Ambassador 1_Seeing Red Page 13

  She bustled to my back, flicked my hair from under the collar. Then she put a chair in the middle of the flattened-possum rug. “Sit down, Delegate.”

  I sat, my bare feet in the hair. “Eirani, is there any news, from anyone?”

  Like Danziger, like Delia, Nicha or Eva.

  “The staff doesn’t know. The staff looks after the house. The Delegate will have to ask the young lady.”

  With a wide-tooth comb, more gel and liberal amounts of tut-tutting she forced my hair back into the sleek ponytail. A dash of perfume on the back of my neck and she declared me ready to go . . .

  Into an empty hall.

  I stared. Eirani came up from behind, carrying more washing. “Delegate?”

  “What has happened to my luggage?”

  “The staff has unpacked it and put everything away.”

  While I was asleep? The staff take liberties. A brief moment of panic rose in me. “Where is my reader?”

  “On the table in the sitting room, Delegate.”

  Where I had left it. Phew. I took a moment to compose myself. Surely, I was expecting treason where there wasn’t any. Apartments of high-profile delegates would be routinely bugged, both to listen in and to protect the inhabitant. Little was ever a secret at gamra headquarters. Loyalty went both ways. Spying did, too. Nothing unusual.

  “Where is Thayu?”

  Eirani gestured to the sitting room.

  I entered. The two couches that yesterday had stood in a v-formation now faced each other neatly, positioned exactly the same distance from the edge of the carpet, a typically Coldi arrangement.

  Thayu sat at the table, in the same spot she had taken yesterday, her back to the cabinet with the spying equipment. A half-smile crossed her face. “Good morning.”

  I almost groaned—she looked so incredibly awake. “Any news from anyone? I meant to . . . I’m sorry about falling asleep last night.”

  “You were dead on your feet.”

  “Where’s my reader?” But I had already noticed it on the cabinet against the wall.

  “Sit down.”

  “But I need to know what’s been going on.”

  “After breakfast.”

  An extensive choice of food waited on the table. Slices of bread of some kind lay on a tray, arranged in an intricate pattern whereby every slice overlapped the one to its right. Orange tea steamed in cups. There were salads, and fruit, and a jar of juice.

  I pulled a chair back, noting that none of the food had been touched. “You waited for me?”

  “It seemed only polite.”

  A fleeting memory crossed my mind. Summer breakfasts. Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year. The summer holidays from school. Lazy times, my mother in the kitchen. Cory, don’t bring half the beach into the kitchen. Have you washed your hands? Wait until Daddy sits down.

  No one had waited for me for years. I don’t know why it suddenly choked me up.

  “Thank you.”

  She inclined her head.

  Wincing, I picked up my cup and sipped the hot tea, which tasted heavy and sweet.

  Eirani bustled in with another tray, stopped a few paces inside the door, staring at the new arrangement of the couches on the carpet. Glared at Thayu, redness rising in her cheeks.

  To her credit, she said nothing, but came to the table and bowed.

  “Everything is to the Delegate’s taste?”

  “It is. Thank you, Eirani.”

  She pointedly positioned herself so that Thayu was forced to look at her large behind. “The staff will be going to markets this morning. Is there anything the Delegate desires?”

  I hesitated, knowing that what I was going to say would make matters worse. “Would the markets have manazhu, or is there any in the house?”

  The you-drink-that-revolting-stuff look she gave me in response was answer enough.

  “You can make it here, can’t you?”

  “If the Delegate wants.”

  “Yes, I think I would want it.” I used the intimate-I, to indicate it was my private wish, and that she was entitled to think of it what she wanted without feeling embarrassed.

  “The staff will have to buy powder and filters.”

  “You can buy those in town, can’t you?”

  “If the Delegate wants.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She nodded, her face stiff, and left the room.

  Thayu took a slice of bread from the tray, upsetting the roof-tile arrangement.

  “You like manazhu?” An amused look danced in her eyes.

  She used the friendly-you pronoun, not quite the one I used to speak to Nicha, but the one for speaking to someone who is more friend than colleague.

  “It awakens the mind.”

  “Not many non-Coldi people like it.”

  With morning light glittering in her eyelashes, she resembled Nicha, in the way she ripped the bread, in the way she looked at what she ate before putting it in her mouth. I wondered if it was a Coldi thing.

  “I know,” I said, and forced myself to speak in a more professional tone; she wasn’t Nicha and I couldn’t have a similar relationship with her. “I have a pressing need to use the communication hub after breakfast.”

  “I will show you how it works.”

  “Thank you. I also need to speak to the office staff.”

  “They are already waiting downstairs.”

  There was a clock on the wall with a triple face. The gamra clock on the left showed late afternoon, and I guessed that was not the time the staff adhered to. The clock on the right probably ran at Trader time, which I could safely ignore. But the middle one had the local five-point notation, according to which we were in the second fifth of the day. Midmorning.

  Silly Delegate, staying in bed for so long. “Anything else on the agenda?”

  “The uniform fitter is expecting you today. Zhamata meets in five days.”

  Five days to prepare my speech. Five days to prevent disaster, unless I could convince Delegate Akhtari to write that statement earlier.

