Invitations: a Foreigner Short Story
by
C. J. Cherryh
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Closed Circle Publications
Box 18656
Spokane WA 99228
Invitations: a Foreigner short story © 2013 by C.J. Cherryh.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Signature Page
Section 1: The Background
Section 2: Invitations
Section 3
Section 4
Section 5
Section 6
Section 7
Section 8
Section 9
Section 10
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Invitations: a Foreigner Short Story
by
C.J. Cherryh
Section 1: The Background
The Earth of the atevi is an inhabited planet on which a strayed colony of humans landed, lost and desperate, 200 years ago.
Humans, few in number, lost the War of the Landing. The Treaty which saved their lives obliges their descendants to remain on their island, avoid contact with the atevi of the mainland, and, as a sort of rent on their land, surrender their technology to the atevi at a rate that will not destabilize the world and lead to war. This also means that humans themselves cannot use more advanced tech... and except for the University’s access to records, the old tech is as unknown to most humans as to the atevi. The two species speak only through the human paidhi (translator,) who lives in the atevi court— and it is part of his job to understand the implications of a technological advance and understand what changes it may bring.
When humans first arrived, the atevi had a steam-driven railroad. Now, after two hundred years, atevi and humans have television and jets. And an increasing population.
Bren is the new paidhi, working for the Department of State on the island enclave of Mospheira. The old paidhi, Wilson, has been sent home to retirement by the new aiji (ruler.)
Bren arrived on the mainland by plane, was met by the aiji’s guard, (Assassins’ Guild, as most guards are,) and was escorted to his assigned area within the Bujavid, the ancient governmental center that caps a high hill at the edge of the capital, the city of Shejidan.
He has survived the first day in his new job: he has acquired a cubby of an office and a very small apartment.
Section 2: Invitations
The alarm went off. Bren shot out a hand and killed it.
He wasn’t on Mospheira.
No. He wasn’t in a human place. He wasn’t under human laws, human expectations— and he couldn’t expect easy human ways. Wilson’s schedule said the office opened at a certain hour. He didn’t intend to be late. And the floor was farther down from the edge of the mattress than he was used to.
The accommodation, as the atevi called it, was across the hall, next to the small bath, and that was his first destination.
Was he supposed to dress, however? It was a residential area, but that was a public hall out there. He had a bathrobe, part of his official wardrobe, everything on Wilson’s recommendations. But he had no instruction on how one crossed a hall he shared with neighbors to reach a facility he was glad he did not share— his escort yesterday had explained that the accommodation and bath directly across from his room, at this bag end of the hall was his alone, and he should not use those further up the hall.
Dressing to reach it seemed safest. He pulled on at least the minimum, shirt and trousers.
Boots? Probably, to be safe. Hair? He couldn’t find the damned hair clip. But probably people didn’t wear their ribbons to bathe.
He grabbed his brand new bathrobe off the hanger and made the crossing, taking his key with him and locking the door to his room— he was very careful about that. There was a sink, the accommodation itself— and a tub deep enough to float in, if fairly narrow. He drew only a shallow bath in the interests of haste, realized he’d left the soap in his room, and decided against going after it. He had a soapless bath, and used the bathrobe for a towel.
Then he dressed again, put the boots on bare, damp feet, dutifully mopped up spilled water— he was determined not to do anything to cause talk among the staff— and went out into the hall.
Two doors away, two atevi neighbors, black-skinned, inky black hair flowing well over their shoulders, were standing in bathrobes, having a conversation in front of the next bathroom. They paused to glance his direction— likely thinking, Do humans ordinarily dress to bathe?
He quickly unlocked his own door, went in and put on clean clothes— shirt, trousers, vest, boots—and located the missing white-ribboned bow and hair clip, the only way to gather his short fair hair into the requisite ribbon— in the chest of drawers, where he’d meant to keep it safe. Wilson’s retirement hadn’t had a lot of warning. He hadn’t had time to grow his hair even enough to hold the clip securely.
He hoped he lasted long enough in office to grow a queue.
He hoped, if he did last, to get another table. A mirror. A mirror would be a great help.
Nobody had repainted the apartment or changed the carpet since Wilson had left. There were little scars on the moldings, little worn spots in the carpet. It was a three room apartment, with a closet, but two of the rooms were barely large enough for a single bed— and there was no furniture in them. The main room of his apartment had only his bed, the tall chest of drawers, and a tiny light table that passed for a nightstand. Lighting was an afterthought: the wiring was painted over.
Wilson had lived in this room for, what, forty-odd years— and had no other furniture? Wilson had made absolutely no impression on his environment but a few nicks in the very tired paint?
