Different Senses (59 page)

“
Six
months
, Prachi. Six
years
suspended
after six months, and he’s in hospital anyway.”
My father had used his authority to reduce the harsh twenty-year
sentence imposed by the court. He’d taken a lot of flack
politically for it, and the indigenous community were still furious
that Ekanga had even been put on trial, let alone
convicted.

“Convicted and imprisoned for
trying to save people’s lives, and that piece of shit goes free!”
She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. “Sorry, boss.”

“Trust me, I’m mad as hell too.
I’m sorry, guys. My father did what he could.”

“Yes. Too little, too late,
though.”

Hamsa had established herself
as the office diplomat almost as soon as she joined us, so that was
damn blunt for her.

“
Denge’s entitled to due
process, even if he
is
a piece of shit. The prosecution could appeal,
and don’t forget the civil suit.”

Prachi snorted. “In front of
the same judges? What chance do we have?”

“Those judges handed you guys a
pretty big victory a few months ago.”

Prachi stood with a clatter of
shoved-back furniture, bright spots of red in her pale face as she
turned a venomous look my way. I honestly thought she would slap
me. Instead she stomped out to the storeroom.

“Okay, now what did I say?”

My partner shook her head at
me. “Javen, that ‘pretty big victory’ was the tiniest step towards
progress compared with history. And after today, my people will
wonder if there’s been any progress at all. Don’t expect gratitude
or trust from us.”

“Ah.” Once Shardul would have
ruthlessly mocked a gaffe like that out of me. Since I’d handed
over Institute affairs to Madan, I was a lot more out of the loop
than I realised. “Good point. Uh, apologise to her for me? I don’t
want to upset her any more than I have.”

“Of course. Have you spoken to
your father?”

“Not yet. He’ll need time to
talk to the lawyers. He wanted Denge taken down. They won that
manslaughter charge against the company. We thought this case would
fall the same way.”

“You really thought a man like
that, who corrupted so many officials, and hid such crimes for so
long, purely for money, wouldn’t find a way to wriggle off the
hook?”

“What can I say? I’ve tried to
crush the last pathetic seeds of idealism, but they just keep
sprouting.”

She smiled briefly, but her
anger glowed around the edges. “People won’t let this slide, Javen.
Not this time. Those protests over Ekanga’s conviction will seem
like a gentle breeze once word gets around the community.”

“Don’t blame them. Just
remember I’m on your side, right?”

“I do, but I’m looking at a
Kelon face.” She flushed and looked away. “Uh...sorry.”

I dismissed that with a wave.
It hurt, though. We worked together so closely, so well, my race
was hardly ever mentioned, and never as a negative. But that was in
ordinary times, and this was far from ordinary.

