— From you, ma — calmly replied the boy — this is how you explained it to uncle Wang Ming. And who are fags?
— People who turn sexual orientation into a political issue — intervened Graendal — but let's first deal with the Nazis. Firstly, I did not take the decision to deport all by myself, there was the panel of supreme judges chosen for this year. You know how...
— I know — Irji interrupted — they teach it in the first class.
— Good boy. Now please print out the article that calls me a fascist.
Irji made a few mouse clicks, and the printer spew out several sheets of paper. The first had a bright headline:
"Shocking statements by a Meganesian Inquisitor." Below was a picture of Graendal and commentary by Nurali Abu Saleh, Commissioner for Human Rights of the European Counciclass="underline" "For the first time in its history, the European Union provides a tribune to a fascist."
The text went on, with fragments of Graendal’s speech in bold. The selection was impressive, the journalists did a good job with the scissors.
"Magna Carta stands above all moral authority and all religions with all their history"
"We have the right to use moral terror on any group of people and their customs"
"If some people do not like our rules, they should leave our country"
"There are no compromises. The court issued an order, and the police is obliged to fulfill it"
"Your democracy is a fig leaf covering the slave collar on your neck"
"You will be put on your knees by anybody who knows that your tolerance is just cowardice"
"The government has no right to allow itself luxuries such as conscience or compassion"
"We keep the efficient military so that they can use the weapons without hesitation"
— Wow — said Laysha, looking over his shoulder — could be worse, they only you called a fascist and not, say, a cannibal. Judging by the quotes, you would deserve being called cannibal. Gren, did you really say all that?
— No, Laysha. I mean, I really said it, but this is all taken out of context. These devils just collected all the pieces and made a spaghetti.
— On TV it sounded much better — supported Irji — you should have seen it, Ma. By the way, I recorded it all. For the history and you know, if it ever comes useful.
— I couldn’t see it, it was so long, and to listen to all the nonsense from those self-important idiots.
— They're funny — said the boy — they speak English, but make no sense at all.
— It's called "political rhetoric" — Graendal explained — a trick to confuse the audience and distract them with all sorts of nonsense.
— Same as you do when you're too lazy to do the homework — added Laysha.
The phone beeped. Graendal sighed “here it starts” and took the phone.
— Hello, ... Oh, hi mom... Okay... Yes, no, not really... Well, all of them... no, honestly, I do not want and will not... Ok, give him the phone... Yes, dad... Wait a minute, I'll explain...
Graendal explained for quarter of an hour. Then he hung up the phone and silently poured himself another glass of grappa.
— What is it? — asked Laysha.
— The parents also read the "fascist" article — he replied — my father urged me to email the coordinator of Foreign Affairs, asking him to send a note of protest to the European Commissioner, and to deny Abu Salih and those journalists a visa to the Confederation.
— And they are contractually obligated to do it?
— Yeah — he said, slurping the cold Ein Topf — dad even quoted the paragraph number something, obligations in case of hostile acts of foreign officials upon public officers of the Confederacy. But why? Well, we deny the visa to these freaks, what next? It's like suing your neighbor for his cat shitting on your porch. You might win a coin, but you let everyone know that your porch stinks.
The phone beeped again.
— Eat, Gren, I'll take this — threw Laysha — Hello, who is that... what... oh, I see... me? Laysha, people say I’m his wife, could be true... what... In fact, he is eating soup... are you sure you have to do it today? Maybe just over the phone? ...ah, and let him review the notes? Okay, I’ll ask him.
— Who's that? — asked Graendal.
— Press. A guy from “Pacific Social News” asks for a visit. He says that it is written in your contract.
— I know, and it says "immediately". Damn, why couldn’t he meet me when I landed. At least he doesn’t want to come in the middle of the night.
— So, shall I let him come?
— Well, yes, we have to.
— You can come — said Laysha into the headset — we’ll meet you in the lagoon, just call 20 minutes in advance... You need no help? Oh, if it’s the latest model... Ok, call if you get lost.
— What did he say? — asked Graendal.
— He has some fancy satellite guidance device, we’ll see. His name is Malik Sekar. He promised to arrive in an hour.
— Is he a journalist? — Irji asked.
— Yes, son.
— I hope he will not be as hungry as the last one, who ate all the apricot jam. How did he only eat that much without getting sick?
3. Malik Sekar, reporter for “Pacific Social News”
A military-style hydroplane jet approached so quickly that the audience got anxious, first for the fate of the reporter, and then for the fate of the pier, which narrowly escaped getting crushed by the heavy machine. However, the landing ended smoothly, with the aircraft only slightly scraping the deck. Almost immediately, a young sporty guy jumped out. He looked like an Indonesian, was in his 30s or maybe even younger. He brought a huge fruit cake, immediately improving Irji’s opinion on the reporter folk.
— Sorry for the late hour — he said, shaking hands with Graendal — I thought you had nothing for tea.
— That’s how you think of me? — fumed Laysha.
— Oh, sorry.
— That’s fine, I'm kidding. Take your stuff and sit down at the table. Want some grappa, sen Sekar?
Sekar looked at the half-empty glass in the corner of the table and nodded.
— A little. If sen Laysha also...
— I’ll join — she snorted, taking another two glasses — how expensive is that brutal thing you came on?
— No idea, it's the company business — he replied, plopping the cake on the table and unpacking a laptop and a small video camera — the newspaper bought it from sea patrol when those guys upgraded. It’s outdated for patrol but fine for the press.
Irji, meanwhile, possessively pulled the cake closer to himself.
— Just don’t overeat — warned Graendal and turned back to the reporter — I'm ready, sen Sekar. Let’s start. Hey, what are you typing already?
— Introduction, first impressions — he said, with his fingers flying at an incredible rate — the usual stuff. What is your profession, sen Vlkov?
— In the college I studied automated home appliances, and my second specialty is rapid technical diagnosis. So I solve customers’ problems with generators, computers, refrigerators, microwaves, stuff like that.
— Does your profession help your work as a judge?
— Hard to tell. On the one hand, yes, lots of experience dealing with angry people. On the other hand, this was the reason the board delegated me to go to the fucking ... I mean ...
— I understand where. Go on, it's very interesting.
— Nothing interesting. All three social regulation experts were rejected. Ashur and Macrin because they are smartasses , and Jella — for extreme sharpness of judgment. Tin Fan was rejected since as a programmer, she has no experience working with people, and Dolphin — per his occupation. He’s a ship mechanic, and his vocabulary...