That was fairly sad.
This main room had a large curtain, a filmy white curtain that was a little cranky on its track, and that curtain covered, for his opinion, the room’s very best feature— a sliding glass door that let out into a pretty little garden— and admitted daylight, when the sun was up. If he got up early enough tomorrow, he thought, he might venture out there, if no one else was out— and if it would not offend his neighbors.
It was entirely unexpected, that garden. He wondered if his neighbors ever walked there, gathered there. He had been in the room at the edge of twilight and seen no one.
He wondered if Wilson had been inclined to walk out there.
Wilson would have spoken to no one, that was certain. Wilson was not good on pronunciation. But the truth, Bren suspected, ran far deeper: Wilson was one of those linguists who wasn’t good at math. And in speaking Ragi, above the children’s language, one needed math with every sentence. One had to keep the numbers felicitous. One had to add modifiers con
stantly to adjust the felicity.
Wilson had solved that problem by writing everything except certain rote phrases.
He— himself— could translate far faster, and had no need to write it down.
He’d met Wilson. Wilson had cautioned him to keep things in writing, and said he’d sail right into political traps if he didn’t— that he was, Wilson’s words to his supervisor, too damned cocky. He’d tried, on a second meeting, to assure Wilson otherwise.
Wilson had gone as far as to write to the head of Linguistics that same day, calling him unfit, too young and far too reckless to be in the candidate pool.
He hadn’t warmed to Wilson, either. Wilson was a dry, scowling man with a soft voice that sounded rusty— disuse, one supposed. And he was sure Wilson had tried everything possible to prevent him being assigned.
And here he stood, heir to Wilson’s notes, his apartment in the Bujavid, his special bathroom— without soap— and a nice little garden. He’d like to sleep tonight with the door open. He hadn’t been sure enough, last night. But there was a screen.
Perhaps he would take an outing himself, free, under the sky of the continent. He’d very much like a breeze.
Take his computer with him to the office today? He wasn’t sure of that, either. The computer was secured against meddling— and his room was far more secure than his first day’s schedule. He didn’t know what next hours might bring, or whether he could rely on security in his office if he became distracted.
It was just better not to risk it yet, not for the sake of his notes and a solitaire game. He didn’t need the notes. He hoped he wouldn’t need them.
And he wondered, should he meet a neighbor out in the hall, whether he should try to wish a good morning.
Nod, at least, he decided. He was, as paidhi-aiji, at least a court official. He shared the hall, Wilson’s notes said, with the aiji’s master cook, with high-ranking accountants, and with a number of office supervisors. They were his social level.
Humility, Wilson’s notes added, was not a requisite, nor advised: atevi put you in the social order at whatever rank your behavior indicated, pending further information, and the ribbon in your braid and the style of your dress was part of that information. The paidhi-aiji was advised not to defer to certain ranks, like the Bujavid servants, but he was expected to deliver measured courtesy if confronted by others. God, he’d digested books of material on how to tell rank and who was who in court— some of it in the computer notes. None of that helped you if you made a wrong move with someone in a bathrobe.
Never argue with a black uniform. He had that instruction down pat. Black uniform meant the Assassins’ Guild. That was law enforcement. Or somebody of consequence’s bodyguard, which was also not to trifle with.
He drew a deep breath, patted his pocket to be sure he had his room key and his office key— he had no wish to start his career by locking himself out.
So out it was, into a world where a tallish human was about the stature of a ten-year-old, and where every chair was a bit too high, every step a little far, every table a little inconveniently tall, and where he stood about shoulder-high to an average ateva. He’d experienced the size difference on the way from the airport, where his atevi escort had kept on either side of him, blocking his view, where, walking with them, he’d felt child-sized.
That part of the experience wasn’t something you could get used to over on Mospheira, not in all the training. It was a mental adjustment. It was remembering, on stairs, not to forget the difference in scale; and, this morning, getting out of bed, that the floor was not going to meet your feet as soon as you expected.
He was on his own now. One human. The only human allowed on the continent.
Wilson had coped with it for decades.
Had Wilson started his career the same, sane, with a normal voice, and human expressions, and generosity in his heart?
He had no idea.
Section 3
Atevi streets often curved. The residence hall itself was straight, but side halls down at this level of the Bujavid followed the geometry of the hill itself, and bent.
So must some rooms. He had seen that in his own office, which had one wall at a strange angle.
