“Play your best,” said Roger after an exchange of pleasantries.
“Why?” said one of the young Nriln, the taller one. “Is this a funeral?”
Roger cocked his head, wondering if he was having a translator problem. “You can play well, can't you?”
“Of course we can.”
“Does a lorbit chew colors?” said the other Nriln, humming tones coming from his four noses.
Roger knew the tones were the equivalent of a laugh, but had no idea what the words signified. “So, you're telling me, ‘yes'?”
“Certainly. That's what I said.”
“Good.” Roger smiled. Must be slang. There's no way a translator can keep up with slang—especially kid slang. He looked over the two young Nriln; they looked very much alike. “Are you brothers?” he asked.
“Not yet,” said the Shorter Nriln.
Again, Roger doubted his translator. “Right. Carry on,” he said, turning and heading over to where Duncan was tweaking the floral table arrangement—a potted collection of Terran and Nriln flora.
“What was all that about?” said Duncan. “And what's a lorbit?”
“An animal of some sort,” said Roger. “I think it changes color like a chameleon. As for the rest, I didn't understand it at all.”
“I wouldn't expect to understand Nriln kids.” Duncan shrugged. “I can't understand my own son most of the time.” He smiled. “An English-to-English translator might help.”
“English to English.” Roger shifted his gaze to the Nriln musicians. “English to lovely English,” he said under his breath.
“Are you all right?” said Duncan.
“Yes!” Roger exclaimed, not as an answer to his boss but as an affirmation to himself. He tapped his forehead. “I've got an idea. Maybe we can overcome these misunderstanding problems.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I'm going to try to borrow one of the kids’ translators for an hour. Then I'll feed the output of his into mine.” Roger glanced at his Wristocrat. “I should just have time.”
“I don't get it.”
“I'll speak into the English-Nriln translator, then use mine to go from Nriln to English. I should get out pretty much the same meaning that I speak in. If I don't, then there's a meaning problem.”
“Cute,” said Duncan. “But...” He swiveled around. One of the Nriln was nibbling at the floral setting. “Hey,” Duncan called out. “That's not for eating. It might even be poisonous to you.”
“No,” said the Nriln, moving back from the table. “I've studied the book. It's food, sort of.”
“Well, leave it alone until after the luncheon.”
Roger walked up. “I've a little proposition for you,” he said to the Nriln, “concerning your translator.”
* * * *
In a workshop at the rear of the embassy, Roger laid out his two translators on a table. Using duct tape and a sheet of paper, he made a tube and used it to channel the output of the English-to-Nriln translator into the input of the Nriln-to-English unit. Leaning over the table, with his ear near his translator's output, he tried his idea.
“My aunt's pen is on the table,” he said into the Nriln's translator.
In the quiet workshop, he had no difficulty hearing the output. "The pen of my aunt chooses the table for place."
“Very interesting,” said Roger aloud. "Very interesting," said his translator.
Roger laughed, then shook his head. He knew he had to be more methodical. “The sky is blue,” he said.
"The sky has blueness," said the translator.
“The book is mine.” "The book belongs to me."
“The book is old.” "The book has oldness."
“The Nriln is here.” "The Nriln chooses here for place."
“That Nriln is dead.” "That Nriln chooses inertness."
Roger smiled. He'd already learned something: The Nriln have different words for “is” depending whether it means equality or location, and the Nriln seem to regard death as a location.
But the more pressing issue was why the Nriln had all but broken off negotiations despite a perfect negotiating session.
“Perfect,” said Roger.
"Unwilling to be improved upon," said the translator.
“What?”
"Interrogative."
Roger wrinkled his nose in confusion. Perfection almost seemed rude to the Nriln. Maybe he was on to something. “Rude,” he said.
"Effing unwilling to be improved."
Roger slapped the table. “Eureka!”
"You smell," said the translator.
“What?” "Interrogative."
Roger laughed. “This is ridiculous.”
"This has ridiculousness."
Shaking his head, Roger stood upright and stretched his back. Then he retrieved his translator and snapped it back over his ear. He'd learned what he'd needed.
