Friends in the Stars

by Mackey Chandler

  “Pay no attention,” Bacon said to Born’s distressed look. “Leonardo is given to hyperbole and sarcasm. I’m sure he’ll send a truck and a mob of graduate students. I take it that’s an acceptance?” Bacon asked pleasantly. “Just nod yes after the Human manner or grunt emphatically,” he instructed Leonardo.

  Leonardo managed both.

  “Ah very good, I’ll leave it to you two to work out the details,” Bacon said, leaving.

  “Exactly how much did your patron spend for your little toy?” Leonardo asked.

  “The freight actually was a bit more than the machine,” Born said. “It all came pretty close to fifty million dollars Ceres.”

  “Are you her boy toy or something to get that kind of support to pursue your research?” Leonardo demanded crudely.

  “She actually initiated the line of research,” Born testified, taking offense at the way Leonardo was immediately vulgar and trying to stifle it. “She may not have the ability to describe it in elegant mathematical terms, but the lady is smart and has an obvious intuitive understanding of the principles involved. She is Human not Derf, so I could hardly have the sort of personal relationship you suggest.”

  “I don’t know. I’m personally quite attracted to filthy rich in any form,” Leonardo admitted. “Do you want to give me an address to send my boys over?” he asked, saving Born from making a reply Leonardo might have found offensive.

  “Yes, and my associate Musical and I will follow along so we are familiar with where you are taking it to set up,” Born said.

  “Foiled again, I was going to take it off to our other secret lab and just disappear it,” Leonardo said.

  Born just ignored that and ended the call. He could see he was going to get a lot of practice ignoring bizarre responses and crude humor while he had to work with Leonardo. The Derf might think he was hilariously funny, but Born found him unfunny to the point he was going to make them sign a receipt for the machine. Leonardo had given him no solid reason yet, but he didn’t trust him.

  * * *

  “Lee has purchased a property in the old town and turned it over to Garrett to make very secure and maintain it,” the First Mother said. “Right now it is being used to house the spies caught on Lee’s ship while they are being examined, but we’ll maintain it for other purposes. It gives us a place from which to act in other ways in the town. That seems like a long-term necessity if we are to have closer relations with the town Derf. There may be other things we need to do in town that we don’t want to advertise and create a public fuss, so we aren’t making this a labeled public facility in any sense. It is anonymous and will be kept that way. The English term is a safe house.”

  “Garrett will maintain a guard there?” the Third Mother asked.

  “Yes, he plans to have at least two and possibly four soldiers on hand there at all times,” the First Mum explained.

  “That seems like a small number to secure a permanent location,” the Third Mother said. “Somebody has to be on duty guarding, so housekeeping and cooking as well as going out for supplies would seem to be burdensome on top of their military duties. Why don’t I send a mature caretaker couple to see to those mundane things and let them give full attention to their duty?”

  The First and Second Mother shared a long meaningful look. When the First Mother said nothing the Second took that as leave to speak.

  “Might they be intended to be your eyes and ears inside the safe house?” she asked.

  “Yes, they can report to us with perhaps more candor than the others might. It’s difficult to ask soldiers to be spies too. I think it takes a slightly different mindset. As an isolated group with strong camaraderie they might be tempted to not speak ill to us of their mates over things they can excuse as minor Also it lets them deny to others with perfect candor if they are charged with spying. They will be clan, and the soldiers will likely share stories freely with those they see as their own. But I have in mind using them to observe other things in town too.”

  “Do it,” the first Mother instructed. “But differently than the sort of casual arrangement we spoke of before. Pick this pair very carefully and make it explicitly known to them they are gathering intelligence and doing so undercover. They are the start of a formal intelligence gathering organization. Do not lose sight of the fact you are doing this for all three of us and our successors. You are running it, but it is not your private plaything.”

  “I will write a full weekly report,” the Third Mother promised.

  * * *

  The salesman for Capital Provisions, Walton, was a very dark chocolate coated Derf with a little white showing on the ear tassels. “Individually wrapped bars just aren’t a very popular way to package food on Derfhome. If you insist on getting them that way it’s going to be a big delay. I doubt anybody knows how to make the machinery to form and seal them in wrappers. The smart thing to do rather than experiment would be to license Human designs. Though that would take time to negotiate, and then time to fabricate the processing line locally. All of which would have to be recovered by charging you a premium price for a unique product.”

  “We also wanted to do this quietly,” Eileen said. “That sort of process, shopping for the design license and paying fees to Earth would attract more attention than we wanted. We’ll have to consider a serving that is nutritionally equivalent but in a form that is common locally. What sort of packaging do you normally use for emergency rations and institutional food?”

  “Let me call a nutritionist and process engineer in from the factory to talk with you,” Walton suggested. “They can not only tell you how we design a product but show you samples. Can you come later in the morning say eight and a half or nine, and be hungry to try some items?

  “That would work for me. Vic honey, is that fine with you?” Eileen asked.

