Dispatch 598.584 Hemera, July 10, 2521 – Eyes Only
Death’s Festival destroyed. Total loss including cargo and crew. Ship’s manifest being forwarded under priority security to gy’Bagrada. Request delicate handling. Imperative no filing of complaint with human commission. Direction required prior to renewal ceremony of Protocol 10 Rhadamanthus. Urgent.
Nick’s heart thumped as he stared at his computer screen. The short missive, accidentally picked up by the listening post on Hemera, whispered of impending trouble and sent a shiver of apprehension down the young man’s spine. Praying he’d read it wrong, Nick propped his chin on his palm and reviewed the message, parsing the words carefully in the original Gunera rather than rereading the English translation.
“Not going to the big centennial celebration?”
Nick jumped, having thought he was the last man standing in the Trade Commission office that Friday evening. He relaxed when he saw his pal Corey leaning casually against the door frame.
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Nick’s fingers tapped his desk as he pondered what to do about that damned message. “I have no desire to rub noses with the rich and powerful.”
Corey snorted his agreement with Nick’s assessment. “No, the political animal you are not. No Nonsense Nick. But I thought Secretary Huntzinger would insist on your presence since you’re his second-in-command.”
“Hmm.” Nick rubbed his chin, his mind on the fate of the Death’s Festival, not the Protocol ceremony or his friend.
Corey frowned. “You okay?”
“Why would a standard cargo freighter have its shipping manifest forwarded to that miserable SOB?”
Nick’s muttering drew his friend to the side of his obsessively neat desk. “What SOB?”
“gy’Bagrada.” Nick’s mouth twisted to spit out a name he despised.
“What?”
Nick scowled as Corey leaned over him, placed two suntanned arms on the center of his desk and peered into his computer screen. Before Corey could read the message, Nick flicked it off. He liked Corey. Considered the man one of his few friends. But Trade Commission business was delicate at the best of times. Corey, being a freight forwarder, knew Nick handled information he wasn’t privileged to receive before the rest of the business community. Sometimes Nick wondered if the only reason wealthy, golden haired Corey had befriended him was to use him to get a jump on the competition.
A frown puckered Corey’s brow. “You’re still getting messages from the section chief of the Guneri Secret Service?”
Nick rubbed his forehead to fight off an impending headache. “I’ve never stopped getting messages from the sick bastard. God, I hate the Gunera.”
“What’s he want?”
Nick rifled through a drawer in search of pain killers. “I didn’t say he wanted anything.”
Corey straightened and folded his arms. Nick glanced up as he swallowed a caplet, considered, and swallowed a second. He thought he caught a glimpse of something ugly in Corey’s disgustingly handsome face but whatever it was flitted away too quickly and Corey slid back into the persona of an unflappable businessman.
The man fingered his chin. “You need to be careful around that guy, Nick. The last time my company did business with him, it turned out to be surface-to-space missile launchers. Damned near got half my executive team arrested.”
Nick didn’t bother to remind Corey he knew more about gy’Bagrada than any other human alive. Personally.
“You guys overreacted if you ask me,” Corey grumbled.
I didn’t ask you. Nick caught himself just before he blurted those words. Do not be rude to your friends. You’ve got too few as it is.
Still he felt he needed to defend the commission.
“It was one hell of a violation, Corey. Not only was the gy’ thumbing his nose to the Balance Protocols but waving a red flag in the face of the Amaurau. That stunt almost started a whole new war.”
Corey made a face. “Yeah. Yeah.”
“We dropped the charges.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Corey gestured the comment away with a wave. “What brought up gy’Bagrada’s name on this fine festival day?”
Nick jerked at the choice of the word festival. Was instantly suspicious then rebuked himself. Corey couldn’t know about the Death’s Festival. At the moment, only Nick himself and the security team on Hemera knew a Guneri vessel had been lost.
You’re seeing ghosts where there aren’t any, Nick.
“The listening post on Hemera picked up a message with his name on it.” Nick started closing windows on his computer. His day was done. Time to go home. “I don’t get it. The Gunera didn’t bother to encode the transmission. Hemera couldn’t read it, but I can.”
“Sure. The only human who can read Gunera.”
Nick gave his friend a hard look, seeking the censure but Corey kept his Nordic face bland. “One of three.” He hated that he sounded defensive. He shook his head. “I don’t understand why it wasn’t encoded.”
Corey shrugged. “Maybe the Gunera have figured out we’ve broken their codes.” It was his turn to give Nick a hard look. “They’ve got to know you were put on here Rhadamanthus to spy on them.”
“True.”
Corey tilted his head. “So what’s bothering you?”
“The Gunera lost a ship, Corey. Reading between the lines, I think the Amaurau took it out.” Nick spread his hands. “Why haven’t they filed a complaint? Especially now, right before the biggest Protocol renewal of the century? Trotting out Amaurau duplicity in front of the whole damned nebula is just the sort of bombastic propaganda I would expect from the Gunera, especially gy’Bagrada. There should be a half dozen filings hitting my desk, demands for restitution, blood to be boiled, an Amaurau or two hung from the rafters of city hall. Lord, that man loves twisting my balls.”
