by J. N. Chaney
“Checks out,” Brid said, tapping a graphical display. “All of the standard indicators are saying this is live.”
“So these Danzur have deployed a defensive system,” Mol said. “And it’s a potent one, too.”
Thorn glanced at the tactical display to see whatever Mol had seen, but nothing on it had changed. He lifted his eyes to her.
She smiled. “Boredom. They’ve figured out how to weaponize boredom.”
Thorn smiled back. Indeed, after their own initial transmission, identifying themselves and assuring that their mission was a peaceful one, the Danzur had responded with almost two full minutes of what sounded like the text of a legal agreement.
“Uh, Thorn? They’ve stopped talking,” Dart said.
Sure enough, the comm had gone silent. Thorn turned his attention to the welcome silence.
“Uh, okay,” he said, transmitting. “What would you like us to do now?”
“Do you accept the terms and conditions of your entry into the territorial integrity of the Danzur Sovereignty? If you have questions, or object to any provisions, please identify the provision in question by specific reference—”
“No, no questions,” Thorn replied.
“I can repeat the terms and conditions if it would assist—”
“Oh, hell no!” Thorn blurted, then glared at the snickers from the others. “No, that . . . won’t be necessary. That was very clear, thank you.”
The voice somehow turned even more petulantly self-important. “That being the case, do you accept the terms and conditions of your entry into the territorial integrity—”
“We do,” Thorn cut in. “Yes. We do.”
Brid leaned forward. “You sure you don’t want to review what they said? Just in case we’re agreeing to be eaten or something?”
“I listened to it all,” Trixie put in. “And there’s nothing about anyone eating anyone. Mainly just a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo about divesting them of liability and concurrence with legal statutes and blah, blah, blah.”
Thorn hit transmit. “Please wait a moment, we’re reviewing the terms of the agreement.”
Strangely, the voice lightened, becoming almost pleasant. “Oh. Well, very well, then. I will await your reply.”
“I think we just scored a point with them,” Dart said. Thorn looked a question at him.
“You didn’t just hit ok on the legal agreement,” he replied. “You told them you’re going to study it.”
“Yeah, just from his tone of voice,” Brid put in, “you said something they find . . . pleasing.”
“These Danzur like bureaucracy, and procedure, and doing things by the book,” Thorn said.
Brid and Dart both nodded. Mol, for her part, just slumped back in her g-couch.
“A planet full of people who love bureaucracy,” she said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ve just discovered hell.”
“Air’s a little on the thick side,” Brid said, as she, Thorn, and Dart stepped out of the Gyrfalcon’s airlock and into the orbiting platform to which they’d been directed. Apparently, actually landing on the planet’s surface required another set of disclaimers, liability waivers, and similar legal bullshit. Thorn did not have the patience to pander to the bureaucratic fetish the Danzur seemed to actually enjoy.
“About five percent higher atmospheric pressure,” Dart said, glancing down at the data pad clipped to his belt. “Oxygen content is higher, too—about twenty-six percent, compared to twenty-one standard. Higher partial pressure of water vapor, higher CO2 content compared to nitrogen, higher—”
“Thicker,” Thorn said. “We get it.” He turned and looked along the corridor leading forward. It was brightly lit and rendered in soft, pastel colors, mainly pinks and pale greens, arranged in an abstract pattern that reminded him of—
He grimaced at each new and ghastly color array. In the distant past, he recalled a horrible piece of clothing—or was it socks—in this unsettling color pattern.
Paisley. Right.
“Interesting choice of décor,” Brid said as they started forward, her thoughts apparently echoing Thorn’s.
They reached the end of the corridor and stepped into a compartment occupied by four—
Danzur, Thorn assumed, though they were nothing at all like what he’d expected.
If you took an ape, squashed it to about two-thirds of the height of a man, added the bulk to its width, gave it an extra set of arms, then clothed it in something resembling formal wear, you’d have a Danzur.
