Visitor

  “Good, good,” Prakuyo said in Ragi, and Irene said, in a voice a little high and thin, “Thank you, nandi.”

  That drew a few booms in reply, bobs and nods, a gape-grin from Hakuut, and a nod.

  “Thank you,” Gene and Artur both said, and from Artur, a blurted: “One is honored.”

  Bren drew in a long, quiet breath and let it go as slowly. Ilisidi never faltered.

  Kandana and the dowager’s staff, meanwhile, with all the aplomb of service in any great house, set about arranging tea, filling pots, setting out cups, all the bustle and clatter so familiar to atevi households, and in that little moment of necessary movement, tea went into cups, on the little tables between the chairs.

  The dowager took two sips. They all took two sips, children and kyo alike, as did Bren. Ilisidi set her cup down. Bren set his cup down. Children and kyo set their cups down.

  “Reunioners,” Prakuyo said. “Good you come. Good.”

  “Thank you,” Irene said in the ensuing heavy silence, and in kyo: “Thank you.”

  Prakuyo muttered something in which Reunion figured, a place and a time which didn’t in any wise constitute pleasant memory. But he said to Irene, quietly, in Ragi, “Good. Good hear say.” Hakuut’s quick eyes swept the three. “All speak?” Hakuut asked, and Gene held up fingers measuring a little distance.

  “Little,” Gene said, and that provoked a little thumping and booming and discussion among the kyo.

  The whole household had stopped, servants and bodyguards standing like statues. Ilisidi lifted her hand in a circular gesture and motion started. Servants moved among them again, living barrier, not accidental timing, no. The servants offered teacakes and sandwiches, which none of the youngsters took. The dowager thoughtfully chose one of each, and let them lie. Bren took a cake and did the same.

  Prakuyo said, again, after a pause for two sips of tea, and not a bite of food, “Reunioners all talk Ragi?”

  “On the ship,” Cajeiri said in kyo. “We talk. They talk ship-speak, I talk Ragi. And kyo.”

  “Good,” Prakuyo said again, and had a sip of tea, as Ilisidi did. The kyo all drank tea. Cajeiri did. Irene sipped her own, and Gene and Artur took up their cups carefully.

  So did Bren. A little quiet space, tea, and wary looks. “Their mothers and fathers are watching us,” Bren said in Ragi. “The mothers and fathers do not understand Ragi or kyo. But they want peace.” Deliberate new word, one, with its opposite, that they’d tried back at Reunion—and gotten no satisfaction on.

  “Peace,” Prakuyo repeated, remembering. “No war.”

  “Peace. Peace—” He shifted to kyo, “No war, no enemy, no upset.” He didn’t use the word association to describe it—that hadn’t gone over well back at Reunion. “Peace means all good. All happy. No more upset. Peace. Atevi and humans want peace.”

  “Peace,” Prakuyo said, and a kyo word, the root of which looked to lie in quiet. Matuanu and Hakuut rumbled and hummed.

  “Peace,” Hakuut said.

  Prakuyo said a word, then: “Opposite peace. Fire. Burn. Wreckage.”

  “War,” Bren said in Ragi, and in kyo, the word they had used for war back at Reunion.

  “Big war,” Prakuyo said. “Many years war.”

  Vocabulary failed. “No word,” Bren said after a moment. “No Ragi word.”

  “No Ragi word,” Prakuyo repeated. “Ship-speak word? All gone. All wreckage. All wreckage.”

  “Annihilation,” Bren said reluctantly.

  “Big word,” Prakuyo said.

  “Bad word. Atevi don’t make annihilation. Mospheirans don’t make annihilation. Want peace. Want all people safe. No annihilation.”

  A ripple of soft booms, a series of nods, as if that question had been understood.

  “We talk to the children,” Prakuyo said, changing the subject, possibly because of the children’s presence, possibly because he simply wasn’t ready to address that issue at all. And in Ragi, with a look that included all of them before settling on Irene: “Children all go down to Earth?”

  “We went,” Irene said in Ragi, “to visit the young gentleman. It was his birthday.”

  “Birthday,” Prakuyo repeated.

