Authors: Karen Lord
‘May your period of kin contract be long and mutually advantageous. And yet . . . you are full Sadiri? Born in the settlement on Cygnus Beta?’
The traveller did not reply, did not need to. The broker’s lazy mind was at last communicating at the appropriate level and his questions were rhetorical, a verbal trick for emphasis.
‘But I did not think they permitted men to be born there.’
‘We are not New Sadira,’ the traveller reproached him. He reproached him not only for the insult to his people, but also for the broker’s vague, unvoiced support for that policy. He did not always encounter the caricature of the desperate, marriage-hungry Sadiri, nor did he embody it, but when it appeared it made him feel personally injured, as if conscious of a great fall in which he was complicit though not culpable.
The broker raised his hand, opened it in surrender and let it fall, a gesture of apology that went beyond what was required towards one so much younger. His very pores exhaled embarrassment, regret and resentment. The traveller felt such pity; if he had not been convinced of his own mental strength, he would have suspected the broker of influencing his emotions.
‘I would be grateful if you could do whatever is possible with the vault, the filigree and the audioplugs,’ he said.
The broker’s ego steadied and grew stronger, anchored by the familiar process of business. ‘What formats do you wish for the final compilation?’
‘Ntshune-filigree compatible.’
‘That can be done.’ The broker held out a hand for the charms; the tiny lights on his desk blinked and beckoned, ready for transfer.
The traveller hesitated. ‘How long?’ he asked.
‘The filigree, less than a day. A week for the vault, perhaps, and I really cannot say for the audioplugs. I may have to have them sent for testing.’
‘Send each one as soon as you finish extraction,’ the traveller told him, extending his treasure.
A hand intervened, tweaking the bracelet of charms from the traveller’s fingers. The hand was almost prettier than the bracelet. Silvery new lines overlaid the faint, pale scars of long-removed filigree, like embroidery over damask, fingers to forearm. The traveller’s heart seized with fear and disappointment as he looked into dark, opaque eyes and an unreadable face. The databroker assessed the situation with a glance, and folded his desk and vanished before he could become either accessory or witness.
‘You could have asked me, Narua.’
The words were quiet, unthreatening and devoid of reproach, but they still stung. ‘I
did
ask, Patron.’
‘Then you should have been more patient.’ The Patron tucked the charms into an inner fold of his jacket. ‘Come with me.’
Narua followed his Patron along corridors and through private doors to a small dock. The shuttle linked to the entry port hummed quietly, its engines run-ready. Narua hesitated for a moment before boarding, but sighed and let the habit of trust take his feet obediently into the Patron’s domain. He stayed standing and kept himself from fidgeting while the Patron seated himself at the main console and spoke the commands to seal the entry and begin their departure clearance from the Terminal. When the necessaries were concluded, the Patron gestured to the chair beside him. Narua sat and tried to look away, but eventually he raised his head and endured the Patron’s steady, and almost painfully caring gaze.
‘I’m hurt. We’re practically family.’
‘I know.’ Narua motioned impatiently towards his still-exposed chest and the tracings there that matched those on the Patron’s arms. ‘A lesser branch of the Haneki dynasty, a collection of the unregistered, the foreign and the irregular, all kin but few blood. I know what I am, what
we
are.’
Reproach came at last in the form of a hard stare and a rare sternness. ‘And the Haneki markings lend you great privilege, lesser branch or no, or you would be answering directly to Terminal Security instead of me. But’ – the Patron waved a hand, dismissing the tense moment – ‘we were family before that. Do you honestly believe I’m keeping information from you? Or are you hoping to gain some hold over me? My past is relatively boring. No scandal and a very little crime, long since pardoned. It would be so hard to blackmail me.’
Narua smiled, unable to help himself. The Patron always had that effect on people, persuading them that he was never a threat, and somehow, in spite of all the evidence, it worked every time.
The Patron’s voice became heavy with regret. ‘Or do you think I don’t want you to find her?’
Narua winced but could not lie. ‘They say that her decision put you on a path you might not have chosen for yourself.’
A gentle frown appeared briefly on the Patron’s face, showing perplexity rather than anger. ‘Is that what they say?’ he said drily. ‘In the absence of other witnesses, the missing conveniently take on our sins. Let me tell you directly – I bear her no ill will, quite the opposite. I want her found, for my aunt’s sake as much as my own.’