Getting to that office meant walking as far as the residence hall led, turn left at the lopsided and angled T, second turn to the right, about a 60 degree angle, then straight on until the third left— he’d had to wander a bit to find his way back yesterday, when his escort, having shown him his quarters and his office, had left him to his own devices.
Supper had been a problem. He’d been told about the food counter. He hadn’t found it. He’d gotten lost in the maze of hallways in the attempt, and had finally found a landmark, a door with a carved lintel, which he remembered as near his office.
He’d gotten home at twilight. He’d packed a few food bars in his luggage, and there’d been water to drink, so the supper had been no great hardship, but the very first thing on the agenda this morning was finding that hall and getting breakfast. He’d looked it up in the orientation notes on the computer last night, and he was relatively certain where he’d taken the wrong turn.
He reached his office and kept going. This morning, unlike yesterday, was clearly the right time to be looking for the food service counter: people coming his direction were carrying little white cloth-wrapped packages in the hallway, wafting up a very savory smell. In rising confidence he tracked those package-bearers upstream to their origin, just a couple of halls over, a little half-door that, had it been closed yesterday, he could well have missed. He stood back and observed. People lined up there, talked to the attendant, and immediately took away a meal without any payment—
That was as he was assured in his general instructions. There was no coin in the Bujavid: the whole Bujavid system worked on being recognized. One’s office ran a tab, and whatever he wanted, he could be assured would find its way to the paidhi’s tab.
He waited for a clear spot, then walked up to the little counter, wondering whether he should give his name or try to make small talk— his fair hair and light skin and stature making it ridiculously obvious to anyone who he was,
The young man at the counter looked at him, gave a frosty little nod, glanced over packages on the shelves behind him, then went to the counter beyond and advised someone that the new paidhi was here, that his breakfast was not on the shelf. The person inside said they had received no word about the paidhi.
“It was obvious, nadi,” the man said, “that if the paidhi came for his supper last night, he would be in residence this morning.”
“Then it was the supper staff at fault. I had no word. He requested nothing.”
“Serve him what Wilson-paidhi always had. That should be safe. Hurry.”
There was some little to-do, a little shouting back in the kitchen which he could not make out. By now there were three people in line behind him, and he stepped over a bit, bowed and said, “Pardon me. My breakfast apparently poses a problem, nadiin. Please go ahead.”
He drew startled and perturbed looks, but the three behind him and then a fourth arrival went on and collected their packets at the counter.
The young man eventually came up with another white packet.
“This is exactly what Wilson-paidhi ordered, paidhi.”
“Excellent.” He was glad to hear it. It was a point of caution, not to eat anything one couldn’t identify— some things atevi ate were poisonous to humans. “Thank you very much.” He bowed, and took his prize back to his windowless office, unlocked it, turned on the light, set the packet down and carefully untied the large napkin that wrapped it.
There was, within a box, a carafe with a lid— the lid was, one suspected, intended to be a cup for hot tea— and a thick piece of coarse dry toast.
Well, it was not exactly what he would have ordered. But it was a breakfast, and it was better than another cereal bar. He wondered what Wilson usually had for lunch and supper.
He let the doo
r stand open. He listened to traffic in the hall, trying to make out words, accustoming his ear to the accent, and trying to gather news, even gossip. Nobody bothered him. The office was fairly well stripped, bare shelves, old paint— no dust, at least.
He wondered how much Wilson had packed, and how much atevi authorities, wanting to know things the Treaty did not let them know, had gone over every scrap Wilson had left.
He poured a second cup of tea— it was a two-cup carafe— chose a pen from the desk and pulled a clean sheet of paper down from the stack on the shelf. Then he sat down, uncapped the inkwell, and began to write a letter to his mother, his first not-quite-official duty.
I’m here. I’m safe and doing fine. They picked me up at the airport, showed me my room and my office, and I’m pretty well on my own. I had supper from my briefcase—”
He was forbidden, in any but an official debriefing, to give even mundane details of his life, like how one got food, or not having a bathroom in his apartment, or how he had gotten to his room in the first place. He had to stick to generalities.
And I had a decent breakfast this morning. Certainly enough toast. The slices are quite thick.
In point of fact, his feet were not quite reaching the floor and the desk was a little higher than human standard. There being no one around to note the fact, he hooked his toes, childlike, around the chair legs, for stability as he wrote.
I have a nice view from my room, which I had not expected.
He couldn’t say it was a garden. He could, on debrief, to human authorities: he could give any detail he could remember, but not to his mother, who lacked a security clearance, no matter what. State Department policy.
Every little thing I do is a new procedure, but I’m figuring it out and getting along very well. Everyone is being very polite and helpful.