Starshine: Aurora Rising Book One (13 page)

M
ATEI
U
TTARA MOVED WITH
deliberate aimlessness through the milling guests in the foyer of the ballroom. Dimmed lighting, standard protocol for dinner parties across millennia, gave him some measure of freedom in his movements. He took care not to abuse the privilege.

The current conditions—here, now, for the next seven to eleven minutes—most closely mimicked the environment he expected to encounter the following evening. Politicians, businessmen and press engaged in polite, formal mingling, everyone save the intelligence agents concerned solely with the impression they created.

Beyond the threshold eighteen dinner tables were arranged with careful precision, separated by a wide aisle cutting down the center. The aisle served as a clear demarcation of the factions present: Alliance to the left, Federation to the right. Even the corporate representatives and media were required to declare their allegiance for all to see.

The road to peace had quite a few more steps to be trod. Yet cracks in the symbolic wall were manifesting, courtesy of several brave souls among the attendees.

Political boundaries leaked like a sieve when it came to popular culture, but visible differences still existed between Alliance and Federation citizens. The inhabitants of Earth and the 1
^st
wave colonies preferred rather baroque clothing as the current fashion; ensembles tended to include multiple hues or a vibrant, often garish accent piece. Those hailing from Senecan worlds favored dark, more muted attire or a single dominant hue. They saw it as befitting their self-proclaimed no-nonsense, pragmatic nature.

The distinctions faded as one moved up the political ladder of course, for political culture remained traditionalist everywhere. Still, you could see it in the details if you knew how to look. For instance, among the brave souls chipping at the wall was Thomas Kalnin, the Alliance Deputy Minister for Textiles, whose bright fuchsia lapel kerchief in an otherwise conservative suit contrasted with the subdued sepia pantsuit of his conversation partner Sara Triesti, head of the Senecan Trade Biomedics Subdivision.

The crowd thinned a bit as those on the periphery began to wander toward their seats. He took a half-pace back into the shadows to survey the room.

The set of wide doors in the foyer constituted the primary method of ingress and egress to the ballroom. Halfway down the left wall were two doors used by the service personnel; one led to the kitchen, the other to supply stations then a maintenance corridor. The area bustled with activity as wait staff hurried in and out making final preparations.

Far less obvious was an unmarked door in the right wall, just in front of the dais that stretched the width of the room. It led to an engineering hub for the various screens, lighting and invisible acoustic enhancements. A single technician staffed it during events. Beyond it lay another maintenance corridor—but this one opened into a labyrinth of passages which spread through the convention center. He expected this to be his exit.

Director Kouris entered alongside his adversary-turned-partner Minister Santiagar. They would not linger amid the patrons. Not this evening. He could feel the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the intangible pressure on the guests to disperse, to take their places as rapt observers of the performance to come.

He watched Kouris and Santiagar move across the ballroom toward the seats of honor, aides trailing them in parallel clusters. The ‘aides’ included three Alliance and two Senecan intelligence agents identified the day before along with a dozen of their brethren elsewhere in the delegations.

There was danger in waiting until the final event on the final night to act. He would not be granted a second opportunity. Nevertheless, his instructions were to let the Summit play out, to let this very public spectacle of diplomacy run its very public course.

The reason for the instructions had not been provided, but it wasn’t his concern. He knew quite well his role. He was to be the Bishop’s Opening in a galactic chess match.

His white pawn stopped to acquire a drink at the bar before heading to one of the tables. Mr. Nythal had proved adequate in furnishing necessary access and information regarding certain codes and procedures, but was of little additional use. Yet another matter which was not his concern.

His
concern reached the head table, and the pressure on the crowd to alight became suffocating. He discreetly slid into the throng of reporters flowing to the media tables.

“Welcome everyone, to our banquet this evening. Friends, guests, press, we invite you to enjoy some of the famed Atlantis hospitality. Fellow Summit attendees, you’ve all worked extremely hard these last two days—it’s time to relax for a couple of hours with a fine meal and finer wine.”

Jaron was already relaxing with something considerably stronger than wine. He took a long sip of the Polaris Burst cocktail while shifting to the right in order for the waiter to place a spinach salad in front of him. The first of—was it five courses or six? He couldn’t be bothered to recall.

The dynamic voice demanded he return his attention to the stage. He truly hoped the man wasn’t intending on talking through every one of however many courses there were. The Alliance Minister was annoyingly charismatic, exhibiting an earnest demeanor which oozed sincerity and optimism. Director Kouris had spoken at the opening night’s dinner. It had been a direct and businesslike speech, as was his manner—supremely competent and utterly uninspiring.

The Minister stepped out from behind the coral-veined marble podium. It served no real purpose beyond an oversized holder for a glass of water, but podiums were a tradition which for some reason never seemed to fade away. If the man needed the crutch of speech notes, they resided on his whisper. His easy, natural mannerisms made it unlikely, though.

“We won’t hide from the truth of Earth and Seneca’s troubled past. To ignore it would be to devalue the sacrifices of those who lost their lives in a war both sides believed to be just. But we cannot alter the past. We can only move forward.”

Santiagar paused to sip his water, and Jaron leaned in to chuckle at the punch line of a joke being shared by his table companions. He hadn’t caught the setup, but it hardly mattered.