At Corey’s puzzled look, Nick explained. “Since the Gunera and Amaurau can never meet face to face, the Trade Commission would handle the complaint. Which means me. I’m stuck as the gy’s damned errand boy. I’d have to tramp to the western edge of the nebula and have an unpleasant conversation with the Amaurau demanding concessions.”
Corey grinned. “Be happy they haven’t then!”
Nick wanted to be happy. English didn’t possess words to describe how much he wanted to be happy. Unfortunately, happiness wasn’t something that came to members of the Severin family, especially its last surviving member.
“So what’s the plan for tonight, buddy?” Corey asked. His brilliant blue eyes swept the vast, empty cube farm just outside Nick’s office. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. “Sandy has to make an appearance at the party but Jordan and I were going to McGuffy’s to watch the game. Want to join us?”
A chime sounded on Nick’s computer announcing an incoming video request. With a grunt of annoyance, he hit accept and Les Johnson’s pallid, balding head appeared in the message window bobbing like a fishing float. “Secretary Huntzinger wishes to see you, sir. In the residences, not his office.”
Nick rolled his eyes. Duncan’s office was next door. It had been empty all day.
“On my way,” he said, abruptly flicking off the message. He turned to his friend. “So much for your offer, Corey. Duty calls.”
Corey scowled. “Come on, No Nonsense. Live a little. Come to McGuffy’s. You can deal with his Highness later.”
Nick shuddered. What a choice. Hang out at a bar with a bunch of people following some strange sports ritual he didn’t understand or take word of the Death’s Festival to his boss. Neither was particularly palatable. He wanted to flee to his apartment and hide like he did every weekend.
“You asked me to remind you when you start going Gunera on me,” Corey reminded him gently. “Putting business before a little fun is going Gunera. You need to mingle more. Learn a few social skills, buddy. Hell, get drunk and get laid for once.” He placed his hands on Nick’s shoulders and rocked him in his chair. “You could use it.”
Nick jerked. Sex. Why was it so damned important to Corey? Why did both Corey and Duncan Huntzinger think if he developed a sex life he’d suddenly become a normal human being? There was nothing normal about him. Never would be.
“I’ve got to talk to Duncan, first. I’ll stop by afterwards.” He held up his hands. “I promise!”
Corey gave him a disparaging look. “I’m holding you to it, Nick. I’ll save a bar stool for you.”
Nick thanked him although both men knew it was half-hearted. Corey appeared to think he’d given it his best shot. With a happy hop to his step, Nick’s friend headed for the standard Wednesday night revelry at McGuffy’s.
Nick switched off his computer and its disturbing message. A glance out his window revealed the sun setting behind towering black thunderheads that cast great shadows across the jungles of Rhadamanthus, humanity’s regional capital for the western lobe of the Fortuna Nebula.
A series of lights glimmered against the thunderheads as another ship made the curve through the atmosphere and headed towards the city. They’d been arriving like clockwork for the past two days. Protocols were renewed on a staggered five year schedule, the Gunera on the zero year, the Amaurau on the five. Being Gunera 10, the centennial was a major event. Nick knew the Presidents of Hemera and Erebos had already jetted in with their ubiquitous staff, and the Secretary of State had been dragged all the way from Earth, the poor fellow. Then there were the movie stars and opera singers and the people known for being known. The whole thing had become a circus before the Guneri representatives had even arrived. Nick was just glad he was fretting about cargo manifests rather than dealing with that overwhelming display of pomp and circumstance.
Nick emptied what was left of his tea into the ficus next to his desk and wiped out his cup while he considered what he should do. He had to let Duncan know about that message; he just wasn’t sure if a handful of hours before the ceremony was the best time to dump it into the lap of the secretary.
Tucking his keys in his trouser pockets, Nick pulled his door closed and left the Geiger Center for International Trade and Economic Development. On that July evening, the air was heavy with the threat of rain. Having lived his entire life in conditions worse than these, Nick barely even broke a sweat as he strode through the dense, beautifully landscaped jungles of the trade complex. Plants couldn’t help but thrive on tropical Rhadamanthus. The temperature never dropped below thirty Celsius and it rained almost every day. The engineers who’d terraformed it designed the small planet as a safe haven for the endangered plants of Earth’s disappearing tropical islands. Nick passed lovely stands of red hibiscus, a swath of ti grass threatening to overtake a walkway and a grouping of highly endangered abutilon that were quite happy a billion miles from home as they lounged against the air conditioner of the Patent Office.
Great drops of rain began to fall, plopping like water balloons on the concrete walk but Nick didn’t increase his pace. He liked walking in the rain. When a man was born and raised in a tropical hot house more prison than home, he relished the simple act of getting soaked in a downpour. Without thinking, he stripped to the waist and turned his face into the rain, allowing it to run off his dark hair that was unfashionably long for fashion conscious Rhadamanthus. For a brief second, he considered tearing off the rest of his clothes, but the startled look from a woman racing past reminded Nick he was amongst humans now. Humans didn’t walk around naked in public. He slipped his shirt back on and kept walking.
When he arrived at the residences, the security station buzzed him through without question. The officer grinned at his soaked appearance but said nothing. There wasn’t a single person working for the Trade Commission who didn’t think Nick was a strange bird. Arriving soaking wet to visit the International Trade Secretary on Independence Day was one more of those little oddities for which Nick was so well known.
