The Best of All Possible Worlds (20 page)

“My dress
was
ruined,” I said defensively to the floor.

“Of course,” said Qeturah smoothly, “and how kind of them to provide you with something
to wear home.”

Behind her, Lian exploded into a fit of snorts and chuckles.

“If anyone would like to lend me a coat,” I said, my tone dignified and affronted.

“The night is quite warm,” said Dllenahkh innocently. “Are you sure that a coat will
be required?”

I’d had enough. I raised my chin and walked up to him, pausing at thirty centimeters,
which, for a Sadiri, is well within the personal space boundary. Everyone fell silent;
smiles faltered and faded.

“You tell me,” I challenged him through gritted teeth.

He bowed his head as if in apology, but that wasn’t all. Unfastening the front of
his tunic, he shrugged it off his shoulders and draped it carefully around me.

“Thank you,” I told him, teeth ungritted.

Lian heaved a huge sigh. “I’m not fat and I can’t sing, but, ladies and gentlemen,
can we please go now?
La commedia è finita.”

Zero hour plus one year five months four days

He fell asleep that night smiling at the memory of Delarua, adorably horrified at
discovering her capacity for seductiveness but refusing to retreat nonetheless. Such
thoughts should have led to better dreams, but the recent drama had awakened other,
darker memories that would not be denied.

The nightmares were lying in wait for him.

He was sitting on a ridge looking down at a familiar place, a place where he had once
lived: smooth, cool residential domes in pale clusters like bunched fruit on a vine;
branching, twining roadways connecting all together; a gray-green land under blue
sky. It was not where he had lived last, but it was where he had lived longest, and
the events that led to his leaving had been his first experience of how suddenly and
utterly an ordinary life can shatter.

“How does it feel now?” A small savanna dog sat by his knee, sending the query mind
to mind with a clarity that only a dream could provide. It focused sad eyes on him
with gentle concern, waiting for an answer.

“It’s empty,” he said with reluctance. “There’s no one alive there, only ghosts knocking
on my soul.”

Already a sense of dread was growing, warning him that the dream was about to go badly
wrong. A corner of sky obliged by turning black—not the black of storm cloud but a
true malignancy boiling out like ink to tint and taint the atmosphere.

“They are already dead,” he declared defiantly. “There is no need for this.”

The dog scrambled up. “I’d get out of here if I were you,” it whined, looking on in
terror as the sky was eaten. It skittered back, hesitated, and finally dashed away
into the tall grass behind Dllenahkh.

“Wait!” Dllenahkh shouted, standing up in haste.

The ridge was crumbling under his feet, but that was ordinary fear. The real nightmare
came from the cold starlight shining through the encroaching darkness, the type of
starlight that shines only on lifeless moons.

“It’s done, it’s over,” he insisted, telling the dream, telling himself. The untenanted
houses and silent roads vanished in permanent dusk. He could not stop looking as the
last of them went, even as his feet slipped and his hands grasped uselessly at loose
soil and dry grass, trying to stop himself from falling, falling into nothing, falling
forever.

“Wake up, Councillor.”

Tarik’s hand on his shoulder was a welcome anchoring. He sat up slowly, fighting the
trailing remnants of the dream. “What is it, Tarik? What’s wrong?”

Tarik gestured to Dllenahkh’s handheld on the table by his bed. “A message from New
Sadira just came in. Nasiha thought you should know as soon as possible.”

He woke up at last on a rush of adrenaline and grabbed his handheld. “Do you know
what it’s about?”

“The commander observes official protocol on secrecy to the letter,” Tarik said with
far too much sincerity in his voice.

Dllenahkh said no more, knowing all too well that those rules said nothing about what
might be communicated wordlessly by a superior officer to her lower-ranking husband.
He looked at his handheld instead. When he finished reading and rereading, he
looked up, but Tarik had left already. He turned off the handheld and lay down again,
but the roil of emotions within him was so strong that he had to speak.

“So,” he said triumphantly to the darkness. “Naraldi has come back to Cygnus Beta.”

THE MASTER’S HOUSE

“
D
o you think
Nasiha will continue with us?” I asked the Commissioner. We were standing on the
quayside watching supplies being winched aboard our new shuttle, a vessel capable
of air and sea travel. Publicity surrounding the mission had been very positive, with
more settlements asking to be tested for genetic or cultural Sadiri traits. As a result,
our budget had been increased.

“I’d be very surprised if she left now,” Qeturah said with a smile. “She seems to
have some idea that to take time off for pregnancy would set a bad example. Something
about ‘not creating the impression that females are fragile and childbearing is unusual.’
She checks out as perfectly healthy, so she can do as she pleases.”

“Maria was fine for Rafi. Gracie gave her a little more trouble,” I began, then shut
my mouth. Even Maria’s ailments might have been due to influence and were therefore
not the best of examples.

“Satisfied with the verdict?” Qeturah asked after a short pause.

I shrugged. “About what was expected.” Ioan’s highly specific abilities and his apparently
genuine contrition had landed him a fairly mild sentence of a year’s rehabilitation
to be followed by
lifelong monitoring via subcortical implant. And he couldn’t see Maria and the children
again. Ever. The prosecutor hadn’t been able to prove ill intent, but there
had
been reasonable doubt (hah!), and as a result the court’s ruling showed both mercy
and caution.

“Homestead’s rented out now, and they’re spending time at my mother’s place. Rafi’s
attending a special school. He’s not that impressed with it, but he’ll adjust.” I
knew I sounded like I was reeling off a report, but I figured I wasn’t saying anything
she didn’t already know, and it catered to the illusion that I was once more willing
to talk to her about my private life.

