Different Senses (54 page)

“As do you, Shardul,” Roshni-ji
said. “It’s been a joint effort by the committee.”

“Even Javen played his small
part,” Shardul said, winking at me. I pulled a face and was glad,
for once, that his aunt was blind and couldn’t see his nonsense.
“You aren’t going to greet your father?”

“Are you joking? We haven’t
spoken in nearly a year. I was surprised his security didn’t veto
my attendance.”

“I dare them to try,” Roshni-ji
said, radiating intense disapproval, her milky eyes turned towards
my father. I could sense nothing from him at this distance, but
maybe she could.

“The Kelon don’t tell us who we
can or cannot have in attendance at our own events, on our own
property,” Rupa added. “Besides, Javen’s no security risk.”

“None at all,” Roshni-ji
agreed. “Now, please excuse me. I must go and be social. Rupa,
dear?” Her niece took her arm and the two of them went over to
speak to the mayor of Hegal.

Shardul and I made our way to
the reserved seating behind the award recipients. I recognised one
of the youngsters, and shook my head in silent disbelief. “What’s
wrong?” Shardul asked.

“Nothing. Tell you later.” I
grinned to myself to see Darpak Charan all scrubbed up and looking
nothing like the bane of my existence he’d been four years ago when
I was still a cop. I wondered which award he was up for, but it
didn’t matter. The kid finally had his act together.

Over on the stage, my father
greeted Shardul’s aunt with a little bow, which was more polite
than I’d ever seen him act towards any indigenous person. I wasn’t
so sure Dad would agree I wasn’t a security risk. I was damn sure
if this ceremony had been held at the governor’s residence, the
audience wouldn’t be more Nihan than Kelon, and I’d have been
turned away at the door. My mother’s absence was almost certainly a
signal that my parents disapproved of the character of the
awards-giving ceremony, if not the fact of the awards
themselves.

The Institute’s newly
completed conference and lecture hall held five hundred people.
Roshni-ji and Rupa could have approved three times that many
attendees, so many Nihan wanted to attend. In the end, the
compromise was to allow it to be broadcast live so the indigenous
people could have a sense of this momentous event—the first of
many, I hoped, now the legal judgment had cleared the way for
special prizes and sponsorships of Nihan trainees and students.
Since Shardul had worked his arse off to help his colleagues win
the cases before the High Court six months ago, the trustees of
Tanmay Kly’s estate had worked tirelessly to convince the rich and
powerful that it would do their image a world of good to be seen to
be helping indigenous youth reach their potential. Induma with her
looks and charm, and years as the mistress of the wealthy and
influential Tanmay Kly, had exploited her contacts with devastating
effect. She was now rated not just the most powerful Nihani woman
in Medele, but also one of the most prominent female public figures
in the country. I had
no
idea how Tanmay Kly would have
felt about
that
.

Being here was an honour for
me, but a pain in the arse too. I really wished I could pop a pill
to turn my empathy off in large groups. The best I could do was
take a pain reliever for the inevitable headache, and have a stiff
drink beforehand. I wondered how Roshni-ji managed. She was, as
always, serene and composed, despite five hundred minds pressing on
her talent as much as on mine. She’d given me a lot of valuable
training over the time I’d known her, but I suspected being an
empath from birth gave her advantages I’d never have. Or maybe it
was her religion. She gained a lot of strength from her
faith—something else I’d never share.

The ceremony was already late,
but I detected very little impatience among the excited, happy
crowd. A few executives from Denge Consortium, looking out of place
among the more simply dressed Nihan, kept checking phones and
watches, but the overwhelming sense of anticipation drowned out any
possible resentment from them.

My father turned and saw me
sitting in the reserved seats. I smiled politely. He scowled and
turned around sharply, his stiff back a rebuke and rejection.

“How gracious,” Shardul
muttered.

“Told you he wouldn’t be
pleased.”

“But not to even feign pleasure
at his son’s presence?”

“I think we moved past feigning
a while ago. What the hell are we waiting for?”

“The media. Apparently there’s
a lead-in studio interview running over time. Ah.” He looked at his
phone where a message had flashed up. “They’re ready to go.”