Duncan Huntzinger’s extensive suite took up the entire third floor of the long, low building while Nick occupied smaller digs on the first. He trotted up the stairs, taking two at a time, to arrive at his boss’s front door. He pressed the bell, heard its lovely little ring and then footsteps.
Cardaman, Duncan’s valet, ushered Nick inside. The aging gentleman twitched his lips at the sight of Nick’s rain soaked clothing but said nothing. He merely gestured towards the back of the suite where Nick knew Duncan’s bedroom was located.
Fully expecting to find his boss dressing for the ceremony, Nick came to a surprised stop when he entered Duncan’s bedroom. Duncan wasn’t dressing for the evening. He was sitting in bed with a tray on his lap, his prematurely gray hair in a tumble around his shoulders.
Nick spun, expecting to find Cardaman behind him, ready to prepare his master for the ceremony but Cardaman had disappeared. Momentarily forgetting about the Death’s Festival in his panic, Nick approached the bed and studied his boss worriedly.
“What’s going on? Why aren’t you ready? The ceremony starts in an hour.”
Duncan Huntzinger set aside the tray with a look of distaste. “I’m not going.”
“What?” Nick looked around desperately, wondering where Cardaman had gone. He’d seen that venerable fellow order Duncan around in a way Nick could not. “You have to go, Duncan. Not only is it a renewal, but it’s Protocol 10!”
“I’m aware of the number, Nico. The centennial.” He waved his fingers in the air to show just how much that meant to him.
“It might not mean anything to you,” Nick replied, trying not to get huffy with his own superior, “but it certainly means a lot to everyone else. God, Duncan! They dragged the Secretary of State all the way from Earth!”
“Yes! Yes! His lordship informed me of he’d arrived two days ago.” Duncan made a face when he tasted a sip from a tea cup. “I’m sick, Nico.” At his undersecretary’s blink of confusion, he added, “as in throwing up anything that starts to go down. As in, no way in hell capable of handling not only all the schmoozing that’ll be required, but all the eating as well. Dear God!” He held his hand to his stomach and belched. “Nope. Not happening.”
Nick stood with his mouth hanging. As usual he fumbled for an appropriate response. He wanted to drag Duncan from his bed and force him to dress, but ten years of etiquette lessons had taught him laying hands on one’s superior wasn’t the thing to do. His inability to react appropriately left him staring blankly at Duncan, hoping the man would throw him a life line. Tonight, however, Duncan wasn’t in the mood to play the role of Nick’s father as he ordinarily did. He lay limply against his pillows watching as Nick dissolved into panic. Nick saw no empathy on his mentor’s face. None of the usual bending of human social norms to ease the way for him. Vaguely Nick heard the door of the suite open and close but he didn’t turn to see who arrived. He heard, oddly, no announcement from Cardaman.
“Duncan… sir…” Nick stumbled to a halt, seeking the right words and not the ones he wanted to blurt out. “Don’t you think the Secretary of State, not to mention the Guneri ambassador are going to be offended if you don’t make an appearance?”
Duncan tossed this aside with a flick of his wrist. “Not at all, Nico. Because you’re going in my place.”
“What!”
Duncan gestured. “Someone from the Trade Commission has to be there, as you so helpfully pointed out, and since I am indisposed, you’re just going to have to do it.”
Nick glared at his superior, studying what looked like a relatively healthy complexion to him. His mouth opened to spout a string of invective but he snapped it shut, knowing every time he let his emotions go, some human had a problem with his honesty. Duncan was no exception. He also had to clench his fingers to keep them from dragging Duncan to his feet. That was another of those annoying taboos Duncan had taught him. Humans generally avoided touching one another except in prescribed situations. Unfortunately rattling a sick man to health wasn’t one of those situations. Dammit!
A rustle announced the soft footed Cardaman entering with a pile of clothing in his arms. Nick’s heart sank when he recognized it. Full ambassadorial equipage, right down to the highly polished shoes. His own.
“Duncan! You know how I feel about talking to the Gunera.”
The secretary brushed this aside like he did everything else that wasn’t to his liking. “You don’t have to talk them … well… say hello and all that sort of diplomatic stuff. But you don’t have to hold a conversation with them. Be polite. Be diplomatic. Be silent. It’s always worked for me.”
Cardaman was already untying the cord from Nick’s sopping hair and tossing it distastefully aside. Before Nick could complain, the efficient old fellow had whipped out a towel and was vigorously scrubbing the dark locks dry. A scuffle ensued when the valet ruthlessly relieved him of his shirt and began another toweling off of his torso. With a cry of protest, Nick snagged the towel and glared Cardaman into submission.
“I can dress myself,” he growled, grudgingly drying off his upper body. “Duncan, there’s something I need to discuss…”
Cardaman held out a hand. “Your trousers, sir.” He looked distastefully at the wet fabric clinging to Nick’s legs.
Nick turned desperate eyes to his superior. “Seriously, Duncan, I can dress myself.”
“Give it up, son,” Duncan chuckled. “I fought that war and lost. Cardaman takes his job as the Keeper of the Torch of Propriety very seriously. Let him dress you. We need to talk.”