There came a knock.
Opening the door, Roger saw one of the Nriln musicians.
“Norzhen wonders if you are finished with his translator,” said the Nriln. “The luncheon's due to start soon.”
“Yes,” said Roger. “Just finished with it.” He shepherded the young Nriln into the workshop. Roger freed the translator from the duct tape and handed it over. “You can help me with something, though.”
The Nriln looked at him with crossed eyestalks. Roger knew this was a sign of puzzlement.
“Tell me,” said Roger, “Why is it rude for things to be perfect at a meeting?”
The Nriln stiffened. “We don't talk about that.”
“About what? Being perfect?”
“No. The other thing.”
“What?” said Roger, “you mean manners?”
Again, the Nriln stiffened. “I can't talk about that. If my parents heard, they'd be shocked.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” The Nriln crossed its eyestalks again. “Wouldn't yours be?”
“Well"—Roger didn't want the Nriln to think him badly raised—"I never talked to my parents about it.”
“Yeah. A good thing you didn't.”
Roger shrugged. “All right. Then tell me. What's wrong with a perfect meeting?”
“Well. If you make it too good, people will think you believe you're better than them.”
“What?”
“Unless you're dead, of course.” The Nriln emitted a flurry of nose-tones. “A funeral can be perfect since an inert Nriln wouldn't think he's better than anyone.”
“And it's rude to talk about being rude?”
The Nriln fidgeted. “I've got to take Norzhen's translator back to him.”
“Okay. I understand,” said Roger. “Sorry for the profanity.” He led the Nriln to the door. “I'd better get back as well.”
As they left the workshop, Roger said, “This is a very important meeting, so I guess I should ask you and what's his name, Norzhen, to play badly. Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Will you guys do that?”
“Does a lorbit chew colors?”
“Does that mean, you will?” said Roger. “But especially out of a desire to be polite?”
“That's a vulgar way of putting it,” said the Nriln, “but yeah, that's about right.”
“And the phrase ‘chew colors’ means ‘blend in'?”
“Yeah.”
They walked together toward the dining room. As they passed by a window overlooking the front of the embassy, the Nriln pointed. “Hey. They're here. I should get back to Norzhen.”
“Yikes!” Roger froze for an instant, his eyes locked on the two Nriln negotiators almost at the front door. Then he set out at full run for the dining room. As he ran, he unstraightened his tie.
* * * *
Roger burst through the door to the dining room, where he saw Duncan fussing with the place settings.
“Stop,” Roger called out breathlessly. “It's got to be sloppy.”
“What?” said Duncan, looking up.
Roger rushed to the
table. He scooped the sterling silver pens into his pocket, messed up the place settings, pushed a few of the bound contracts onto the floor and knocked over a chair.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Roger didn't take the time to reply. He unarranged the table floral setting and was just in the process of unstraightening a wall-hanging, when Duncan tackled him.
Norzhen, eye stalks quivering, pushed himself back against a wall.
The door opened and the other musician rushed in. Like a periscope, his eyestalks scanned the room. “Flaming lorbits!” he cried out, running over to join Norzhen.
Duncan turned to look. But this gave Roger the opportunity to break free. Duncan lunged at him, pinning his arms to his side. Losing his balance, Roger fell to the carpeted floor. Duncan fell on top of him.
Just then the door opened, and, Magzh and Vorzhnelvar, the two Nriln trade negotiators, walked in.
“Oh, dear,” said Magzh. “Are we interrupting something?”
“What?” Duncan scrambled erect. “No. Of course not. Not at all. It's just...” He shot out a hand and hauled Roger to his feet. “It's just ... I do apologize, but I'm afraid my colleague has suddenly come down with ... with a slight case of insanity.” He propelled Roger toward the door and looked over his shoulder at the Nriln. “Nothing serious. We just need to ... need to get his pills. Please make yourselves comfortable.” He pushed Roger ahead of him through the door. “I'll be right back,” Duncan called out as the door slammed behind him.
