All of which led Vanderveen to believe that Santana was on a special-operations mission of some sort. To attack the Ramanthian fortress mentioned earlier? The diplomat feared that was the case. She wanted to cry and bit her lower lip to prevent herself from doing so.
The walk to her father’s apartment was long and depressing. And when Vanderveen entered, it was to discover that an envelope with her name on it had been slipped under the door. She tore it open. The note was written in what looked like a feminine hand.
Dear Christine,
My uncle Sergi has known your parents for a long time and my husband has mentioned your service to the Confederacy more than once. I know from personal experience that Algeron can take some getting used to. I have some errands to run at 1300 hours. Perhaps you would like to join me? I could show you around.
Sincerely,
Maylo Chien-Chu
Vanderveen had agreed to meet Maylo Chien-Chu in the old fort at the entrance to the Hall of Honor. It was a corridor really, both sides of which were lined with photos of the Legion’s heroes, along with descriptions of what they had done. Having arrived a few minutes early, Vanderveen followed the hall all the way to the end, where two legionnaires stood guard over a wooden display case. Their backs were ramrod straight and their eyes were fixed on the other end of the corridor as Vanderveen paused to look down through clear duraplast.
The wooden hand had once been worn by Captain Jean Danjou. Arguably the Legion’s most important hero. A man who, like most of those in the Hall of Honor, had been killed in action. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” a female voice inquired. “I’ve been married to a legionnaire for years, and I still don’t understand.”
Vanderveen hadn’t heard any footsteps. But when she turned, Maylo Chien-Chu was there. She was one of the most photographed people in the Confederacy. So there was no mistaking the glossy black hair, the high cheekbones, or the full lips. But she was thinner. Some observers said gaunt. And Vanderveen thought she saw something like sadness in Maylo’s eyes. Because she was married to General Bill Booly? And, therefore, to the Legion? Probably. “Yes,” Vanderveen replied. “It’s both wonderful and horrible at the same time.”
“Ah,” Maylo said understandingly, “so you have one, too.”
Vanderveen was astonished by the speed with which Maylo had uncovered her relationship with Antonio Santana. “Yes,” she said. “If he’s still alive.”
Maylo winced and nodded. “These are very difficult times. I’m Maylo Chien-Chu.”
“And I’m Christine Vanderveen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Come,” Maylo said as she took the younger woman’s arm. “You’ve been to Algeron before?”
“Yes, but it has been a while.”
“Well, I’m sure you remember Naa Town.”
Naa Town had originally been little more than a collection of Naa dwellings that had grown up next to the old fort. A place where legionnaires could have a meal, get drunk, and blow off some steam. There were dangers, too, because the relationship between the Naa and the Legion had traditionally been a tumultuous one although things were better now that the locals had a measure of independence. “I remember it well,” Vanderveen said. “It was easy to get lost down there.”
“Yes, it was,” Maylo agreed, as they left the hall. “I think you’ll find that New Town is far easier to navigate now. My job,
our
job, is to wander about and see how things are going. You’re a diplomat, so you understand the importance of staying in touch with the local population. Especially those who live and work near an installation like this one.”
Everyone knew that Maylo was an ex-officio member of the administration, a philanthropist, and a patriot. The kind who would actually pitch in and do something rather than simply stand around and talk about it. So Vanderveen wasn’t surprised to learn that Maylo was an unofficial ambassador to the local business community. “That makes sense,” Vanderveen agreed.
The women continued to chat as they took an elevator down to a brightly lit subsurface walkway. A moving sidewalk carried them a quarter of a mile north, to the point where they could board an escalator. That conveyed them and a scattering of other people up to a heated lobby. It had transparent walls that let in the dim sunlight.
“We could have built everything underground,” Maylo said, as they stepped out into the frosty air. “But that would make New Town like thousands of other malls. The goal was to reimagine a Naa village in a way that would look and feel genuine while introducing some modern elements.”
The next hour was spent walking through well-marked streets, window-shopping, and pausing to speak with small-business owners. And, judging from the way many of the Naa came rushing out of their stores to greet her, Maylo was a very popular figure.