“Yes, we do. I really need…” Nick was cut off by Cardaman jerking his pants free of his left foot, nearly sending Nick to the carpet. With a sigh of submission, he gave up possession of the towel and his person into the capable hands of Cardaman and suffered what he considered the humiliating experience of being dressed by one of the finest valets to ever graduate from the Cambridge School of Butlery.
Duncan watched with amusement as his protégé was transformed from an awkward young man into the epitome of a diplomat. Nick wasn’t sure whether the amusement came from the transformation or because with each stitch of clothing applied to him Duncan was that further from attending the ceremony. On went the loose black trousers, no belt or other sort of metal fitting, then the tight fitting black sweater. Next the tailored jacket, single breasted, unadorned without pockets or buttons, knee length as dictated by both Gunera Protocol 1 and Amaurau Protocol 3. Lord, how just the length of the coat had been a source of conflict between the two alien species for almost thirty years, Nick thought as Cardaman worked his way through the carefully dictated elements of a human diplomat’s wardrobe.
Shoes flat and unadorned, the polish being the only thing humans had inserted into the Protocols and only because it was the one matter over which neither the Gunera nor the Amaurau had an opinion. Miracle that! No jewelry allowed. Not even a watch. Finally the hair. Another source of infighting that lasted almost fifty years. Couldn’t be short because that would indicate a bias towards the Gunera and couldn’t be long because then one was tipping the scales towards the Amaurau. Shoulder length exactly, and always, always, tied in a queue. The queue denoted neutrality because neither the Gunera nor Amaurau wore their own head dress in such fashion. Finally, the bow, pert, black, made of taffeta. The ultimate indication of the human diplomat. It was the sort of regalia that made finding dates impossible not that Nick could land himself a woman regardless of how he dressed.
Cardaman fussed with the length of Nick’s sleeves, tugging them up so that they didn’t hang over his hands, another violation of Protocols, this time Gunera 4 and Amaurau 7.
“Don’t bother, Cardaman,” Duncan stated as the ridiculous ritual went on. “His sleeves are deliberately too long.”
The statement startled the ordinarily unflappable valet and Cardaman fidgeted the sleeves upwards yet again until the black tattoos on the back of each of Nick’s wrists appeared. For a moment Cardaman stared at the symbols, then in embarrassment shoved Nick’s sleeves over them.
“My apologies, sir,” the valet murmured. “I forgot you prefer to hide them.”
“No need.” Nick offered a weak smile.
“We could get them removed,” Duncan commented while he watched Cardaman delint a spotlessly black Nick from head to foot.
Nick self-consciously rubbed one hand against the other. “It wouldn’t do any good. I’ve got implants below the skin that can’t be removed.”
“I would think a good surgeon back on Earth could do the job.”
“Not without destroying the use of my hands.” Nick couldn’t hide his bitterness. “They’re embedded into my radial nerve and can’t be removed without damaging the nerve. That’s the point. The only way to get rid of them is to chop off my hands.”
“Bloody savages,” Duncan muttered.
“Savages you’re forcing me to court tonight.” Nick lost control of his tongue and let the dig fly before he could snatch it back.
“Yes, well about that…” Nick eyed the older man speculatively as Duncan did the unusual by stumbling over his words. The single most important diplomat in the known universe was never, as far as Nick could tell, at a loss for words. And yet he was tonight. With his friend and coworker. What the hell was going on?
“I wasn’t expected to make any sort of speech,” Duncan stated. “If I had I wouldn’t be putting you in this position on such short notice. Wouldn’t have been fair. The Secretary of State and the Presidents are handling the speeches so all you have to do is show up and be polite. Smile a lot, not that the Gunera care, and keep your speaking to a minimum.” He lifted a finger. “Remember you’re wearing the uniform of the Trade Commission and as such you’ll be viewed as the official in charge of the Protocols. Don’t say the words yes or no except as it applies to food and drink. And when it comes to drink the answer is always no.”
Nick nodded somberly, looking down at his black clothing. Even the color had been written into Gunera 1 and Amaurau 2 after a boatload of protests and posturing.
“Yes, sir.”
“No! None of that! You aren’t listening. Your best answer to any question is I’ll answer that after I’ve conferred with the office.”
“Can I answer if they ask about my father?” Nick asked bitterly. He knew the job’s requirements. He’d been with the Trade Commission for almost eight years, five of them on the front lines on Rhadamanthus. He knew what he was doing. He might be completely inept when it came to human interaction but he was a genius with aliens, especially the Gunera.
Duncan had the grace to flush at the blunt question. Nick’s father had been dead since before Nick was born. “I would recommend something like his legacy is held in much regard, or words to that effect.”
Nick cringed. He could expect nothing else from Duncan. The man had been holding the uncivilized universe together for almost twenty years. The need to answer any question with fog had been hammered so deeply into him he sometimes failed to answer yes or no when asked if he wanted cream in his coffee. Nick found speaking fog more difficult but he was learning. He had the master as his coach.
“You’ll do fine,” Duncan stated when he noticed Nick’s face pale. “Be polite. Be vague. Be a shadow in the back of the room.”
Nick sighed.
Duncan circled his finger in the air. “Turn around. Come here.”
Nick came to stand beside the bed while Duncan smoothed the collarless jacket (G 3 and A 4) then gave him one last look.
