Visitor: A Foreigner Novel

by C. J. Cherryh

  “What kind of chance?”

  “Talking to them. —You have an uncommon opportunity to do that, Mr. Cullen. There’s one kyo who’s really interested in talking to you. A kyo who seems to be a pretty good fellow—it’s hard to judge on a very limited dealing, but there’s a good chance he really is a good fellow. Enough of a chance that I wouldn’t suggest he take a chance with you, except I have the impression you might be a man of some character, yourself: intelligent, I think—certainly resilient. You’ve been a long time with just your own thoughts, here. I’d like to leave you in a far, far better situation. That begins with someone to talk to.”

  “Interrogation? Not interested.”

  “Do you know anything, after all this time, that they don’t know?”

  “No. But they don’t know that.”

  “Oh, I think they can guess. Time’s passed. Quite a lot of time, by that tangle you’ve got. Whatever you know is obsolete, if it ever was that important.”

  “It wasn’t. It never was.”

  “At this point, then, you have no real usefulness to them—except to this one kyo, who has taken an interest in talking to you. I don’t know his rank. I don’t know how high up he is. What I do know is that his function is a little like mine: negotiation; and that his people regard him highly. Whatever he is among his people, there’s one asset that could make him very important—and that is his having someone like me at his elbow when he talks about ending this war.”

  “Is that why you’re here? To end the war?”

  “Not me, Mr. Cullen. I said someone like me.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “You. You could be that person at Prakuyo’s elbow. You could help bring an end to your war. You, performing exactly the same office for the kyo as I do for the atevi. I’m the translator. The bridge between opposing forces. I find a way to talk instead of shoot. I find out the enemy’s opinion, and I represent it fairly. I convey my employer’s opinion to them. I work with both sides until I can find a way for them not to shoot at each other. That’s what I am. That’s what I do. So, what do you think? Can you make a try at talking to these people?”

  It was still hard to see anything of Cullen’s expressions, just the mad dark eyes. The stare.

  “People?” The tone was harsh, defensive—challenging the notion.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Cullen. Absolutely they’re people. Different as they come—well, different as I’ve yet seen, but they have kids, they laugh, in their own way. They have emotions such as humans have, possibly very close to what humans have.”

  “Even if I accept that, I can’t talk to them. I don’t know how.”

  “I can teach you. I can teach you enough in three days that you can express yourself, ask questions, and convince these people that you’re worth talking to. After that, it’s up to you. But I’ll give you the tools for that, too. Is there a glimmer of hope in that? Absolutely. There’s hope in that for a lot of people. Become me. Become what I am. Learn to speak the language, think the language, dream in the language.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Not if you believe you can’t. Believe that you have to. Figure that every word you learn is valuable. Three hundred words, and you can carry on a conversation. When you can carry on a conversation you’re a person to them. And from that start, you can get more words, on topics that interest you. I don’t know how much aptitude you have. But you’re in luck on that point, Mr. Cullen. The one kyo who’s interested in you does have it—so even if you can’t do it all, he can meet you coming the other way, and the two of you can make it. This person has the importance to negotiate with my superiors—and that is power. He’d also like not to be at war with humans. He’s said so. Does the thought of ending this war appeal to you at all, Mr. Cullen? Or had you rather just sit in this box?”

  “I can’t—” Cullen began to shiver—controlled it, tucking both hands under his arms. “Can’t think at the moment.”

  “You are thinking. You’re asking yourself if there’s a way out. And if there is a change, is it going to be worse? I can’t answer any of that. I can’t fix your situation. But you can. I’ll tell you this much, Mr. Cullen—you’re potentially important. You’re so potentially important I’m going to take several days off from a major diplomatic conference between the kyo and the power I represent, and I’m going to teach you how to teach yourself from here on out. You don’t think you can do it. I’m going to show you that you can.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Comb the hair, Mr. Cullen. Easier to keep it controlled in a braid, and I don’t think you’ll find a kyo anywhere who knows how to cut hair. At least you can trim a braid. Let’s get you cleaned up, for a start.”

