"Gardner Dozois & Jonathan Strahan - The New Space Opera" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dozois Gardner)

own breakfast raided the culturally neutral trol-ley. I sipped my Mocha/Colombian, took my carbs in the
form of a crisp cherry-jam tartine; and let the day’s agenda wash over me, as I reviewed what I knew
about Baal and Tiamaat’s relationship.

They were not related by blood, except in the sense that the An gene pool was very restricted: showing
signs of other population crashes in the past. They were not “married” either. The Ki and the An seemed
to be sexually dimorphic on the Blue model (though they could yet surprise us!); and they liked
opposite-sex partnerships. But they did not marry. Tiamaat’s family had been swift to embrace the
changes, she’d been educated on Balas/Shet. Baal had left KiAn for the first time when war broke out.
They’d lost family mem-bers, and they’d certainly seen the horrific transmissions smuggled off KiAn
before the end. Yet here they were, with the genocidal Ki: thrown together, suddenly appointed the rulers
of their shattered nation, and bound to each other for life. Tiamaat looked as if she were feeling the strain.
She sat with her eyes lowered, drawn in on herself, her body occupying the minimum of space. Beside
her, Baal devoured a culturally neutral doughnut, elbows sprawled, with a child’s calm greed. I wondered
how much my alien percep-tion of a timid young woman and a big bold young man was distorting my
view. I wondered how all that fine physicality translated into mind. Who are you, Baal? How will it feel to
know you?

****

From the meeting we proceeded to a DP reception and lunch, from thence to a concert in the Nebula
Immersion Chamber: a Blue Planet symphony orchestra on virtual tour, the Diaspora Chorus in the flesh,
singing a famous masque; a solemn dance drama troupe bilocating from Neuendan. Pelé and I, humble
Social Support officers, were in the background for these events. But the An had grasped that we were
their advocates: as was proved when they pounced on us, eagerly, after the concert. They wanted to
meet “the nice quiet people with the pretty curly faces—”

They spoke English, language of diplomacy and displacement. They’d both taken the express, neurotech
route to fluency: but we had trouble pin-ning this request down. It turned out they were asking to be
introduced to a bowl of orchids.

Appearances can be deceptive; these two young people were neither calm nor cowed. They had been
born in a medieval world, and swept away from home as to the safety of a rich neighbor’s house: all they
knew of the interstellar age was the inside of a transit lounge. The Ki problem they knew only too well:
Speranza was a thrilling bombardment. With much laughter (they laughed like Blue teenagers, to cover
embarrassment), we explained that they would not be meeting any bizarre life-forms. No tentacles, no
petals, no intelligent gas clouds here; not yet!

“You have to look after us!” cried Baal. He grabbed my arm, softly but I felt the power. “Save us from
making fools of ourselves, dear Debra and Pelé!”

Tiamaat stood back a pace, hiding her giggles behind her hand.

****

The last event scheduled on that first day was a live transmission walkabout from the Ki refugee camp, in
the Customized Shelter Sector. In the plan-ning stages, some of us had expressed doubts about this
stunt. If anything went wrong it’d sour the whole negotiation. But the Ki and the An leaders were both
keen, and the historic gesture was something the public back on the homeworlds would
understand—which in the end had decided the question. The Diaspora Parliament had to struggle for