They were willing to follow Aiah the Queen of Barkazi, or at least to think about following her.
It wasn’t just that they were exploring their options. If they wanted to involve themselves in a bidding war between the factions, they could do it openly, negotiate through their agents in Garshab.
No, it was treachery they were meditating—the deliberate betrayal of their current employers. The mercenaries supposedly had a professional code that prevented such things. They were betraying not only their employers but their profession.
They were meeting with her because they wanted to. They were already convinced they wanted to switch sides—otherwise they wouldn’t be here at all.
What Aiah should strive to do was, in essence, passive—she should not change their minds, but rather allow their preconceptions to model her behavior. She had to be whatever they wanted her to be, whether it was the Sorceress-Queen of Barkazi or the Dreaming Sisters’ Apprentice or a superheroine out of one of Aldemar’s films.
“I don’t suppose I will be allowed to remain,” says a voice in Aiah’s ear. She jumps, puts a hand to her heart.
“Sorry I startled you,” apologizes Dr. Romus in his eerie, reedlike voice. His wizened brown face looks more amused than apologetic.
“I forgot you were here.”
“Yes,” more amusement, “that happens more often than you’d think. I thought I should remind you I was here before your guests arrive.”
“Thank you.” Aiah tries to calm her flailing heart. “I suppose you shouldn’t stay. Thank you for understanding.”
Dr. Romus uncoils his forebody—thick as Constantine’s leg—and drops a loop to the floor, followed by the rest of him. He keeps his head raised, at Aiah’s level, as he progresses toward the hatch. His feathery tentacles are busy around the lock for a moment, and then, smiling, he opens the door and makes his way out.
“Bye now,” Romus says. “See you later.”
Aiah tries to focus on the dossier, but her concentration fails. In a few minutes, Cornelius comes in to tell her the delegates’ boat has been sighted—two green and one white light, as agreed. “Do you want to wait here?” he asks.
Aiah shakes her head. “I should meet them.” She closes the dossier, opens a drawer of Lamarath’s desk, sees a pair of large cockroaches scuttle from the light… She closes the door and decides she may as well leave the dossier on the desk.
Outside, in the red glow of the strands of lights, Aiah waits on the rusting deck plates. There is a creak from the cables that support the swinging bridge that leads from the mooring. Aiah strains into the darkness, sees several shadows crossing the bridge, the first preceded by a tiny cherry-red glow. This proves to be a cigar clenched in the teeth of Sergeant Lamarath, who guides two men in uniform: Holson and Galagas.
Aiah waits for the group to get off the bridge, then steps forward and holds out her hand. If they have come this far, taken this risk, she will at least walk across the deck to greet them.
“General Holson. Colonel Galagas. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”
Holson is a big, broad man with a powerful neck and shoulders; his hair is cropped so severely that the rugged contours of his skull, reflecting red light, are plainly visible. His hand is large, his palm dry; as he clasps Aiah’s hand he looks at her with intent, unwinking eyes.
Galagas is smaller, with a mustache. He is formally correct: he tucks his cap under one arm and bows slightly over Aiah’s hand as he takes it. Somehow he avoids clicking his heels.
Formality covering nervousness? Aiah wonders. Perhaps he doesn’t even want to be here.
“Would you follow me, gentlemen?” Aiah says. “I’ll take us to a place where we can talk.”
Holson nods. Aiah turns to Lamarath. “Thank you, Sergeant,” she says. Lamarath grins and waves his cigar.
“No problem, miss.”
Holson gazes uneasily over the floating half-world as he follows Aiah toward the hatch. “How many people live in these places?”
“Millions, if you count them all.”
Holson looks unhappy. “And here they are, in our security zone. I had no idea these places existed. These people are a danger.”
Aiah pauses, one hand on the open hatch, and looks at Holson. She doesn’t want to inadvertently cause some kind of horrid persecution of those who live in the half-worlds.
“These people are a danger only if you destroy their homes,” Aiah says. “Then they will be in your security zone, and you won’t want them there.”
She lets Holson chew that over for a few seconds, then enters the hatch and leads the delegates to Lamarath’s office. She offers them drinks, coffee flask, and snacks from a table made ready for them.
Galagas pours coffee for his superior. “Sorry I don’t have any Barkazi Black,” Aiah says. “I have a cousin who works at the factory, but his last shipment was delayed by the war.”
This is not true—the cousin exists; the shipment does not—but Aiah wants through this genial lie to establish some kind of connection here, invoke the tribal longings of her audience…
Galagas hands coffee to Holson. “What’s his name?” he asks.
“Endreio. Endreio the Younger, actually.”
Galagas pours coffee for himself. “I have a cousin there myself. Franko. And my grandfather was a director there, before the war.”
The factory was a strong point for the Fastani during the fighting, Aiah knows. The Battle of the Coffee Factory was one of the early bloodbaths.
Galagas sips his drink. “My grandfather said the coffee never tasted the same after they rebuilt the factory.”
“My grandmother says the same thing.” Which, it happens, is true.
Holson looks at her and runs a hand over his cropped head. “Is all your family from Old Oelph?” This being the district with the coffee factory, now part of the Metropolis of Garkhaz.
“My maternal line is Oelphil. My father’s might be, it’s hard to say…” She looks at Holson. “Your name was originally Old Oelphil, ne? There was Holson the Praefect back in Karlo’s time…”
“He is supposed to be an ancestor.” Holson looks a little skeptical as he says this, probably so that Aiah won’t think he’s boasting by claiming descent from one of the Old Oelphil families, those who, according to the legend, had agreed to be reincarnated over and over again as protectors of the Barkazil people.
Of course, the records from the time of Senko and Karlo have not survived, and anyone can claim descent from anyone else.
“Would you like to sit down?” Aiah invites.
She sits behind Lamarath’s desk. Squares her shoulders, folds her hands on top of the desk.
Holson and Galagas sit. Galagas sits bolt upright, plainly uncomfortable, but Holson’s bold gaze challenges Aiah.
“And you look different than on video,” he says.
“The light here,” she says, gesturing at the fluorescents, “is less flattering.”
“You’re younger than I expected.”
Aiah allows herself what she hopes is an enigmatic smile. “I’ve come a long way,” she says.
“And where do you plan to go?”
“Farther. Barkazi, if things work out.”
Skepticism narrows Holson’s eyes. “And what will you do in Barkazi?”
He is pushing, she thinks. She suspects he will not respect her unless she pushes back.
“What I do,” she says, “depends on what kind of support I can acquire in the meantime. Right now there are only two Barkazil military units in the world, and they are fighting on opposite sides of a war that has nothing to do with Barkazi. I like to solve my problems one at a time, and that’s the problem I’d like to start with.”