‘She is only one missing person among many who concern you. I understand that.’
‘I am glad that you understand my responsibilities, but you still fail to comprehend my heart.’
Narua fell silent, chastised.
‘Let us go. As I said, Narua, you only had to ask. I’ll unlock the charms for you and you can see what secrets are dangling on this chain.’
*
Because he was the Patron and thus a busy man, and also because only his time and his timing mattered, they did not, as Narua had hoped, go straight from landing at Port of Janojya to a viewing at one of the port’s extensive conference facilities. Nor did they, on return to Janojya proper and re-entry to the Haneki domains, immediately settle down to a private meeting in the Patron’s workroom or living quarters. Narua found himself gently dismissed, left alone for days to consider and worry and finally fret, and then at last he was summoned.
The Patron sat alone at the edge of a sunken holo projector pit in the centre of his workroom floor. He sat so still that Narua thought for a moment that he was meditating. Narua crossed the threshold, courteously quiet but sensibly announcing his entry with an inaudible beat of presence that could be discerned by any but the most primitive Terran. The Patron’s eyelids flickered, lowered rather than closed, and Narua saw that his focus was on something held in the upturned palm on his lap.
‘Narua . . . or may I say Kirat?’
Narua smiled. ‘You may say Siha, but childhood names don’t matter any more. Not for me.’
‘Then let me start again. Narua, I wish you well in your search. This role I fill comes with many opportunities and many restrictions, and if I cannot help, I will at least not hinder. Here.’
The Patron waved him to a cushion beside him. Narua looked before he sat and picked up a single charm, shaped like a watchtower, from the dip in the soft fabric.
‘A full copy of everything you tried to steal,’ said the Patron, both chiding and amused. ‘Use it wisely and don’t embarrass me.’
Narua nodded, too pleased to speak, and quickly put it into a pocket. The Patron’s gaze returned to the object in his own hand.
‘For this,’ he said, holding it up to clear view, ‘I had to make a request, and then I had to wait.’
Narua stared. It was an old Cygnian datacharm of a design that slightly pre-dated the one the Patron kept on the chain, and the style was familiar. He began to speak, then bit his lip.
‘I think you have one like it,’ the Patron said. ‘This belongs to my aunt. I only found out about it when it came up during our recent chat on your latest shenanigans. She said we should watch it together, before you go through all the other journals and chronicles.’
It was the moment to ask, but Narua stayed silent. He could already guess who was on it and more questions seemed superfluous. The Patron nodded his approval and gently threw the charm into the depths of the holo interface. The first image was sudden and large, and they both jumped back reflexively at the brightness radiating from the semicircle before them. There was the face and form Narua knew so well, which belonged to a woman he had never met – his mother. She was sitting in an office. The wall behind her right shoulder had shelves of books, discs and unfamiliar artefacts, and a tall window at her left shoulder opened out into greenery and birdsong. A breeze played intermittently at the draperies.
‘Commander Nasiha,’ she said, looking straight into the vid recorder with a slightly distant, almost distracted gaze. ‘Formerly of the Interplanetary Science Council, presently on leave from the New Sadira Science Council, cultural consultant of Sadira-on-Cygnus in Tlaxce Province on Cygnus Beta—’
A brief, staccato cough cut off the lengthy introduction and another voice spoke softly. ‘This isn’t a research report, Nasiha. There’s no need for formality.’
Nasiha blinked and her eyes focused and grew warm. ‘I asked you to prompt me, not interrupt me,’ she admonished the unseen speaker, but it was said gently enough to be teasing as well.
‘I
am
prompting you. Try to relax. Tell it like a tale.’
Nasiha frowned. ‘Perhaps reports would be better. Anything can change, and what I say now will have little utility.’ She moved as if to get up.
The off-screen voice sighed. ‘And I say again, it’s not a report.’
‘Nor is it a memorial,’ Nasiha replied harshly.
Sorrowful, almost hurt, the voice countered, ‘That’s not why I suggested this.’
