They were on the final storeroom inventorying the embassy guard uniforms. When they finished that section, Melin didn’t want to see another sock (2), brown, large, for the rest of her entire life. Or at least until the next lance corporal came in for replacement and reissue later that afternoon. Luckily, they were past the socks—how did that funk transfer to the new socks?—and were wrapping up the larger clothing items.
“Sixty-seven,” Melin called.
There was a pause. “You sure about that number?” Trudi asked from her desk.
Melin bent over her tidy piles. Six tens and one of seven. “Yeah.”
“Are you on the large pull-overs?”
“Yeah.”
“Hm, okay. You haven’t issued any out have you?”
“No.” Melin recounted everything. “It’s still sixty-seven. How many are you missing?”
“Right now, I think six.” Trudi’s voice held a frown. “We can clean up the rest of the warehouse and see if any others turn up.” She paused, checking the following line item. “What’s the next count?”
There were discrepancies in the other sizes too in roughly the same number. Melin hunted through the storerooms, uncovering and rooting through packages while Trudi audited her receipts.
“Ahem.”
“Yes?” Trudi asked, turning toward the new arrival.
Melin paused, her right arm holding a pair of boots, but didn’t pop her head outside storeroom A. Her left arm ached, the skin raw and tender from all the contact it had had this morning, and she didn’t have the mental energy to deal with another person.
“Oh, Elihu.” Trudi’s tone changed from half-welcoming to a flat neutral. “How can I help you?”
“So, this is where you’re hiding our newest addition,” Elihu teased.
“And?” Trudi asked. Any remaining welcome drained from her voice.
“I was hoping to get in touch with her and have a chat on what she knows about this planet. You know her great-grandmother was a refugee?”
Melin set the boots down and walked to the front. “I’m retired,” she said, belatedly adding, “Good morning, Sergeant Major.” She kept her eyes averted. For whatever reason, her eyes had been changing from regular jade to yellow gold when the tech was down. It unnerved her, but she attributed it to an odd genetic tampering whim from one of her ancestors. Maybe it was how they determined when their tech went down.
“Good morning, Sera Grezzij.” Elihu flashed a dazzling smile. “It’s just a couple of questions. I’d like to know what your great-grandmother told you about the planet. It might help us with our current situation. We haven’t been able to interview a single Saturan willingly since before the incorporation.”
“Okay.” The word drawled reluctantly from her mouth.
“Do you have a lunch?”
Trudi tapped her stylus on the desk. “It’s the same time as everyone else, Elihu. You know that.”
“Thank you, Trudi. Are you free, Sera?” Elihu leaned against the issue-point desk.
“During lunch I am,” Melin replied.
“Great. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria and escort you up to my office.” Elihu grinned with premature triumph.
Melin reluctantly agreed.
With a rap of his knuckles on the counter, Elihu turned and left, whistling an incredibly annoying song popular with the younger crewmembers on the starship to Satura. How it had migrated downplanet was a mystery Melin didn’t want to solve.
“Your great-grandmother was Saturan?” Trudi asked curiously.
“She was.” Melin paused. “Her family evacuated after the incorporation.”
“And she stayed off-planet?”
Melin nodded.
Trudi whistled. “That’s unusual. Most Saturans refuse to set foot offworld. Then again, most refuse to cooperate with us at all—maybe it was different back then. We have a few who work at the embassy, but I don’t allow them in here. I don’t trust them to save my life.” At Melin’s raised eyebrow, Trudi smiled. “You’re what, one sixteenth Saturan, and this is your first time on the planet? And a war hero to boot? I think I can spare you the concern.”
“Can you though?” Melin quirked her eyebrow higher.
Trudi laughed. “Go ahead and go up early,” she said. “We were almost done counting anyway, and I want to go over these numbers before I resume anything.”
“Are you concerned about anything?” Melin asked.
“Not yet.” Trudi waved her stylus. “Go. I’m sure Elihu will bombard you with questions. Word to the wise though. Avoid getting involved. They will try to rope you in.”
