Visitor

  Prakuyo played the start of it. Bren translated.

  Then the next bit.

  Rosetta Stone, Bren thought. Definitely. He was making a record that might come back to haunt them. Or that might make a solution possible. He translated it, almost line by line, with no hesitation, and the occasional expanded explanation of a word.

  “You want kyo go away take Cullen,” Prakuyo said at the end. “You want dowager, Cajeiri not hear Cullen.”

  “Cullen is not Mospheiran. Not Reunioner,” Bren said. “You take.” It was maddening that he lacked the words to explain. He tried to think of any combination that would make sense, beyond a cold rejection of a strange human. Cullen set free—going back to tell his people he had met a strange human somewhere in kyo space—was no good outcome either. “Not good Cullen tell Cullen’s humans. Not good Cullen tell Mospheiran humans and ship-folk. Not good.”

  Several deep thumps. “Ship,” Prakuyo said. The word speak was nearly incomprehensible as he pronounced it. “Say in ship.”

  “Mospheirans and ship-folk don’t know Cullen’s humans,” he said, “but if Mospheirans and ship-folk knew more humans were far across kyo space, some would try to go, and this is not good. Not now. Not in this war. Many years from now, in long peace, yes, good, if the kyo say yes. But now it’s not good, not safe. Not good for Mospheirans to talk to Cullen. Not good for Cullen to tell these far away humans where Mospheirans are.”

  “War,” Prakuyo said.

  “War. Upset. Danger. Mospheirans will take the Reunioners onto the planet, and all will be happy.”

  A deep rumbling. “Atevi give humans place.”

  “Yes. But not all humans. Not Cullen humans. Many, many, many humans. Too many.”

  “Understand. Kyo don’t want many humans.”

  “Yes. Atevi don’t want. Kyo don’t want. Mospheirans don’t want. Not good human ship come through kyo place.”

  Thump. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” Bren said. “Yes. Kyo place. No humans. No atevi. Peace.”

  “Good,” Prakuyo said.

  “I want to talk to Cullen. I want to make Cullen happy on kyo ship.”

  “No.” A triple thump. “Hurt.”

  “I don’t hurt Cullen.”

  “Cullen hurt Bren,” Prakuyo said. “Not good, not good.”

  “My aishid,” Bren said. “Strong.”

  “Danger,” Prakuyo said. “Big danger.”

  “I have to try, Prakuyo-ji. Please. I want to try.”

  Prakuyo gave a ripple of low thumps. “Careful,” he said. He reached within his robes and offered a plastic card. “Door,” he said. “One door. Careful. Bren say ‘Prakuyo,’ Prakuyo hear, Prakuyo come.”

  • • •

  Prakuyo left them, but there was no question they were monitored, visually as well as by audio.

  They delved into the baggage that had sat in the corridor since their first meeting with Cullen, and extracted Bren’s personal kit.

  “You will not do this yourself, Bren-ji,” Banichi said.

  Banichi rarely put his foot down. And it might help to have a human observing a human face for warnings of intention, and to be in Cullen’s constant view, for reassurance.

  “I shall manage,” Tano said. Tano was, in fact, extremely quick on his feet, and deft of touch.

  “Yes,” Bren said. And added: “I think we should apply the scissors sparingly. It would improve the kyo’s view of Cullen-nadi if he looked much more like us and much less like a Reunioner.”

  “Can a comb manage it?” Jago wondered.

  “We shall try,” Bren said, and with his aishid moved the little distance down the corridor. There was no one but themselves . . . and Cullen, in his cell. Of sound, there was only the universal ambient of the ship’s operations, the air in the ducts, and their footsteps. It was quiet, as quiet as ever it was, on a ship.

  “Mr. Cullen,” Bren said.

  Cullen was sitting back at the end of his cell, in the bowl-bed, the only furnishing but the sanitary arrangement and water source in the other corner. He slowly got up and came toward them, but not all the way to the clear barrier—wary now, in a much closer atevi presence.