One of them stepped forward with a loping gait. “On behalf of the Hegemony, I am pleased to extend our welcome to you. I am Sophat Girn, Deputy Assistant to the Preeminent Undersecretary to the First Secretary to the Hegemonic Council.”
Two things struck Thorn as the Danzur spoke—first, that, absent the translator and its formal, cultured tone, their actual speech sounded like nothing but a series of wet, syrupy grunts. And second, despite giving a title that was vaguely masculine, Thorn had no idea whether Sophat Girn was female, male, or something different. As the diplomat droned on, despite being an underling to an underling to an underling of whoever was in charge, Sophat Girn gave his title like it wasn’t only something to be proud of, but that it was important, too.
Thorn kept his face neutral, since smiling might be considered inappropriate, and responded in a grave tone.
“I am Lieutenant Thorn Stellers, Starcaster with the Orbital Navy of Earth. We represent the Allied Stars, and I am very pleased to meet you.”
Sophat introduced the other three Danzur present, all of whom seemed to be underlings not only to him, but also, in some fashion, to one another. Thorn acknowledged them as they were named, but quickly forgot who was who because, apparently, every Danzur had some sort of convoluted title to follow their name. Or at least these ones did, although at each introduction, the Danzur compulsively adjusted a stack of papers near them, twitching every page into order with meticulous care.
“You, ah, missed one,” Thorn said, smiling.
The Danzur bobbed her head and adjusted a stack of pages, then sighed in a universal sound of relief. “Thank you!” she enthused via the translation.
Thorn introduced Brid and Dart in turn, then Sophat led all of them into an adjoining compartment, one seemingly intended specifically for diplomatic meetings. This compartment was adorned with more of the pastel-Paisley patterns and was set with cushions in a circle surrounding a holographic display. The image currently depicted was yet more abstraction—essentially, the Paisley pattern animated into something flowing and languid. Thorn wasn’t sure if it meant something or was just a screensaver.
When they had settled themselves in, Sophat Girn spoke.
“I have submitted an archival retrieval request to our Sub-Sub-Sovereignty of Records, to determine if we have ever had contact with your species before, but I have not yet received an answer.” As Sophat spoke, little strings and droplets of spittle flew from his—Thorn thought of him as male—mouth and pattered on the textured floor. “Accordingly, I have no facts regarding your species upon which to base discussion.”
One of the other Danzur leaned in toward Sophat and spoke in a voice too quiet for the translator to pick up. Sophat raised a hand, with fingers crossed and intertwined in a particular way. Thorn noted that those fingers had two more knuckles than the human variety, and that they could apparently bend in both directions; that probably multiplied the number of possible hand gestures one of the aliens could make by at least an order of magnitude. The other Danzur immediately bowed its head and fell silent.
“With your permission, and in anticipation of my archival request being filled in the requisite time, I have authorized my Second Subordinate Assistant Secretary to record these proceedings.”
Thorn glanced at Brid and Dart, then nodded. “Sure, by all means.”
“Excellent. I will need you to stipulate this specifically, in accordance with Archival Directive four-dash-one-two-stroke-five—”
&n
bsp; Now Thorn held up a hand, intending a bit of an experiment. “We do so stipulate.”
Sure enough, a ripple of obvious discomfort flashed among the Danzur, as Thorn blindly accepted whatever officious requirement this one happened to be. Dart had been right; the Danzur didn’t like their bureaucracy being circumvented. It was going to make dealing with these people a massive pain in the ass.
Nonetheless, Sophat seemed to grudgingly accept. “Very well. Now, if I may, I note that you and your companions seem to represent two different morphologies.”
“I . . . I’m sorry, what?”
Sophat pointed at Thorn, then Dart. “You two are a distinct physiological morphology from the one you named as Brid.”
“Ah, okay,” Thorn said. “Dart and I are the males of our species. Brid is female.”
“And the significance of this is?”