Nick shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, there’s something I think you should know. Hemera intercepted a message out of Gunera. A merchant ship named the Death’s Festival was destroyed yesterday.”
Duncan’s face didn’t move. “Amaurau?”
“It didn’t say but that’s the impression I got. The owner of the ship specifically asked that the incident not be reported to the Trade Commission. I thought that very odd.”
Duncan’s face remained unreadable. His fingers tapped the coverlet. “Odd during ordinary times but not, perhaps, on the centennial of the Protocols. Maybe someone’s being sensitive about discussing ugliness during tonight’s ceremony.”
Nick gazed at his boss reproachfully. “When have you ever known the Gunera to be sensitive about anything?” When Duncan didn’t reply, he went on. “I don’t know what the ship was carrying but its manifest was forwarded to gy’Bagrada on the QT.”
Now he had the secretary’s attention. “Really? Interesting. Anything else?”
“The end of the message stated, Direction required prior to renewal ceremony of Protocol 10 Rhadamanthus. Urgent.”
The secretary said nothing.
“What do you think it means?”
Duncan’s head jerked in his direction. “What do you think it means?”
“I think the Gunera are up to something. I’m worried they’ll take action during tonight’s ceremony.”
“They wouldn’t try anything on such an important night! Hell, there’s going to be security up the yin yang and not a weapon allowed for a million miles of the place. You’ve seen the details. We’ve got no less than ten warbirds over our heads. And there’ll only be twenty Gunera at the ceremony. What do you think they could possibly do?”
Nick shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just worried. I’d be much happier if you were there.”
Duncan gave him a gentle slap on the shoulder. “You’ll do just fine, Nico. There’s no one in the universe better versed on the Gunera than you. Just keep to the shadows, stay out of whatever happens and report back what you see or hear. Try to have fun.”
Fun, Nick thought morosely as Cardaman ushered him out of the apartment. Fun. I’d rather face a root canal.
Unfortunately there was no avoiding the inevitable. Someone from the Trade Commission had to be in attendance and that someone was he. Annoyed at his misfortune but resolute in his duty, Nick squared his shoulders purposefully and set off for the capitol complex. He had a job to do and if there was only one thing at which Nick excelled it was getting the job done. Fortunately the storm had blown through and a brilliant sunset splashed across the heavens as a wondrous prelude to night.
The Capitol Building, built in the style of the ancient Roman Pantheon, possessed a dome so large if it didn’t have three separate climate control zones it could have generated its own rain. On that night, the building was lit up like a rocket, spot lights playing across every balcony, cornice and portico. As he looked up, Nick noticed the hovercraft drifting above it, probably harboring a sniper or two. Security, as Duncan had indicated, was tight.
As he entered the Rose Room, Nick surveyed the territory to locate the shadowy corner where Duncan promised he could hide. The room, however, was not designed for hiding in corners. It was lit by a series of fifty crystal chandeliers while glittering sconces marched down the walls. Long tables filled the space with glowing candelabras at intervals along their length. The flicker of candlelight danced on the glassware, silverware, and gold chargers that made up the place settings for the meal. At the far end of the room stood a dais where a chamber orchestra played a medley of Strauss waltzes. The acoustics of the room were magnificent and the sound of the Blue Danube washed over the quiet hum of pre-party conversation.
Two bars stood on opposite sides of the room. Most of the guests hovered around them, guzzling wine and Champagne. He saw three senators, five department heads, the current Poet Laureate and President Tanaka of Erebos gathered in the midst of corporate interests currying favor. Nick had no interest talking to any of them.
A hand grabbed his arm. It belonged to Jennifer De Walt, the president of Rhadamanthus, a lovely lady of African descent who had the softest, sweetest demeanor in public but could cut the throats of her political rivals behind closed doors.
“Dear Mr. Severin,” she greeted. “I’m so glad you were able to fill in for Mr. Huntzinger. I hope his illness isn’t serious.”
“Not in the least.” Nick fought to keep the annoyance from his tone. He doubted Duncan was sick at all.
“Good! Good!” She continued to smile although Nick was sure her mind was in a thousand other places rather than worrying about one silly diplomat, even if that one diplomat was the wingnut that held the universe together. “I truly hate to throw business at you right off the bat, but the Guneri ambassador is insisting he speak with you. He became quite excited when he heard you were taking Mr. Huntzinger’s place.”
Nick felt his stomach cramp and he wished he’d eaten enough at lunch to be sick right there. Anything would be preferable to a private conversation with the Guneri ambassador. Unfortunately, De Walt was hauling him across the room towards the Guneri contingent. She dropped him off with a quick introduction, grateful to have dumped in his lap the nasty task of keeping the celebrated guests happy.
