"So, meditate on this, eagles and jaguars," he began, his Nбhuatl slow and measured, as flawless as his Norman. "Although you may be jade, although you may be gold, you too will journey to the fleshless land. We all must disappear, no one will remain."
The room became very still, each man and woman at the table looking down. The servant had disappeared. Gretchen saw the captain's face was composed and calm. She recognized the words, written nearly a thousand years before by a man who had opposed the policies of the Empire when it was still young. Her eyes drifted to one side, watching the faces of the other officers. The poetry of NezahualcГіyotl, the doomed prince of Tetzcoco, was banned throughout the Empire. The poet's philosophy did not express the ascetic martial spirit deemed fitting by the great powers of the Mйxica.
Hadeishi lowered the jade cup, pressing it against his lips, then raised it again, to the second portrait. This was a grumpy old man, his face pinched in a scowl, his hair bound up in the traditional samurai knot at the back of his head. He frowned, irritation alive in the smooth brushstrokes. He was Juntoku, the one hundred and thirty-sixth Tenno no Nihon, Emperor of Japan and all the Nisei people. Hadeishi smiled faintly, saying; "Mere green herbs they are, grown in the mountain soil; yet if I pluck them with grace, how joyful is the toil!"
Then he placed the jade cup into the hands of the little old man and turned to face the table again. The welcoming ritual complete, two ratings slipped out of the tiny galley behind the officer's mess and began serving the first course. Gretchen felt her stomach grumble, smelling sweet onions and broth. For a moment, she was frozen, watching everyone else pick up their spoons.
Then the captain somberly tasted the miso and nodded to the two cooks. They grinned and everyone was eating. Gretchen forgot about her worries for a moment, listening to the quiet cheerful banter among the officers and enjoying the excellent meal.
"You were worried by my poetry." Hadeishi was sitting in his office, a tiny cluttered room dominated by a wall of old books and a great deal of quick-cycle paper in stacks on an inset metal desk. He cradled a heavy Jomon-style sake cup in his hands. The liquor was hot, steaming up in the slightly chill air of the ship. Gretchen was sitting opposite him, in a real chair, still uncomfortable, holding a similar cup. She cradled it gently, having determined as the captain was pouring that it was an artifact and possibly two thousand years old. Her training urged her to pack it in shockfoam and label it, not sip smooth, old sake from the broad-mouthed bowl.
"Yes. Is it treason for you to speak those words?"
"No." Hadeishi shook his head, a grin hiding in his dark eyes. His hair was long and a little stringy, though he kept it tied back. Here, in this softly lit room, filled with the familiar odor of old books and ink, he seemed elfin with delicate features and sharp little mustache. "It is traditional, among the Nisei and Nбhuatl both, to offer songs to the great. It is not disrespectful to offer a small portion of a masterpiece — particularly those composed by royalty. But I understand your situation. From your mouth, NezahualcГіyotl is treason. Where were you born?"
"On New Aberdeen," she said quietly, taking a small, careful sip.
"But you are not a Skawt? Surely not with a family name like Anderssen."
Gretchen shook her head. Her poor family situation had weighed against her in school, at university, in getting employment, even under the burning suns of Ugarit. As a child, her ancestry had been a fierce burden, but she had struggled, and survived, and she felt no need to hide or dissemble.
"No, we are Swedish. Refugees."
Hadeishi smiled over his cup, then put the bowl aside on the desk. "Your people fought well and accepted defeat honorably. It pains me you should suffer for this, but I suppose not everyone can be blessed like the Skawts, the Irish and the Nisei, with the favor of the Lord of Men. Someone, after all, needed to stand fast in the face of the Empire. Glory is impossible without a mighty opponent."
"I suppose." A little over a hundred years had passed since the Mйxica had crushed the last independent nations on Anбhuac. The Swedes and Russians, fighting on in the ruins of their great cities, had surrendered only when all else had fallen to the Jaguar and Eagle Legions. Many of the survivors had scattered to the trans-solar colonies, or even beyond the embrace of Sol. Gretchen's grandparents had managed to settle on New Aberdeen, one of the lusher, Earthlike planets the Empire had apportioned to those races of men who were "Third From the Center." Her grandparents and parents had never spoken of The War, but the colonial government's nationalistic propaganda had filled in the blanks. "That is past history."
"Perhaps." Hadeishi leaned forward, his face suddenly serious. "You are uncomfortable with me and my crew — we are not what you expected. You are even surprised I speak passable Norman."
"Yes." Gretchen set aside a stack of age-yellowed magazines and put down her cup. "I am surprised, though I have never been on an Imperial warship before. All of the Imperial officials I have ever met have been very forbidding men and women, ascetic and distant. I have never heard an official use any language save Nбhuatl. Isn't that the recommended style?"
"In many places, yes. You've stumbled into an odd corner of the Empire with us, I fear. The Imperial Navy is a strange creature, one head on two distinct bodies. I know you have found your place in society restricted by your birth — our Navy suffers the same fate. Certain kinds of ship commands — really, anything large and impressive — are reserved for commanders and senior crew drawn from those 'close to the Center.' This leaves the smaller ships — destroyers, cruisers, light cruisers — to those 'further away'. And among those who are not of the Great Clans, you will find the Nisei are the most trusted." Hadeishi paused, thin mobile lips twisting ironically. "So we are repaid for trading horses and steel for food and shelter so long ago.
"If you were to go down into the ship's enlisted country," he continued, "you would find crewmen and women of many races, even some with hair the color of beaten gold, like yours. Nearly a quarter of light-ship crews are of macehualli descent. Despite the nepotism of the Imperial Clans, crew rosters must be filled and the navy is not picky about lineage and birth — for crewmen at least! Haven't you noticed everything is labeled in Norman? Our manuals, our computer systems, everything is in Norman. Every Imperial officer must be proficient if they are to speak with their crews." He paused. "Of course, they have reliable officers to guide them, like myself."
Gretchen stifled a laugh. She was suddenly aware there had been sake with dinner too, and most of the Jomon bowl was empty. The air seemed chillier than it had been.
"I am still surprised," she said, fingertips brushing the medband on her wrist. It could dispense more than serotonin regulators. A cool sensation followed, rushing up her arm. Objects in the room began to assume a preternatural clarity. "Are you judged so reliable you lack a political officer? Someone to help you guide these clanless, landless crewmen?"
She stopped, aware of the bitter tone in her words. Hadeishi raised an eyebrow, shaking his head gently. He put a thin finger to his lips in warning. "Careful, Doctor. In this world, we must keep in our places, at least with open words. My command staff and I have been together for six years — first on the destroyer Ceatl and now here. We are very comfortable together — a family. You've seen in the door of our house tonight, watching us laugh at dinner. Perhaps we should have been more circumspect."
He smiled gently, putting both forefingers to his temples. "Keep your true life here, inside, and you will be safe. Now listen, Doctor, for there are things I must tell you."