  Vic was staring past Walton at the wall, calculating. He was still not comfortable thinking in Derf hours. There were twenty hours of four thousand seventeen Earth seconds. So noon was ten. A Derf hour was just shy of sixty-seven Earth minutes. Sixty-seven times nine would be six hundred seventy minus sixty-seven. Round it off to six hundred minutes, so about ten Earth hours into the day. That would be an early lunch not a late breakfast for them. They were early risers.

  “Yeah, that’s fine. By the time we meet and greet and have a little talk-talk it’ll be time for lunch,” Vic agreed.

  “A bit late for the first of the two usual Derf meals,” Eileen reminded Vic. “But you can have a light breakfast after you run.”

  Walton looked at them funny. Even they could tell as little experience as they had with Derf expressions.

  “Why do you need to run anywhere? I mean, instead of taking your car or a hired ride?” It puzzled him.

  “Humans often run for exercise,” Eileen told him.

  “Derf often work for exercise,” Walton said, “but not if they don’t need to.”

  “Humans are made to run. If they don’t stay fairly active they start having health problems. At a minimum frequent brisk walking, but running releases certain brain chemicals. It’s very rewarding.”

  Eileen could tell that raised more questions than it answered.

  “We’re cursorial hunters of unusual endurance,” she said by way of explanation.

  “I’m not sure they have any persistent hunters in the local Derf ecology to know what you mean,” Vic told her gently.

  “The term is unfamiliar to me,” Walton admitted. “But about the time I start feeling I know English it seems somebody will throw out a new expression like that.”

  “A Human, in ages past, might just have a spear with which to hunt and not be able to throw it very far accurately,” Eileen explained. “He’d select a herbivore from the herd and run at it. The animal would run off a couple of hundred meters, faster than the Human could run. But prey animals lack endurance beyond a sprint. The Human would just keep after him. Every time the animal ran away it never fully recovered before the human caught up to
it and made him run again. Eventually, it didn’t matter how closely the Human approached again. When the animal was too exhausted to run again it either collapsed or got speared.”

  She illustrated with a vicious stabbing motion that made a half ton monster shudder.

  “How long could you do that?” Walton asked, fascinated but horrified.

  “Days if you are hungry enough,” Eileen said, smiling at him for effect.

  Humans were often made uncomfortable by Derf smiling. It was interesting, Vic observed, that the opposite could be true too.

  “Let me put it a different way,” Walton said. “How far can a Human run?”

  “It’s pretty common for Humans to run a traditional forty-two-kilometer course against each other for the best time,” Eileen said. “For fun,” she added.

  “Without stopping?” Walton asked.

  “Well yeah, if you want to finish in any decent time. A good runner should be able to do it in about five hours. Somebody gene modified like us can shave a little bit off that.”

  It was so obvious Walton was giving that such deep thought it would have been rude and intrusive to interrupt him, so they waited.

  “This helps me understand Humans better,” Walton said. “Frankly, some of my friends find Humans pushy. But to be able to hunt like that, pushiness is a necessity, an absolute virtue, and must be deeply bred into your species.”

  “I never thought of it from that angle,” Eileen said, “but it makes perfect sense.”

  “I’m glad you did not find it offensive. Shall we meet with my people tomorrow and pursue this further?”

  “Sure, thanks, we’ll be back and hungry,” Eileen promised.

  * * *

  “This is pretty nice,” Gordon said, turning around slowly and inspecting the cabin.

  “If you don’t like the colors the panels can be reset,” Lee said.

  “But not to an image?” Gordon teased.

  “They could do that, but there was a mass penalty and a power budget added. Of course, you can override non-essential power draws,” Lee said. “Still, we decided to keep the ship as light and simple as possible. There aren’t many fancy comforts.”

  “If I need art I can buy a film to put on the wall or just show it on my screen,” Gordon said, waving at it. “It’s certainly big enough. I’m just impressed I can turn around in my cabin without backing into the corridor first. I don’t really expect to spend much time here that I’m not sleeping.”

  “One of the Earthie adventure videos I watched had the Captain in his cabin a lot doing reports and filling out forms instead of being on the bridge. In fact, he took some of his meals there,” Lee said. “I was trying to figure out why they would show that? The film seemed to be a promo to get people interested in serving, and that didn’t seem like it would motivate anybody to sign up. Doesn’t he delegate and have people to do stuff?”

  “You’d have to ask somebody who actually served on their ships. I have no idea how they do things internally. You’d know more about the style of how Humans administer things from when you lived with your cousin in Michigan,” Gordon suggested.

  “Yeah, but I mostly saw him dealing with the Negative Tax people. You couldn’t run a warship like that!” Lee said. “They had forms for everything in great detail. How often you could get your place painted and who was on the approved list to paint it and what kind of paint they could use. The painter had to be a local business and they had to hire certain kinds of people and use approved trucks. They had to use certain ladders, wear approved uniforms, and meet all kinds of safety standards. They had to have classes for their painters about how to treat each other and do drug tests and stuff. Then there would be annual inspections for everything and reports if it needed to be repainted and why. Actual painting was sort of an after-thought. That’s just painting. They make as big a production out of everything.”

  Gordon did that learned facial gesture that almost looked like a Human raising their eyebrow. He opened one eye wider and tightened his furry forehead over that eye. It looked remarkably similar given the lack of a real eyebrow.