Nick knew the Guneri ambassador gy’Gravinda. The Guneri lord was the epitome of his species, a smallish creature about two thirds the height of the average human but bulkier. His three stubby legs worked although he, like most Gunera, refused to use them. Instead, he transported himself on a personal mover that lifted him off the ground and placed him at eye level with his human allies. The lack of exercise assured that most Gunera were fat, and gy’Gravinda was no exception. He bulged out of his flamboyant court coat of blue, yellow and red that looked like a bit of tattered quilting. The lord flaunted his power by the wealth of chartreuse lace that spilled from his wrists and ran down the front seam to his waist. Not that he had a waist, Nick thought. He didn’t have a neck either. Guneri heads sat as a blob atop their shoulders somewhat like a melting snowman, although Nick had never seen a snowman, melting or otherwise. The gy’s eyes were reptilian green, his mouth narrow with its disconcerting long black tongue. Like most of his species he enjoyed flicking it at people, knowing how humans loathed the gesture. The final insult to human sensibilities was the gently fanning wings of his air gills that protruded from his neck. These were in constant motion to absorb oxygen from the air. On that sultry night the ambassador’s were sweeping to and fro. gy’Gravinda’s tail, a sinuous thing, was in constant motion as well, the barb on its end menacing.
From long experience traveling in the human sphere, gy’Gravinda was an expert on humans and the injuries a Gunera could inflict on them. The moment Nick arrived, he lashed his tail gleefully, causing Nick to take a calculated step back, although he refused to show fear. The ambassador waved a thick four fingered hand encrusted with jewels as he belched a welcome. The grunt was as close as a Gunera got to laughing.
“What a pleasure to see you again, eh’Nicodemus!” he stated in Gunera, knowing full well no one outside of his entourage would understand. He was therefore free to be as obnoxious as he chose to the young human imprisoned by the garb he wore. “You look quite… voiceless… in all your somber black.”
“Impartial, not voiceless,” Nick returned also in Gunera. It took a concentrated effort to keep his voice from revealing the anger that lanced through him at the provocative opener.
The Guneri lord drove his mover in a circle around his human prey, enjoying the fact that he could be as outrageous as he chose since Nick was constrained by his Protocols. “I must say I was delighted to learn that you’d been raised to the position of Messenger for the night. I so wanted to see how you’ve been progressing.” Those reptilian eyes shot up and down Nick’s taller form. “Thickened up a bit,” he commented rudely. “Put on that muscle male humans do when they’ve reached sexual maturity, yes?”
Nick was forced to bite his tongue. The Guneri habit of calling the Secretary of International Trade the Messenger was a long and arrogant one, something Nick had expected. But the crack at his masculinity was hitting below the belt. He counted to ten and took slow deep breaths. “I’ve aged, gy’,” he said. “As have you.”
gy’Gravinda twitched his air gills, another mark of humor. “Well, well, this is a joyous night. A night for celebration, yes? Human Independence Day some call it.” He leaned close and pretended to whisper while Nick tried not to flinch in the close proximity of that damned tail barb. “I have another name for it, you know, eh’. The day we Gunera bought humanity wholesale as our slaves rather than waste blood and money trying to take you the hard way.” His body shook as he gave three belches of fine humor.
“I have my own name for the day, gy’.” Nick did not elaborate.
He sensed a disturbance among the Gunera and his eyes narrowed as he studied them. Like gy’Gravinda, they wore flashy clothes and fine jewels, though none quite up to the level of their ambassador’s. They were all nobles of one sort or another. A gy’ didn’t travel with anyone lower than a vuh’ and ordinarily wouldn’t even deign to speak to an eh’. gy’Gravinda had always made an exception when the opportunity to torment eh’Nicodemus was in the offing. Before Nick could decide what had disrupted the group, the touch of a Guneri tail shocked him by tracing down his cheek before it wrapped around his neck.
Moving cautiously, Nick turned and found gy’Bagrada standing in a mover beside him. For a blinding second Nick’s vision whited out and he couldn’t find words to respond to the blatant assault on his person. His terror of the lord was so hard wired within him it froze his cortex and he couldn’t move. For one beat his breathing stopped. Then the sounds of the orchestra broke through his panic and his eyes refocused on the hideous countenance of gy’Bagrada, the butcher of Lethe’s Gate. Nick reminded himself that they were in the heart of the capitol, surrounded by thousands of human security. He had only to yell and men would come running to secure the safety of one of the most important diplomats of the night.
gy’Gravinda was tickled by not only Nick’s complete discomfiture but also by the outrageous assault his chief of security had dared to make on so high status a human.
“eh’Nicodemus, I believe you’ve met gy’Bagrada, yes?”
gy’Bagrada didn’t release Nick’s throat. His tail barb stroked his victim’s lips.
“Indeed we’ve met,” gy’Bagrada murmured, his green eyes probing Nick’s. He was enjoying the fact that he had his nemesis trapped. “Alas, we were never able to consummate our friendship. Events slipped away from us, did they not, eh’?”
Nick carefully raised his hands to unwind the tail from his neck. Now that his shock had run its course, he was furious. Although he knew not a single human in the room understood what gy’Bagrada had just implied, the Gunera knew. He knew. The gy’ suffered from a sexual obsession with humans and got his kicks out of tormenting them. The move with the tail had been an ownership statement, declaring Nick his sexual property. Even though no one in the group believed such a relationship existed, the fact that gy’Bagrada had been downright vulgar in a public gathering went beyond the pale.
gy’Bagrada allowed the human to free himself. He waited slyly for Nick’s response.
“Human sexuality isn’t like Guneri,” Nick stated, refusing to allow his composure to break a second time. “The open display of sexual prowess shows a lack of it by the one who displays it.”
