He had barely finished towelling his hair dry after a mildly rejuvenating cold shower when his phone came alive, blaring out the screechy tunes of some teen idol’s latest hit. Ruban made a mental note to lock his cell in a safe or something the next time Hiya visited the flat. The girl was fast turning out to be a nuisance around electronics.
“Hello?” he said, balancing the device between his ear and shoulder as he used his hands to adjust the cuffs of his hastily ironed ceremonial tunic. “Who is this?” He wondered who could be calling him this early in the morning. Simani wouldn’t be up for another hour at least, he was sure of that.
“Hello Sir,” began a polite, official-sounding female voice on the other end of the line. “Am I speaking to Mr. Ruban Kinoh, Chief Hunter, South Ragah Division?”
“Yes,” said Ruban, more mystified than ever. He could only think of one place that would address him by that title, and he couldn’t imagine why they would be calling him today of all days. Wouldn’t they have bigger, international fish to fry on a day like this?
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“Hello, Mr. Kinoh. I’m sorry to disturb you sir, but I’m afraid you’ll have to report to headquarters as soon as possible,” the voice said, appropriately polite, although firm. Ruban wondered for a second if they made IAW receptionists in a factory.
“Umm, sure. May I know what this is about?” He had to ask, on principle. Not that he was in the least opposed to skipping the morning ceremonies at the office, if such a thing were at all possible.
“The Senior Secretary of Defence wants to see you sir. I’m afraid I’m not authorised to divulge any further details at the moment.”
“The Senior...oh alright!” said Ruban, finally connecting the title to the man. He really did need to brush up on his politics one of these days. If it weren’t for Uncle Subhas, and the fact that he happened to be really rather good at his job, Ruban was pretty sure he would have gotten into trouble for his lack of interest in official protocol a long time ago. “Tell him I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Of course sir.”
With a sigh of gratitude at his uncle’s thoughtfulness, he hurriedly stripped off the heavily embroidered tunic in favour of his regular cotton uniform and light black overcoat, tucking his sifblade into the hidden compartment inside the coat before rushing out of the flat. He would have to hurry to be on time in this atrocious traffic.