“I’d prefer to stay uninvolved,” Melin told her.
“My recommendation? Be as noncommittal as possible.”
“So, be breezy? Got it.” Melin gave her a mock salute and left, stomach sinking.
She passed a group of younger workers on her way to the cafeteria. There were a total of five interns onplanet, including her two housemates, all in their twenties—and all decidedly disdainful toward her after her encounter with Izzie.
But the interns were a minority. Excepting the senior leadership and the research teams, much of the embassy staff—which were the guards—ran young. The majority of the guard force was in their early twenties and late teens, giving the embassy a youthful and juvenile air despite the abundance of hoverchairs—and unlike the interns, most of the guards were from outer rim planets and stations.
Melin hadn’t been included in their offers of hanging out. If the younger crew weren’t aware of her war status, they definitely noticed her lack of an implant. Not that she cared. She wanted to be left alone. She might appear to be their age, but she was from a much different time.
She had avoided her peers—the older crew—just as successfully. Life in the embassy basement was the perfect place to be left alone.
Until now.
Elihu beat her to the cafeteria, already seated and filling out notes in a paper journal. He creaked to his feet at her arrival, and they gathered trays of food. As they worked their way down the line, he rose his eyebrows at the amount piled onto her plates. “Do you normally eat like that?” he asked.
She glanced down. Her tray was stacked with high-caloric protein and nutrient-heavy greens. “Yes.” He looked her up and down, and she realized he was trying to equate her thin frame with the amount of food she was intent on consuming. “High metabolism,” she explained. “I’m trying to get back to my pre—”
“Oh, before the cryo.” Elihu’s tone was knowing.
“Actually, before Yuluk.”
He paused, and then his mouth pursed in understanding. “My apologies. I remember the stories now. Pretty rough stuff.”
Melin shrugged. It was ancient history for him at this point.
Elihu pointed with his chin toward one of the doors. “My office is this way. We’ll eat there.” They left the cafeteria in silence and had rounded a couple of corners before he said, “I remember when they awarded you the second Silver Galaxy and the Order of the Lion—posthumously of course. I was there. Several of your team were there too. I believe Corporal Verrituck received an Order of the Lion as well. They praised your actions and leadership.”
“I don’t talk about the war,” Melin said. “It’s still pretty close.”
“Understandable,” Elihu replied, entirely unruffled. “Not many share your unique circumstances.” Elihu’s offices were on the second floor—an unbearable walk when the tech was down. Melin took his tray and walked alongside him as he labored up the ramp. “This gravity is ridiculous,” he wheezed. “But I refuse to be one of those hurricks who take the lift. Or use a chair.” He groaned and paused at the top, leaning against the railing. “Not that there’s much an option right now. With tech down, it’s climb the stairs yourself or be carried.”
Elihu took his tray, kindly not pointing out the shaking of her left hand, just as she didn’t point out that he had sweat on his upper lip.
The second floor was devoted
to scientific research. Most were empty since many of the scientific visas had long since expired and were becoming increasingly difficult to acquire—and they passed doors labeled xenobotany, medicine, astrophysics, and hydrography before reaching one for xenoanthropology. Elihu pushed the door open with his free hand. “My humble abode.”
It was a standard office with three desks—two littered with the detritus of everyday work, and a third empty with a cluttered conference table in the center. Tall windows stretched along on the far side, overlooking the garden and beyond, the wall. Melin sighed. A view to the outside was downright magical after working in the basement.
The office’s stand-out feature, however, was a large handcrafted map of Satura hanging on one of the walls. The terrain features of the southern portion of the main continent were moderately well mapped out, but everything north of a large mountain range—labeled the Dragonbacks in meticulous handwriting—was completely blank. There were several red dots marked on the map close to Jidda with a couple close to the embassy island. Much of the southern continent was covered in wide circles filled with slash marks, indicating no-go zones. Some of the spots sported familiar chemical-radioactive hazard signs while a few others were simply marked “hot.”
