Rule 34 - Charles Stross [45]
Fi half smiles, then picks up a tall glass full of orange juice. “Prosit,” she replies. “The meat cocktail snacks are halal, by the way.” She takes a sip. “Yes, there are four of us here, but only the first consul is a Georgian national. I understand you’re not actually from Issyk-Kulistan yourself?”
“No.” You glance from side to side. Here you are, trapped with a glass of single malt and a red-headed stick insect—what can you say? “That is to say, there aren’t any natives of Issyk-Kulistan in Scotland, as far as the Foreign Ministry was able to determine, so they put the job out to tender and ended up hiring me.”
“Ah.” She nods slowly. “One of those jobs. I don’t suppose it’s terribly busy, is it?”
You suck in your lower lip and clutch your tumbler close. “No, not really.”
She nods again. “You’re the sixth, you know.”
“The sixth? Sixth what?”
“Sixth pseudo.” She peers at you over the rim of her glasses, which are recording everything and projecting a head-up display on her retinas. “They offered you a steady job in return for processing forms, notarizing documents, sorting out accommodation for distressed natives, and so on. Didn’t they?”
“I don’t see what business of yours my employment is,” you say, perhaps a trifle more waspishly than is tactful.
She blinks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” She nods sidelong at a fellow with a face like the north end of a southbound freight locomotive. “That’s Gerald Williams. He’s the honorary consul for the Popular Democratic Republic of Saint Lucia. You might want to look up the, ah, constitutional crisis there seven years ago. They were the first pseudo—in their case, they used to be a real country, albeit a wee one. But after the big hurricane, a consortium of developers literally bought the place—made the population an offer they couldn’t refuse, relocate somewhere with better weather and about ten thousand euros a head. Now it’s a shell country, specializing in banking and carboncredit exports—they’re still signatory to the climate protocols.”
She knocks back her OJ like she’s trying to wash away the taste of a dead slug. “They’re legit, if shady. I shouldn’t really say this, but I hope you double-checked who you were doing business with. One of these days, we’re going to see a really nasty pseudo, and the consequences are going to be unpleasant all round.” She smiles tightly. “Georgia’s celebrating it’s thirtieth anniversary later this year, and we’re throwing a party. Perhaps you’d like to come?”
“I’d—love to,” you manage. “What did you do”—to get this gig, you’re about to say: It comes out as—“before you worked for the Georgian consulate?”
“A doctorate in international relations, specializing in the history of the Transcaucasus in the latter half of the twentieth century. I did my field work in Tbilisi.” She reaches for the mixers and tops up her OJ, then adds a splash of vodka. “It was this, or move to Brussels. I can do simultaneous translation between English and Kartuli, you know.” Her smile broadens. “And yourself?”
Rumbled. You shrug. “I’m trying to learn Kyrgyz.” Badly, you don’t add. Nor do you mention that your highest degree is a lower second from the polytechnic of real life with a postgraduate diploma in Scallie Studies from Saughton. “And I’ve got a great line in breadmix samples from the People’s Number Four Grain Products Factory of Issyk-Kulistan. Guaranteed insect-free!”
“So your republic exists primarily to export bread mix to the EU?” She sniffs, evidently amused. “Wait here, Mr. Hussein, I’ll be right back.” And with that she disappears into the front parlour of the Georgian consulate.
You amble around the room for a while. The background chatter is getting louder, and more visitors are arriving—to your untrained eye