“It’s . . . related to the way in which our species reproduces. A male and a female combine their genetic material in a way that results in a new—”
Thorn had to stop, earning a sharp look from both Brid and Dart.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. The result is a new member of our species, itself either male or female.”
“I see. Please, would you demonstrate this combination of genetic material for us?”
Brid made a noise that sounded like a snorting chuckle.
Thorn stared, almost laughing, too. “Um, that . . . procedure . . . is something we consider a very . . . uh, personal thing.”
“Again, I see. My apologies if I made an unseemly request.”
“That’s no problem at all.”
“And what of the third?”
Thorn looked around in confusion. “I’m sorry, the third—what, exactly?”
“You described how your two morphologies, as represented here, combine their genetic material to spawn new life. What role does the third morphology play?”
“We don’t have one. It’s usually just the two,” Thorn replied.
The Danzur exchanged looks that could have been anything from fascination to disgust, and maybe some of both.
“That is unusual,” Sophat said. “However, we have other areas of inquiry to pursue—”
“If I may,” Brid put in. “Might I ask the nature of morphologies, as you call them, among your people? I honestly do not see clear differences between you and your companions, but I’m unsure if that means you are all the same morphology, or if I simply lack the understanding of how to distinguish them.”
Sophat considered the question. Thorn expected another bureaucratic hoop to jump through before getting an answer, but when the Danzur finally spoke, it was uncharacteristically direct.
“I am a prime. My various assistants are lessers, but may become primes, if circumstances so dictate. In order to reproduce, it is necessary for a prime and lesser to each contribute their genetic material to a null.”
“A null?”
“Yes. Nulls provide the actual means of reproduction.”
Brid glanced at Thorn and offered a barely perceptible shrug. She’d obviously been angling for an appropriate pronoun to use with Sophat, but it seemed that they/them was going to be it.
The conversation continued, ranging from topic to topic. The Danzur seemed, in their own way, to be eager to learn more about humans and their society, and Thorn was just as interested in the Danzur, but they were here for a reason. When the conversation drifted to the field of technology, he finally saw his chance.
“So your people are obviously capable of spaceflight,” Thorn said. “Are you able to leave this star system, and venture beyond it?”
“In order to answer that, I will first need you to stipulate to the constraints of the Hegemonic Council Directive nine-three-slash-two—”
This time, Thorn waited for Sophat to finish reciting the official requirements, nodded with great gravitas, then asked if he could consult with his colleagues before answering. This seemed to please the Danzur, who appeared quite happy to await their decision. Thorn led Brid and Dart back to the Gyrfalcon.
Mol sprawled in her g-couch, making exaggerated snoring sounds.
“Yes, Mol, we get it,” Thorn said. “You find this boring.”
She opened her eyes and scowled. “Holy shit, I’ve been listening in through your comm, like you wanted, and—again, holy shit, are these people ever tedious, with a capital teed.”
He turned to Brid and Dart. “So what do you think?”
“I think it’s amazing they get anything done,” Dart said. “It’s like the admin and personnel and all those other departments at Fleet came to life, gained sentience, and took over.”
“You sure they haven’t already?” Mol asked. “I had to fill out about a thousand pages of reports before I could certify this ship to even fly on this mission.”
Thorn cut in. “Yes, they’re super hidebound and officious, we all get that. Do you guys think they’re being on the level, though? Can we trust them?”
“As long as we fill out the requisite forms, yeah, probably,” Brid replied.
Thorn nodded. “Fair enough. That’s kind of my attitude, too. That, and we really don’t have time to piss around playing the Danzurs’ bureaucratic games. My plan is to go back in there and get the conversation moved to talking about the Pool of Stars. There must be a reason this system was somehow connected to it.”
Thorn got agreement from the others; he waited another ten minutes to make it appear they were giving the relevant legal terms due consideration, then they returned to the meeting room.
“I am pleased to say that we are prepared to stipulate to the relevant terms,” he said to Sophat.