Melin had a sinking suspicion this was not only the xenoanthropology office.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the occupants of the conference table.
Two people were sitting at the conference table, their lunches and notebooks before them. One was Major Dar’Tan, wearing a gray suit she realized was his version of a uniform. The other was a brown-haired, pale-skinned woman she hadn’t met before, dressed in a casual gray-green uniform the few scientists on the island—including Elihu, who seemed more comfortable in his military uniform than the embassy one—were inclined to wear.
Neither were surprised by her arrival.
“Melin, I don’t believe you’ve met Sera Sorem Bartroilly, the leading cultural and language expert of Satura,” Elihu said.
Melin set down her tray and shook hands with the other woman, who did not rise from her seat. “You mean, the head intelligence chief for the embassy,” Melin said.
Bartroilly coughed, and the others froze. Major Dar’Tan’s lips quirked in something of a smile.
Melin crossed her arms. “I’m not an idiot. What is this really about?”
“Sera Grezzij, my colleagues wanted your opinion on some matters pertaining to the current situation,” Elihu told her. “We wanted to know how much you know about the Saturans.”
“Why?” she asked, genuinely confused.
“We don’t have anyone with any real knowledge on these people, and despite our efforts in trying, we can’t get in with them,” Major Dar’Tan said.
“And you think I know something?” Melin asked flatly. “The IASS has been here how many centuries? I just got here.”
“Ser Asante told us of your run-in with the native servant on your arrival here.” Sorem sat back in her chair and played with her fork. “He said you spoke the language, and the man got on his knees in front of you.”
“Yeah, and it was weird, and I have no idea what all that was about.” She paused. “You can check my file.” She enunciated each word so they wouldn’t be able to mistake both words and tone. “I’ve never been here before. Aside from my great-grandmother, who left when she was five, neither has any of my family. I haven’t gone off the island. I’ve only talked to the one native.” She paused again, lips twitching with irony. “Do you suspect me of something?”
“Nothing of the sort.” Major Dar’Tan waved his hands to dismiss the accusation and motion her to join them. “Please, sit. We want to know what he said to you.”
Melin didn’t move. “It was over a week ago.”
“Nevertheless.” Major Dar’Tan gestured to the chair with an upturned palm.
Melin sat, as did Elihu. She kept her fork in her good hand, noting the bulge in Major Dar’Tan’s jacket and the way Sorem favored her hip. Elihu kept his right leg bent in a way that put his ankle in close proximity to his hand, and she wondered if they always went armed or only when tech was down, although she wasn’t certain how well their weapons would work with the tech down.
“It’s pretty uncomplicated,” Melin said. “Ser Asante called him over to help carry my bag to the Yellow House. The servant approached me, and I told him politely in Saturan that I didn’t need help. At that point, he looked up, saw my face, and started talking fast. I didn’t catch it, but he called me csira, and told me to leave Satura. He seemed to think I was one of them until he realized that I didn’t understand him—it’s a different dialect than I learned as a kid.” At their encouraging looks—Major Dar’Tan just appeared bemused—she continued. “He mentioned something about an Isair, which I think means king. At the end he addressed me as Csira um, Grezznuhl-something. I didn’t catch the rest. And he left. I haven’t seen him since, and the other Saturans avoid me.”
“That servant quit that day,” Major Dar’Tan told her. “Have you tried to speak with some of the other natives?”
“A couple times, to brush up on my Saturan and ask about their homes.” Melin paused, hoping to hammer her point home. “They’ve all avoided me.”
“Not quite what we’ve heard,” Sorem murmured.
Melin met the other woman’s gaze for the first time. Bartroilly’s brown eyes widened.
“What have you heard?” Melin asked, trying to keep her voice mild. She had done nothing wrong, aside from that encounter with Izzie—and with her housemates avoiding her, she didn’t expect a repeat of the experience. Her life reduced itself to quartermaster’s, the gym, reading, and fractured sleep. Rinse, wash, and repeat. Ad nauseum.
