Kelley Eskridge by Solitaire

of
attempts was reached. Finally she told Snow's voice mail, “Hi. It's me.
I just wanted…anyway. Call me. Okay. Bye.” But later she was too
restless to talk; she turned off her phone and spent most of the night
not sleeping, turning the conversation with Neill over and over in
memory.
    By the next morning she was wound tight
with fatigue and accumulated strain. She should feel better—she had a
clear direction now, and she had the company's hand firmly at her back,
moving her forward. But forward was still a murky place.
    Her first meeting of the Garbo project was
scheduled for late that afternoon; before that, her weekly advisory
session with Khofi. She walked briskly to his office, stuck her head
around the door.
    “Sorry I'm late, Khofi. What…is something
wrong?”
    He said, “Come in, Zhakal. Everything is
fine, but we have some changes to discuss.”
     
    “I'm afraid I can only give you a few
minutes,” Chao said. “I'm expecting someone. You said it was urgent?”
She was kneeling on a cushion at a low table, and as Jackal hesitated
in the doorway, she picked up the teapot in front of her and poured two
cups. The steam smelled unpleasantly of anise and oranges. The table
and the cushions were new, placed in the center of the room so they
were framed against the window and a view that today was all smoke and
blue: inky water that rumbled to itself in deceptively gentle swells,
an afternoon sky bruised with indigo thunderclouds, and a widowmaker
fog snaking around the north end of the island, the kind that could
conspire with a storm to hide a fifty-foot trough from an unwary pilot
who might never know her danger until she was dropping down, down, with
the sea tumbling on top of her.
    “Oh,” Jackal said. She had meant to have
her say and leave with as much dignity as she could muster: but the sea
in its frame drew her across the room until she was within breathing
distance of the glass, so that she could see her own eyes reflected
against the fog outside. She wished she could climb into it and hide,
like a small fish in coral, slipping easily among the sharp edges of
the world.
    “Beautiful, isn't it?”
    Jackal took a breath. “I've just been to
see Khofi.”
    “Yes?”
    “He told me that he's no longer my advisor
and that I've been reassigned to you.”
    “Yes, I thought that was understood from
our last conversation.”
    “Well, I didn't understand it. And I don't
want it. He's been my advisor since I was thirteen.” She stopped, too
angry to say anymore. The way he had looked at her and said, “Oh,
Zhakal, you have been like a sunflower in a garden to me,” with his
eyes full of tears.
    “It's not what I want,” she repeated.
    “Jackal, this day was always coming. Khofi
knew it, that's why he let you go. He's not fighting the reassignment.”
    “I'll fight it.”
    “That's your privilege,” Chao said evenly.
“But think about it carefully. Dr. Andabe can't provide guidance at the
level you need now. He's done a sound and thorough job of making sure
you developed a basic skills set. But he can't tell you what to expect
in Al Iskandariyah, can he? And time is short.”
    Jackal turned from the window. Chao still
knelt before the table, triangulated by the cups of tea. She took her
time to sip from one, and shrugged. “It's not his fault, of course,”
she continued. “Our negotiations with EarthGov are highly confidential,
executive level only. I expect it's the same for all the nations
sponsoring a Hope. Everyone's jockeying for the most visible role for
their people, something they can point to and say, ‘Look what our
culture has given the world.’”
    “Isn't that the point?”
    “It's shortsighted instant gratification,”
Chao said, with a slight wave of her hand. “It's certainly no way to
build an administrative structure for the long term. ‘Therefore when
thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee.’ Matthew.
The Christian Bible, Jackal. We'll add a