Everyone in the reception room is looking at Lydia like all of this is her fault. There are eight of them in there: Madison and her translator, another Logi called Valli and his translator, plus another four humans, including Marat. Madison wears a long hooded robe made of that meshy stuff, but it’s in bright orange, yellow and blue, giving her a flame-like appearance. It’s a strong look, Lydia has to admit.
Lydia puts on her best shell-shocked face as she sits in the chair that’s been left for her at the other side of the room. There are a few token inquiries into her well-being, then Lydia is required to repeat her version of events afuckinggain. Lydia points out the police asked her all this yesterday.
With respect to the competence of the human authorities, says Madison, we think it prudent to carry out our own investigation, as our priorities may differ from theirs.
Lydia actually can’t argue with this: the Logi are right to be concerned the murder might be part of a broader campaign against them, and they’re right to seek information themselves rather than wait for the police to bring it to them. If only they would all just bugger off, Lydia could ask Fitz if he has any ideas who might have killed him.
Then Marat says, “The police told us there were traces of & in your system.”
Lydia wants to say this is an absurd thing to focus on in the circumstances. She also wants to say if he thinks his staff aren’t using drugs to help them do their jobs then he’s genuinely an idiot, but she doesn’t, not least because she doesn’t want to be quizzed over who else is using them, or where she got the stuff (a retired translator called Candice who Lydia is disappointed not to have forged a proper friendship with, because she seems really cool). So she just nods. “I used some to keep me going at the conference.”
“Did Fitzwilliam know you were using it?”
“Of course not.”
“We take drug abuse very seriously, Lydia.”
Abuse? Use, surely. She was using it exactly as intended. “Yes, I know.”
“That’ll go on your record, and we’ll have to consider it in the investigation.”
“Investigation?”
Into your conduct, says Madison.
What does my conduct have to do with Fitz’s murder?
A delegation of monitors has left Logia yesterday. They’re on their way here to address the situation. We need to provide them with as much information as we can before they arrive.
Which will be in about five days, Lydia reckons, depending on how stable the gate is. And the embassy wants everything to look as tidy and under control as possible … which may well involve finding someone to blame. And of all the people in this room, it’s clear who the top candidate is.
Why did Fitzwilliam defend you over that assault incident? Madison asks.
That was weeks ago.
This is to be a wide-ranging investigation, as befits an incident of this gravity. Now please cooperate and answer the question.
I don’t know why Fitz defended me. I expected to be fired.
Did you think you should have been fired?
I … felt I made a mistake while working under difficult circumstances.
Did you in any way attempt to influence Fitzwilliam’s decision to retain you?
No.
No? A skeptical note enters Madison’s voice.
I didn’t get a chance. When you met with him I hadn’t spoken to him at all that day. Madison thinks Lydia had some kind of sinister hold on Fitz? That’s hilarious.
Marat wants to know about Hari and anyone else Lydia met when she was back in Halifax—the agency always hate it when you go outside their jurisdiction, and they especially seem to hate Lydia having gone back home, as if she might slip back to being the person she was before they remolded her. He asks about Fitz’s state of mind when Lydia returned from Halifax; about the content of the keynote speech; about who else was at the conference; and the events of the evening prior to the murder.
Valli, a particularly tall and pale Logi who works as a liaison officer at the embassy, wants to know if Lydia ever saw anything that led her to believe Fitz had enemies. Lydia is very tempted to answer Apart from Madison, you mean? But this would not be well received, and might lead Madison to realize who put the cops onto her. Lydia wonders how that went: clearly she hasn’t been removed from her duties. Fitz’s remark about whom he could and couldn’t trust is playing on Lydia’s mind. Maybe she wasn’t so far off the mark after all?
Or, she reminds herself, Fitz’s remark might just be her own subconscious feeding her suspicions back to her. It could all be meaningless.
