Beeping told Leah that she had another message. Unfortunately, her wrist-screen was buried under twenty pounds of awkwardly bulky bags.

  “Why don’t we have roller bags?”

  “They’re considered gauche now. Thank god. If I never see another roller bag in my life it will be too soon.” Shirin pressed a key in the elevator and the doors closed, leaving them on their own.

  * * *

  The diplomatic wing was anything but peaceful. Robed humans and aliens buzzed around like locusts, moths, or whatever other annoying, buzzing, flying things this science fictional world used to represent chaotic clouds of activity.

  All of the races from the Bazaar were present, and more, though they had some things in common—the cost of their clothes. More robes here, but also sashes, coronets, and fancy hats and helmets, some more Upper Kingdom Egypt, some more Project Runway, and others that could have been straight out of the Thor movies.

  Shirin wove through the crowds, coming and going with polite hellos and brief chats, translator earpieces feeding her the English equivalent to the clicks, warbles, and other alien tongues. One race—shorter gray-skinned aliens with smooth faces—communicated only in sign language, but it sure as hell wasn’t American Sign Language, judging by the translations.

  “Here’s where my years of groundwork pay off,” Shirin whispered in the gap between two groups. “The Ethkar are none too trusting of humans, but Bugayeva has a lot of sway here. Let me take the lead and we’ll worm our way into the story and start driving.”

  Leah spotted the Ethkar in a larger crowd in front of a door guarded by security in station black-and-silver. Her translator changed over everything at once, so she had two sets of cacophonous voices coming in. The ambassador was around five-six, but filled the space around her, her movements precise, powerful. And where aural confusion had Leah twitchy, Laran was all smiles. But none of that warmth touched her eyes. Was that an Ethkar thing, or was she just playing good diplomat? Another thing to watch.

  “Great light, we bid thee welcome,” Shirin said, hands straight out in some kind of special gesture.

  “Bright visitor, you are welcome!” Laran answered, throwing her arms open. With this, warmth did reach her eyes. So that’s a genuine reaction. Noted.

  “Quickly, in here,” the ambassador said, waving at the door, which irised open. “This is your apprentice, I assume?”

  Shirin nodded, waving Leah into the suite.

  And sweet it was. The front room was the size of a penthouse, but clearly lived in. One whole side of the suite was filled with books, but a ten-foot-long dining table dominated the other half, with hallways in back, presumably leading to personal chambers.

  Another guard stood astride the hallway, her arms crossed.

  “And for a moment, the mob will have to wait,” Laran said. She extended a hand and squeezed Shirin’s opposite shoulder. Shirin returned what Leah took to be an affectionate greeting. Or a secret handshake. Leah’s mental RAM was working overtime, trying to contextualize everything going on. Just as long as she didn’t have to actually speak the alien languages. She’d never gotten past “mellon” in Sindarin.

  “Can I put these down somewhere?” Leah asked.

  “Let’s not waste thought on such banality,” Laran said.

  And that came out of nowhere, Leah thought. Got it. Culturally alien.

  “Anywhere is fine,” Shirin said.

  Leah put the bags down as gingerly as she could. She shook out her hands, which had gone partially numb carrying the sack around for a half hour.

  “Sit, and I will explain,” Laran said, gesturing to the dining table.

  “Explain what?” Shirin asked. Leah had only known the woman for a couple of weeks, but she could already tell when the woman was playing a bit. If Laran was going to break silence and read them in, then all the better.

  Laran tapped through some commands on a panel by the door, then joined the Genrenauts at a pair of half-circular couches, surrounding a circular coffee table adorned by a three-tier board game that reminded Leah of Star Trek’s three-dimensional chess, but with way weirder-looking pieces.

  “Commander Bugayeva recommended your services, and her word carries great weight with me. I dare not use the local operators, as the walls have ears, so I put my trust in you. But that trust is as thin as a blade. Fall wrong, cross me, and you will be cut upon the razor.”

  “We understand,” Shirin said.

  “Once we pass this juncture, your hearts are pledged to the service of the station.”

  Shirin nodded. “So pledged are we.” She looked to Leah.

  Leah repeated Shirin’s words, hoping that was the right thing to do. Laran nodded.

  The ambassador took a breath. “Kaylin Reed has been kidnapped.” />
  Boom. There’s the plot.

  “I see,” Shirin said. “How can we help?”

  “Two blades will ward off doom and doubt. One must strike at darkness and cut through to truth, the other must deflect doubt and guard the light against twilight.”

  Shirin leaned to Leah. “Find out who did it, get her back, and keep the Alliance from falling apart in the meantime.”

  “Got it,” Leah said.

  The older woman gave a formal nod. “Such blades as we have are yours.”

  Laran pulled back a sleeve and tapped out commands on her wrist-screen. Hers was sleeker, more ergonomic, the screen curved to the shape of her arm, the bezel made of pearlescent coral or something that looked close enough.

  “Then we begin with all haste.”

  Four: Hands-On Information-Gathering

  ROMAN TIGHTENED HIS GRIP on the Nbere rough, twisting his grip into the man’s shirt.

  “So you’re sure that you don’t know what merc groups came through the station, despite the fact that you say you can set me up with whatever crew I need. Seems like one of these things doesn’t add up, doesn’t it?”

  King stood a meter to Roman’s left, arms still crossed. “It’s very strange. Seems like a proper fixer would know something like that. Unless he’d been paid to stay silent, and in that case, he’s no good as a fixer to anyone else, since he’d become someone’s lapdog, not a real Free Agent and rider of the fringe.”

  “Seems like,” Roman said, his mouth just inches from the Nbere’s elongated, whisker-filled ears. A part of him wanted to just rampage through the whole bar and interrogate the one guy left alive, but he’d play by this world’s rules, and King’s—less murder, more intimidation. “Now what are you, Do Mal? Are you a lapdog, or are you a rider?”

  Do Mal’s friend, a thick-set Yai, shuffled forward, but King headed him off, leaving Roman with the Nbere.

  The Nbere’s attenuated arms pinwheeled. The crowd around them had cleared out, no one interested in butting in. The Deep Dive was that kind of bar. You didn’t come for the company, you came for the discretion. Which included leaving aggressive negotiations be, unless they involved personal friends. And it seemed like Roman and King were the closest this pair had to friends.