* * * *
Duncan shoved Roger against a wall. “Are you out of your alleged mind?”
“Let me explain,” said Roger. “Disorder is good. And—”
“You have completely lost it.”
“Will you listen?”
“Shut up!”
“But—”
“Not a word,” said Duncan, “unless you'd like to be transferred to, say, Trelgva, and spend the rest of your career dodging ammonia storms. Is that what you want?”
Roger shook his head.
“Okay then,” said Duncan. “This is probably a lost cause, damn it. But we're going back in. I'll apologize profusely. And you will do and say nothing. Understood?”
Roger nodded.
“All right, let's go,” said Duncan. “And for God's sake, smile.”
* * * *
“I am so dreadfully sorry,” said Duncan when they'd returned to the dining room. “My young colleague is much improved.” He and Roger sat facing the Nriln. “I know how important the format of a meeting is to you.” Duncan spread his hands. “But, under the circumstances, I do hope you won't let this little matter adversely affect the matter of our contract.”
“No. Not at all,” said Magzh. “These things happen. Don't concern yourself about it at all.”
“Don't give it another thought,” said Vorzhnelvar. “No apology necessary.”
As directed, Roger smiled. He could hardly do otherwise as he contemplated Duncan's obvious confusion; at the previous meeting with the Nriln, every little imperfection had been roundly criticized. The Nriln had each looked down their four noses at every speck of dust, and they'd left the meeting with an air of opera singers who had inadvertently intruded upon a yodeling competition.
“That's ... That's very good of you,” said Duncan. He turned to the musicians. “Play for our guests, please.”
The musicians struck up, and even though the sounds were alien, Roger could tell that the young Nriln were playing badly indeed. And by Duncan's face, he could see his boss knew it as well.
“Oh my god,” said Duncan in a whisper.
Vorzhnelvar looked first at the floral arrangement and then at the musicians. He pulled a flower from the vase. “You do know,” he said, “that this species is an illegal drug among our people, yes?”
“Oh my god,” said Duncan, again. “No. I'm sorry. I didn't know.”
Magzh slapped the table and Duncan started. Roger though, could see that Magzh was, in his way, smiling.
“We have decided,” said Magzh, “that there is no reason to delay.” Duncan visibly stiffened. “We will sign the contracts, now.”
Duncan's eyes widened. “You will?” He shot an uncomprehending glance at Roger. Roger, for his part, returned a Cheshire cat smile.
“Well, this is wonderful,” said Duncan. “I don't know how to thank you. Maybe ... Yes, I guess we should drink the vazh now—before our lunch.” He tapped his Wristocrat, held it to his mouth, and asked for the drinks to be brought in. It would be synth-vazh from Panstellar, which to the Nriln tastes like their ceremonial drink and to humans tastes like melted chocolate ice cream laced with brandy. But more importantly, it is toxic to neither species.
Moments later, Maurice sauntered through the door. He held high a tray bedecked with pastries and also with four tiny glasses of a milky liquid.
Roger, inhaling the sweet, heady aroma of fresh baked goods, began to warm toward the chef. If the pastries tasted even half as good as they smelled ... Roger felt his mouth water.
As Maurice sauntered toward the table, Magzh made a whistling sound.
A carrot-like creature crawled from the floral arrangement and, while making a similar whistling noise, walked on three rootlike legs across the table to Magzh.
Maurice visibly blanched and froze to the spot, mouth agape.
Magzh grabbed the carrot-thing, ripped off a leg, and ate it.
With a sharp gasp, Maurice dropped the tray.
The crash of glasses against the metal tray seemed to bring the chef out of his shock. He knelt, slid some of the pastries back onto their plates, collected the fallen glasses, and tried to sop up the vazh with a linen napkin, all the while apologizing abjectly and fighting off the rugbot that had rolled in from its enclosure to vacuum up the mess.
Duncan apologized as well, but once more, the Nriln were magnanimous.