  Birthday wasn’t in the vocabulary either. “The day the young gentleman is new baby,” Bren said. “Nine years now.”

  That produced a noisy stir of interest. Surprise. “Say,” Prakuyo said.

  “Birthday.”

  “Birthday.” Kyo mouths had trouble with that one. “Birthday!” Prakuyo seemed to find significance in the idea. “Good. Birthday. Come down Earth on birthday. Nine years. Felicitous nine.”

  “Yes, nand’ Prakuyo,” Cajeiri said. “Birthday. Party.”

  “Party?” Another difficult word for a kyo mouth.

  “Many guests. Many teacakes. Good food. Happy day.”

  “Party!” Hakuut said, with a flutter of booms. “Teacakes!”

  Youngsters, Bren thought, with a feeling of things spiraling outside all careful boundaries, the safe words. Children didn’t think in terms of safe. They shared what was important. In a list of words of cosmic significance, he wouldn’t have thought of birthday. Let alone party. He wouldn’t have mentioned something that might have significance to the kyo and might go off in an extravagant and unanticipated direction.

  But the youngsters scored points for credibility, where credibility was life and death, where the kyo’s second word for war had a moment ago loomed dark and absolute.

  The kyo discussed among themselves for a moment, with a number of quiet sounds there was no interpreting. The tone was not threatening, more that, of all things, they had collectively discovered something oddly congruent in their cultures.

  They might, with thought, find something significant in Reunioner children celebrating an atevi child’s birthday. And not just any birthday . . . the ninth. And not just any atevi child: the child of the number one ateva, who governed the aishidi’tat. If Prakuyo had come looking for evidence of that elusive association between human and atevi, did he see it in this?

  Prakuyo asked the youngsters gentle questions, how old they were, how long they had been on Reunion—not as innocent as the youngsters might think, those questions. He knew what Prakuyo was fishing for. Prakuyo probably knew he knew. Possibly Cajeiri had that one figured out, and he was absolutely sure the dowager did. Cross-checking. Testing. Being sure the stories matched.

  The youngsters relaxed in questions they knew how to answer, the sort of performance even younger children knew how to give—and their faces began to echo their emotions. Bren was tempted to say something. He was about to issue a caution.

  And Gene laughed. Nerves. Surprise. Prakuyo had asked in Ragi if he and Irene were connected, but it sounded like the word married. And the kid, being rattled—laughed and said no, they were not married.

  Silence from the kyo. Absolute, dead silence.

  Hakuut asked: “Sound?”

  How to answer that one? How did one explain—laughter?

  “Good sound,” Bren said. “Laugh. Laugh is opposite of upset.”

  “Laugh.” It came out softened, strange. “Laugh is good. Laugh is . . .”

  Triple boom.

  “Laugh,” Prakuyo said.

  Then a sudden, scary boom, from some chest-deep source neither human nor atevi biology managed. “Angry.”

  “Angry,” Cajeiri said then, and made an angry face, and struck his palm with his fist.

  Then: “Happy.” Broad smile, open hands, in an exaggerated way one almost never saw atevi behave except at home.

  “Happy,” Hakuut said. “Good.” Triple flutter. The youngsters’ faces were clearly relieved, freed of atevi restraint despite the circumstances. The kyo boomed and thumped.

  Emotions on a platter. Dare one trust congruency?

  Back in his apar
tment, with the parents, the instruments, the analysis bouncing to both Centrals and ship-com, technicians had just gotten a solid piece to work with, if they were not deafened.

  Prakuyo interrupted the exchange. Hakuut’s speckle pattern instantly became visible. Hakuut gave a quiet thump, looked down and hooked the fingers of one hand into the other, silent.

  Hard not to assume, but in many ways Hakuut seemed as outgoing—and was perhaps, in his own way, as bright and complex—as Cajeiri.

  The youngsters likewise went solemn and quiet, a little worried at the lapse.

  “And what is this?” Ilisidi said with a flourish of her hand. “Are we afraid? We think not. Prakuyo-nandi, we grow impatient. Do we speak of fixing problems? Of war. And peace? Tell us. Are these children safe? Do we hurt children? We think not!”

  “Not hurt,” Prakuyo said. “Not hurt. More Reunioners sit in Bren’s place. Bring!”

