Illustration: “Powercell” © 2006 by Patrick Stacy
The black security car slipped through the armored gates of the Areadni embassy like a cat sneaking out for a snack. Roger Desprey sighed, got out of his own car at the curb, and waved an arm. The limo slowed to a stop centimeters from his toes. He showed his ID (United Nations of Earth, Diplomatic Service, Level 9) to the human driver. When the lock snapped open he took one last breath of fresh air and opened the door.
The odor hit him immediately, a harsh aroma that always reminded Desprey of a tropical fish tank in need of cleaning. The Areadni Second Emissary sat inside. She wore a thin loose robe, black and crimson, that left her long arms and bony shoulders bare, displaying the dark irregular blemishes that covered the pale Areadni skin.
Desprey dropped into the opposite seat and straightened his navy blue jacket. “Good morning, Kry’ill das Sen’Pal.”
“Where is Susannah?” Kry’ill replied.
Susannah Anson had broken her ankle at racquetball that morning. The Human-Areadni Relations Commission’s computer had designated Desprey as an adequate substitute for the 10:00 a.m. meeting between Second Emissary Kry’ill and the mayor of Chicago.
Desprey chose his words with care. “She injured herself. I am Roger Desprey. The Commission named me to act in her place as your escort this morning.”
Kry’ill’s three eyestalks swung forward to examine him in an emerald glow. “Roger Desprey. Yes. Is Susannah dead?”
“No. She injured her foot playing a sport. But she is not able to walk.”
The eyestalks retracted into Kry’ill’s skull. “You are male.”
“Yes. I hope that’s not a problem.”
Kry’ill said nothing.
The car glided forward. Desprey looked at his watch. Today’s assignment was routine, if unenjoyable: escort the Areadni diplomat to the meeting where negotiations for an expansion of the embassy would commence. Not exactly the glory-filled destiny he’d anticipated when he’d taken the UNE Diplomatic Service test in 2064: he’d dreamed of traveling to other stars, forging historic peace agreements, spreading friendship and understanding throughout the galaxy. Instead, his days were filled with press releases and committee meetings and speeches. His only contact with alien culture was the occasional errand for the Areadni, which suited him fine. For all his well-intentioned dreams and ideals he couldn’t force himself to like them. Their blotchy skin was repulsive. And their smell nauseated him.
“Roger Desprey, please explain the sport,” Kry’ill said. “The cause of the injury to Susannah.”
“It’s called racquetball.” As Desprey tried to think of a description that would make sense, he felt the car swerve and glanced out the thick window to see the walls of a gray alley. “This isn’t the right way,” he said. He pressed the intercom. “Hey, where are we–”
The limo jolted to a halt, rolling Kry’ill forward in her straps. Desprey pressed the intercom again. “What’s going on?”
Everything happened like a vid on fast forward: shadowy human shapes in gray grabbed the door handles outside; fists pounded the windows. Desprey yelled. The driver’s door opened and slammed shut. The gray shapes backed away and then a roar shook the car on its springs and the shielded glass next to Desprey’s face shattered and he felt a blast of heat sear his skin. His straps bit his shoulders as the force of the explosion pushed him away from the door and smoky burnt air flooded the car. In the blackness he heard shouts and curses and then he felt a shock in his arm and remembered nothing that happened after that.
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