I never saw anything like that, Lydia tells Valli. He was just really nice. She directs this last sentence at Madison and feels the slight resistance from her mind as the words go in, like pins into a cushion: Madison hears it, but doesn’t want to.
You and he had quite a rapport, then, says Valli.
We got on well. I liked him. Lydia looks around at everyone and speaks aloud: “You’re not going to tell me he was talking shit about me behind my back, are you? Because I thought we had a good working relationship.”
Marat starts to answer but Madison traces a circle in the air in the direction of his face—a gesture that means be quiet; Lydia thinks it’s a polite gesture but she’s not entirely sure. Your working relationship, she says, is less of a concern for me than the clear lapses of security that have occurred.
You mean the records being wiped?
Yes, but there’s more. I warned Fitzwilliam on several occasions about correct protocols and maintaining appropriate distance. Before you started in your role I had to warn him about sharing too many personal details with human staff—did he adhere to that?
Lydia’s taken aback by the question, and can feel herself growing tipsy. Yes, he did. But listen—you know how it is, the nature of being a translator—
If you’re going to suggest it’s impossible to maintain distance, I disagree—it’s perfectly possible—
I’ve had training in this stuff and I never had an issue with his boundaries at all, and I don’t see—
We also have concerns over the people you’ve spoken to about your work—
Lydia laughs out loud. I don’t speak to anyone! This job takes up all my time, my entire social life. I don’t have any friends, I don’t have anyone to tell!
Security has been compromised somehow. Look at the lack of response from the drones—and, if indeed his murderer did break into this building—
What do you mean, “if”? You think I let them in? Or that I did it, even?
This is far too serious to rule out a suspect merely because she can claim a good working relationship with the victim. This isn’t personal. We would be doing Fitzwilliam a disservice if we didn’t consider you.
Nothing Lydia can say will change Madison’s mind and she just wants all these people to leave.
“Good,” says Marat awkwardly. “We’ve prepared a room for you in the language school, so if you want to pack whatever you need, we can send for the rest.”
“At NYSTL?” That’s way out in Queens. That’s no good to her. “I’m not supposed to leave Manhattan.”
Marat shakes his head. “We checked with the police and it’s fine as long as you don’t leave New York City.”
“But I’d … rather stay here,” she says.
The guy from HR leans in. “This really isn’t the best place for you right now. It’s not good to stay at the site of a trauma.”
“I’m fine,” says Lydia with a confidence she does not feel.
“You’re not needed here,” says Marat, “and it’s much easier for us to reach you if you’re at the school.”
Much easier for them to keep an eye on her, essentially. They may be assessing her fitness to return to service: resisting might cause them to decide she’s not. But what if this voice she’s hearing is real? She has to stay and find out, and if it’s real she has to stay and help. “I can … fill in for Fitz until his replacement gets here.”
No you can’t, says Madison. That’s not how any of this works, and it’s rather insulting that you feel you can replace him after less than a year—
I’m not talking about replacing him, Lydia says. But just be here as a point of contact. I kept track of all his business, I know everyone he was talking to, I can take all his calls and deal with his mail and make sure everything’s kept tidy. Please—I’ll feel much better if I can be useful.
“Lydia,” says Marat patiently, “you understand that being under investigation means you’re suspended?”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“No one’s saying you did anything, but we can’t say either way until we’ve investigated.”
Lydia sighs and stands up. There’s no way out of this, literally none. “I’ll go pack.”
As Lydia distractedly throws her things in her case, wondering how many books she can fit in there and if she’ll get in trouble for taking them, she speaks to Fitz: it might be her last chance.
I’m so sorry, she says. I know what you said, and I tried—
I know, I know, he replies. I might be able to help you break back in? I can tell you how the security protocols work.
Yeah, because that’ll really help with the investigation into my conduct, won’t it? Anyway they’re bound to lock me out, plus there’s a cop on the door at all times. But apart from that, brilliant.
I’ll think of something.
I’m sorry.
