Yesterday's Kin Read Free Page A

heavy, richly embroidered silk. Marianne felt like a wren beside a peacock. Desai held out his hand but did not smile. Relations between the United States and India were not good. Relations between the United States and everybody were not good, as the country relentlessly pursued its new policy of economic isolationism in an attempt to protect jobs. Until the Denebs came, with their cosmos-shaking distraction, the UN had been thick with international threats. Maybe it still was.
    “Dr. Jenner,” Desai said, studying her intently, “it seems we are both summoned to an interstellar conference.” His English, in the musical Indian accent, was perfect. Marianne remembered that he spoke four languages.
    She said, “Do you know why?”
    Her directness made him blink. “I do not. The Deneb ambassador was insistent but not forthcoming.”
    And does humanity do whatever the ambassador insists on? Marianne did not say this aloud. Something here was not adding up. The Secretary-General’s next words stunned her.
    “We, plus a few others, are invited aboard the Embassy . The invitation is dependent upon your presence, and upon its immediate acceptance.”
    “Aboard . . . aboard the Embassy ?”
    “It seems so.”
    “But nobody has ever—”
    “I am well aware of that.” The dark, intelligent eyes never left her face. “We await only the other guests who happen to be in New York.”
    “I see.” She didn’t.
    Desai turned to his security detail and spoke to them in Hindi. An argument began. Did security usually argue with their protectees? Marianne wouldn’t have thought so, but then, what did she know about UN protocol? She was out of her field, her league, her solar system. Her guess was that the Denebs were not allowing bodyguards aboard the Embassy , and that the security chief was protesting.
    Evidently the Secretary-General won. He said to her, “Please come,” and walked with long strides from the room. His kurta rustled at his ankles, shimmering sky. Not intuitive, Marianne could nonetheless sense the tension coming off him like heat. They went down a long corridor, trailed by deeply frowning guards, and down an elevator. Very far down—did the elevator go under the harbor? It must. They exited into a small room already occupied by two people, a man and a woman. Marianne recognized the woman: Ekaterina Zaytsev, the representative to the UN from the Russian Federation. The man might be the Chinese representative. Both looked agitated.
    Desai said in English, “We await only—ah, here they are.”
    Two much younger men practically blew into the room, clutching headsets. Translators. They looked disheveled and frightened, which made Marianne feel better. She wasn’t the only one battling an almost overwhelming sense of unreality. If only Evan could be here, with his sardonic and unflappable Britishness. “Or so we thought. . . .”
    No. Neither she nor Evan had ever thought of this.
    “The other permanent members of the Security Council are unfortunately not immediately available,” Desai said. “We will not wait.”
    Marianne couldn’t remember who the other permanent members were. The UK, surely, but who else? How many? What were they doing this October dusk that would make them miss first contact with an alien species? Whatever it was, they had to regret it the rest of their lives.
    Unless, of course, this little delegation never returned—killed or kidnapped or eaten. No, that was ridiculous. She was being hysterical. Desai would not go if there were danger.
    Of course he would. Anyone would. Wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t she? Nobody, she suddenly realized, had actually asked her to go on this mission. She’d been ordered to go. What if she flat-out refused?
    A door opened at the far end of the small room, voices spoke from the air about clearance and proceeding, and then another elevator. The six people stepped into what had to be the world’s most comfortable and unwarlike submarine, equipped with