She thought about walking to the village, but decided against it for now. She couldn’t take chances. Given her questionable departure from Capsize, it was unlikely Vammond had notified the supply ship about her. If Roca wasn’t here when it arrived, its pilot would have no reason to wait. Even if he expected her, she doubted he would tarry; other settlements depended on him to deliver their supplies in a timely manner.
Restless, she wandered about the room. She had just decided to go outside again when the front door opened, the old-fashioned way, swinging on hinges rather than shimmering away in a molecular airlock. A man stood framed in the doorway. He was about her height, husky, with curly black hair, dark skin, and brown eyes. Oil stained his wrinkled coverall. He froze in the process of taking off a heavy glove, staring at her in open astonishment.
“My greetings,” Roca said, self-conscious. “I hope you don’t mind my coming in. I couldn’t find anyone when the ship landed.”
The man continued to stare at her.
“The freighter,” Roca added. “I’m afraid I don’t know its name.” She heard how strange that sounded.
The fellow blinked, then finished pulling off his glove. His mood leaked through to Roca despite her mental shields: surprise, puzzlement, uncertainty, and pleasure at having company. The friendly quality of his mind appealed to her.
“Goodsir?” Roca asked. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m sorry.” He answered in an unexpected language. “I can’t understand you. Do you speak English?”
It took her a moment to reorient. He was using a language from Earth, of all places. She had assumed her people settled this planet; it never occurred to her that the Allied Worlds of Earth might have found it first. The supply ship was Skolian, but it wasn’t unusual for ships of both civilizations to service isolated settlements off the main travel routes. Although Skolians rarely spoke English, Roca had some familiarity with it, given her position as Foreign Affairs Councilor. It was among the languages she had chosen for the node in her spine.
“My English not so good,” she said, “but I do some.” As she heard more of it, her node would update her speaking ability. Having such an aid helped her learn languages fast, an invaluable asset to her job.
The man smiled, an expression of warmth and good nature. He spoke slowly, making it easier for her to follow. “I had no idea the supply ship was due in today. I thought it was two more days.”
“It is.” Roca smoothed her hands on her jumpsuit. “I am passenger on it, I hope.”
“Ah.” He closed the door and came over to her. “My name is Brad Tompkins.” Extending his ungloved hand, he added, “Welcome to Dalvador Port.”
Roca hesitated, trying to remember the custom his people had with hands. Her node came up with the answer; he was offering her a greeting in a manner that showed respect between two parties. She took his hand and moved his arm up and down. Apparently the gesture had the desired effect; by the time they released their grip, his tension had eased.
If she interpreted his responses correctly, the appropriate behavior now would be to give her name. She picked the names of two friends, a wife and husband she very much admired. “I am Jeri Christian.”
“Hello, Jeri.” He motioned awkwardly at his coverall. “My apologies for my clothes. I’ve been working on the flyer. It came down outside of Dalvador yesterday. Bad circuit, I think.” He pulled off his other glove. “Or maybe I need to replace the conductor plugs.”
His English had an accent compared to the “British English” Roca had learned, but the words were similar enough that she could follow most of what he said. Her node identified his dialect as “Californian,” which wasn’t a country on Earth she recognized.
“The port has damaged aircraft?” she asked.
“That’s right. I’m hoping I won’t need to order supplies.” His expression warmed. “Would you care for a drink—water, juice, anything?”
After two days with the brusque captain, Roca found Brad’s friendly nature like an oasis. “Water, thank you.”
“Coming right up.” He went to the bar, his relief so strong she picked it up despite her mental barriers. She unsettled him. He was glad to have something to occupy him, lest he pull apart his gloves with nervous twists.
He took out two glasses from under the bar. “The water is treated.”
“Treated?” she asked.
He poured clear, sparkling water from a pitcher into the glasses. “Did you see the clouds outside?”
“They are blue.”
Brad turned, holding their drinks. “As is all water here. It has a chemical in it, sort of like food dye. The natives have nanomeds in their bodies that break it down.” He came over and offered her a drink. “It probably wouldn’t hurt you to drink a little of the untreated stuff, but it might make you sick. This is treated.”
Roca took a sip. It tasted wonderful, as if it came from a spring high in the mountains. “Is good.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “If you will excuse me, I’ll go change.”
“Please, yes, be comfortable.”
Brad crossed the room and left through a glasswood door that glowed with a deep blue luster. When Roca was alone, she let her mind relax, giving it a chance to recover. She wasn’t used to one-on-one interactions with strangers. For her entire life, she had been distanced from everyone except her family, as if she were in a crystal sphere.
In many ways, being an empath intensified the effect. She needed the distance. If her mental defenses became too strong, though, they muffled her mind and slowed her thoughts until she felt only partially alive. She couldn’t shut out every emotion from every person; to stay human, she had to let herself be vulnerable to their minds. She noticed it most as a dancer, when spectators watched her perform. Scientists who studied psions claimed strong empaths picked up moods, magnified them, and projected them back to their audience. Roca never analyzed it; she knew only that when she felt a performance in her heart, she somehow linked more with her audience.