It seemed to work, because Qeturah simply nodded, waited a few seconds, then changed
the subject. “Nasiha asked me about medical techniques to prolong a woman’s years
of fertility.”

I raised my eyebrows, absently multitasking as I ticked items off the inventory on
my handheld and yelled an order to the longshoremen. “Sorry, you were saying? Prolonging
fertility? She’s quite young by Sadiri standards; why should she be worrying about
that now?”

“Oh, it wasn’t for her. It was for you.”

I nearly dropped my handheld. “
What?
Why in the name of all … what business … 
me
? What did I ever do to her?”

Qeturah almost laughed out loud. “Relax, Delarua. It’s a compliment … I think. She
was saying that you should be registered on the special list for potential Sadiri
brides, and when I pointed out that there was an upper age limit for that, she suggested
that extending your fertile years would take care of any objections.”

I was already dazedly shaking my head at the wrongness of it all.

“Don’t worry. I told her that with the amount of Ntshune heritage you have, you’ll
probably be able to have children for
quite a bit longer than the average Cygnian. I estimate you have another twenty-five
years, maybe even thirty.”

“Qeturah!” I hissed, glancing furtively at the nearest longshoreman. “
Must
we discuss my private business out in the open where anyone could hear? What kind
of doctor are you?”

I expected it to
be a more-than-routine assignment. The Kir’tahsg Islands were famed for their remoteness
and inaccessibility and as such were the genetic and cultural equivalent of a vacuum-sealed
flask. We always looked forward with interest to Fergus’s safety briefings about the
flora and fauna and the emergency exit strategy, but this time it was the Commissioner’s
talk that got our attention.

“Protocol must be strictly observed,” she said.

“Is this one of the highly formal places? Even more formal than the Seelie Court?”
I asked.

She folded her arms in a way I recognized as an attempt at self-support before saying
something difficult. “More than that. I want you all dressed in your most ceremonial
garb. Titles must be used at all times. It’s a society that relies on external cues
to determine a person’s rank and how they should be treated.”

She looked at us individually to make her point. “Councillor. First Officer. Commander.
Lieutenant. Sergeant. Corporal Lian, I’m giving you a rather sudden and substantial
temporary promotion to full aide-de-camp, which inflates both your importance and
mine. Councillor, I recommend that you refer to Joral as your first secretary.”

She scanned us again, as if seeing us with an objective eye. “Interplanetary Science
Council formal blues. Civil Service formal blacks with white robe. Military Service
dress whites. Whatever is appropriate for Sadiri culture, and don’t be modest. Wear
all medals and special decorations. The gulf between servant and master is wide and
deep in this place. I don’t want any of you stranded on the wrong side.”

Our first sight of the main, eponymous island was as forbidding as the Commissioner’s
briefing. There was nothing resembling a beach or a landing strip. High rocks surged
straight up out of violent surf, and the entire landscape seemed to consist of inclines
of forty-five degrees or greater. There was evidence of civilization, however. Inland,
terraced gardens girdled the hills like green ribbons bordered by hewn gray rock.
The same gray rock rose up as walled cities, which then blended into bare gray mountain,
making it difficult to see where man-made wall ended and natural cliff began. They
say
kir’tahsg
means “invincible” in some long-dead Cygnian language, and it was easy to see how
the island had earned its name. We had to land in open ocean, submerge, and then resurface
in a huge, hangarlike cave.

The welcome, however, was far warmer than the first impression. Our group was taken
by hovercar to the Hall of the Master of Kir’tahsg, an impressive palace in the central
citadel surrounded by extensive gardens with tidily trimmed trees and manicured lawns.
I was expecting the minimalist decor naturally preferred by the Sadiri mind, a mind
that can be sucked into pondering fractal formulas at the mere sight of a Paisley-patterned
rug. Not so, neither outdoors nor in. The servants and officials of the Master’s household
were richly dressed. It was not ostentatiousness; it was a more subtle show of plain
though rich fabrics, simple but skillfully made embroideries. Precious metals and
gems in a classic, understated design were displayed in the furnishings and ornaments
and on the wrists and necks and ears of the nobles and higher-ranked servants. The
nobles also wore their hair long, tied back with jeweled velvet bands or enameled
clasps.

Oh, yes, the hair. Let me tell you about the hair. It was too
obvious and a little discomfiting. The Master, the officers of his guard, the Master’s
Heir, and all other persons of rank or standing at the Hall were Sadiri as Sadiri
could be. Their hair shone brightly, and their skin had a very slight Zhinuvian-like
glow. The servants, on the other hand, all had dull, close-cut hair and low-luminance
skin. I understood Qeturah’s desire to have us Terran types look as official as possible.

The Master was as impressive as the Faerie Queen, but his was an aged and venerable
appearance. He did not rise from his seat even though he appeared to be lean and physically
fit. He had us seated according to our rank and post and listened courteously as Dllenahkh
and Qeturah made their requests. At first I thought everything would go easily, because
when his eyes rested on the Sadiri, it was with an air of great gladness and contentment,
as if he were seeing something finally come to pass after a long wait. I was wrong.

“Regretfully, we must decline to participate in this genetic testing,” the Master
stated baldly.

Qeturah was taken aback at this stark refusal, given without excuse. “We find genetic
testing useful to determine compatibility. We also use it as a guide to assessing
the average psionic potential of members of a community.”

The Master smiled. “With respect to psionic abilities, I can immediately inform you
that we have none. Practice of the mental disciplines has, alas, died out, and with
them all the telepathic skills of our ancestors. As for compatibility with the Sadiri … well,
look at us.” He waved languidly as if to indicate their entirely Sadiri appearance,
but I couldn’t help glancing at the short-haired Terran servants.