Mid-level members of the Senecan delegation surrounded him at the white-clothed table. While the Summit was by most accounts going well, few on either side were ready to mix socially yet. From a hierarchical perspective, he surmised this was the ‘auxiliary’ table—occupied by those on the fringe of real power.

He swallowed a frown in the fiery burn of the cocktail. By right he should be seated next to the Director, but he had been bumped in favor of the Chairman of Elathan Pharmaceuticals, with the admonition that this
was
a trade summit, after all.

“For though we have our differences, we are all members of the human race. We share thousands of years of history. We share a heritage, for Earth is the motherland for each of us.”

Jaron nearly choked on a bite of ciabatta and quickly covered his mouth with a napkin. The Minister’s eyes shown with the fervor of a true believer. It was revolting.

“We are here this week to take our first steps on a new path. A path which will bring greater prosperity to the citizens of our galaxy, no matter the affiliation of the world they call home. Director Kouris shares my commitment to forging this new path, and I give him my deepest appreciation and thanks.”

The arrival of the soup dish provided him an opportunity to surreptitiously glance over at the press contingent. He didn’t know what he expected to see—a ninja in a mask with a saber strapped to his back? He hadn’t the faintest idea what the man looked like, or even if it was a man at all. Perhaps he might at least spot a steely gaze or an indefinable aura surrounding a
dangerous person
. But he could discern nothing. No sign or clue as to who among the two dozen reporters was the wolf in the fold.

He
did
however notice the vision in red crossing the room on her way to a corporate table near the corner. Silver hair cascaded down sculpted shoulders to frame a plunging neckline and ample cleavage.

Santiagar had abandoned the podium to stride along the front of the dais. His hands animated the energy of his words. “I believe, as the Director believes, commerce between private corporations and individual entrepreneurs should not be curtailed by political boundaries. Both the Alliance and the Federation espouse the principles of free enterprise and economic liberty. The time has come to practice what we preach.”

Jaron gestured to one of the junior attachés seated at a lesser table to come over. When the young man—Cande-something—reached his side, he leaned in to mutter in his ear. “Do me a favor and see that a Velvet Fantasy is delivered to the lovely lady in red over there. And make damn sure she’s made aware it’s from me.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.” The man—Chris Candela was his name, he thought—nodded and scurried off. Jaron relaxed back in the chair and pretended to gaze with interest at what mercifully appeared to be the conclusion of the speech.

“Tomorrow we will be presenting a series of real, concrete initiatives which will relax trade restrictions on a number of consumer goods, opening new markets for Alliance and Senecan companies alike. In addition, I’m pleased to announce Director Kouris and I have agreed to meet again next year in what we hope will become a regular conference devoted to expanding galactic commerce.”

The Minister stopped at the perfect center of the stage and smiled with assured conviction at the audience. “Here’s to new beginnings.”

As Santiagar descended the stairs to shake Kouris’ hand, Jaron looked over his shoulder to catch the eye of the lady in red. She raised her drink to him with a small dip of her chin and a seductive smile.

Diffuse lights transformed the waters to a glowing turquoise beneath the translucent walkway. Tiny ripples danced in the mild breeze cooling the air after what had been a warm, sunny day. Glare from the many hotels, restaurants and clubs fashioned an eerie blue-filtered aurora in the night sky.

The Summit banquet had concluded three hours earlier. Afterward the attendees had practically trampled one another in their eagerness to scatter throughout the resort colony and partake in their sin of choice.

The reputation of the man Matei followed was not that of a sinner. Those who knew him regarded him as squeaky-clean to a fault, which would be why he walked alone rather than joining any of the roving groups of his coworkers. It would also be why the man was heading toward the less well-lit area of the entertainment quarter, where his carnal lapse was unlikely to be witnessed by those same coworkers.

Matei trailed his target into a sizeable crowd spilling out of a large theatre. The façade was festooned with garish flamingos, frolicking dolphins and a strange yellow-and-orange flying creature, all intertwined with neon magenta crystals. The marquee advertised a full-sensory interactive circus performance.

Past the theatre the crowd dispersed somewhat, and with a right turn shadows began to fall across the illuminated walkway. Progressively seedier bars competed with body art parlors, sensory booths and ‘leisure’ clubs. He quickened his pace.

As they passed the entrance to one of the more popular clubs and the foot traffic briefly increased, he bumped against his target. “Sorry, excuse me.” A clumsy grasp of a fleshy upper arm masked the pinprick of the microneedle.

The man didn’t even glance at him. “It’s fine.”

Matei smiled nondescriptly and blended back into the passersby to continue following three meters behind. Twenty steps later the man’s gait became erratic, then slowed to sway unsteadily.

He sidled in beside his target and placed an arm around the man’s waist for support. “Easy there. I think you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

Unfocused eyes looked over groggily. “Wha…you….” The eyes drifted closed as the man sagged into his arms.

He held the slumping figure upright and guided him to an offshoot alley, then down two more alleyways, until the discordant sounds of the quarter faded to a low buzz. They moved around the corner of the rearmost building and he let the man collapse against the wall. A few incoherent mumblings escaped, but by this point all motor function control had ceased.