  Cullen began to comb again, mechanically. Yanked without finesse. Hair broke, snarled in knots.

  “I’m going to open the door, Mr. Cullen. Step back a bit.”

  Cullen didn’t protest. He stepped back. Bren took the key card from his pocket and put it in the slot a little removed from the door.

  It slid back. And there was no barrier.

  Cullen stood there, looking at them, outnumbered.

  “Sit,” Tano said in ship-speak, waving Cullen toward the inbuilt bowl-bed that was the only furniture.

  Cullen sat. Tano took the comb from him and, standing, began to work on the problem himself, with water from the tap. It was going to be a lengthy process.

  “Let’s start,” Bren said, folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Three days, Mr. Cullen.”

  • • •

  Several hours made a difference. Cullen—shaven, damp hair combed and braided, enough of it surviving to make a very respectable queue, though without a clip—sat on his bed. Bren sat on a chair—Jago had brought that in. Banichi and the rest of them sat as easily on the floor as about a campsite.

  And Cullen was trying. Hands clasped white-knuckled, elbows on knees, occasionally, despite the sweat beading up in the humidity and the heat, giving a small shiver.

  It was easy to feel sorry for him. Easy to feel deeply sorry in the situation, that he had to turn off compassion, and tell Prakuyo never, ever, to let this man go back to his own people.

  Am I a good man?

  Good enough to keep the existence of those I protect as secret as it needs to be? Yes. In any way I have to.

  Good enough to use what I know—in the best way, and help this man? And help the kyo? I hope so.

  “The face,” he said to Cullen. “They find our faces a little scary.”

  “Mutual,” Cullen muttered.

  “Until you know the kyo in question, wear just one comfortable expression, and try to keep it. Their faces can’t move. The fact that ours do—spooks them and confuses them. Kyo faces do blush pretty much under the same conditions we do. Look for the speckled patterns in the skin to come and go. The eyes are expressive. Kyo we’ve dealt with know, now, that our facial shifts mean something specific. They’ll be working to understand and adapt, but until they know you really, really well, try to keep your face calm, so they can concentrate on what you’re saying.”

  “I get that.”

  “Sounds. I’m not sure whether it’s more important than vision, but hearing is very, very important to them. Listen to the sounds they make. Learn to differentiate. The booms and thumps affect the meanings of words, the way if we smile or snarl while saying something, it changes ‘Sure I will’ into a joke—or a firm no. Just use your ears. The booms are startlement and happiness—except the really loud ones. I suspect those can hurt you.”

  “That—I know.”

  “Let them know if they hurt you. They can learn restraint, the same way you’ll control your facial expressions. The thumps are disapproval, the louder the more definite. Pay attention to those. I’m sure there are finesses to them I don’t remotely imagine. Over time, you’ll figure things I don’t know. And time is something I think you will have.”

  “You’re terrifying me. I can’t possibly
—”

  “You can, Mr. Cullen. Look at what you’ve learned in, what, three hours? You can ask to talk to someone, you can say what you need, you can understand instructions about this place. That’s a lot—in three hours. Now I’m going to test your memory. I’m going to leave you for a while. Sit and think through all those expressions. When I come back—I’ll see how much you remember.”

  Cullen nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  Joke. A grim one. But a rise in spirits. Bren gave an appreciative nod, got to his feet, Banichi and the others got up, and very matter-of-factly Tano took the chair outside and set it down as they left. The key card closed the door, and locked it. Banichi tested it.

  “We need some things,” Bren said to them, walking away down the corridor. “I shall ask to talk to Prakuyo, and make some arrangements. I would like two of you to go back to the station and bring another change of clothes, a paper notebook, and several pens.” He gave a signal that meant ulterior motive, without defining what it was, but likely his aishid could guess one primary reason was simply to establish that they could come and go without hindrance.

  “Yes,” Algini said.

  “Be discreet in all this. No word of this prisoner to anyone, except the barest details to the dowager, in utmost secrecy: tell her Cullen exists, that I am negotiating, that I wish her to hold this matter to herself alone, and that I am requesting her help in maintaining deep secrecy. Do not give a hint of this to any staff, not even Narani. Nor to Jase-aiji. I shall ask Prakuyo to request this also of Matuanu and Hakuut, and only hope they have not at any point talked about Cullen or what I am doing on this ship. Discretion. Absolute.”