“We heard when you’ve tried to approach the natives, they bow you and leave immediately. They seem frightened of you, and they don’t bow to anyone else. Why?” Sorem asked.
“I don’t know.” She carefully set her fork down on the table and laid her palms flat on the smooth surface. Major Dar’Tan saw her movement and relaxed subtly. The unease in Melin’s stomach grew stronger. Curiosity didn’t make her a traitor. “I didn’t mean any harm—I just want to learn more about my ancestors’ home. Do you think there’s something more to it?”
“No, Sera,” Elihu told her. “Sorem wants to know what you know.”
“When they do say something—and I’ve only tried to talk to three or four of them since there aren’t many at the embassy to begin with—they call me csira and say politely that they are not allowed to speak to me. Then they leave. That’s it.”
“What does csira mean?” Elihu asked. “I’ve never heard that word before.”
Melin opened her hands. “I don’t know.”
“It sounds like an honorific for sera,” Bartroilly said. “Although no one has ever called me that. I’m more curious why they say they’re not allowed to speak to you.”
Major Dar’Tan glanced at the others. “Well, I think it proves they are interested in Sera Grezzij, or at least interested enough to avoid her. Why is another question. I think it also means they’re more organized than we anticipated, which makes sense. With the other incidents, I think we have what we need to release all of them now and save ourselves the trouble later on.”
“What about keeping them as insurance against further harm?” Sorem asked.
“We will not imitate their tactics,” Elihu said.
“Do they keep hostages?” Melin asked, trying to catch up in the conversation.
They turned toward her, remembering she was present.
“They don’t,” Major Dar’Tan explained, choosing his words carefully. “Over the past five years, we’ve sent in three operatives to infiltrate them. Every single one has been found out within an hour, decapitated, and strung up on the bridge without being seen by the guards. Two were done in broad daylight.”
“The servant assumed you were a native?” Sorem asked.
“I think so.” Melin tried to stay on task and
not focus on within an hour and decapitated. “The misconception was over pretty quickly since I didn’t understand what he was saying. It’s a different dialect, which makes sense because my great-grandmother left almost two hundred years ago.”
“Do you know why she left?” Sorem asked.
Melin shrugged. “She never told me. I don’t know if she even knew herself. It was possibly the political unrest from the incorporation. It was around the same time—but that was mostly by guessing and from some of the stories she told me. She died when I was little.”
“Did she tell you where on Satura she was from?” Sorem asked.
“She lived here,” Melin said. They frowned in confusion. “In Veskia. The old palace. I don’t know much more than that. I don’t know what her parents did or how they were able to leave.” She opened her hands again. “Seriously, I have no idea how my half-remembered memories of my great-grandmother’s half-remembered childhood memories are useful.”
“Anything could possibly help,” Sorem said.
Melin told them almost everything. Anikki’s stories of life in the palace were from the point of view of a child. She had enjoyed the gardens, played with the other children, gone for horseback rides through the city. She spent summers at an estate to the north, beyond the high mountains. All Melin remembered her saying was that it had gray walls, froze in winter and summer, and was older than Veskia. And then she had left with her parents to a new world, where they had settled on Hwesta as pioneers. There had been no other Saturans who had moved with them. They had gone alone, cut off from their people and their culture, assimilating into their strange new world.
The entire story took less than five minutes, and they appeared less than impressed. Melin did not mention either her dreams or Anikki’s fairy tales.
When she finished, the three interrogators shared a long look.
Sorem tilted her head. “Think she can pass as native?” she mused.
Major Dar’Tan pursed his lips, eyes narrowing.
Melin leaned forward. “Can I stress that I’m retired? Plus, I’m not trained for espionage. And I don’t speak this language. At all.” There was the familiar thrill that ran through her whenever tech returned. She shivered and glanced at her now-functioning watch. “And now I’m late.” She stood up and left her full tray on the table. “Serim, I hope that will be all.”
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