His barb sank deeper than gy’Bagrada’s. Air gills fluttered as the group howled at the human’s rebuke. Even gy’Gravinda couldn’t help but laugh at his comrade’s humiliation. gy’Bagrada’s eyes flashed and his gills stiffened with rage. Nick saw his hand clench and the barb move into thrust position, aimed for Nick’s face. The other Gunera inched away. Not even gy’Gravinda would challenge his powerful compatriot. Although Nick knew he was in imminent danger from the vile gy’, he nevertheless stood his ground. He’d run too many times from Guneri punishments. He wasn’t going to run any longer. These people couldn’t harm him anymore.
In a frozen tableau the two aliens glared at each other, each demanding the other concede, one knowing he could strike his opponent before human security could save him, the other knowing his nemesis would pay dearly after the fact. The remainder of the Gunera stood in a circle, none daring to breathe as the stalemate grew uncomfortable. gy’Bagrada moved first. He lashed with his barb and grazed Nick’s cheek, drawing a faint line of blood, but it had been a calculated miss. Nick hadn’t flinched, hadn’t moved. Even after the barb withdrew and a trickle of blood started down his cheek, Nick didn’t lose his focus or brush the blood away.
gy’Bagrada grunted his reluctant approval. “You’re growing up, eh.”
“While you, sir, are still an ass.”
gy’Gravinda chuckled. “Stand at ease, eh’Nicodemus. There’ll be no more bloodshed tonight.” He darted a look at his security officer who glared back but said nothing. The ambassador patted Nick on the arm. “You have indeed grown into a mature man, haven’t you? I for one will continue to enjoy watching as you come into your own.”
“As will I,” murmured gy’Bagrada.
As Nick sought some escape a waiter carrying a tray bore down on the group. The woman offered him a selection of miniature quiches. His stomach still roiling from the encounter with the Gunera, Nick gestured no. She startled him by upending the tray, sending quiches tumbling, to reveal the underside where a knife had been taped. Nick was so stunned he stood immobilized while he tried to grasp the incongruity. The woman lunged for gy’Gravinda, thrusting the blade at the ambassador’s chest. Nick yelped and saw a hundred years of peace talks blowing up in a sea of yellow Guneri blood. He threw himself at the woman just as she reached the ambassador. The three of them collided and went down in a tumble. The woman was still stabbing at the ambassador but instead hit Nick in the arm. He growled in pain but kept clawing for the knife. The room erupted in chaos as the innocent ran to escape the mayhem and security rushed forward to stop it.
Nick managed to roll the woman away from gy’Gravinda only to be locked in a struggle for the knife. Something grabbed it and wrenched it away and then hit the woman in the face. She screamed and her hands leapt to the bloom of blood that sprouted from one eye. gy’Bagrada’s barbed tail slammed her a second time, taking out the other eye and the woman curled into a ball on the floor, her blood-covered hands pressed to her face. Immediately security surrounded her. Before anyone could assist Nick to his feet, that lithe Guneri tail encircled his chest and pulled him out of the fray. He found himself clutched in the tail and arms of gy’Bagrada.
“You’re wounded,” the gy’ purred, his left hand tugging the sleeve of Nick’s jacket to reveal the stab wound in his forearm.
“It’s nothing,” Nick muttered, wanting to escape that horrible grip. Knowing the strength of a Guneri tail, however, Nick could do nothing until gy’Bagrada let him go. The gy’ in the meantime was having a grand time pressing the human against him.
Those stubby fingers rubbed the tattoo on his wrist. “You’re still ours, you know,” the Guneri lord murmured in his ear.
“You view all humans as your servants,” Nick growled. “Let me go.”
“All humans are servants, yes. You, however, are our property. Don’t forget it.”
“I’m the human representative of the Protocols tonight. And you’re breaking about fifty of them.”
“I’m merely protecting the human who so valiantly defended our ambassador. What’s to protest about that?”
“You’re feeling me up and I don’t like it!”
“Then in future you’ll have to tell me how to please you so that you desire it for yourself.” The tail unwound and Nick staggered free, pressing his injured arm to his chest while he tried again to regain his composure.
A platoon of security personnel hauled the blinded waitress away while the lieutenant in charge babbled a weak explanation to the crowd that the fracas had been a misunderstanding and no further danger existed. The man was beside himself with embarrassment as he apologized to the ambassador. To Nick’s surprise, the Guneri lord handled the episode with aplomb.
“No matter,” he commented through his personal interpreter. “We’re aware of factions within both our cultures that don’t appreciate the mingling of species. No harm was done to me or mine and therefore there was no harm done to the Protocols.” He gestured towards Nick. “Please see to your own representative. His blood was drawn rather than mine.”
A paramedic grasped Nick’s elbow and asked him to step away. Grateful to do so, Nick allowed the woman to lead him through the jabbering crowd. Fortunately, the paramedic was a stout woman who could clear a path and take him down a short hallway to the small room staged as an emergency medical center. There she tugged his sleeve up to study his wound. She gasped when she saw the tattoo.
“Prisoner of war,” he murmured.
