“Next to nothing.” Zia grinned. “Remember? Not-for-profit. TCM-registered, TC-sanctioned charity. With any luck, we’ll be home for dinner. Tithe certificates in hand.”
And they were.
Blaine Institute, New Caledonia
At first, it seemed inevitable that Ali Baba would return to the so-called East India Group. But Ali Baba was past nursing; there was no nutritional need, and Lord Cornwallis herself, Ali Baba’s sire-turned-dam, seemed strangely indifferent. The Motie Engineer nursemaid who had born the pup had no voice in the matter. The pup’s closest remaining relationship was that to Omar: Omar the “Bury Educator;” Omar, the Motie shadow to Bury himself. It was eerie, even now, to round a corner and hear the dead man’s voice, complete in every pitch, timbre, and sub-tone. It still made even Glenda Ruth start.
From the human perspective, it seemed a strange relationship: on First Contact in 3017, Motie Mediators were assigned as fyunch to humans, and to humans, that pairing still seemed the “natural” one. But of course, as they’d learned during that horrific dash through the Mote system last year, many Mediators were assigned to learn from other Mediators, and many more were assigned to no-one at all. Motie Masters had learned that lesson early on: choose fyunch targets wisely. From the Motie perspective, the gulf between Motie pragmatism and human innovation—well, some human innovation—was just too wide. Mediators could be made “insane” by the effort to learn, internalize, and emulate every thought and action of their subjects. They played their parts too well. They started acting in terms of what should be, instead of acting in terms of what is. But not “Bury Moties”—those educational descendants of that first Bury fyunchÂ. They were pragmatic in the extreme. They were also extremely valuable.
When Bury named him in his will, Ali Baba’s real troubles began. S/he was coveted, reviled, or both by nearly everyone.
First came the status issue. Was a Motie a person under the law? Whose law? Could a Motie be adopted? That point was moot. Bury’s family wouldn’t have him. Cynthia couldn’t take her. Even the pronouns were a problem.
At stake was not semantics, but inheritance: Under Imperial, or Levantine, law, could a minor Motie hold property? As a person, or as some other legal entity? As nearly everyone pointed out, Ali Baba now held the swing vote in any possible Imperial Autonetics shareholder alliance (human, Motie, or otherwise). In the end, an injunction held: all or none. The Empire could not maintain a second blockade of the Mote System without the cooperation of the Motie Trader groups endowed by Bury’s will. For their part, they would not cooperate unless the terms of that will were deemed valid. A legal battle, framed against the Empire itself could bankrupt even Imperial Autonetics. The will held. Bury’s fyunch descendants had learned their lessons well.
So, with this decision, the Little Prince(ss) was crowned, and the struggle for its allegiance began. To whom would Ali Baba be assigned? Who would be neutral, but qualified? Where would Ali Baba even be safe? In the end, as Bury’s executor, Renner was appointed Ali Baba’s guardian. Omar was retained as Ali Baba’s “Bury Educator.” When Renner traveled, Ali Baba stayed with Glenda Ruth in the Blaine Institute compound in New Caledonia.
But Ali Baba was re-assigned as fyunch to no-one, because Ali Baba was adamant on this point. Everyone by now knew the watch phrase that presaged a tantrum: “I belong to myself!” Where did this temper come from? From Bury? Bury was gone. From Omar? Mediators were not given to angry outbursts, and Omar least of all. From Glenda Ruth herself? Her mother had said it, laughing: “that sounds just like you, as a little girl. You would put up with anything, but you never could stand injustice.”
But it seemed unlikely. Ali Baba’s relationship to her was simply—cold. Not that other humans could tell. Moties faces twisted up into uniform, inscrutable smiles. They did not move. Insofar as Ali Baba used body language, it was all Bury’s gestures, the three arms notwithstanding. Cool, calculating, graceful, even. Giving nothing away. But Glenda Ruth could—feel— it. In the timbre of Ali Baba’s voice. It sounded like Bury’s. It could be impassioned when angry. But when addressing her, it was missing all sub tones of emotion.
“It’s not right,” said Ali Baba. “If I am to exercise prudent judgment regarding my voting shares, I must be allowed to travel. How else will I get to know—”
“It’s just not safe,” she pleaded. “You know that. We can protect you here at the Institute. But out there, beyond the Trans-Coal Sack—”
“I will be as safe on Sinbad as anywhere.” She hated it when he did that. Switched to Bury’s Voice. It sounded—chilling—coming from one so small. Chilling, and frighteningly intelligent, which s/he was.
“I will put it to Renner.”
“But I—”
“Lady Blaine, I appreciate your concern. I will put it to Renner. It is Renner’s responsibility, as my Guardian.”
And with that, the conversation was simply—over. She used every guile she knew, human and Motie, but when Ali Baba was in this mode, nothing penetrated. Nothing at all. In desperation, she’d even asked Omar. “What’s to be done? What do you do, when an apprentice Motie loses a fyunchÂ?”
“Loses a fyunch ?,” answered Omar, with that inscrutable smile and body language indicating: your question is nonsensical. “Assigned a new one. Retained as a trainer. Apprenticed to other duties. Spaced. As the Master desires.”
“But Ali Baba refuses to be re-assigned!”
“Reassigned? As fyunch ?” Omar’s arms indicated bemusement. “Ali Baba was never assigned.”
“To Bury. You gave Ali Baba to Bury.”
“I gave? No. Lord Cornwallis gave.”
“Yes, of course. But I mean, Ali Baba was assigned to Bury as fyunch .”
Omar suppressed mirth at this, but Glenda Ruth caught it.
“Lady, I will say this: there’s a difference between assigned and gave, even in your language.”
At which point. Glenda Ruth had had enough, and barked, “Explain!” with full Master’s bearing and posture.
Omar merely smiled with arms posed in respectful deference, not obeisance. “Ah, Lady Blaine. We all know our Master’s Voice, and you do not speak with mine.”
Subtly, Omar’s hands conveyed: think, don’t demand. You are no longer a child.
She was stumped. She was raised by a Mediator, but not this one. This one was as alien as any outworlder. “Please, you were fyunch to Bury, right?”
“Yes, milady, I had that honor.”
“And you are saying that Ali Baba was not?”
“Yes, Milady.”
“Then please, as Bury, tell me: what does Ali Baba need? What is his problem?”
“Ah,” with mirth, “for a Bury fyunch , this is no problem. Ali Baba seeks his Master’s Voice.”
And Omar left her with that double—no triple—maybe quadruple—entendre.