by R. Cooper
Taji gripped the seat again as the flier descended to the flat space atop the ambassador’s house that had probably once been part of some noble family’s garden. He opened the door and was down the steps and on solid ground before the flier’s engine had fully stopped.
He stumbled to the edge of the roof, to the stairwell that led down rather than the lift pad, where he would have to wait with the others.
He missed a step and the landing jarred his bad leg, reminding him yet again that his prosthetic needed work he didn’t have the money for. The air was cool on his cheeks but did nothing for the warmth under his clothes, bands of heat at his chest and his thighs, wide swaths at his ribcage.
The staircase was lit by ever-present orbs, these ones as white as the tiny illaroot blossoms creeping along the steps. His bumbling footsteps crushed those, sending a sharp, thick scent into the air.
Taji tripped, again, but made it to the landing at the next story below before he remembered he didn’t have the security clearance to get through the door leading inside.
“Wait,” Trenne said from right behind him, and it was only so much time spent in Trenne’s presence that kept Taji from jumping. “You cannot work tonight,” Trenne either warned or commented; Taji couldn’t tell. Trenne came up next to him and triggered the biometric lock. He opened the door, holding it for Taji like a servant in the homes of the nobles.
“It’s important if they called me in,” Taji argued, slurring slightly and not on purpose. “But I—” He glanced up, at last, and decided there was no harm in thinking that Trenne’s concern was personal, even friendly. They were friends, in a way. “But thanks for giving me that last cup. Letting me be useless for one night.” He smiled for Trenne’s small, silly act of kindness.
Trenne did not smile, of course. “It was my honor,” he responded, as he always did. It was the most overtly Shavian thing about him, after his size and his ears.
Taji kept smiling with effort. “Been a long time since I’ve gotten to be useless,” he said lightly. “I feel almost pampered.”
“Taji.” Trenne had to stop saying Taji’s name with the full softness of his particular accent when Taji was drunk on a lovely, violet night, surrounded by flowers.
Taji reached out to give Trenne’s shoulder one of those not-so-light punches that military groups used to bond with each other, but eased back at the last moment, unfurling his fist to rest his palm over the I.P.T.C. patch and the still-bright rank stripes beneath it. Trenne referred to himself by his former rank, a breach of protocol if there ever was one, although Taji hadn’t come close to asking why.
Trenne was the ranking officer for the same reason Taji was here. If continuing to go by a lesser rank was Trenne’s tiny rebellion, on this planet at the edge of this system, far away from even a transport station, much less IPTC HQ, then Taji could let it be. He was capable of that, on occasion. He swayed forward, then caught himself and yanked his hand away before darting inside.
His leg ached with the pain of misaligned hardware and general exhaustion. The wine made him slow and clumsy, but he walked as quickly as he could down the corridor, keeping one hand on the wall to stay upright. Trenne, thankfully, didn’t stop him or interfere as Taji made it to the ambassador’s private rooms, although he watched from just a few steps behind. The back of Taji’s neck felt raw at the scrutiny.
Finally being able to stop and lean against the wall was a relief. Taji rapped on the door, waited a moment, and then entered before Trenne could say anything else. The midye already had Taji all mixed up.
Once inside, he closed the door and leaned heavily against it. Despite the ascending, sprawling design of most noble estates, the early Shavians who had built them had apparently believed in windows with shutters and solid, heavy double doors. He suspected it was the desire for privacy, or a way to mute the city noise that could reach people even in the Gardens.
Of course, the newer homes had quicker, streamlined versions; light, silvery alloys that ran on voice command or biometrics. But the estate given to the I.P.T.C. ambassador was not new and did not seem to have ever been updated. Taji couldn’t tell if that was meant as an insult. If it was, the ambassador had chosen not to respond, or to even comment.
Taji exhaled shakily and realized his eyes were closed the moment the ambassador’s deep, humming voice carried to him from the next room.
“I apologize for ruining your evening, Mr. Ameyo, but with the rumors, it no longer seemed safe to leave you on your own.”
Taji raised his head and blinked a few times. “Rumors?” He paused. “What?”
A whisper of movement in the other room made him push his body away from the door.
Although the Shavian noble estates favored rooms with doors and windows that could shut, the space inside the chambers was often huge, rooms opening up into other rooms with elaborately carved room dividers or curtains sometimes the only thing to indicate where one space ended and another began. For the nobles, anyway. Taji’s room was just that—a single room, with another room for a toilet and bathing at the end of the hall. Although, he was the only one assigned to that hall, so at least he had the bathroom to himself.
He was panting by the time he walked through the first space—the receiving space, as he thought of this room and similar rooms in other houses, a place full of large cushions and divans for guests and murals on the walls of ancient or mythical Shavians. The noble Sha seemed to love a mural dedicated to long-dead relatives in the semi-public spaces of their homes. The calligraphy they considered an art was popular as well, versions of their old hieroglyphics turned into characters that were so elaborate as to be almost unreadable. Taji supposed they were unreadable to anyone without a noble’s education. That was probably the point. A display of power and history as much as the deeds painted on the walls.