“So noted, and recorded. Very well. Yes, we have begun to experiment with trans-light capable technology. We expect to undertake our first crewed flights within the next three cycles.”
Thorn assumed a cycle probably meant a year, which meant the Danzur were on the very brink of becoming an interstellar civilization. And that gave Thorn the inroad he was looking for.
“Humans were once at that stage. In fact, our first trans-light-capable ship, which we named the Pool of Stars, apparently ended up somewhere in this part of the galaxy, potentially very close to here. We’re a—” He glanced at Brid. “Is archaeological a good way to describe our mission?”
Brid nodded. “Oh. Yes. Yes, that’s an excellent description. We’re an archeological expedition, seeking to find out what happened to our ship. It unfortunately was lost, and we’re not sure why.”
“I see,” Sophat replied. “And you are seeking to determine if we have any knowledge of this ship of yours—this Pool of Stars, I believe you named it?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Thorn replied.
“That will necessitate a further archival request, under Hegemony Directive—”
“I was hoping we could apply for an exemption to your normal processes,” Thorn put in, taking a chance. Surely these people must have ways of bypassing their own, ponderous systems of governance, in times of, say, emergency. “Unfortunately, our time here is limited, and we are expected back in our own space soon.”
Sophat just stared for a moment, his bright eyes fixed on Thorn in what had to be polite disbelief. Another Danzur leaned in and again whispered something to him, setting a scene as old as governments. Sophat turned to listen, then looked back at Thorn, his mobile face shifting into a new, inscrutable expression.
“Since you are new to us, and in the interest of promoting cordial relations, I will execute the necessary emergency exemption to normal procedures and expedite your request,” the Danzur said.
Thorn nodded with what he hoped was diplomatic gravitas. “Thank you, Sophat. We are most appreciative.”
A third Danzur leaned in to speak to Sophat. The whispered conversation went on for a moment, then Sophat turned, again, to Thorn.
“Of course, in the interests of reciprocal cordial relations, perhaps there is something you can do for the Danzur Sovereignty,” Sophat said
.
Thorn resisted the temptation to smile—he’d been expecting exactly that. He heard Dart utter a faint sniff beside him, a simple noise that somehow still managed to impart fussy officiousness. It was, Thorn thought, a truly magnificent sound, and one that Dart must have practiced.
“What did you have in mind?” Thorn asked mildly. He adopted one of his three patented looks for dealing with people who loved paperwork—in this case, it was number three—friendly interest with a tinge of youthful vigor.
“Our star maps are derived solely from remote observations gathered from here, our home world. We presume that, as a race that has already begun to travel the stars, that your maps are much more detailed and accurate than ours. We would, therefore, ask you for copies of your star maps so that as we begin to take our own first, tentative steps beyond our world, we are doing so with the best data we can obtain.”
Thorn still found it jarring that what came through the translator as a smooth, cultured voice, was actually delivered in the Danzur native tongue as a string of bestial grunts and growls, ending with a truly magnificent coughing snort that rang off the walls. After a second to recover, Thorn gave the request consideration, working through the ramifications of a new star faring race with vague intentions. The Danzur hadn’t been hostile—quite the opposite—but that didn’t assure that they couldn’t become hostile.
As far as the ON was concerned, star charts were highly classified documents, as they were centered around the human home worlds and could be used to track and destroy all Orbital Navy activity. Thorn technically didn’t have the authority to declassify or release any of them to anybody. He could try to get that authority, or at least get clearance to go ahead, but a conventional message would take days, even weeks, to reach ON space, and for the reply to return. He could do it in real-time using Joining, but the only people he was certain he could contact that way were Densmore and Kira. For various reasons, he really didn’t want to speak to either of them—not in these circumstances, anyway.
So he made a decision. This mission was a vital one. Whatever the Danzur knew about the Pool of Stars might prove crucial in completing it. He’d just have to hope Fleet saw fit to back him up on what he was about to do.
