Tame.
That was the first thought that crossed Amala’s mind when she realized that they had arrived at their destination, having navigated rigidly-straight streets, laid on a mathematically-precise grid, en route to this building.
Scholar Ve had sat passively beside her during the ride. Gan was apparently his personal name, which was never used except within close personal or family bonds, so he would refer to her as Scholar Bhattacharya, thereby designating her something of an equal. Acceptable, but weird.
Everything was weird. They travelled through the city in a ground vehicle that had tires. Honest-to-Creator pseudo-rubber donuts on metal rims, inflated and everything. Back home, if you were poor-enough, your wheels were air-mesh lifters, but everyone else had a flitter of some sort.
Poverty. That was what was noteworthy on the ride. This place was just like the parts of Huldra she lived in as a child. Poor, but proud, so the buildings were simple brick, maybe with some stuccoed façade or something. No grand, marble architectural statements.
Made sense. Middle of nowhere, literally and figuratively. Farming kind of planet, rather than fishing or mining. She could tell that just by the color of the ground, as seen from orbit. Green primarily, rather than blue or gray.
She just had to pretend she was home, without the whole extended clan in the galleries hooting and making noise when she was presented today. Because they would have, had they been here.
Amala let the smile take over her face. Scholar Ve responded in a similar, if reserved manner. As if dealing with a semi-feral predator.
Maybe.
Curb-cut. Bump. Driveway. Gap into an interior courtyard. Rumble of gravel on asphalt. Squeak of tires coming to rest.
Two more garritroopers guarding the big front door and looking at least a little more professional. Amateurs, but she was still willing to give them bonus points for trying.
This was a planetary invasion, after all, according to the technical points Keller had leveled at them.
Another Mandarin in average-looking robes flowed out the door and materialized at the side of the limo. Door open. Scholar Ve sliding out and standing on what would be her left.
Amala grabbed her satchel and slid across the leather seats, exiting the vehicle to stand in the late-morning sun. Cool outside, but she had a lot of layers on right now, and way too high of an adrenaline load.
Hopefully, the HVAC was prepared for crazy today. Or they had enough windows open.
Something.
Ve took her arm again, nodding once and guiding her up the two steps onto the big, concrete porch. The building wasn’t much, but someone had at least put some effort into this entrance. Designs worked into the stone showed patience and skill.
Inside, a long hallway with a floor that looked like polished concrete, with red brick walls and occasional facings for art displays. A planet with a hundred million inhabitants was going to produce a few artists worth their salt, but most of the work here had the feel of local stuff. Understandable, when so much of the really avant-garde stuff always felt as if it were weird for weird’s sake.
It still felt enough like home to put her at some level of ease, even if she was dealing with people completely alien, at least culturally.
“Please be not offended that the Khan has requested a small reception,” the man whispered as they walked. “We were working on rather tight timelines and unsure footing. A more proper reception will assumedly be scheduled for a later date. Your bodyguard will wait here.”
“Understood,” Amala nodded, signaling Pinchon and glancing back to confirm that he had understood.
There wasn’t much the planetary invasion could accomplish at this point. But they knew that going in.
She was nevertheless impressed that they had responded this well to someone kicking over their ant hill. And the Fleet Centurion’s orders, however vague and open-ended, had been specific: make sure she established as good a working relationship with the locals as she could.
Everyone understood that nothing important would happen on the ground. That would wait until Buran took notice and sent a fleet.
Hopefully, they would just send a small squadron, having missed the four big cruisers hiding in the dark part of the system. Amala wasn’t really interested in being transported to Buran’s Court as a prisoner to be dissected, diplomatic immunity or not.
Who knew if the beast would recognize the rules, the etiquette under which Aquitaine and Fribourg normally tried to live?
This must be it.
Open doorway. Two more troopers trying to look impressive while guarding it, marred by an inability to not stare at her out of the corners of their eyes as she approached.
“We arrive,” Scholar Ve murmured.
Small room. Half a dozen men and women standing around in those Mandarin Court robes, black everywhere and heavy looking, so hopefully the AC was cranked cooler to offset.
It was obvious who the Khan was, looking at the group. Simple, black robes with a single golden stripe on each upper arm, rather like the two Amala had on her own uniform as a Senior Centurion. She wondered at the significance, since nobody else had one, their badges of rank visible instead as pictographs on the chest.
But the gravity of the room revolved around this man.
They entered.
“The Scholar: Bhattacharya Yuey Anne Siddhartha Michelle Amala,” Ve announced in Mongolian this time in a voice pitched to fill the room without being rude. “Representing the Empire of Fribourg as a diplomat under the Laws of Recognized Warfare.”
Amala was slightly taken aback. Hopefully she hid it well enough from everyone not touching her at the moment. She had listed all of her names only the once, at their initial meeting, and he had just reversed them exactly when presenting her.
Which made sense. They each had four names, starting with one of the eight allowed clans, and working their way down to the personal, the individual, probably only spoken by a lover or dear friend.
And here she went and had six name on them. Which was short for her family, where one of her cousins had gone all in with nine names plus family for each her children, in turn making nicknames by using the first letters of the nine.
And they had switched languages, apparently expecting her to follow them in Mongolian now.