  Bren came close to the barrier. “Mr. Cullen. I said I’d try to improve your situation. I’ve talked to the kyo. I’ve assured them you’re not violent, and that I’m in no danger. I’d like to introduce you to my aishid, my bodyguard. This is Banichi, Jago, Tano, Algini. They don’t speak your language for the most part, but I do speak theirs. And eventually I’d like to introduce you, properly, to one of the kyo, who I think would like to talk to you, sensibly and quietly—he isn’t fluent, but he’s quite patient, a very reasonable fellow. And I think if we could get you cleaned up a bit, we could go a long way toward helping your situation.”

  Silence. Just silence.

  “If you want us to leave, Mr. Cullen, my aishid and I will go away and you’ll not likely see us again. I can help you. I’d like to see you make a better impression on the kyo. If you tell us to leave you alone, we will, and I’ll tell the kyo in charge that we can’t work with you and you just want to stay to yourself. Which they may allow. But that’s not the future I’d hope for you.”

  “What is?” Cullen asked.

  “A comb, for a start. A shave, if you’ll accept it. Tano is willing to do that for you, while I sit with you, and he has a very gentle touch. A shave, a trim, at least, maybe a bath. It’s well, between species, to bathe. A lot.”

  Three flat blinks.

  “Maybe,” Cullen said.

  “I’m afraid it has to be yes or no.” He had the comb in hand. He put the end of it through one of the ventilation slits. “Here, for a start. Combs have to be in short supply on a kyo ship.”

  Cullen took it, considered it, then started working at the mass, slowly, bit by bit. It looked a hopeless task. But he stood there, trying.

  “So,” Bren said quietly, while Cullen worked at the tangle. “Cullen. Why are you at war with the kyo?”

  Silence. Silence went on for maybe a minute, while Cullen worked with the tangles. Finger-combing had lost ground a long, long time ago, maybe in a time of illness. Or depression.

  “Do you even know?” Bren asked.

  “They hit us, we hit them.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  Silence. Then: “Place called Arden.”

  Arden. A name that meant nothing to him. Planet? Station? It’s possible the answer could be found in Phoenix’s records, though Jase claimed the original accident had wiped a lot of the navigation, the maps, the charts. Even if Arden existed somewhere in the Archive, it surely wasn’t the same Arden that Cullen had come from, three hundred years later.

  And the war, if it had ever had a reason, now had a hundred reasons, in names like Arden, and probably others. It didn’t need Reunion to give it another.

  “Are you a good man, Mr. Cullen?”

  A blink. Cessation of the combing. “Am I—what?”

  “It’s a serious question. Do you view yourself as a good man?”

  “Hell if I know.” Cullen took a moment, then resumed combing. “Are you?”

  “Hard one to answer, Mr. Cullen. I try.”

  “Try? To do what? You called yourself a negotiator. Negotiating for what? What are you doing here, if not because of me?”

  “To find a way for atevi and kyo to live peacefully in the same universe. That’s my job: to find a peaceful solution, cure problems, find mutually acceptable paths through sticky situations. In my own experience, if you can get enough good people together, no matter how different they look, they really want much the same thing—the sort of things that good people naturally give each other. Things like respect, and common sense, and communication. But those things are really hard for some people. Particularly the communication part.”

&nbsp
; “Communication. With them?”

  “Among good people, it’s hard. With bad people it’s fairly well impossible. So I ask—are you a good man, or a bad one?”

  The comb stopped. Cullen stared at him as if he’d changed colors.

  “It’s very basic,” Bren said. “There are some very bad types that are clever with words. But they make up their own meanings . . . and in situations like this made-up meanings really don’t get very far. Good types work until they understand what the other person meant, rather than investing in winning. What kind are you, Mr. Cullen? Are you a good man? Are you invested in winning, from here? Or are you willing to take a chance?”

  “What kind of chance?”