The vid’s view changed in a blur, resettling at a higher point to show the whole room and the second occupant, her hand just pulling back from flinging the vid recorder to its new perch. She reclined in a chair on the other side of Nasiha’s desk, her fingers laced tightly over her belt in a way that should have been casual but instead demonstrated an inner tension held close and quiet. Grace Delarua, godmother of Narua and aunt of the Patron, had never been good at hiding her feelings. The new angle also provided some temporal context for the vid. Narua noted with fond reverence that his mother was heavily pregnant and that he had been, in fact if not in full awareness, present at the time of recording.
‘It’s a memory,’ Grace Delarua said, ‘not a memorial. It’s a way for you to talk to the family you’ll never see. Once we kept letters, journals and flat, monochrome photographs. Now we have data keepsakes and trinkets. It’s as significant or insignificant as you want it to be. Say hi. Recite a poem or a blessing. Tell a dirty joke.’
As Grace spoke, Nasiha gradually unstiffened, slowly leaned back and absently clasped her hands in similar fashion over her belly. She fought not to smile, but by the last sentence, she smiled. Narua glanced at the Patron and noticed with not a little ruefulness that he too had fallen into the same posture as the Patron – legs crossed, hands loosely held in lap, body leaning slightly forward. The Patron looked at him sideways and gave him a quick wink.
‘I will have to think of one,’ Nasiha said drily. ‘We’re not as amused by sex as Terrans and Zhinuvians.’
‘Sadiri are far too grown up for that,’ Grace agreed cheerfully.
Nasiha’s face became shadowed again. ‘Or we find less humour in things, or the wrong kind of humour. New Sadira is a joke, but no one is laughing.’
Grace also sobered. ‘But how much of what we are hearing is true?’
Nasiha unclasped her hands and began to tap out a tally on her fingertips. ‘First, our pilot brethren. They are very loyal to all things Sadiri, but they are also expert at objective observation. I would assign their reports a high level of veracity. Second, the attention our consultancy has been getting from the Academes of Punartam, not only in increased requests for collaboration on projects concerning the Sadiri culture, but also in the number of times our papers and reports have been quoted and referenced by other academics and consultants. This goes beyond the first wave of stranded Sadiri after our biosphere disaster. They are dealing with a second wave of refugees from New Sadiri, many of them traumatised by new, unexpected crises.’
‘Your Consul . . .’ Grace began slowly, as if already doubting the words she was about to say.
‘The Consul of New Sadira is in an unenviable position. Cygnus Beta is too distant from the galactic centre for his office to be fully cognisant of the situation on New Sadira, and the community he is tasked to represent has become too independent to pay him much attention. It is no wonder he clings to any semblance of authority.’
‘Like ordering you back to the Science Council,’ Grace said.
Nasiha clasped her hands again and shook her head slightly. ‘Well, my leave is coming to an end. We knew this would happen – but,’ she continued, her eyes narrowing with something like anger, ‘the galaxy was a different place then.’
‘What does Tarik say?’ Grace asked, still with that gentle voice.
‘He is concerned. I know he does not want me to go, but he is leaving the decision to me.’ Nasiha smiled suddenly. ‘He tries his best to assure me in every way that he will be an exceptional parent. That was never in doubt.’
They fell silent for a while, then Grace spoke. ‘Do you know, when we first started hearing the rumours, I was convinced it was something the Zhinuvian cartels were doing. I imagined them sweeping up every lost and undocumented Sadiri female they could find and selling them on to the highest bidders.’
Nasiha laughed bitterly. ‘The cartels have too many other opportunities now that galactic security is so lax, but I am sure there are some enterprising small groups and individuals who are filling the void. Sadiri women are now the galaxy’s rarest and most valuable commodity. Ironically, this fact has put severe limitations on their safety and security.’
Grace sighed. ‘I almost wish that Ain wasn’t cut off from the rest of the galaxy. If the government of New Sadira had more genetic options, they might not be so desperate.’
‘Taking Ainya genetic material as reparations for attempted genocide? Would that mean taking Ainya women as wives, or breeding stock? Unimaginable. Perhaps Ain is better off in isolation. It removes the temptation to other atrocities.’
‘Go to the Academes,’ Grace pleaded. ‘If they’ve taken over the Interplanetary Science Council, why should you go to New Sadira? It’s too far. We’ll never see you again.’