I made an excuse of going out
to see an imaginary client to let my staff vent to each other
without the ‘Kelon face’ looking at them. Hamsa was right. I was
Kelon, ally or not. However angry I felt about Denge—and I felt
pretty fucking angry in a very up front and personal way, after all
the work I’d done with Dad to help convict the bastard—it was
nothing to what the Nihan would feel right now. What would happen
when they let that anger show?

~~~~~~~~

By the time I got home that
evening, Yashi and Tara had heard all about the trial and the
supposed impact on the Nihani population. The news feed helpfully
repeated the reports and analyses, so I could hear the same
supposedly informed opinions my family had imbibed. “Anyone else
think it’s weird there’s not a single indigenous commentator? Or
interviewee?” I asked them.

“Someone must have asked them,”
Tara said. “They seem to be sure the tensions are increasing.”

“They are. I know because I
spoke to my people. But I don’t think these guys did,” I said,
thumbing at the screen. “Petitions? I don’t think the Nihan would
bother right now. They think Dad’s colluding with the
establishment.”

“But there were demonstrations
before,” Yashi said. “Over the bomber.”

“Yeah, and there probably will
be again. I’d just like someone to actually ask that community what
they think. It’s the problem with this damn society in a
nutshell.”

They were sympathetic to
my views, of course. Listening to me rant so many times on the
subject had eventually had some impact. But the issue didn’t
affect
them
directly, so it was easy to put it in the ‘too
hard’ basket, as the media did. By the late night news bulletin,
the Denge story was down to fifth on the list, behind the release
of a new music vid by a popular singer. Would have been different
if the bastard had been convicted, of course.

Traffic into town next morning
was down at least half. All the indigenous shops on my route to the
office were shut, and many of the premises around us still had
their security doors up by the time I arrived. I turned on the
media feed and learned that all over the city, Nihani employees
weren’t turning up for work, and Nihani children hadn’t gone to
school. Early, essential deliveries weren’t being made, diners and
chai houses were closed, taxis were almost impossible to find.
Because Kelon reporters hadn’t asked the right people the right
questions, the Kelon population had woken next morning to a nasty
and completely predictable surprise. I felt like contacting a
reporter to tell them ‘I could have told you so’, but there wasn’t
a lot of point.

The strike had been organised
swiftly, discreetly, and with apparently hundred percent support
from the indigenous population. I approved. It was a nice little
non-violent reminder to Kelon society just how much its convenience
depended on a despised minority. Better than riots, at least.

My three employees all
called in ‘sick’ within minutes of each other, and my partners let
me know they wanted to work from home. “You know, this
is
a
Nihani business too,” I said to Madan who called last. “We could
have just closed like the others.”

“Thought you’d object.”

“Well, you thought wrong. How
long is it going on for?”

“A week,” he admitted.

“Fine. We’re closed for a week.
You can pay for the kids’ salaries, I’ll take care of essential
stuff here.”

“Thanks, Javen. Uh...you might
want to stay out of town tomorrow. There’s going to be a rally.
Things could get rough.”

“Appreciate the heads up.
Er...if any of you are arrested, call me.”

“Will do. You realise this
isn’t over by a long way.”

“I know. I don’t think my
father expected any different. Good luck, and let me know if
there’s anything I can do behind scenes. See you...well,
whenever.”

The news feeds were full of
outraged commentary about the strike and the imminent breakdown of
social order because a few Kelon households had lost their nannies.
There was precious little understanding or sympathy for the issues
but then I’d wouldn’t have expected it from the Hegal media. I put
a call into my father’s office. There was no chance of speaking to
Dad immediately. He was undoubtedly under siege.

But he called me back sooner
than I expected. “Javen. How are you, son?”

“Worried about you, Dad. Word
is there’s going to be a big protest in the city centre
tomorrow.”

“Really? Thanks for the
warning. Of course you’re closer to the sources than I am. I’m not
surprised the verdict upset people.”

“
It upset
me
.”

“It’s always a risk with jury
trials, Javen, you know that.”

“But you can try him again, if
you have more evidence.”

“‘
If
’ being the catch. We threw
everything we had at him. There are still the corruption charges
and the environmental damage prosecution.”

“But that won’t bring justice
for the dead kids.”

“I know. But there’s nothing I
can do about it, not yet anyway. Let’s hope your friend Shardul’s
firm does a better job with the class action.”

Ironically, Dad had only
acknowledged Shardul’s position as my friend at the point when the
friendship ceased to be a fact. I’d never told him we were no
longer close. Dad probably knew more about what was happening in
Shardul’s life than I did, since the government lawyers were
unofficially helping the Nihan prepare a civil claim for damages
against Denge Corporation. “I’m sure he will.”

“Then concentrate on that. I
appreciate the work you did for us, Javen. Makes me wish you worked