  “Talking to them. —You have an uncommon opportunity to do that, Mr. Cullen. There’s one kyo who’s really interested in talking to you. A kyo who seems to be a pretty good fellow—it’s hard to judge on a very limited dealing, but there’s a good chance he really is a good fellow. Enough of a chance that I wouldn’t suggest he take a chance with you, except I have the impression you might be a man of some character, yourself: intelligent, I think—certainly resilient. You’ve been a long time with just your own thoughts, here. I’d like to leave you in a far, far better situation. That begins with someone to talk to.”

  “Interrogation? Not interested.”

  “Do you know anything, after all this time, that they don’t know?”

  “No. But they don’t know that.”

  “Oh, I think they can guess. Time’s passed. Quite a lot of time, by that tangle you’ve got. Whatever you know is obsolete, if it ever was that important.”

  “It wasn’t. It never was.”

  “At this point, then, you have no real usefulness to them—except to this one kyo, who has taken an interest in talking to you. I don’t know his rank. I don’t know how high up he is. What I do know is that his function is a little like mine: negotiation; and that his people regard him highly. Whatever he is among his people, there’s one asset that could make him very important—and that is his having someone like me at his elbow when he talks about ending this war.”

  “Is that why you’re here? To end the war?”

  “Not me, Mr. Cullen. I said someone like me.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “You. You could be that person at Prakuyo’s elbow. You could help bring an end to your war. You, performing exactly the same office for the kyo as I do for the atevi. I’m the translator. The bridge between opposing forces. I find a way to talk instead of shoot. I find out the enemy’s opinion, and I represent it fairly. I convey my employer’s opinion to them. I work with both sides until I can find a way for them not to shoot at each other. That’s what I am. That’s what I do. So, what do you think? Can you make a try at talking to these people?”

  It was still hard to see anything of Cullen’s expressions, just the mad dark eyes. The stare.

  “People?” The tone was harsh, defensive—challenging the notion.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Cullen. Absolutely they’re people. Different as they come—well, different as I’ve yet seen, but they have kids, they laugh, in their own way. They have emotions such as humans have, possibly very close to what humans have.”

  “Even if I accept that, I can’t talk to them. I don’t know how.”

  “I can teach you. I can teach you enough in three days that you can express yourself, ask questions, and convince these people that you’re worth talking to. After that, it’s up to you. But I’ll give you the tools for that, too. Is there a glimmer of hope in that? Absolutely. There’s hope in that for a lot of people. Become me. Become what I am. Learn to speak the language, think the language, dream in the language.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Not if you believe you can’t. Believe that you have to. Figure that every word you learn is valuable. Three hundred words, and you can carry on a conversation. When you can carry on a conversation you’re a person to them. And from that start, you can get more words, on topics that interest you. I don’t know how much aptitude you have. But you’re in luck on that point, Mr. Cullen. The one kyo who’s interested in you does have it—so even if you can’t do it all, he can meet you coming the other way, and the two of you can make it. This person has the importance to negotiate with my superiors—and that is power. He’d also like not to be at war with humans. He’s said so. Does the thought of ending this war appeal to you at all, Mr. Cullen? Or had you rather just sit in this box?”

  “I can’t—” Cullen began to shiver—controlled it, tucking both hands under his arms. “Can’t think at the moment.”

  “You are thinking. You’re asking yourself if there’s a way out. And if there is a change, is it going to be worse? I can’t answer any of that. I can’t fix your situation. But you can. I’ll tell you this much, Mr. Cullen—you’re potentially important. You’re so potentially important I’m going to take several days off from a major diplomatic conference between the kyo and the power I represent, and I’m going to teach you how to teach yourself from here on out. You don’t think you can do it. I’m going to show you that you can.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Comb the hair, Mr. Cullen. Easier to keep it controlled in a braid, and I don’t think you’ll find a kyo anywhere who knows how to cut hair. At least you can trim a braid. Let’s get you cleaned up, for a start.”

  Cullen began to comb again, mechanically. Yanked without finesse. Hair broke, snarled in knots.

  “I’m going to open the door, Mr. Cullen. Step back a bit.”

  Cullen didn’t protest. He stepped back. Bren took the key card from his pocket and put it in the slot a little removed from the door.

  It slid back. And there was no barrier.