In that sense, the receiving spaces were not as welcoming as one might first assume. Neither was the rest of the noble Shavian architecture as open as it initially appeared. A person might be able to see into most of the spaces around the receiving space, but they had to be invited into them. The Sha had levels of private, even out of the public eye. It was abstractly fascinating, even if it meant Taji had to do more walking.
Ambassador Tsomyal was farther into the “private” section of the rooms, in the space they used as an office, which featured actual chairs in non-Shavian sizes. The ambassador must have had them custom-made, or known enough to bring them when initially stationed here.
The ambassador was currently scanning through something on their DD, in a chair, in long robes with a blanket over their lap. A vid screen in the wall beyond was on, with the sound muted. It looked to be the same sort of informational report that came on a few times a day on the large public screens throughout the city. It appeared to be needlessly informing everyone that the weather was cool and would stay cool and that all was well in the capital. There was a glimpse of something about the rest of the country, which Taji still hadn’t gotten to visit, but then the ambassador murmured for the program to turn off and the large vid screen went dark before displaying the same pattern as the gold paint on the wall.
Through the next partition, leading to the ambassador’s bedroom, Taji noticed the lacy window shutters were closed. It meant the rooms were almost stuffy, but he didn’t comment despite the itchy, prickling sensation in his already overheated skin.
Tsomyal Arte had pale green, nearly translucent skin, but impressions of shadows and bruises on their aging body. The ambassador was from the swampy region of Ino 4. If Taji did the math, converted those years to human Standard Time, the ambassador was at least a century old. Wizened, to humans, but only elderly to one of their kind. And yet the ambassador was tired and frail, worn thin by events they did not talk about.
Then they looked up, almond eyes huge and intensely black. “The sergeant major agreed with me and said he’d bring you in. I see he found you, and without much damage.” Taji was scrutinized for another moment before the amb
assador made another humming vocalization in their language. A language Taji, sadly, had not had a chance to learn. He should be able to understand it, even if a human larynx could not duplicate the sounds well enough for him to reply. It might give him more insight into his boss and their moods. “Are you well, Mr. Ameyo?”
Taji is fine, Taji had tried to insist, on several occasions. He swayed a little, then grabbed the back of a chair to keep himself on his feet. It left a small smear of blood, which he quickly wiped away.
“I—my leg.” He stuttered a non-answer, then shook his head. “What rumors? No one said anything about rumors.”
Ambassador Tsomyal did not express surprise. They never expressed much of any emotion. It probably greatly assisted them in diplomacy, but was frustrating to deal with. Taji didn’t know what was going on, and had no visual or aural clues to help him figure it out. The single appendages at the ends of Tsomyal’s arms, similar to a thick finger or webbed hand, did not move when they spoke the way that a human’s hands often did. Tsomyal could not even form any Anglisky sign-gestures, though Taji suspected they understood them.
He let out a rough, impatient breath and the ambassador’s nictitating membranes briefly closed, inner eyelids blinking.
“There are rumors of a riot,” they explained at last, and lowered their data device to their lap. The ambassador used that pronoun in the plural sense, believing themselves to be three-souled. One genderless, one female, one male, to match their biological reproductive cycle. They went from children, to female, to male, and then genderless again as they grew older. Taji imagined their fantastic voices had something to do with it as well; their throaty vocalizations had the sound of several people harmonizing at once.
He realized his thoughts were drifting and raised his head, only to startle and glance to the hidden vid screen. “Riot?” There hadn’t been a word about any riot and he could not imagine Shavians doing anything as out of control as rioting. It must mean something else to them. A minor scuffle. Some shouting maybe.
The ambassador nodded. “Corporal Lin was out, on her own time, but returned with stories about something happening farther down the river. It isn’t close to us but I thought it might be dangerous for you. I apologize for my concern.”
“Concern?” Taji fell into the closest chair. “I thought you wanted me for work. Ah.” He pushed his palms against his eyes. “I’m drunk and confused. Sorry.”
“You didn’t answer my messages.” Without putting any condemnation in their tone, the ambassador still made Taji ashamed of himself. “But I see the sergeant major found you, hopefully without too much trouble.”
“Trouble?” Taji echoed, thinking of the small team, the armored flier, Trenne commandeering the Civil Guard for crowd control, all because Taji had stubbornly ignored his messages and hadn’t realized there was a riot across the city. “No trouble,” he added weakly. “I’ll answer from now on, no matter what. If I ever go out again.” He dropped his hands and focused on the ambassador and not his blazing hot face. “What was the riot about? Is it over?”
The ambassador blinked their inner eyelids once more. “There was no riot, Mr. Ameyo. Please remember that tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Taji reached for his bag, and remembered all over again that Trenne had taken it. He gestured as if that would make his data device appear out of thin air. “What’s tomorrow?”