Roger contemplated the scene. Even with the knowledge that his pastry lust would go unsatisfied, he chuckled under his breath. But Nriln apparently have good hearing and his amusement drew the attention of Vorzhnelvar. The human and Nriln exchanged glances for a moment, and Roger saw humor in those alien eyes. And suddenly, even with their eyestalks, six-fingered hands, and four noses, the Nriln no longer seemed alien.
* * * *
After the Nriln had left the embassy, Duncan leaned back against a wall and took a few heavy breaths. “What happened?” he said, his eyes wide.
Despite feeling he'd been treated shabbily by his boss, Roger described his new understanding of the Nriln without rancor or recrimination; after all, if the Nriln could be magnanimous, so could he.
Duncan gazed out the window for a few moments. Then he let out a breath through pursed lips and returned his gaze to Roger. “Maybe I've been wrong,” he said. “Maybe having a cultural liaison attached to the mission isn't all that bad an idea.”
Roger smiled, for, cultural specialist that he was, he understood he'd just been paid a high compliment.
Copyright © 2007 Carl Frederick
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
QUEEN OF CANDESCE: PART III OF IV
by KARL SCHROEDER
Illustration by George Krauter
* * * *
Having too much power in one thing or person carries with it an inherent vulnerability...
The Story So Far
A woman is falling from the sky. She's taking a long time doing it, so Garth Diamandis, aging playboy and exile on Greater Spyre, takes his time in setting up her rescue.
Greater Spyre is circular, a vast open-ended cylinder of metal at least twelve miles in diameter. Spyre is thousands of years old and is slowly falling apart. Its inner surface is paved with dirt and trees and dotted with strange, inward-turned pocket nations. Garth's people have always lived here, either in the paranoid miniature kingdoms of the cylinder, or in the rotating cities that hover in the open air around which Spyre revolves. Few of them have ever taken an interest in the worl
d beyond Spyre; yet this woman has drifted in on the weightless air from that very world.
Garth manages to catch her before she tumbles to death on Spyre's inner surface and takes her home to the damp basement he's called home for the past dozen years or so. It is here that Venera Fanning awakens a day later.
Ah, Venera: sociopath princess, pampered courtier, and spy-mistress; casual murderer, recent savior of the world, and wife of Admiral Chaison Fanning of Slipstream. Garth, ladies-man that he is, is immediately besotted with her. But he can't puzzle out her strange story, which involves pirates, betrayal, and ruin at the very heart of the world.
Some of what she says is familiar. Garth knows that Spyre is one tiny object spinning in the immense artificial world known as Virga. Virga is a hollow sphere—a balloon, essentially—several thousand miles in diameter, orbiting on its own somewhere in deep space. The balloon contains air, water, drifting rocks—all the necessities of life, including man-made fusion suns that light small parts of its vast volume. Nations coalesce around these suns, and the greatest sun is Candesce, which lies at the very center of Virga. There is no gravity in Virga, save that which you can make using centrifugal force. Spyre is one of the most ancient of the habitats built to take advantage of Virga's strange environment.
It is also a place where, once you have arrived, you may never leave. Garth tries to convince Venera of this fact, but she refuses to believe him. She comes from Slipstream, a nation of mile-wide wood-and-rope town-wheels and free-floating buildings and farms a thousand miles from Spyre. Born to privilege, used to freedom—and ever sure of herself—she sneaks away from Garth to attempt a grand leap off the edge of Spyre. Before she can reach weightless air and escape, however, she is captured by soldiers of the four-acre nation of Liris. Dragged inside the single cube-shaped stone building that makes up the ancient nation, she is forcibly made into a citizen and called on to serve Margit, Liris's “botanist” or ruler.
Serving the botanist is educational. Venera learns that the claustrophobic principalities that dot the cylinder's surface are ancient. Some are so old that they still possess treasures taken from Earth when Virga was first made. Liris, for instance, is the only place in the world where cherry trees grow. Liris and its neighbors sell their rarities in the Great Fair of Spyre, and the botanist intends for Venera to work there until the end of her days.
Analog SFF, May 2007 Page 16