for me full time. Having someone I can trust completely is a luxury
in this job.”

“Maybe one day, Dad. Do you
want me to come over to the residence? My staff is on strike so
I’ve closed up shop. I could offer support.”

“We’re fine, son, thank you.
The residence is preparing to lock down. Best you stay out of sight
and under cover. Yashi too. You’re, ah, not planning to attend this
rally, are you?”

“I’d like to, but I don’t want
to make life harder for you.”

“Thank you.” The relief was
obvious even in those two words. “I’m trying to decide if I should
make a public statement or not. Difficult to tell whether it would
inflame or ameliorate the situation.”

“No idea. Just stay safe, Dad,
and good luck.”

“You too, Javen. Come over with
Yashi and Tara next week if this has blown over.”

I agreed and ended the
call. Once, Dad would never have considered addressing
uppity
banis
troublemakers, but that was before a sick man
called Ekanga had forced him to see the injustice he presided over.
Once, I’d wanted nothing more than my father to leave the
governor’s office, and part of me selfishly still did. But though
Dad was hardly the most liberal of thinkers, he was a far better
option than the hardliners who’d cropped up over the last year
since the verdict of the High Court had given—or restored—so many
rights to the indigenous population, and given them a real hope of
achieving equality in this unequal society.

Dad was now the closest thing
the Nihan had to a supportive voice on the Council of Governors.
This had not gone down well with the traditional supporters of
Dad’s party, and Dad knew that if he’d faced re-election this year,
he’d have lost. But he had three more years to run in this term,
and he’d told me bluntly that he’d do as much as he could in that
time, and then retire if he was no longer wanted. Three years of a
pro-indigenous governor could make the difference I wished I
could.

Not for the first or the
hundredth time did I wish I could talk to Shardul about this
development. And I sure wished I could talk to him about what was
going on in the Nihani community.

Next best thing was talking to
his cousin, Rupa, instead. “Javen, I was just thinking of you. I
haven’t seen you in such a long time.”

“Busy, busy, Rupa. Are you all
well?”

“Yes, of course. But angry. You
must have heard that from your people.”

“Yeah. How much worse is it
going to get?”

“It won’t be us who start
anything. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be trouble. You know
about the rally?”

“Yeah. Uh, would it help if my
father spoke?”

“It might help. Is this an
official offer?”

“It can be. Not if it’s going
to put him in danger.”

“Then I’ll speak to those
organising the rally. Will you be there?”

“No. Sorry, but people know my
face, and I don’t want to be used as a stick to beat my father
with.”

“I understand. Shardul will be
there.” I didn’t answer her statement or the enquiry behind it. She
knew more than almost anyone else what the problem was between us,
but nothing of the specifics of that disastrous evening. Unless
he’d told her, of course, which he never would. “Javen, we all miss
you.”

“I miss you too but I don’t
want to make it worse for him. Is he okay?”

“He’s better. He’s taken this
decision very hard though. Everyone has. I’ve never seen so much
fury, not even when Ekanga was convicted. None of us believe that
jury was unbiased.”

“It probably wasn’t, but it’s
the only system we have for these kinds of crimes. If there’s
anything I can do...if there’s trouble, I mean...let me know.”

“Thank you. Please come visit
soon? Shardul doesn’t need to know.”

“Okay. Be careful, Rupa.”

“Like I said, we won’t be the
ones to start anything.”

Maybe I should go, I thought.
An awful lot of people I cared about would be there, and I could
help...or maybe I’d make it worse. Two things made me stick to my
original decision—the harm it could do Dad and what he was trying
to achieve, and the more selfish issue of the impact on my empathy.
I hadn’t been to a political rally since my ‘gift’ had kicked in,
and I didn’t want to be stuck in a hostile crowd suffering from
empathic overload.

So on the morning of the rally,
I went to the office early to deal with work stuff, and listened to
the commentary on the news feeds. The police had saturated the
area, and the office was only just outside a cordon beyond which no
private vehicle could travel. Most of the shops and business in the
blocks around us were still closed either because the owners were
on strike, or were worried about civil unrest. I wasn’t worried for
myself, but I didn’t like the combination of a righteously angry
minority and a traditionally bigoted police. This could get very
ugly, very fast.

The rally started formally at
eleven. By then estimates of the crowd ranged from a low plausible
three thousand, to a wildly inaccurate fifteen thousand. From the
videos I scanned anxiously for people I knew, I thought it was more
likely seven or eight thousand. I didn’t recognise the men and
women leading prayers and making impassioned but polite speeches
calling for justice for the Nihan people and punishment for Denge
and his cronies. Some of the speeches were in Nihani, but many were
in Kelon—with an eye, I guessed, for the media coverage. The
reaction at times was angry, but any dispassionate observer would
have been impressed by the calm behaviour of a diverse crowd and
the lack of disorder. Unfortunately, our media was short on
dispassionate observers.