“I’ve been invited to share a meal at the home of Koel Eriat.” The ambassador often received invitations. They accepted all of them. Constantly meeting with nobles over spicy tea, meals, and slow walks through city “gardens.” Taji wasn’t exactly sure what the purpose of these was. Nothing ever seemed to be accomplished. Meeting people, he supposed, pretending to make friends.
The nobles might want what the I.P.T.C. could give them, or they might want to know the I.P.T.C.’s plans, if any, for their country and planet, but they never talked about any of that. And the ambassador never met with anyone with any real power. So far, Taji had served tea and sat in a corner while the ambassador and lower nobles discussed the weather, recipes, and occasionally fashion.
“Koel Eriat,” Taji echoed the name to ensure he remembered it, then startled. “The Koel are cousins to the emperor.”
The tangle of relations in the noble families had stymied Taji for so long. No straight lines existed from the original Sha conquerors of this land to the present rulers, and once, long ago, commoners had been able to raise their station, although the current nobles seemed to ignore this. The families who remained after the empire fell had mostly holed themselves up in the Garden District of their capital, and acted as if they were equal to their ancestors.
Regardless, the Koel were the sort of clan who did not associate with IPTC or its traders except to purchase new technologies. The ambassador had never met with anyone on the Koel’s level, not since Taji had taken this job.
“Naturally, you will attend with me. Dress in your nicer things, please. In fact, I may have to request more money for you to increase your wardrobe.” The ambassador had a point, although Taji was never intended to be a diplomat’s assistant and didn’t care for his clothing being judged. “More than one Shavian has remarked upon it.”
Shavians were fond of layers, jewelry, and shimmer. Taji wouldn’t have been able to keep up even if he’d had the money. He’d never had the time or the funds, to play around with those sorts of things when in school. But he nodded, since he couldn’t do anything else.
Despite that, the ambassador murmured something in their own language, before adding. “Go get some rest, Mr. Ameyo. Try to prepare for the morning, if you can.”
Taji flushed. “I’m not that drunk.”
Huge black eyes focused on him. “I forget what it is like to be young, Mr. Ameyo. I don’t begrudge you the night off, or whatever you did while out.” The words were almost gentle. “Get some rest. I will see you in a few hours.”
Dismissed without much of an explanation of anything, Taji struggled to his feet again. Sober, he might have been furious. But for one blessed night, he was dizzy on alien wine and he could let his thoughts spin as he made his way back out to the hall.
Trenne was gone, probably to the first floor, which, aside from the large entranceway and the back gardens, was used as the barracks for the ambassador’s security detail. Why the team hadn’t individually claimed any of the small, empty rooms like Taji’s, Taji didn’t know, though it was probably a security thing. Instead, the team had staked out most of the rooms where servants had once lived, and had turned one of the larger spaces into a gym, complete with sparring mats. The Shavians hired to do the cleaning and take care of the gardens did not live on the premises.
Taji didn’t spend time downstairs unless the quiet of his room was getting to him. Then he’d go outside, or take his device to one of the spaces on the first floor and pretend to read while some of IPTC’s best took turns fighting over what vid to rewatch, or throwing each other to the mats. If the soldiers minded being assigned indefinitely to watch over an elderly ambassador on a planet at the back end of nowhere, Taji couldn’t see it. But they weren’t likely to tell him anyway. He was IPTC, but he wasn’t one of them.
The I.P.T.C. was not a country or a star system. It was bigger than that, an organization originally devoted to trade that had slowly dominated most of the systems it came into contact with. The I.P.T.C. was many countries, many nationalities, many species. It worked within and without foreign governments. It had its own army, and very few nations had ever successfully defied it or kept it out of their business for long.
Most of the people Taji encountered during his service were people like him, scientists or pilots or soldiers who saw IPTC as a way off their native planets, or a chance to see the universe. IPTC paid for their schooling, or training, and in return demanded service for a length of time.
Taji was supposed to be on a small moon, compiling information on its language, culture, and inhabitants for the sake of IPTC databases. Tren
ne could have joined for the chance to see other worlds, but had somehow wound up right where he’d started. Not for the first time, Taji wondered about that, about him, but knew he’d never ask.
Trenne might be with the others downstairs, or he might be standing guard somewhere in the house, if he wasn’t due to be off-duty for a while. It was also possible that he had more news on the riot that Taji wasn’t supposed to mention.
Taji used the ancient Sha lift this time, bracing himself with one hand by the door. The ride was smooth, but he was tired and the feed in the lift was always live to someone downstairs.
His room was two floors down, in the middle of a short hall that also held a Shavian bathing room. Which was what Taji called it because the ‘Asha words for it depended on one’s purpose in going there.
They were a reticent people, but not shy. Maybe with those ears, there was no point.
Shavians had excellent plumbing; they believed in large bathing rooms with spacious fountain-showers and plenty of available water. They also did not use chairs, which made certain things a struggle for humans, but especially someone like Taji. Ornately carved and decorated holes in the ground were a challenge on a good day. He’d probably fall in if he tried now.