Dinner, Interrupted
© 2024 by Walter Reimer



It had been more than a monat since Balakrishnan had received the small package with its note and contents. The note had been incinerated, and the metal discs had been melted down after a full analysis. They were pure elemental silver, which still had some value on the commodities exchange. A small sum, but the amount was duly added to her personal account.

Not that it made the Dhole-Akita feel any more reassured.

Chen was busy preparing a report for the Imperial Chamber of Deputies (hah!) regarding the current state of relations between Terra and the Colonies. The trade agreement had, so far, been holding well between the two Terran factions, although some groups within the government were still questioning why she, Balakrishnan, hadn’t pressed harder for the Colonies to rejoin the Terran Sphere.

Idiots.

Seated alone at her dining table, the canine picked up a small cube of medium-rare pork, dipped the morsel into a bulgogi sauce, and chewed after she’d placed it in her mouth. It was delicious, but she resisted the urge to eat too fast. Savoring what she ate as if it were her last meal was a habit she’d developed while she was still in the lower ranks of the Foreign Ministry.

Situated in front of her plate and the array of small dishes and bowls bearing food and sauces was her padd. The device was set into rigid mode and propped up so she could see the screen, which was displaying a replay of Monsoon Poultry Hospital. The long-running soap opera was good, solid, mindless entertainment that provided some background sound and images while she ate.

The leading actress had just made some sort of dramatic point or other, judging by the background music, when the screen abruptly blanked.

“Hello, Balakrishnan-jih,” said a voice. It was a carefully modulated treble that could have been either male or female.

The Dhole-Akita’s ears went straight back. “Who the hell is this?” she demanded, setting her tongs down on her plate.

“I am . . . who I am is unimportant,” the voice said. “You received a message from me some time ago.”

Her throat went dry. The note had called her a traitor, and the silver had been a traditional symbol of betrayal. “What message would that be?” she asked.

“Do not try to bluff, Balakrishnan-jih,” the voice said. Its pleasant tone never altered. “I am aware that you spoke with the Kashlani before Task Force Two engaged in battle at the Kashlanin home system.”

Balakrishnan suppressed her fear. “So you’re ‘aware.’ Are you ‘aware’ that I have had many talks with the Kashlani during the war? Why are you trying to intimidate me?”

“It was very coincidental that you spoke with the Kashlani,” the voice said. “Coincidences have historically led to fatal results. I am not seeking to intimidate you, Balakrishnan-jih, but merely remind you of things you have done in the past.” There was a curious pause. “You may be of some use.”

The canine raised her eyebrow. “How so? I am a loyal Terran.”

“This is known, and accepted. What you may be asked to do is simple. A word here, or there, in the right ear at the right moment.”

Her usual poise was starting to come back. She picked up her tongs. “And if I refuse?”

“I will pass on the coincidence to the Director of Intelligence,” the voice said. “I shall contact you again, Minister.”

The screen resolved back into the soap opera again, and as Nurse Dara spoke to one of the patients, Balakrishnan returned to her meal.

The meat was cold now, but she ate it anyway, followed by a sip of beer as she thought.

She had been certain that she was being blackmailed into doing something, and she briefly considered bringing the matter to ‘M’s attention. Disgusting little leafeater that he was, the roebuck had more sources of information at his fingertips than anyone in the Empire.

By the time she had finished her meal and the program on her padd had ended, she decided to have a meeting with her fellow Cabinet Minister.

No one else had to know.