  Cullen stood there, looking at them, outnumbered.

  “Sit,” Tano said in ship-speak, waving Cullen toward the inbuilt bowl-bed that was the only furniture.

  Cullen sat. Tano took the comb from him and, standing, began to work on the problem himself, with water from the tap. It was going to be a lengthy process.

  “Let’s start,” Bren said, folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Three days, Mr. Cullen.”

  • • •

  Several hours made a difference. Cullen—shaven, damp hair combed and braided, enough of it surviving to make a very respectable queue, though without a clip—sat on his bed. Bren sat on a chair—Jago had brought that in. Banichi and the rest of them sat as easily on the floor as about a campsite.

  And Cullen was trying. Hands clasped white-knuckled, elbows on knees, occasionally, despite the sweat beading up in the humidity and the heat, giving a small shiver.

  It was easy to feel sorry for him. Easy to feel deeply sorry in the situation, that he had to turn off compassion, and tell Prakuyo never, ever, to let this man go back to his own people.

  Am I a good man?

  Good enough to keep the existence of those I protect as secret as it needs to be? Yes. In any way I have to.

  Good enough to use what I know—in the best way, and help this man? And help the kyo? I hope so.

  “The face,” he said to Cullen. “They find our faces a little scary.”

  “Mutual,” Cullen muttered.

  “Until you know the kyo in question, wear just one comfortable expression, and try to keep it. Their faces can’t move. The fact that ours do—spooks them and confuses them. Kyo faces do blush pretty much under the same conditions we do. Look for the speckled patterns in the skin to come and go. The eyes are expressive. Kyo we’ve dealt with know, now, that our facial shifts mean something specific. They’ll be working to understand and adapt, but until they know you really, really well, try to keep your face calm, so they can concentrate on what you’re saying.”

  “I get that.”

  “Sounds. I’m not sure whether it’s more important than visio
n, but hearing is very, very important to them. Listen to the sounds they make. Learn to differentiate. The booms and thumps affect the meanings of words, the way if we smile or snarl while saying something, it changes ‘Sure I will’ into a joke—or a firm no. Just use your ears. The booms are startlement and happiness—except the really loud ones. I suspect those can hurt you.”

  “That—I know.”

  “Let them know if they hurt you. They can learn restraint, the same way you’ll control your facial expressions. The thumps are disapproval, the louder the more definite. Pay attention to those. I’m sure there are finesses to them I don’t remotely imagine. Over time, you’ll figure things I don’t know. And time is something I think you will have.”

  “You’re terrifying me. I can’t possibly—”

  “You can, Mr. Cullen. Look at what you’ve learned in, what, three hours? You can ask to talk to someone, you can say what you need, you can understand instructions about this place. That’s a lot—in three hours. Now I’m going to test your memory. I’m going to leave you for a while. Sit and think through all those expressions. When I come back—I’ll see how much you remember.”

  Cullen nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  Joke. A grim one. But a rise in spirits. Bren gave an appreciative nod, got to his feet, Banichi and the others got up, and very matter-of-factly Tano took the chair outside and set it down as they left. The key card closed the door, and locked it. Banichi tested it.

  “We need some things,” Bren said to them, walking away down the corridor. “I shall ask to talk to Prakuyo, and make some arrangements. I would like two of you to go back to the station and bring another change of clothes, a paper notebook, and several pens.” He gave a signal that meant ulterior motive, without defining what it was, but likely his aishid could guess one primary reason was simply to establish that they could come and go without hindrance.

  “Yes,” Algini said.

  “Be discreet in all this. No word of this prisoner to anyone, except the barest details to the dowager, in utmost secrecy: tell her Cullen exists, that I am negotiating, that I wish her to hold this matter to herself alone, and that I am requesting her help in maintaining deep secrecy. Do not give a hint of this to any staff, not even Narani. Nor to Jase-aiji. I shall ask Prakuyo to request this also of Matuanu and Hakuut, and only hope they have not at any point talked about Cullen or what I am doing on this ship. Discretion. Absolute.”