  “We also need to arrange to replace your feeder.”

  I nodded absently, sipping my tea, avoiding her eyes. Did I hope that if I showed no interest, she would forget about the feeder? It was a childish response, and not one that would work in the long run, but I really didn’t know what else to do.

  Could I refuse a feeder? I didn’t think so. I would need to figure out how to limit access to certain subjects, if that was possible—and damn it—Nicha normally did that sort of thing.

  In silence, I demolished the bread and gulped tea.

  After breakfast, I followed Thayu across the hall to the dark maw of communication room. A few lights blinked in the dark; the glow gilded the edge of the control panel and a cushioned bench.

  I stopped at the door.

  What was I doing? I might be tired and sore, but that was no reason to be an idiot.

  “Wait.”

  Thayu frowned. “You wanted to know how to operate this?”

  “I do, but let’s set this up properly. If someone is listening to us, I can listen to them.” I could still hear Amarru tell me, in perhaps the third week of my training, if you’re doing something important, there should always be witnesses.

  I strode through the hall, into the corridor, past the bathroom and the bedrooms. Down the stairs and into the office. Employees straightened at their desks; wide-eyed glances met me.

  “Work to do. Anyone here knows how to use the hub?”

  One man, in the far corner near the window, raised his hand.

  “Good. You can come with us.”

  While the man rose from his chair, I strode into the room and stopped at the first desk to my left, occupied by another young man. “You will look after the accounts. There is to be a payment for me from Nations of Earth. Find out where it is. Look in my directive area. You will find a number of documents there. Put them through the translator. I want a summary within two days. Next . . .” I strode to the desk of a young woman
who stared up at me as if I were a divine apparition. “My agenda and programs for the next few days.”

  She nodded.

  “You.” I turned around and stopped at the next desk. “You might want to help him.” I pointed at the man I had told to work on Delia’s files. “I think there is quite a lot of work. Let me know if it doesn’t look like you’ll get it done. Also, the gamra news bulletins. Find out what they’re saying and what the mood is about the attack on Perto Sirkonen and whatever has happened since. . . .” I hesitated. “Especially find out what’s happening with the refugee situation.” I still heard that woman’s voice, Azisha! If her son hadn’t been on our flight, he would have been left behind in Athens.

  Wide-eyed, the staff packed away their other work—whatever they had been doing, whoever for.

  I was probably totally out of order, and much too informal, but they would have to get used to that.

  The staff take liberties.

  Not anymore. As long as it lasted, before someone presented me with a bill, I’d make as much use of these people as I could.

  “You two, come with us.” I gestured at the remaining men, both young and lean.

  I turned and strode out again. Thayu stood at the door; I swore her face carried an amused expression.

  In the hall, I opened the door and told the Indrahui guards to come inside. They protested, but I explained that I had brought two locals to take their places at the door. The young men perked up to be given that task. The guards didn’t like it, but I insisted. No one else understood Isla.

  Then, finally, with the black forms of the guards, and the assistant from downstairs, I went into communication room.

  Thayu slid behind the control panel, and the staff lined up, looking awkward, in a showcase of different gamra races.

  I pointed the young man from the office to a control panel on a desk just inside the door. “What is your name again?”

  “Devlis, Delegate.” The light from the projection showed up the groove in the tip of his nose. A local, like Eirani.

  “All right, Devlis, I am going to contact some people. I want you to make sure everything, every word, every picture, every attempt to connect, even if all lines are busy, is logged into my work directive area. Do you know how to do that?”

  “I do, Delegate.”

  “When you’ve set that up, I want you to be an independent witness. Use the translator, and log it as well.”

  Without a word, Devlis tapped a command on one of the screens and then found a little box somewhere under the desk. He seemed to know what he was doing.

  I turned to the two Indrahui. “Mashara, come over here and sit on this bench.” I gestured to the right of Thayu. “I want you to witness and use your experience with my world to interpret what’s going on. Make plenty of notes.” I hesitated. “The other thing is . . . your names, mashara. I know it’s not appropriate to ask, but this is my office, and it is not in my custom to speak to nameless people.”

  The men glanced at each other.

  “Anyone who doesn’t like it will be invited to share a cup of manazhu with the Delegate,” Thayu said.

  Eyes widened.

  I had to make an effort not to snort. “I believe my zhayma is joking.”

  The corners of her eyes crinkled with laughter.

  Oh, that dratted Coldi sense of humour. “Forget about the manazhu. If the staff is so good as to get it, I know it will be precious enough not to waste it on those who do not appreciate it. But, mashara, I would like your names.”

  The guard with the dyed hair expelled a breath. “Evi.”

  “Then you must be Telaris.”

  The other man gave a small waggle with his fingers, a sign guards used for yes.

  I hoped I hadn’t crossed too many boundaries. Indrahui expressions were hard to read and what little I knew about their culture indicated that they were intensely private people. I’d have to make this up to them in some way.

  “Then let’s get to work.”

  Thayu indicated that I should sit next to her, facing a sloping control panel with a glowing web of blue lines, like a spider web, and sliding buttons at their junctions. I had seen a similar setup numerous times before, at the Exchange in Athens, but had never been so close to the equipment.