There’s nothing you could’ve done. This isn’t your fault.
I don’t know what’s going on anymore. I feel so powerless. And they’re going to fire me, I know it.
But you didn’t do anything. Surely they’ll want to clear your name to instill confidence in their selection and training procedures?
No, I think they’ll want to distance themselves from me as much as possible. If I was management they’d try to save me but I’m replaceable. It’s all very clear to her. They’re going to do it all politely and in accordance with proper procedure—but this is where it ends.
Assuming the cops don’t still decide to pin it on her.
Assuming she didn’t kill him herself and doesn’t remember.
I’ll try to come back, she tells Fitz. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to, and if I can’t—
I’m sure we’ll speak again.
As Lydia returns downstairs, a lively discussion is taking place in the reception room. New voices have been added to the mix, and she recognizes one of them: Sturges, who handled her final interview at the station. Lydia puts her head around the door and everyone turns to look at her: Next to Sturges is a pale young woman with an impassive face and straight white hair, styled in a bob. She’s not in uniform but wears a white shirt with a badge pinned to the pocket indicating she’s a police translator.
“Quite a party,” Lydia says. “I didn’t offer anyone a drink, did I? I’m a terrible host.”
Sturges offers a genial smile. “Ms. Southwell—I came straight over here as soon as I learned the agency was planning to move you. I’m real sorry for the confusion.”
“That’s OK,” says Lydia reflexively even though nothing about this situation is OK. She wonders how he heard. Is the residence bugged? Was the cop on the doorstep listening in?
“The agency and embassy were both informed you weren’t supposed to leave Manhattan—”
“I know, I tried to tell them—”
“I’m sure you did, and quite frankly we did not expect—”
“We were told it was fine as long as she didn’t leave New York,” says Marat testily.
“You realize what could’ve happened if you’d forced her to break those restrictions? Could’ve been very serious for her, and you. She’d’ve been classed as a flight risk. I suggest you people pay more attention to communications in future, OK?”
Marat wants to say more, but stops himself and turns to Lydia. “Could you take a seat please?”
All the seats are occupied now, so Lydia perches on the windowsill.
“So, we’ve taken on board your views—”
Lydia just about stops herself from laughing out loud at this, so tickled is she by the notion this might have been a significant factor in their decision. Marat sees her expression change, and it’s enough to give him pause: Lydia puts on her serious face again, and he continues.
“And we accept it makes sense for you to stay here.”
“I thought you didn’t have a choice?”
“We discussed the possibility of moving you to a hotel, or to the embassy itself. But the NYPD’s preference is for you to remain here, as this building is easier for them to guard, and we agree that, though we’re suspending you from your normal duties, it makes sense for someone to be here as a point of contact and put matters in order for the next cultural attaché.”
Lydia’s stunned by this. It was just some bullshit she came up with off the top of her head, she didn’t expect that one to land. Are they just trying to make it look more like their own choice, rather than something they’re being forced into? Probably. Who cares. “Great,” she says, dropping the snarky vibe. “I won’t let you down, I really do know Fitz’s affairs pretty well and—”
“But this can’t all fall on your shoulders. I’m sure you can be useful to Madison—she’ll be staying here so she can be across everything until further notice.”
Oh fuck.
Madison brings her fingers to her temples in a gesture Lydia knows means welcome, but in a paternalistic, patronizing sort of way: it’s not a gesture one should ever do to a superior, or even an equal, unless you actively want to insult them. Madison adds: I look forward to working with you, Lydia.
As Lydia drags her case back upstairs, she hears the embassy translator in the hallway making relaxed small talk with the one the cops brought over. Why’s she never been able to do that? Before arriving in New York she’d assumed all the translators would share enough common ground that she’d make friends among them, but it’s never happened. She finds it profoundly depressing that even a cop translator is part of the club while she remains on the outside. But then, this is just a part of her broader failure during her time in this city, which will all be over soon anyway.