And so they were. My
father and the other guests were ushered to their seats on the
stage, and the mayor stepped up the podium to greet the audience.
“Welcome everyone.
Jiagan
fulti.
” I winced at his Nihani accent,
and Shardul rolled his eyes. But hey, the effort was nice. “Thank
you for being so patient, not just today, but for the years many of
you have waited for your youngsters to take their place at our
universities and training colleges. But today is not the time to
talk about failures of the past.”

“Why not?” Shardul whispered. I
nudged him to shut up.

“With these generous awards
from Denge Consortium, we hope that the shortcomings in encouraging
our indigenous population will begin to be addressed. Now, I have
the great honour of introducing the governor of this region,
Governor Rajan Ythen.”

My father smiled at the
audience while managing to studiously avoid looking in my
direction. A neat trick since I was directly in front of him. I
wondered where my mother was—up at the hospital with Tara again? My
sister-in-law was so fed up with being pregnant. Another three
weeks, the doctors said, before she could be safely delivered, poor
kid.

“Welcome everyone. The honour
is in fact mine, Mayor Klosil, to see so many of our finest young
people here before me, and to know their academic excellence will
be rewarded.”

Shardul cleared his throat
quietly in what I suspected was a sarcastic manner.

“As you know, the awards today
are just one initiative the regional government has instituted as
part of the national court-mandated rectification of indigenous
disadvantage. This region will pay a hundred thousand dolar this
year alone in grants and scholarships, and I have personally
ordered ten traineeships within the gubernatorial administration to
assist Nihani youth increase their participation in the structure
of government.”

My father droned on. It was all
great news for the Nihan, and long overdue, but it didn’t have the
emotional impact of Shardul bursting into my office six months
ago.

The shockwaves had been felt as
far as Kelon, and the decision still rippled through every sector
of our society. The national council of governors had swiftly
ordered regions to begin work to comply with the court ruling, and
while Dad’s government, restrained by budgets and politics, had so
far only come up with token gestures, big companies like Denge
Consortium, looking to investors back on Kelon, had offered more
substantial schemes. This wasn’t an accident. Induma Kly and the
Institute had been laying the groundwork for over a year,
anticipating a favourable judgement from the court. It would still
take many years before today’s award recipients helped to improve
the lot for all their people, but it was a start. A very good
start.

The audience applauded. Oh
good, Dad had finished. I looked up and caught him giving me a
glare. Maybe he’d noticed my attention wandering. Oh well.

The mayor rose again. “Thank
you, governor. Now to the heart of the event today. Let me
introduce a man whose industrial and financial achievements need no
introduction. Sri Kaushik Denge, of Denge Consortium.”

As the audience applauded
again, I studied the man walking to the podium. Unlike Tanmay Kly,
Denge kept out of the spotlight, though his company was behind a
number of high-profile business and ventures in Medele. He was a
big man, heavy, with greying hair and hooded eyes under thick dark
eyebrows. He exuded vitality and power, feet placed apart like a
commander of battalions. I’d hate to be the man who crossed
him.

He made a short speech, and
then invited Roshni-ji to come up to join in the prize-giving. A
nice touch, and as everything was being televised, good for PR too.
I imagined selected clips would find their way into the
Consortium’s annual report to shareholders, but so long as Denge
kept paying for scholarships, I couldn’t really begrudge him the
advertising.

Darpak received a medical
traineeship grant. I grinned at him as he sat down, but he didn’t
recognise me. It’d had been over four years and a lifetime ago,
after all.

“You know that boy?” Shardul
asked.

“Yeah. Toe-rag made good.”

“Ah.”

As each student came forward,
family and friends moved into position near the stage to take
photos of Denge handing over certificates and Roshni-ji clasping
their hands. All the manoeuvring caused a bit of confusion, but the
audience remained happy and not at all impatient with the lengthy
roll call, though I noticed one fellow, sweating hard and anxious
about something, making his way to the bathrooms at the side.
Looked ill to me. I hoped he wasn’t infectious. Might have been the
heat in here from all the people—the ventilation was barely
coping.