  “Yes,” Algini said. It was a given that Algini and Tano, second pair in the aishid, would be the ones to go, leaving the two primary, Banichi and Jago, in attendance on him.

  “I shall ask clearance for you,” he said, and looking up, he said loudly to the walls of the corridor, “Prakuyo, please come talk. Want send Tano and Algini back to Alpha.”

  • • •

  Prakuyo was not long in returning to the small conference room, and he brought two others with him. One was Huunum an Hus, whose mouth was a little undershot, and whose eyes were murky green; the other was Ukess an Am, whose face and arms were extremely freckled in brown and gray-green. What their authority was, or whatever their involvement in the question of Guy Cullen, one had no clue—they might even be there simply because Prakuyo was obliging the atevi sense of numbers.

  “Hear,” Prakuyo said in Ragi, as they stood in the small conference room. “Hear all talk. Bren stay. Teach Cullen kyo words. Good.”

  “Three days,” Bren said. It was pure bargaining, pure assumption that he was going to leave when he wished. “Three days stay on ship. Tano and Algini go station now, bring clothes for three days. Give Cullen kyo words. Make Cullen peace.”

  “Ten day,” Prakuyo said.

  That was so much better than Prakuyo might have asked. But in a first bargaining session, surely one should resist a little, and test how and if the kyo dealt with it.

  “Seven is fortunate number.”

  Boom. “Seven. Yes. Tano and Algini go station. Prakuyo send writing to Hakuut and Matuanu, say all good, not say human on kyo ship.”

  “Yes.” He gave a little bow, inexpressibly relieved at that statement, and changed immediately to Ragi. “Clothes for seven days, nadiin-ji. Prakuyo-nandi also requests you tell our two guests that everything is going well over here, and that we are reaching agreement. He will send a written message.”

  “Nandi,” Algini said, order accepted.

  Prakuyo delayed to pass a hand over the lighted tablet, tap what might have been a keyboard on the screen for an extended message, and then extract a card. He held it out to Algini. “Give to Matuanu. Not Hakuut. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Bren said quietly and quickly. Algini politely, with a bow, took the card, tucked it in his pocket, and Prakuyo then instructed his own aide Ukess in a rapid and cheerful patter of instructions.

  “Yes,” Ukess said then, bobbed and bowed and motioned with both hands to Algini and Tano. “Come, come.”

  The station had indeed figured somewhere in the set of instructions Prakuyo had just given. Tano and Algini could speak to ops from kyo communications, at which point Phoenix would give orders, Central would give orders, and they would get Tano and Algini to the station and back without a problem . . . or, one hoped, too much inquisitiveness from ship command. Jase was the only officer who could talk to Tano and Algini. And Tano and Algini had their instructions, and the message to Matuanu.

  Their departure brought their company down, now, to himself, Banichi and Jago, and Prakuyo and his two. Six, Ragi-honed instinct said, was an untrustworthy number, infelicitous two of felicitous threes, a number foreboding a division of interests—without mitigation.

  There was usefulness in that stray superstitious thought.

  “Atevi say six is not all felicitous,” Bren said in Ragi. “But Cullen is our seven, which is a number of much greater happiness. Will you talk to Cullen now, Prakuyo-ji?”

  “Yes,” Prakuyo said with a deep thump, and added what seemed an entirely sensible request, considering the nerves on both sides: “Not open door.”

  • • •

  Bren walked down the hall with Banichi and Jago alone, no kyo in sight, given the curve of the hall, and within his cell, Cullen stood up to meet them.

  “Cullen talk?” Bren asked in kyo, the promised test. And for a moment Cullen looked frozen. “All good, Cullen?”

  “Talk,” Cullen managed to say, likewise in kyo, a minor triumph. Then Cullen went further. “Tano? Algini?”

  Say they were off to visit the space station? Absolutely not. For all Cullen was to know, this was a meeting in deep space. “Tano and Algini sit, rest. Hear?”