The final stop was a restaurant called the Gor’s Head. Stairs led down into a generously sized room. A large Naa-style fireplace dominated the center of the room, where all of the guests could see it and feel at least some of the surrounding warmth. Light fixtures fashioned from gor antlers hung over each table, and the air was heavy with the odors of good food. “This is Bill’s favorite restaurant,” Maylo explained. “My husband is something of a carnivore—so we come here when we can.”
Was there a wistful quality to Maylo’s voice? As if such occasions were all too rare? Vanderveen thought so, as the restaurant’s proprietor came bustling out of the kitchen to greet them. She was middle-aged, somewhat plump, and her brown fur was shot through with streaks of black. There was a smile on her vaguely catlike face. “Madam Chien-Chu! This is an honor.”
“I brought you a new customer,” Maylo said, as they embraced. “This is Christine Vanderveen. Christine, this is Bakewell Goodeat. She owns the restaurant.”
Having collected a hug of her own, Vanderveen followed Maylo and a solemn-looking waiter, who led them to a table next to the fire. What followed was an excellent meal. There was a salad made from assorted marsh greens, a meat pie with a wonderfully flaky crust, and a generous slice of cake. Vanderveen was still in the process of finishing her dessert when a female Naa arrived at the table.
A good deal older than Goodeat, she was slightly stooped over, and her eyes were somewhat rheumy. Her fur had once been jet-black but was now shot with gray. It was clear that Maylo knew her. “Christine . . . This is Dreamsee Futurewalk. She can throw the Wula Sticks. And, more importantly, read them. Let’s move our plates. She’ll need some room.”
Vanderveen didn’t believe in fortune-tellers, but it appeared that Maylo did. Or was this a simple act of charity? A way to help an aging female make some money? It was impossible to tell as Futurewalk placed a one-legged stool next to the table and rested her weight on it. She upended a tube and black Wula Sticks came pouring out. They were about twelve inches long and wound up in an untidy pile.
Then Futurewalk began to remove sticks in what looked like random order, sliding each one back into the brightly decorated tube as she did so. Two or three minutes passed before she began to speak. Her voice was surprisingly youthful and melodious. “Your fates are bound together,” she announced. “But not here. The moment of truth will occur in a distant place, where fire rules the sky, and death dances the land. One of you will gain everything, and the other will lose everything, as billions of lives hang in the balance.”
The words, and the way they were said, sent a chill down Vanderveen’s spine. And as Maylo’s eyes came up off the tangle of sticks, Vanderveen saw fear in them. And that was even more troubling. Because if Maylo Chien-Chu had reason to be afraid, what about
her
?
“Well,” Maylo said with a grim smile, “to hell with the calories. We might as well finish our desserts.”
With nothing productive to do, and her fate hanging in the balance, Vanderveen had been forced to wait for what seemed like an eternity. But finally, for better or for worse, the day of reckoning had arrived. So Vanderveen was dressed in a conservative suit, and ready for just about anything, as she entered the reception area and made herself known to the android named Chet. “FSO-2 Vanderveen. I’m scheduled to meet with Secretary Yatsu.”
A suspenseful moment followed as Chet consulted the screen in front of him. What if Yatsu was ill? Or had been called away? Or any of a dozen other possibilities?
Vanderveen felt a rising sense of apprehension as the seconds ticked by, and she confronted the possibility that it might be necessary to wait for another week. Then came a feeling of relief as Chet spoke. “Here we are . . . The secretary is running about ten minutes late. Please take a seat. I’ll call your name as soon as she becomes available.”
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Eventually, after more than half an hour of watching people come and go, Vanderveen heard her name. She stood and made her way up to the desk where a flesh-and-blood person waited to meet her. The woman had carefully coiffed hair, dark eyes, and coffee-colored skin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I’m Nanci. Secretary Yatsu’s assistant. Please accept our apologies. The meeting with the Prithian delegation ran over. I’m sure you understand.”
Being an FSO-2, Vanderveen
did
understand. Even if the wait had been painful. She forced a smile. “Of course. Thank you for squeezing me in.”