  No question the kyo heard them. Bren said again, quietly. “Mothers and fathers of the children, Prakuyo-nandi. They want to be near their children.”

  A soft string of booms. “Mothers and fathers come sit now. Eat teacakes. All be safe.”

  So much for their controlled situation. Prakuyo was challenging him—or thought they were in some game of catch-me-if-you-can.

  Prakuyo knew, however, that he knew that Prakuyo could hear what went on in that space, and, knowing that Prakuyo knew, he had put the parents there.

  Well, as for teacakes . . . he had personally had a surfeit of teacakes—and at some unpredictable moment the kyo were going to have eaten as many as they could tolerate, too. But for right now, for a full disclosure—to ask for a disclosure from the other side—hell, walls down. All walls down. Bring out the staff. Everybody. Staff, Guild. Everybody.

  And try for reciprocity.

  “Aiji-ma,” Bren said quietly, “he wishes to talk to the parents. I think we should also introduce staff. All staff.”

  “These are sensible folk,” Ilisidi said. “They know. We know. They know we know. Let us save some time and know each other.”

  • • •

  The order brought a number of people out—Jase, with Artur’s parents, and Gene’s mother; Tano and Algini, who had never yet put in an appearance with the kyo, Narani, and domestic staff from the dowager’s apartment as well; Nawari, and others of the dowager’s security; one-armed Ruheso, and the other three Guild Observers. Artur went to Bren’s apartment door to bring his parents in, and Gene took Irene by the arm and went over to meet his mother as she came out, right before Asicho and Jeladi.

  All in all, it was a room-filling collection of atevi and humans—ship-human, Reunioners, and, if one counted the paidhi-aiji, Mospheiran.

  And a sizable number of introductions, and explanations. The kyo had asked. The kyo had them all to meet, a number of atevi in Guild black; Jase; a number of serving staff. It was orderly—preponderantly atevi—and the youngsters kept close to their parents. Artur brought his mother and father to give polite little bows to Ilisidi and Cajeiri. Gene and Irene followed their example, with Gene’s mother, all very smoothly managed, court manners, the parents very bravely taking the cues they were given.

  The dowager nodded, satisfied, sitting in place. Cajeiri eased out of his seat to stand quietly, anxiously by. Bren positioned himself to manage the parents in that meeting, and said, in ship-speak, “These are Prakuyo-nandi, Matuanu an Matu, and Hakuut an Tri. Honored guests, this is Artur’s father, Artur’s mother.”

  There were bows, small, restrained booms. The kyo were on formal manners.

  “Gene’s mother,” Bren said, then, in no order, only nearness to him. Gene had no father, and how and when that had happened, whether it was choice, or some connection to the massive loss of life in the kyo attack—had never been a matter on which Bren had questioned the boy. The question occurred to him in that split-second, as Gene’s mother, this diminutive woman said in ship-speak, with tears running down her face, “My son says you had a bad time at Reunion. So did we. Can we just have peace?”

  Thump. A vibration that made itself felt in the bones, a second from Matuanu, and Guild all about instantly, dangerously on alert.

  Kids. Parents. Kyo. And a history.

  “Peace,” Prakuyo said in ship-speak. “Kyo want. Peace.”

  “Then,” Gene’s mother said, and held out her hand, “we’re glad you’re here.”

  “Gene’s mother,” Bren translated, “says welcome. Good you come.”

  “Welcome, Gene’s mother,” Prakuyo said, and reached out a massive hand and touched hers, only touched.

  Gene slipped an arm about his mother, leaned close, and said something which kyo and atevi might have heard. Bren couldn’t, though the room was quiet.

  Bang. The dowager’s staff. “Staff will serve. We shall sit. Back to duty.”

  God. Matuanu and Hakuut had twitched to that as if it were a gunshot. Prakuyo hadn’t. The parents and kids definitely had.

  Bren drew in a breath, gestured toward the chairs. “Everyone sit down,” he said in ship-speak. “Captain Graham, where are we on the Central matter?”

  “Forty-three minutes,” Jase said, taking his own cue. “I’ll assume the arrangement stands?”