  “Rest, yes,” Cullen said, then looked past him in alarm. “Kyo.”

  “This is that person I mentioned,” Bren said in ship-speak. “This is Prakuyo. The one who wishes to talk. Be calm. Be polite. Talk to him. He actually understands a little of our language . . . and he is interested in you, which is good. Can you be calm?”

  Cullen drew a deep breath. His lips made a thin line.

  “He’s been here before. With you. And before.”

  “I don’t doubt. Has he ever hurt you?”

  “No. He gives orders.”

  “Face,” Bren said. “Just tell yourself that every time you deal with them. I’ve agreed to spend seven days here, teaching you, helping you. It’s his idea. I think he might get you out of that cell, if you make a good impression. And if we can get you this far in three hours, think what we can do in seven days. Face. Face.”

  “Got it,” Cullen said, and managed his expression, as Prakuyo came close to the transparent door.

  “Face same Bren,” Prakuyo said, looking Cullen up and down. “Yes.” A wave of his hand about his own hairless head. “Good.”

  “Cullen,” Bren said, “this is Prakuyo, Prakuyo an Tep. Prakuyo an Tep, this is Cullen.”

  “Cullen,” Prakuyo said. With a little boom. “Good. Good see face.”

  “Talk,” Cullen said in kyo. “Talk. Want talk kyo.”

  “Yes,” Prakuyo said. “Understand. Prakuyo understand human talk. Not say good. Hear good.”

  “He’s saying,” Bren said, “that he understands far more of our language than he can speak. Our language has sounds kyo can’t make and certainly the other way around. Pick words you can say. Say it in human language, then say the same thing in kyo. Prakuyo understands that way of working.”

  “What does he want?” Cullen asked.

  “Ask him,” Bren said.

  Uncertainty. Panic. Cullen brought his face under control. “Want?” he asked. “Prakuyo want?”

  “Peace,” Prakuyo said, that simply. It was not a word they’d gotten to with Cullen.

  “Peace,” Bren translated it, and Cullen sucked in a deep, deep breath, then carefully, consciously pressed h
is open hand to the barrier between them.

  Prakuyo did the same, hand to hand, on either side of the barrier. Stood that way a moment, two beings staring at each other, two open hands that didn’t match, two faces each seeking answers.

  • • •

  Tano and Algini had returned—but without nand’ Bren.

  Nand’ Bren, they said, wanted to stay seven days talking to Prakuyo, just talking. And they said they needed to talk to mani, in mani’s rooms, with Matuanu.

  How could they talk to Matuanu? And why should they talk to Matuanu and mani at once?

  Cajeiri tried to concentrate on the board in front of him, the game mani had deserted to disappear into her room with nand’ Bren’s aishid—and Matuanu—leaving him and Hakuut to continue on their own.

  It was Hakuut’s move. Hakuut was probably asking himself exactly the same questions. Hakuut was much better at Ragi. Matuanu hardly talked at all. In either language.

  It was secrets Tano and Algini brought back. Cenedi and Nawari were in that room. They would learn.

  Secrets. Something important enough to go to the one place in the suite that was free of recording devices, but maybe not of Hakuut’s hearing.

  On the far side of the board, Hakuut’s eyes flickered to the door, to the game, and back again. After that first game, Matuanu and mani, watching, had let the two of them make their own moves. Cajeiri had planned to let Hakuut win, being diplomatic . . . and discovered there’d been no charity involved. Hakuut had been winning without any help.

  Suddenly, Hakuut reached out, moved his aiji-dowager recklessly close, then sat back, looking again to that closed door.

  Cajeiri saw it. Hakuut had not. He had just lost the game.

  Cajeiri said nothing, just reached silently to counter the move and check Hakuut’s aiji . . . and discovered the board was trembling. His hand was trembling. He set down the piece, and as he did, it chattered against the board.

  He pulled the hand back, and clenched his fingers together as that trembling reached deep into his gut. His ears began to make strange buzzing sounds, and underneath the buzz, a deep, deep hum, a rumbling that he felt more than heard.