My father spoke to many of the
recipients, smiling his political smile. Damn hypocrite. He’d never
had done anything for the Nihan without being pushed into it, and
yet here he was, making capital out of the opportunity.

“It’s nearly over, so stop
scowling.”

I shook myself. “Yeah. Sorry,
just thinking....”

“About family? We can’t choose
them. All we can do is transcend them.”

I looked at Shardul. “You feel
that way about your parents?”

“They are the finest people I
know. To transcend them is a challenge to me, not an insult to
them. You loved him once.”

“I still do. I just don’t like
him. Or admire him. I used to do both.”

“A loss to grieve for, I admit.
Perhaps one day you’ll recover it.”

“Doubt it.”

The last student walked up to
the stage, and the man I’d noticed before, the one who looked ill,
came forward too. His father, maybe? Brother perhaps. He pulled
something out of his pack, and, horrified, I realised the dark
metal object wasn’t a camera or phone.

I leapt to my feet. “Gun!
Everyone get down! He’s got a gun!”

People screamed. Most ducked,
but a few fools stayed on their feet. A couple even moved closer to
the gunman. I yelled at them to get down and stay the hell away
from him.

Damn it, there were no guards
at the front of the hall, and those at the back weren’t reacting
fast enough. I reached for my own gun as I pushed Shardul down,
only to remember, damn it, that I’d left it behind because no
weapons were allowed at the ceremony. How the hell had this guy
smuggled one in?

Above the yelling and shrieks,
the man with the gun shouted, “No one move! Please. No one will be
hurt if you do as I say.”

He walked onto the stage, the
gun held in front of him. “Everyone here, stay where you are,” he
said to my father and the mayor. “Everyone else, please leave the
hall quickly.”

People scrabbled to obey,
knocking over chairs and fighting each other to get to the exits,
pushing the guards back towards the doors.

Bugger
that.
I pushed forward against the
panicking tide of humanity, struggling to reach the stage. I barely
registered Shardul moving in my wake, coming with me. The man
pointed the gun at me as I walked up the stage steps. “Please don’t
come any closer.”

I stopped. “I’m Governor
Ythen’s son. If you want a hostage, take me. Let the mayor and
others go.”

“I am Roshni-ji’s nephew,”
Shardul said. “Please, she’s old and blind. Take me.”

His aunt, nowhere near as
helpless as he made out, frowned at him. “Shardul, you can’t.”

“
Muor
, please.”

The man looked at Roshni-ji,
and Rupa, cluthing her aunt’s arm. “Go. Both of you. And the mayor.
This one and this one stay.” He’d indicated my father and Denge.
“Okay?”

“Okay,” Shardul agreed. “Your
honour? Roshni-ji? Please, go with Rupa. Go and don’t stop.”

The mayor bolted. Roshni-ji
came to me and put her hand on my arm, and on Shardul’s. “Spirit
guide you both. I will pray for your safety.”

“Thanks. Rupa, please, get out
of here,” I said.

The man waited until the hall
was empty. “You,” he said, pointing at me. “Please lock the doors
and bolt them from the inside, then come back.”

He was the politest criminal
I’d ever met. I did as he ordered, not willing to put Dad’s life or
the others at risk. The guards clustered at the doorway. I told
them to stay back and wait for the police. No way did I want these
amateurs handling a hostage crisis.

When I returned, Dad and Denge
were seated. “Both of you, please sit too,” he said. “I must insist
you do what I say. I am wearing a bomb, see?” He pulled his jacket
open, revealing ominous grey blocks of what I guessed to be
explosive, wires and flashing controls. Definitely looked like a
bomb to me. “If I let go the control in my left hand, we will all
die.” A control was wired to his index finger, and his thumb held a
trigger down. “Please, do as I say, and no one will be hurt.”

Shardul and I obeyed. The man
was dressed in shabby, neat clothes, though it looked as if he’d
been sleeping in them. His accent was very strong—a rural Nihan, I
thought. Shardul would probably be able to tell where he came from
by his braid pattern, but I couldn’t make anything of it.