  “Yes,” Bren said. There were times, in crisis, when his nerves became astonishingly steady. They had been steady, for several critical moments now, cold, analytical, resolving that his tolerance for kyo demands had gotten them to a situation all common sense should have avoided, and the only way out was to deal with it as it came. Yes, he could have handled an incident. He could have excused it, and talked their way past it, because the issues were too critical, what was at stake was too important. Thousands dead at Reunion, families shattered, all those things—Prakuyo confined six years as a hostage with no negotiations in progress—they’d gotten past that. The past ultimately might have to be discussed. But coldly. Remotely. With a desired outcome in mind.

  Gene Parker’s mother had laid it on the table. Your wounds. Mine. Peace.

  Impartiality shot to hell.

  Forty-three minutes till they had to break this up and get rattled parents and three incredibly stable kids upstairs, and escort the kyo up to tour the nerve centers of the station.

  Prakuyo hadn’t asked about Gene’s father. Or the fact that pale-skinned Gene and dark Irene didn’t look to be out of the same parentage. The kyo had hit Reunion that first time . . .

  And pulled back. For four years, before Prakuyo had approached the station in a small, vulnerable craft.

  Mistakes. All around.

  Forty-three minutes to get the emotion dialed down and remind everybody that a repeat of what had happened at Reunion was unthinkable. He didn’t have that many diplomatic tools, no understanding of what value kyo put on life or individuals . . .

  Learn what they could. Keep the kyo from shooting at them. Get the kyo to see them as individuals. Get the kyo to form some sort of emotional contact points, some common ground that might at least make knowledge itself a fair trade. If they became people in the kyo’s reckoning, whatever people meant to the kyo . . . if the kyo no more than concluded they might offer some benefit to the kyo . . . the less likely it became that the kyo would slide them and their whole existence into the liability column. The kyo admitted they already had a war, which they suggested now was not just a conflict, but a war of annihilation. They were jealous of their territory, but taking on a second enemy, even one unarmed and virtually helpless against the kyo—he had to hope the kyo weren’t bent on creating a protective desolation around them, and he had to take every chance, any chance, to make the kyo see future relations as peaceful.

  He’d been, three and four times today, pushed into giving the kyo everything they asked for, the chance to see humans and atevi, then see the Reunioners, talk with them, meet with the parents . . . and they’d come way too close that last ti
me to an unfortunate reaction.

  They had the Central visit to get through. Get all the kids and the parents back upstairs, tour the kyo through Central as they’d promised, and then start pressing for reciprocation . . . for kyo revelations, leading ultimately to some basic truths from them before he handed them any other gifts.

  There was yet more tea . . . they had to bring in yet another tea service, from staff. There were little sandwiches, for which none of them had great appetite. There were enough chairs, pressed into service from the conference room.

  There was a little talk, the kids sitting close to their parents, Irene staying close by Gene and his mother, and all of them saying very little since Anna Parker’s declaration.

  “Reunioners go to planet?” Prakuyo asked at one point. “Go now?”

  “Year,” Bren said, dodging around their lack of shuttles, their general inability to manage the logistics, which the kyo could see. “Make houses.” As if that were the only delay. The kyo could see for themselves that there was a lack of docking space. A lack of shuttles. One ship, construction long delayed. A new but probably relatively primitive communications network, to their observation.

  “Humans make other station?” Prakuyo asked—challenging the facts as given.

  Time to draw a little harder line. “How many stations kyo have?”

  A flurry of little booms.

  And no answer.

  You know, Bren thought. We’ve told you what we have. You see what we have here, but you’re not entirely sure. We could be a colony, still primitive. There could be more to us, couldn’t there . . . in that direction at our backs, where you can’t see what is, just what things were, a long time ago?

  Let’s see now if you tell me something substantial about yourselves.

  “Nandi,” Jago said, “the time.”

  It was indeed time. They had fifteen minutes left. And he’d timed the blunt refusal of Prakuyo’s request knowing they were reaching that limit . . . with something else Prakuyo wanted.

  “Our human guests should go back upstairs,” Bren said in ship-speak. “We have a schedule to keep.” And in Ragi: “Tano-ji, will you and Algini escort them up, and join us in atevi Central?”