Yet even on stage she felt set apart, separated, performing, unspeaking and unreal, a fantasy to watch but never touch. In a way, her work as Foreign Affairs Councilor was another performance. She interacted with many governments, but her high status distanced her from people, a separation heightened by the formal protocols required by her duties. Intermediaries introduced her to her counterparts in other administrations and took care of any functions that involved less formal contact among their staffs.
Her title as a member of the Ruby Dynasty also created distance. The Ruby Dynasty and noble Houses were ancient. In these modern times of elected governments, only her family and the House of Majda wielded significant power, though the other Houses still existed, much as royal families continued on Earth. She had won her position as Foreign Affairs Councilor by election, but her Ruby title seemed to enthrall the public far more, until she felt as if her life had become more fantasy to them than reality, making the crystal sphere around her even thicker.
Here, with anonymity, she felt no distance. It unsettled and exhilarated her. The loss of that separation made her aware of how much it buffered her mind, but she also felt more connected to the people around her. Given her stumbling English, Brad probably couldn’t tell she had the Iotic accent of royalty. Even the captain, who had recognized that her accent came from another social class, hadn’t guessed enough of the truth to feel inhibited from speaking plainly. As aggravating as it had been, it had also refreshed Roca, like cold, bracing air. She reveled in this freedom she had never before known.
The door across the room opened, startling Roca out of her reverie. Brad walked in, smiling more naturally now, wearing blue trousers and a gray sweater that accented the width of his shoulders. With his dark hair and eyes, he resembled a nobleman in the House of Majda, except that they had straight hair and patrician noses. He had one other striking difference from a Majda lord—his friendly, open personality. The Majda held themselves so aloof that at times
Roca wondered if they considered anyone else worth their time. It was one reason she dreaded marriage to Prince Dayj Majda, her intended.
Brad beamed at her. “I must say, you’re a welcome sight.”
“Thank you.” She tried to soften her formality.
“I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” He lifted his hand, inviting her toward the sofa. “If you’d like, I can take you on a tour later. We could visit the village.”
“Yes. I like that.” She settled on one end of the couch. “I wonder—how long is village here?”
He sat on the other end, leaning back, relaxing as if he had known her all his life. “We aren’t certain. Six or seven centuries, maybe. It’s called Dalvador, and this area is the Dalvador Plains. The name goes back thousands of years.”
Roca wondered if he realized the significance of his words. A human settlement that old had to descend from the Ruby Empire, which meant her people would challenge any claim the Allieds made here. Did Brad know the history? Six millennia ago an unknown race of beings had come to Earth and taken away a small population of humans, moving them to the world Raylicon. Then the kidnappers vanished. Over the next millennia, the bewildered humans had developed star flight and gone in search of their lost home. Although they never found Earth, they established the Ruby Empire.
Unfortunately, the empire had soon fallen. It wasn’t until a few centuries ago that the Raylican people had regained star travel. As they spread out across space again, they split into two factions, the Skolian Imperialate and the Eubian Concord. When Earth’s children finally reached the stars, they found their siblings already here, busily building their two empires. Earth formed a third civilization, the Allied Worlds. As far as Roca knew, this was the first time the Allieds had claimed an ancient Ruby colony.
“This world,” she asked. “Hold it many people?”
“Not a lot. We estimate two hundred thousand, all on this continent.” Brad rubbed his chin. “The Dalvador Plains have relatively small villages, but if you cross the mountains to the Rillian Vales, you’ll find larger towns. The Blue Dales are high in the northern mountains. Nomadic archers live there.”
The names sounded like music to Roca. “Make you contacts with people?” Belatedly, her node suggested, Do you have many contacts with the people here?
“Some.” His mood dimmed. “A resort company on Earth plans to develop the area, put up hotels, spas, that sort of thing.”
It sounded like a good way to ruin a beautiful land. “People in village—know they you?” She meant to ask if the villagers knew about the resort, but it didn’t sound right. After a second, her node suggested, Do they know about this?
“Most of them know me.” Brad grinned, creasing the laugh lines around his eyes. “I enjoy their visits to the port. I’m the entire staff, so it’s great to have neighbors.”
Roca could see why they sought his company. “They are like you?” No, that wasn’t right. She wanted to ask if they were generally friendly toward offworlders.
“Actually, they aren’t much like us.” His mobile face became thoughtful. “Their culture has backslid a lot. They have virtually no health sciences and know nothing about electricity. They no longer even have a written language.”
None of it surprised Roca, except perhaps the lack of written language. This wouldn’t be the first Ruby settlement to lose its technology during its millennia of isolation. She spoke carefully. “This world is old Ruby colony.”
“Don’t the Ruby settlers descend from your ancestors?”
She nodded, relieved he understood. “Yes. They are part of us. Family, you see. Such worlds we think as Skolian.”
Brad gave her a rueful look. “I don’t really know the politics. I just run the port.”
“Is pretty world. I see why your businesspeople are wishing to develop it.” She thought of the pristine countryside. “Is sad, though, if they hurt this land.”
