Kafari held her peace for three or four more swings, then said, “You were very brave, in there. I was really proud of you, Yalena. You do realize, of course,” she smiled wryly, “that you missed a chance to demonstrate better manners than they have? But it took guts to stand up to them that way.”
Quick tears shone in her daughter’s eyes. “Thanks,” she said, all but inaudibly.
“Would you like to see the pearl sheds?”
Yalena shrugged again.
“Later, maybe.” Kafari was determined to be patience, itself, today, even if it killed her. “I’ll bet, though, that you’ll be the only girl in school who’s ever seen a real pearl hatchery. Your grandparents helped perfect the technique that allows pearl growers to seed, grow, and harvest the pearls without injuring the oysters. It’s a very gentle process. And it gives the Klameth Canyon pearl growers a big advantage in the off-world marketplace. We can produce crop after crop without having to grow new oysters, as well as new pearls. Klameth Canyon produces more pearls of higher quality than any star system in the Sector.”
“I didn’t know any of that,” Yalena admitted, sounding intrigued. “Did you grow pearls?”
“Oh, yes. I was pretty good at it, too.”
“What did you like best?”
Kafari smiled, remembering the intensity of her interest when she’d been just Yalena’s age. “I liked producing the special colors, more than anything else. The pinks are awfully pretty, but I liked the black pearls best, I think. Although they’re not really black. They’re more of a deep violet with an indigo-jade sheen. Your great-grandmother invented the process that produces that color. She engineered a bacteria that’s harmless to the oyster, but causes a biochemical reaction that lets the oyster pull minerals from a special solution in the ponds and deposit them in the nacre that forms the pearl. Chakula Ranch holds the patent on it. I would be willing to bet,” she added with a smile, “that you will be the only girl in school with a Chakula black-pearl necklace.”
Yalena looked up. “But I don’t have any black pearls.”
“Ah, but it’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
Surprise left her eyes wide. Then a glow blazed to life, born of hope and delight and a sudden realization that her mother was not just a person she did battle with daily, but someone who understood — and cared — that Yalena still encountered some nasty hazing from school mates who knew that Kafari was a Granger and that Simon was an off-world soldier whose name was mud in any household that supported POPPA.
“D’you mean that? Really and truly?”
“Your father and I talked it over with your grandmother and grandfather. We’ll even let you pick the pearls.”
Her daughter’s eyes shone. “Oh, Mom! Not even Katrina has a pearl necklace! And she’s got the prettiest jewelry in school. And Ami-Lynn will just die of delight, watching the look on Katrina’s face when she sees it!”
Ami-Lynn had long been Yalena’s best friend in the universe, while Katrina was a girl that everyone, apparently, had good reason to detest. It would be quite a coup, to outdo one’s worst enemy when said enemy had the prettiest jewelry in school. Kafari grinned and gave her daughter a conspiratorial wink. “Sure you don’t want to see the pearl sheds?”
“Will any of them,” she jerked her head toward the house, voice harsh with pain and anger, “be there?”
Kafari winced, but shook her head. “Nope. Just you and me. If anyone tries to butt in, I’ll heave ’em into the nearest pond.”
A smile stole its way across Yalena’s face. A crafty smile, but Kafari understood the impulse. It wasn’t easy, celebrating one’s birthday with a bunch of strangers who’d been hideously rude, whatever the provocation might have been.
“C’mon, let’s go see if we can find some pearls good enough to ruin Katrina’s whole year. We’ll pick them out and then take them to a jeweler to have a necklace made.”
Yalena started to slide down from the swing, then paused long enough to whisper, “Thanks, Mom.” There was a world of emotion — of thanks and apology and gratitude — rolled up in those two simple little words. She laid those words and emotions in Kafari’s hands, blinking rapidly and hoping that her overture wouldn’t be rejected.
“You’re welcome, Yalena. Happy birthday, sugarplum.”
Yalena smiled again, sweetly this time, and slipped her hand into Kafari’s. They set out together for the pearl sheds.
Chapter Fifteen
I
I come awake as a reflex alarm from my external sensors sends a signal racing through my threat-assessment processors. I snap to full wakefulness and scan my environs instantly. Simon stands beside my right tread. He is involved in a discussion with three men, none of whom I recognize. All three have just entered my exclusion zone, triggering an automatic reflex through my battle-readiness circuitry. I surmise that Simon has deliberately steered them into this zone for the express purpose of triggering me awake.
One is armed, carrying a concealed handgun in a shoulder holster. Despite the presence of a concealed weapon, I hold my fire and watch closely to see what develops, since Simon has not signaled me via his commlink to take action against hostile intruders. I therefore do not react with full battlefield reflexes, but I maintain alert vigilance, as my Commander is not wearing a personal sidearm.
The three visitors in my work-bay are dressed as civilians. Two are heavily muscled with blocky, thick torsos. They look more like space-dock stevedores than executive assistants to the president of Jefferson, which is the ID code transmitted by the visitors’ passes clipped to their jackets, allowing them access to restricted areas of Nineveh Base. The third armed individual holds most of my attention as I do an automatic scan of Brigade channels, seeking a passive VSR while I await developments and Simon’s instructions.
This man’s identification states that he is the president’s chief advisor, Sar Gremian. He is taller than Simon, with dense, heavy bones that support muscles sufficiently well developed to qualify as a heavy-weight prizefighter. His skull is devoid of hair. His face is deeply pitted with scars that suggest severe adolescent acne. His expression wavers from bitter to savage and his voice is rough, reminding me of career drill sergeants I have seen drilling new recruits.
The conversation underway appears to be hostile, as stress indicators — elevated heart rate and rapid respiration, coupled with facial expression — suggest an angry argument underway. This perhaps explains Simon’s action in leading these men into a zone where I would automatically resume consciousness, for the express purpose of having me listen? Simon is speaking, evidently in answer to an unknown question.
“Absolutely not. I said no when you called from Madison and my answer has not changed.”
The two burly men with the president’s advisor react with overt anger, faces flushing red, fingers curling into anticipatory claws, but they do not make any actual moves toward my Commander, so I bide my time and study the unfolding situation. The president’s advisor merely narrows his eyes. “You’re refusing a direct order from the president?”
A muscle jumps in Simon’s jaw. “You are not the president of Jefferson, Sar Gremian. The president’s chief advisor does not have the authority to send a Bolo anywhere.”
“I’ll get the authorization, then.” He reaches for his comm-unit.