“My family has lived in the Fortuna Nebula for three generations, sir,” the woman said while she cleaned his wound. “I know what both the Gunera and Amaurau do to their prisoners and that isn’t something they do.” She studied his stony expression. “You’re Nick Severin, aren’t you? I’d heard the stories, but hadn’t thought them true. I’m so very sorry.”
Nick said nothing. He couldn’t escape what he was, what the Gunera had made him into. He could only learn to live with the results. The woman didn’t press him. She bandaged his arm, gave him a smile meant to brace him, and left to clean her equipment.
Nick took the reprieve in the little medical center as his opportunity to hide and hide he did. The state dinner was served but he ate only a small portion from the platter the paramedic brought him. He claimed excessive pain in his arm as his excuse to miss the meal. It wasn’t true given the shot that numbed his entire right arm. However, the ruse allowed him to avoid the long winded speeches from the two Presidents and the Secretary of State.
gy’Gravinda also made a short speech that he read from a phonetic English script which made it impossible to understand. He repeated his nation’s assurance that the bond between humanity and the Gunera remained strong and he hoped for another century of progress and good will. He ended with an impromptu statement in poorly worded English that he was quite touched by the actions of the human Messenger who’d risked his life to protect Guneri interests. He hoped to see more of such a remarkable human in the future. The statement made Nick want to gag but he knew it would play prominently on the news feeds.
Only once the speeches were over did Nick dare to return to the party, knowing that the event was ending. There’d be some dancing by those who’d had too much to drink and more schmoozing by those with agendas to accomplish, but the worst of the ordeal was over. Midnight was long past and Nick knew that once the Gunera left the building he could escape.
When he returned to the Rose Room, he was greeted by several people who’d seen the attack on the ambassador. They shook his hand and thanked him for his courage. More than one person commented that they couldn’t imagine what might have happened if that insane woman had killed the ambassador.
“Open warfare, probably,” he muttered.
A hand curled around his arm and he cringed, wondering who was after a piece of his hide now. To his relief it was Alessandra McCoy. The senator’s daughter was a vision of loveliness in a gown of beaded pink lace. She’d piled her luscious brown locks atop her head and allowed a handful of spirals to drop to her smooth white neck where a diamond necklace gleamed demurely. Nick swayed towards her, determined to nibble on that neck but she stopped him with a touch to his cheek.
“Remember your human manners, Nick,” she laughed. “No sex in public.” She looked into his dark eyes with her soft brown ones. “Are you all right? Someone said you’d been hurt.”
Nick shoved up his sleeve to reveal the remains of the knife wound now sealed with glue. Her fingers lightly touched the tattoo but she knew not to speak of it. She moved the sleeve down to cover it again.
“What was with the nasty Gunera and his tail?”
Nick cringed, wondering how many people had watched the encounter and were even now discussing it.
Alessandra’s eyes remained soft and warm, promising him she wouldn’t judge regardless of what he told her. She was a marvel. One of a few humans willing to work with such a damaged man. She rattled his arm. “I can tell it upset you. You don’t normally blanch white in a diplomatic situation. What happened?”
“gy’Bagrada made a sexual advance.”
“In the middle of a major diplomatic event?”
“Yes. The Gunera have no manners whatsoever.”
“That thing is female?” Alessandra asked, startled.
Nick grunted. “No. The Gunera are hermaphrodites. They only have one gender.”
Alessandra’s mouth made an O. “That explains a lot, doesn’t it?” she murmured.
Nick didn’t answer. He understood her comment went deeper than it appeared on the surface. He stood beside her, mute and uncomfortable.
“Long night,” she offered with a half-hearted smile.
Nick nodded, knowing Alessandra was just trying to be nice. As usual when he was with her, his tongue tripped over itself as he fought for some clever reply. None came.
“Dinner next week?” she suggested.
“Sure, I’d love that.” Nick said the words but wondered if he meant them.
He liked Alessandra. She had a warm heart and good intentions. And lord knew he desired her. She was a stunning thing. Probably one of the biggest gets in the entire Fortuna Nebula given who her parents were. He just didn’t understand what she saw in him. Why would someone who could have any man she chose waste her time courting the awkward undersecretary of trade? Pity? He thought that in his darkest moments. Charity case? Trying to show the world what a wonderful person she was by taking the gawky Nick in hand and attempting to make a human of him? That was his personal favorite. Actually interested in him because of his looks or his personality? That was pushing hope a bit too far.
Nick had no idea what their relationship was if it was anything. He was too tongue-tied most of the time, too unsure of himself and of her. Too awkward. It always came back to that. Nick wasn’t right and Nick knew it. He also knew he had nothing to offer a senator’s daughter, because all he’d ever be was a low level civil servant. If, and it was a big if, he succeeded Duncan to become secretary, his life would become an even greater tangle of complications. He’d officially become the damned wingnut that held the universe together. He didn’t think there was space in a wingnut’s life for a woman. Duncan had never managed it.
To his dismay, Nick heard the rumble of conversation strangle short. The throng of people that surrounded them was edging away. In only seconds, he and Alessandra went from being just two people in the midst of a crowd to standing utterly alone with a circle of humanity crowded against the walls.
His panicked eyes darted to the door where a contingent of Amaurau had appeared. Nick felt his heart stop in his chest. He mouthed the only words that came to mind, knowing everyone could read them.
I am so fucked.