Okay. Let’s play.
The Khan fixed her with an eye like a hawk. Not hungry, or angry, or mean, but sharp.
Amala swallowed past a dry tongue and let Ve lead her into the room at a slow, almost waltzing pace.
Short. All of them. Weird.
Amala couldn’t remember being in a room with so many adults that were her size or smaller. Especially not one with five men and three women besides her. One guy might have had two centimeters on her, again depending on what they wore under those robes for lifts and heels, but the rest ranged from 160cm up to maybe 170cm.
Amala wondered if it was genetics, or diet and nutrition. She knew that poorer places tended to have smaller people. Over enough generations, marginal diet started showing genetic impacts.
So maybe the warriors of Buran weren’t all three meters tall and capable of breathing fire, after all.
That put a smile on her face as she approached the Khan. He smiled back with his whole face, eyes crinkling up at the corners into wrinkles that took up large amounts of his bald head.
“Scholar Bhattacharya,” he said in a quiet, high voice. “I am Ul Banop Cheani Yuur, Minister of the Eighth Rank, Khan of Trusski.”
He studied her face for several moments. Minister Ul had blue eyes. His face had reset itself from the smile of a moment ago.
At no point had the word welcome crossed his lips.
“You present yourself as a diplomatic representative of Admiral of the Red Keller Marie Jessica?” he continued.
“I do,” Amala replied simply, nodding with just enough of her shoulders to turn it into a small bow. About what she thought the current situation rated, since she wanted to put him at ease.
“We do not adhere to your so-called Laws of Recognized Warfare,” he said, voice growing into a fine, killing edge. “Your kind are barbarians from beyond the pale of civilization.”
Amala let that one go. She felt the same way about them, but this wasn’t the time to get into a pissing match with an entire planet. If she was going to do that, she would have gone back for Fourth Saxon, Ninth Pohang, and Third Huldra to kick some ass around here.
And the rest of the room hadn’t bristled or anything when he said it, like they were about to see if their diplomatic backgrounds came with equivalent close-combat training to hers. Pinchon would kill the closest goon, steal his gun, and introduce utter mayhem if he thought someone was attacking her.
She smiled blandly at the Khan instead.
He let the moment pass as well. And took most of the edge off his voice.
“However, we recognize that you are attempting to communicate with us in a civilized manner,” the Khan continued. “Behaving in a way calculated to impress us that you are capable of restraint and enlightenment. We appreciate such effort, and wish to establish a relationship within which meaningful dialogue may take place. You possess credentials?”
Amala smiled and nodded.
Keller had tasked her other two ringleaders with that part. Travere appeared to be even more dangerous than Moirrey, with that sort of thing.
Amala opened the satchel and pulled out a packet of real papers, printed on heavy stock and decorated with all manner of interesting calligraphy around the edges. Top page was a simple document indicating her status as a personal representative of Jessica Keller: Admiral of the Red, Fleet Centurion, Queen. Ambassador to Buran. Technically, that apparently granted her something similar to the Rittership that zu Kermode had received, and would probably guarantee her all the free drinks she wanted, next time she was on Petron.
Under that was a fast highlight of her career and schooling, including the recent language certifications she had managed, and all the combat awards she could wear if she wanted to put everything on her full dress uniform. Hopefully, they wouldn’t ask, because she hadn’t even brought that gear with her. And she was slightly frightened at what her personal tailor might come up with as a substitute, in a pinch.
Scholar Ve took the packet from her hand, flipped quickly through it, and then took the three steps to hand it to the Khan. That man took a long minute examining it. He spent several more seconds studying her.
“This is the record of a warrior,” he said. In Mongolian, no less.
“It is,” she replied in the same tongue, happy for all the hours working at the machine to get the words natural. “I am a Senior Security Centurion in the Republic of Aquitaine Navy and a career officer. I volunteered to learn your tongue, and to come here with my staff to learn your ways. Admiral Keller was able to end the Great War between Fribourg and Aquitaine on mutually beneficial terms. The Emperor of Fribourg asked her to serve on this frontier, she formerly being his greatest enemy. Her orders are not specifically to fight another war, but to secure the Empire. That may require violence, but it does not necessitate it.”
From the corner of her eyes, Amala tracked the utter shock that came over everyone she could see, as she spoke to them in Mongolian. Maybe not so barbarian after all?
The Khan had a more guarded expression, but had there been a flicker in his eyes as well?
“So my credentials are similar to what one would have, had I been sent to an Imperial world as an ambassador, or any of the other planets and nations with which my nation deals,” she continued. “The Laws of Recognized Warfare exist for protection of diplomats, as well as warriors, since we could not be sure what reception I would receive. It is a request for dialogue, backed up by a promise of violence, if necessary.”
The room tensed. Thank the Creator she could actually speak this tongue, and not just repeat stock phrases, or do everything in Chinese and hope the terms and concepts translated cleanly.
The Khan studied her like a blue-eyed hawk for several minutes as she waited and tried not to think about snipers on a balcony above and behind her somewhere.
“Your accent is atrocious,” the Khan announced finally. A smile appeared. “We will need to work on that, Scholar Bhattacharya. Be welcome to Trusski.”
Amala remembered to breathe.