  “No, really,” Lee insisted. “You’d never be able to get around to training on stuff that matters, stuff that you need to actually fight effectively.”

  Gordon just did the eyebrow thing again and added a grin.

  “Oh. You did whip their butts pretty badly didn’t you?” Lee finally recalled.

  “I recall our friend Heather told you, "Naval officers don't have to think. They have doctrine to follow," Gordon said.

  “That wasn’t just sarcastic humor?” Lee asked, horrified.

  “Depends on which side of the missile exchange you are on,” Gordon said, making fingers pass each other in a mock exchange. “We always found it terribly amusing.”

  Lee closed her eyes for a few seconds and looked sick. “That reduces people to expendable units over stupid paperwork,” she decided.

  “As usual, you are succinct. Your empathy speaks well of you. You aren’t a monster. But I hope that pondering the morality of it wouldn’t make you hesitate just a fraction of a second too long to launch one of those shiny new missiles.”

  “No, I have my own people I value even if they don’t honor theirs,” Lee insisted. “Oh, you should know, the missiles checked out perfect.”

  “Good. You know what I do, running scenarios over and over in my head,” Gordon said, tapping his skull. “I highly recommend it.”

  “I try to do that already,” Lee said. “Come up with me and look at the bridge.”

  * * *

  “What sort of business can we pretend an interest in as a plausible excuse for a trade mission to Derfhome?” Wilson asked five of his most trusted subordinates.

  “I’ve compiled a chart of their principal industries and another of their exports by volume to help us select,” Kirk offered.

  “Put it on the wall for all of us then,” Wilson ordered.

  They all contemplated it before suggesting anything. Wilson ran very casual meetings and never raced to a conclusion.

  “It’s mighty thin,” Eric said after a read through. “Most of the imports are from Fargone rather than us. But that one line item under military equipment. Did they really import nuclear weapons?”

  “It’s well documented,” Wilson said. “They bought tactical weapons before their war with us, then they stole a substantial number by capturing our warships. They have continued to buy top of the line Fargone missiles with advanced warheads. In fact, the last public contract for purchase was only a couple of months ago.”

  “Who bought them, the ones who fought us, Red Tree clan?” Kirk asked.

  “Sort of, the girl the whole thing was about, Lee Anderson was the last buyer. She is a Red Tree clan member although Human. She bought two long-range ship missiles with integrated X-head warheads. Delivery to Derfhome orbit specified. She might have taken delivery of them by now.”

  “They sell to individuals?” Kirk asked, incredulous.

  “Like ordering a pizza,” Wilson assured him. “She may tip the delivery boy.”

  When Eric looked dubious Wilson added, “The Fargoer warheads are somewhat more advanced than ours, especially the X heads. They can steer more beams on target and use a smaller kernel to initiate them. It forces a supercritical mass from a much smaller mass of plutonium than we do, so they are more economical. Rumor is New Japan is running about even with them for nuke tech.”

  “Why haven’t we kept up?” Eric asked, horrified.

  “Ours still work and it would cost a great deal to do the design work and upgrade. They were building their production facilities from scratch, so it wasn’t any particular expense to go with the next generation designs that are just theoretical to us. It’ll remain cheaper for a long time to use another twenty percent metal in our kernels than to retool. Until we fought Red Tree nobody had used a nuke except to test them in a couple of decades. Our expense was all maintenance and they had to start some fabrication fac
ilities back up to make replacements. A fifty-megaton boom is still the same boom whether it is a sixth-generation device or a seventh-generation device.”

  “I suppose they know their customers really well,” Eric said.

  “Oh for sure, on a first name, ‘How are the wife and kids?’ level,” Wilson said, with a smile. “Really, we don’t want to draw attention to this mission so they conclude it is a spy mission by looking to deal or inquire about anything military.”

  “Then scratch anything to do with metalworking or electronics,” Pamela said. That got a round of nods and more thoughtful reading. “Aren’t you doing a mission to Fargone too? Do we have to come up with something for them too?”

  “We are compartmenting that, just like real spies,” Wilson said. “You won’t know each other, and can’t reveal what you don’t know. Just concern yourself with Derfhome.”

  “There’s almost no luxury trade,” Todd noted, “a few exotic decorative plants, a few natural scents. A tiny amount of handcrafts like enameled jewelry.”

  He expanded the one list. Almost all of those items were exported by three small companies. “We’d create a public fuss to try to break a new exporter into such a small market.”

  “Go the other way, sell something into their market instead of an export operation,” Pamela said. “What do they buy from us?” They all looked to the wall screen.

  “That’s depressing. Not much at all,” Kirk said, “mostly intangibles like information services and entertainment.”

  “The cost of interstellar freight is horrible for anything that isn’t extremely valuable or unique. We will never export soybeans or ground car tires to them,” Wilson said.

  “Agriculture and food processing is still their biggest internal industry,” Pamela pointed out. “How about getting a foot in the door with that? Look at American fast food. The awful stuff was franchised in hundreds of other countries where you could still buy real food and made fortunes for all sorts of people. They never shipped the food from North America, they bought it locally. They exported the idea. What do Derf like to eat?”