“Sir,” ventured Captain Hetnys, perhaps because I’d stopped, forcing her to stop, and Sword of Atagaris, and Lieutenant Tisarwat and Kalr Five. “Begging the fleet captain’s indulgence. No one’s supposed to be in the Undergarden. People don’t stay here.”
I looked pointedly toward the people sitting at tables, beyond that doorway, all of them carefully not noticing us. Looked around at the citizens passing by. Said to Tisarwat, “Lieutenant, go see how our move-in is coming along.” I could have any information I wanted from my Mercy of Kalrs with no more than a thought, but Tisarwat’s stomach had settled, now we were off the shuttle, and she was beginning to be hungry, and tired.
“Sir,” she replied, and left. I walked away from Captain Hetnys and her ancillary, through that spiral-decorated doorway. Five followed me. The painter tensed as we passed, hesitated, then continued painting.
Two of the people sitting at different scarred, mismatched tables wore the usual Radchaai jacket, trousers, and gloves—clearly the standard issue, stiff fabric, grayish-beige, the sort of clothing any citizen was entitled to but no one wore who could afford better. The rest wore loose, light shirts and trousers in deep colors, red and blue and purple, vivid against the dingy gray walls. The air was still and close enough to make those jacketless shirts look far preferable to my uniform. I saw none of the sashes I’d seen on the concourse, and hardly any jewelry at all. Most held their bowls of what I had presumed was tea in bare hands. I almost might not have been on a Radchaai station.
At my entrance, the proprietor had gone back to a bowl-stacked corner, and she watched her customers now with careful attention, very obviously could not spare any for me. I walked over to her, bowed, and said, “Excuse me, Citizen. I’m a stranger here. I wonder if you could answer a question.” The proprietor stared at me, seemingly uncomprehending, as though the kettle in her bare hand had just spoken to her, or as though I’d spoken gibberish. “I’m told today is a very important Athoeki holiday, but I see no signs of it here.” No penis garlands, no sweets, just people going about their business. Pretending not to notice soldiers standing in the middle of their neighborhood center.
The proprietor scoffed. “Because all Athoeki are Xhai, right?” Kalr Five had stopped just behind me. Captain Hetnys and the Sword of Atagaris ancillary stood where I’d left them, Captain Hetnys staring after me.
“Ah,” I said, “I understand now. Thank you.”
“What are you doing here?” asked a person sitting at a table. No courtesy title, not even the minimally polite citizen. People sitting near her tensed, looked away from her. Everyone fell silent who had not already been. One person sitting alone a few meters away, one of the two dressed in properly Radchaai fashion, cheap, stiff jacket, gloves, and all, closed her eyes, took a few deliberate breaths, opened her eyes. But said nothing.
I ignored all of it. “I need somewhere to stay, Citizen.”
“There’s no fancy hotels here,” replied the person who had spoken so rudely. “Nobody comes here to stay. People come here to drink, or eat authentic Ychana food.”
“Soldiers come here to beat the crap out of people minding their own business,” muttered someone behind me. I didn’t turn to look, sent a quick, silent message ordering Kalr Five not to move.
“And the governor’s always got room for important people,” continued the person who had been speaking, as though that other voice had never even existed.
“Maybe I don’t want to stay with the governor.” That seemed to be the right thing to say, for some reason. Everyone within earshot laughed. Except one, the carefully silent, Radchaai-attired person. The few pins she wore were generic and cheap—brass, colored glass. Nothing that spoke of family affiliation. Only a small enameled IssaInu at her collar suggested anything specific about her. It was the Emanation of movement and stillness, and suggested she might be an adherent of a sect that practiced a particular sort of meditation. Then again, the Emanations were popular, and given they fronted the temple of Amaat here, might be stand-ins for a set of Athoeki gods. So in the end even the IssaInu told me little. But it intrigued me.
I pulled out the chair opposite her, sat. “You,” I said to her, “are very angry.”
“That would be unreasonable,” she said after a breath.
“Feelings and thoughts are irrelevant.” I could see that I’d pushed her too far, that in a moment she would rise, urgently, and flee. “It’s only actions Security cares about.”
“So they tell me.” She shoved her bowl away from her and made as if to rise.
“Sit,” I said, sharply. Authoritative. She froze. I waved the proprietor over. “Whatever it is you’re serving, I’ll have one,” I said, and received a bowl with some sort of powder in it, which, once steaming water was poured onto it, became the thick tea everyone was drinking. I took a taste. “Tea,” I guessed, “and some sort of roasted grain?” The proprietor rolled her eyes, as though I’d said something particularly stupid, and turned and walked away without answering. I gestured unconcerned resignation and took another taste. “So,” I said to the person across from me, who had not yet relaxed back into her seat but had at least not gotten up and fled. “It will have been political.”
She widened her eyes, all innocence. “Excuse me, Citizen?” Ostensibly, technically polite, though I was sure she could read the signs of my rank and ought to have used the highest address I was entitled to, if she knew it. If she truly meant to be polite.
“No one here is looking at you or speaking to you,” I said. “And your accent isn’t the same as theirs. You’re not from here. Reeducation usually works by straightforward conditioning, by making it intensely unpleasant to do the thing that got you arrested to begin with.” Or the most basic sort did, it could and no doubt did become much more complicated. “And the thing that’s upsetting you is expressing anger. And you’re so very angry.” There was no one here familiar to me, but anger I recognized. Anger was an old companion of mine by now. “It was an injustice, start to finish, yes? You hadn’t done anything. Not anything you thought was wrong.” Likely no one here thought it was wrong, either. She hadn’t been driven from the tables here, her presence hadn’t cleared everyone else from the vicinity. The proprietor had served her. “What happened?”
She was silent a few moments. “You’re very used to saying you want something and then just getting it, aren’t you,” she said at length.
“I’ve never been to Athoek Station before today.” I took another sip of the thick tea. “I’ve only been here an hour and so far I don’t much like what I see.”
“Try somewhere else, then.” Her voice was even, very nearly without any obvious trace of irony or sarcasm. As though she meant only what the words she said meant.
“So what happened?”
“How much tea do you drink, Citizen?”
“Quite a bit,” I said. “I’m Radchaai, after all.”
“No doubt you only drink the best.” Still that apparent sincerity. She had regained most of her composure, I guessed, and this overt pleasantness with its near-inaudible undercurrent of anger was normal for her. “Handpicked, the rarest, most delicate buds.”
“I’m not so fussy,” I said, equably. Though, to be honest, I had no idea whether the tea I drank was handpicked or not, or anything about it, except its name, and that it was good. “Is tea picked by hand, then?”
“Some,” she said. “You should go downwell and see. There are some very affordable tours. Visitors love them. Lots of people only come here to see the tea. And why shouldn’t they? What are Radchaai without tea, after all? I’m sure one of the growers would be happy to show you around personally.”