  Thayu’s hands moved over the lines with practised ease. The lines changed colour depending on how hard she pressed. Her eyes glanced here, then there. She adjusted this slide, then that one. There was a faint buzz and all around the walls little dots of light sprang into life. A 3D image of the gamra logo appeared in midair.

  Thayu pointed at a junction on the panel. “This is where you make the connection. Press here.”

  I did as she indicated, slid the touch-point right up to the junction.

  Around the walls, the small projection nozzles of the imager increased in brightness and the image flickered in the air. Something that looked like the gamra news channel.

  “Do I have an access code yet?” I needed that to get into the message board and get my personal directives.

  She drew the floating command board to her and typed, lightning-fast. Coldi characters flew over the screen. She waited, typed again when letters flashed. Then she gave me that alert, alive-and-fighting look. Gorgeous eyes blinked. Triumphant. “There.” She was enjoying herself.

  I squirmed, couldn’t meet her eyes any longer. If Eva ever found out I’d lived under the same roof as this gorgeous creature, she’d have a fit.

  I connected with my reader and sent off a couple of short messages.

  To my father: I am in Barresh. I’m fine.

  To Amarru: Have arrived. Everything fine. Please check Nations of Earth payment to my accounts. I paused for a bit. Do you have lists of refugees stranded at the Exchange?

  To Eva: I’m in Barresh. Everything is fine. I love you.

  To Nixie Chan: Please report on Nicha.

  To Delia: I have started my appointment. I apologise for my hasty departure, but I assure you that everything is fine. Expect my first report soon. I cringed at that one. I didn’t trust Delia as far as I could throw her, but she was, for the Nations of Earth half of my contract, still my supervisor.

  To Danziger: I advise extreme caution in Nations of Earth actions. Please contact me as soon as possible.

  Seeing as it was midmorning in Rotterdam, I expected replies very soon.

  Then—I took a deep breath as if plunging in cold water—the Earth news services.

  I linked to World Newspoint first. Across the page, in letters larger than this conservative service normally used, was one word: War.

  I read, heart thudding, of riots in many large cities. Two deaths in an apartment fire in Paris, a woman and a young child. Coldi, I suspected.

  The projection showed image after image of riot squads, of screaming protesters, of young men hurling rocks at buildings. Rotterdam went without city heating. A woman ventured into the street selling old-fashioned electric heaters and was attacked by a mob.

  Mayhem.

  Danziger appealed for calm.

  Governments introduced martial law.

  And damn—Elsi Schumacher’s body had been found in a bushland reserve in the province of South Bayern. The cause of death was not yet known, but since the body was tied up and wrapped in hessian bags it seemed highly unlikely she’d died of natural causes.

  A huge military presence had closed the Exchange to all off-Earth air traffic. Athens was isolated.

  World Newspoint displayed an article about me under the title Betrayed again. Underneath was a copy of my Nations of Earth staff photo, in which I resembled a rabbit caught in headlights.

  As if causing the death of President Sirkonen was not enough, the Union has taken another of our candidates. Following the disappearance of Seymour Kershaw ten years ago comes the disappearance, in similar circumstances, of Cory Wilson. Mr Wilson, on a contract shared by the Union and Nations of Earth, had been scheduled to depart for Barresh earlier this morning. However, wh
en department staff checked on his room last night, they found it unoccupied. No one could shed any light as to Mr Wilson’s whereabouts. The hotel reception mentioned that “some black-skinned, red-haired people” had collected Mr Wilson’s luggage and paid his hotel bill, but Mr Wilson himself has not been seen since leaving his fiancé’s house in the early hours of the morning.

  “It appears,” Ms Delia Murchison of Nations of Earth said, “that the Union is deeply involved in both the attack on the president and Mr Wilson’s disappearance. In response to our queries, we have heard nothing but silence.”

  I closed the article, feeling sick. I should have been there. I should have explained, I should have . . . But what difference would it have made? People were saying I was a traitor, even before I left.

  I wasn’t old school. I wasn’t from the aristocracy. I was a New Colonist from a section of humanity no one on Earth understood.

  Flash Newspoint presented a different angle on the news.

  Mr Zbrowsky, the Polish ambassador, said, “The young man has been mistaken in his belief that these people meant no harm. I had the two of them in my house. I should have stopped them leaving with Mr Wilson.” Eva Zbrowsky, Mr Wilson’s fiancée, was too distraught to speak. . . .

  I clenched my jaws so hard my teeth crunched.

  Wasn’t that just typical of Flash? There was no need to drag Eva into this. She had nothing to do with it.

  But it was at the Nations-of-Earth-funded background news service Peace Newspoint that I found the most disturbing report.

  Following the military blockade of the Exchange, security agencies report an increased activity in high-orbital space activity. The Exchange refuses to divulge the identity of the fleet, but it appears that a force is gathering to counter military action by Nations of Earth.

  Written by Melissa Hayworth, whose restraint I found admirable. Had she written Asto is about to launch a counter-attack, this might have been all over the news.

  I pulled out my reader and fired off a second, more urgent message to Danziger, even though he hadn’t replied to the first one.