His face flashed with anger. “Yes! The company honchos just care about money. The people here don’t understand. They think we come from some province over the mountains. The resort planners are going to rob them of their lands, lives, and world, and they don’t have a clue.”
“Can someone help?” She tilted her head. “Someone like you, who has caring for their world?”
“Lord knows, I wish I could. But if I hinder the developers, it conflicts with my job.” He pushed his hand across his tightly curled hair. “I might be able to help a bit, though, if I’m careful.”
“I wish luck to you.” A distant rumble tugged at her awareness. She tilted her head. “Hear you noise?”
“What do you mean?”
The rumble deepened. “It come here.”
Brad sat up straighter, his forehead furrowing. “I don’t—” Suddenly he laughed, an open, hearty sound. “Hah! They must have seen your ship land. They probably think it was the supply ship.”
“The villagers?”
“You got it.”
Roca blinked. Got it? Her node had trouble with that one. Nor was she sure why villagers would come to the ship. Surely it didn’t provision the native population. Even if people here had somehow acquired the credit to buy offworld goods, selling to natives was of questionable legality. Under Skolian law, it would tangle Brad in a morass of complications. She knew less about Allied laws, though.
“They come for supplies?” she asked.
“Some.” Concern showed on his ever-changing face. “Medicine mostly.” Then he paused. Even if she hadn’t been an empath, she would have known he realized he had said too much. Awkwardly, he added, “And I, uh, can’t provide them with medicines, of course.”
Her voice cooled. “Of course.” Well, it wasn’t her affair. This was an Allied port, none of her business. “If not for medicine, why they come?”
His tension eased. “Chocolate.”
“Chocolate?”
He chuckled. “A drink.”
“Ah.” Roca had never heard of the substance.
“Their Bard likes it. So I treat him to it.”
“Bard?” The similarity to his name gave her pause. “A singer?”
“That’s right. The Dalvador Bard.” His smile morphed into a scowl. “The resort marketers call him the King of Skyfall because he lives in that castle in the village. They claim it adds ‘romance’ to the setting. But to name him a king, especially of an entire world, is absurd.”
Remembering the idyllic castle, she could see why the planners had jumbled their cultural cues. “But he sings?” She wondered if he and Brad ever mixed up their names.
“He keeps the history of his people in ballads. I guess you could call him a singing archivist. His voice is incredible.” Pleasure suffused Brad’s mood. “With formal training, I’ll bet he could walk into a job at any major opera company.”
That piqued Roca’s interest. “I regret I no hear him sing.”
“You might.” Brad had to raise his voice to be heard above the rumbling now. “He sometimes comes with Garlin to pick up the supplies.” He paused. “The, uh, chocolate.”
“Chocolate.” Her tone cooled. This had nothing to do with her, but it troubled her to think that he so flagrantly broke the law. For all Brad knew, medicines that helped his people could kill the natives here.
As the rumbling surrounded the house, Brad stood up. His smile had vanished. “You disapprove.”
She also rose to her feet. Her voice came out like ice. “Why I disapprove of chocolate?”
“Tell me something.” He regarded her steadily. “Have you ever had to watch someone you care about die because you didn’t have enough medical care to save them?”
“And if someone die from wrong care?” She met his gaze. “Or because expected supplies never come?”
He frowned. “I would never take resources meant for someone else. Nor would I dispense medicine without precautions.”
“You are doctor?”
“I have some knowledge.”
“Is not same.”
/> “Tell that to the mother whose baby dies in her arms.” His fist clenched at his side. “Tell the screaming farmer who has neither antibiotics to stop the infection in his injured leg nor anesthetics to knock him out while the town blacksmith saws it off.”
Roca flinched. No mental shield, no matter how strong, could block his fierce emotions. He had witnessed the scenes he described. She spoke quietly. “I am sorry.”
Brad loosened his fists. “I shouldn’t have unloaded that on you.” He tried to smile, but it barely qualified. “I really do give them chocolate. They will be disappointed to find I’ve none today.” He started toward the door. “Come on. Meet the locals.”
His regret flowed over Roca. As she went with him, the thunder outside grew even louder. Her pulse leapt. The walls were vibrating. She hung back as Brad opened the front door and stood framed in the entrance, his hands on his hips.
Outside, a blur of color sped past. Many boisterous people appeared to be riding large animals around the house. Brad started to laugh, for flaming sakes, as if the tumult were all a great show. He didn’t seem the least concerned.
The riders congregated in front of the door, their mounts stamping and snorting. The animals looked like horses that had been bioengineered into a new species, an extraordinarily graceful one. Two clear, crystalline horns on their heads refracted the sunlight like prisms, sending sparks of color everywhere. They had hooves made from the same substance, and their coats shimmered, either blue or lavender. The lovely creatures were much more refined than she had expected given all the noise they made.
She had more trouble seeing their riders, so she moved closer, standing right behind Brad. The men wore simple clothes, white shirts and rough trousers dyed dark colors, either blue or purple. Embroidery bordered their collars and cuffs. All had on knee-boots. Their hair, neck length or longer, stirred in the breezes.