“Please follow me,” Nanci said, and Vanderveen did so. Their heels made clicking sounds as they made their way down a corridor and past more than a dozen offices. Eventually, they entered an open area, rounded a desk that had Nanci’s name on it, and passed between a pair of large double doors. It was a nice office by local standards. There was a circular conference table, which was made out of local wood and was intended to put everyone on an equal footing. A massive desk could be seen beyond that, backed by a large Confederacy seal and flanked by appropriate flags. Just the thing for official photos.
“Please have a seat,” Nanci intoned. “The secretary will be back shortly—and Assistant Secretary Holson will be joining you as well. Can I get you anything? Some caf perhaps?”
Vanderveen had been feeling slightly positive about the meeting up until that point. Because even though Yatsu was tough, she was also known to be fair. But Holson had been
very
angry about her activities on Alpha-001. Partly because of her refusal to follow orders, which was perfectly understandable, but also because of the way that he had been left standing on the sidelines when the rebels took over. It was a grudge he would have an opportunity to settle. So as Vanderveen sat down, she could feel the world closing in around her. If her own father would reduce her to file clerk—what would Assistant Secretary Holson do? “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Nanci nodded pleasantly and left the office.
Vanderveen was still mulling her fate when Yatsu and Holson entered the room two minutes later. Yatsu was a tiny birdlike thing, with a mop of black hair and bright, inquisitive eyes. Her teeth were very white and flashed when she smiled. But there was strength lurking behind the girlish charm, which was why Yatsu was referred to as the “Iron Maiden” behind her back.
Holson had brown hair, some of which flopped down over a high forehead. His wide-set eyes were slightly hooded, as if to conceal what he was thinking, and a carefully trimmed mustache served to emphasize a slashlike mouth.
Vanderveen stood and found herself on the receiving end of a warm handshake from Yatsu and a cold stare from Holson, who had chosen to sit across from her. “There will be one more participant,” Yatsu said, “and here he is now.”
Vanderveen turned toward the door and was astonished to see President Marcott Nankool enter the office. Having shed thirty pounds on Jericho and a few more as Earth fell to the Ramanthians, it appeared as though his weight had stabilized. His face still had a gaunt appearance, however, and the smile was in marked contrast to the sadness in his eyes. It was no secret that the never-ending stream of bad news was taking a toll on him. “Christine!” he said warmly. “I heard about this meeting and asked Secretary Yatsu if I could sit in. I hope you don’t mind.”
Vanderveen
didn’t
mind. Nankool was upset with her. She knew that. But the fact that they had survived the horrors of Jericho together meant there was a bond between them. One that Holson was clearly aware of judging from the way he frowned when Nankool gave her a hug.
But Vanderveen wasn’t out of the woods. She knew that. In spite of the relationship that existed between them, Nankool couldn’t allow his diplomats to do whatever they pleased. So as they took their seats, her future was still in doubt.
All eyes went to Yatsu. She consulted a hand comp before looking up again. Her expression was serious. “I must say that in all my years of Foreign Service experience I haven’t run into anyone quite like you. On the plus side, you more than distinguished yourself while serving on LaNor during the Claw uprising. Then there was the partnership with His Excellency Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, which resulted in an important intelligence coup. That was followed by your imprisonment on Jericho, where the president described your actions as ‘heroic.’ All capped off by the recent one-diplomat effort that culminated in a historic agreement with Clone Hegemony. It’s a very impressive record, and that’s why you’re the youngest FSO-2 in the Foreign Service.”
Yatsu paused at that point, formed a steeple with her fingers, and frowned. “That’s the good news. The
bad
news is that while you were stationed on Alpha-001, you disobeyed a directive, which, had things gone the other way, could have been disastrous.”
Holson smiled thinly. And there was no mistaking the hostility in his half-shuttered eyes.
“Nor was that the first time,” Yatsu added sternly. “For example, your work with Triad Doma-Sa was unauthorized, and your superior put a letter to that effect in your P-1 file.”
“Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Wilmot was later convicted of treason, Madam Secretary,” Vanderveen put in.
“She has you there,” Nankool said, as he spoke for the first time.