Andreas shook off the remark and pointed to the public docks.
“Eat on the rifter. We have some bits to go over before you meet the owner. Oh, and I have ample water in here.” He motioned to the small bag slung over his shoulder. “I do wish you would let me know when you plan to muck around with your schedule.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience. I know my way around Amity better than anyone. I don’t like being led on a leash.”
Andreas jumped into a rifter and grabbed the steering arms.
“There’s always a leash, Governor. I’m paid to make sure you don’t trip on it.”
“Oh. Is that what your pay stamp is for? I’ve wondered.”
Andreas mocked laughter as he piloted the rifter.
“Your superb wit aside, I should remind you that being a politician is not your forte.”
“Because I’m not a politician.”
Andreas raised a cynical brow.
“You give speeches. You glad-hand. Everyone knows who you are. You’re a politician, sir. Now, please. Eat! Here’s your water. I’ll drive slowly enough so you don’t spill anything.”
A leash indeed.
Trevor saw no point in arguing. The snotty attitude aside, Andreas wasn’t wrong about ... well, anything. He was a prude with an ornery disposition and a side of misanthropy. But he kept Trevor on track, shaped his public language, and held the newb’s hand since day one.
And the curry? Amazing. The chef was on his game today.
“I’ve done some additional backgrounding on the owner,” Andreas said. “I found a couple of points you should capitalize on.”
Between bites, Trevor said:
“Capitalize? I was just going to make general remarks. Welcome him to the shopping district. Reemphasize the importance of diverse cultural influences on Amity. The usual.”
Andreas winced. “Except this is not a usual affair. This is the first Riyadhi-owned business on the station. No one believed it would ever happen. You can’t simply ignore the precedent, Governor.”
He wasn’t wrong. Riyadh and its tribes of descendants from pre-history Earth’s Arabian diaspora had never played nice with the Collectorate – the first or the current. The list of tensions was long.
After it dropped ‘New’ from its name, Riyadh contributed the least number of soldiers and resources to fight the Swarm. It only agreed to join the People’s Collectorate because it desperately needed a massive economic lifeline. It seceded a few years later then rejoined after negotiations led by future President Kara Aleksanyan. Few of its citizens applied for positions on Amity, and its IC delegation formed no meaningful alliances.
The first signs of genuine progress collapsed when President Aleksanyan visited Riyadh’s Emir four years ago. She was assassinated alongside him. The planet almost seceded again.
Cynics thought the application for a restaurant would never pass muster. What kind of food did those people serve anyway? Who would want to dine there?
Trevor remembered the kerfuffle. Murrill approved the license in one of his final acts. In retrospect, how tainted was that deal? How much did the owner agree to pay Murrill on the side?
“Fine,” Trevor said. “Give me two talking points. No more. I don’t want to look like I’m reciting the man’s Shadow Gambit profile.”
“Two. Mmph.” Andreas scrolled through his notes. “Here we are. Harrod bin Talman belongs to a long line of fruit farmers, and he has nine children ranging in age from eight to thirty.”
“What does he harvest?”
“Melons, apples, blancas, cherries, and dates. Primarily.”
“What are blancas?”
“A sour fruit. Purple with a pulp like lemons.”
“Interesting. He might be the first farmer to open a restaurant in space. Might be a good question to pose.”
“Fair instinct, Governor. Odds are, his children will be heavily involved in managing the business. The oldest three have a history in the financial sector.”
“Good to know.”
Andreas gave him time to finish lunch before piloting the rifter to the public docks at the L-3 shopping district. They walked past restaurants, bistros, and cafes until finding a small shop with two humble tables outside and barely room for a half dozen within. Trevor understood: The new place would rely heavily on takeout.
Trevor recognized one of the four well-dressed Riyadhis standing outside. He wore a pencil-thin beard and a patch over his left eye pending a prosthetic replacement.
“Rep. Malla. Good to see you again.”
They shook hands. Trevor thought all the representatives had returned home to campaign in the upcoming elections.
“Governor. Thank you for coming. May I introduce Sheh Harrod bin Talman, his son Radwan, and his daughter Reema.”
They extended firm hands and slight bows but no verbal response. The children were, as Andreas predicted, likely the oldest. They might even have been twins, but now was not the time to probe. None seemed terribly comfortable with Trevor’s presence. He searched for a suitable icebreaker.
“I have to tell you I’m very excited about this restaurant. I’ve probably eaten everywhere else, and I love trying new things.” OK, so not entirely true, but adjacent. “Mazookas Tazi. An interesting name, Sheh Talman. I know Mazookas is a continent on Riyadh, but where is Tazi?”
Talman and his children smiled as if privy to an inside joke.
