She smiled. ‘I love to fly,’ she confirmed. ‘We only have aircraft at home, no space vessels, but I’ve been flying since I was a child, and I am longing to try piloting in space, superlight.’ There was a light in her face, with that, that made it clear that was no casual desire, but something she’d said there made Alex stare incredulously.
‘No space vessels?’
‘Ah.’ She looked a little regretful, then. ‘Perhaps it would be best to be frank about this, skipper. I know you won’t ask, but it might save a good deal of awkwardness if I explain as much as I can.
‘I need to tell you something of the history of my world.’ She paused for a moment, saw that she had his full attention, and continued, ‘On Pirrell, like many other worlds, we attempted to protect ourselves from infection by the plague with our own quarantine, sealing ourselves away from contact with any other world. Also, and again like many other worlds, we bioengineered a new genome with the ability to survive should our quarantine fail us. We have no immune system, you see, capable of fighting off such infection.’
Alex gave a slight nod. He already knew that, in fact, since in common with Solaran visitors, Shionolethe had spent the first weeks at Amali in sterile quarantine, being fitted with the artificial immune system that human medics had developed for just that purpose, to enable alien visitors to come into their space. It had been surgically implanted in her lungs, monitoring both air and blood and releasing antibodies and antivirals as needed. It would need medical supervision, including monthly tests and refills, but with that she could go about quite normally.
‘On every other world we know, infection came, and those of the ancient genome died, leaving the hope, the new genomes that some worlds called the children of the plague, to go forward. Our quarantine held, though, which is why we have both types of genome.
‘Culturally, we became isolationist. All of our ancient space-faring capacity was destroyed when we sealed our world, and a decision was made that we would not build any more ships. That imperative has become so much a part of our culture that we do not, now, even travel within our own solar system. We do not leave the atmosphere of our world. It is not considered safe, or clean, to go beyond the air. We do, now, permit Solarans to visit us. The Firewall had been in place, and holding, for more than five thousand years before my people would even consider it, and it was another four thousand years before they’d allow any Solaran to come to the planet, but they are frequent visitors now. It was Solarans who told me about you – about your people, I mean, the League. You will note from that, I am sure, that the Solarans are able to pass through the quarantine field you call the Veil. Please do not ask me how, or how the Veil operates. Believe me, if I could share that technology with you in any way that would protect your worlds from the Marfikians, I would do so in a heartbeat, and so would every one of my people. It is a great grief to us, that we cannot help you.’
Alex was reminded of something he’d been told as a cadet. The question everyone had when they were told that yes, there really were Solarans and yes, they visited human worlds was a very obvious one – if they’re so advanced, would they help us defeat the Marfikians?
The answer to that one was no. There was no talking to them about it – literally, since attempts to raise that subject with them would almost always result in them expressing distress and withdrawing from the meeting altogether. One of their ambassadors, however, had given a response to a hypothetical scenario. Asked what the Solarans would do if they could see League worlds being invaded, cities destroyed, billions slaughtered, the ambassador had said, after a long silence, ‘We would grieve for you.’
And that was it. So it didn’t surprise Alex tremendously to hear a Pirrellothian expressing the same ‘helpless grief’ position. He could even guess why that was, too. One of the things they had managed to establish about Solarans was that they had no military capacity, no weapons of any kind. If it was the same with Pirrell, if the Veil was the only thing keeping Pirrell safe, not just from infection that could wipe out the ancient genome part of their population, but from devastating attack and conquest by a ruthless cyborg race, they would indeed be suicidally stupid to share that technology with anybody else. Once it was known how something worked, after all, it was only a matter of time to figuring out how to get past it, and then it would be useless for everyone.
‘I see,’ he said, and looked at her sympathetically. ‘Nobody here will put any pressure on you, asking about that, or for you to share any advanced technology with us – we do, I assure you, respect your loyalty to your own people.’
She gave an unexpected little gurgle of mirth.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I did try to tell them at the base but, again, I could see they didn’t really believe me. We did our best to sustain our civilisation during the Falling, we really did, and we were certainly spared the horrors other worlds faced as they fell into barbarity. We still have records of that time, and a continuity of culture, so we never had a Dark Age, as such. But with the closing of our borders and the need for us to become self sufficient, the people of that time made a decision to adopt a way of life that was not dependent on advanced technology.
‘That was a key factor, you see, in the catastrophe that overtook so many other civilisations. What few survivors there might be from the plague could not sustain the technology their civilisations were so entirely dependent upon, and they were reduced to barbarism. We opted for a way of life that would be sustainable not only for ourselves but, should the worst happen, for the new genome we’d engineered to be able to continue without us.’
She looked at him with a little embarrassment, then. ‘It is a sensitive issue, I know, but the fact is that the cost of an immune system capable of fighting infection at that level is, biologically, a very much faster and energy-demanding metabolism, a shorter lifespan and reduced cognitive ability. We needed to establish a civilisation that our ayalee could continue even if we vanished, so we made the deliberate choice to set aside advanced technologies and revert to simpler means of living.’ She paused, reflectively.
‘I’m not sure, myself, that it was a good idea to destroy all knowledge of those technologies, but that was a decision made more than eight thousand years ago. We are now a simple agricultural society – a highly cultured one,’ she smiled, ‘our farms would look like gardens to your eyes, and we live in homes I believe you would consider elegant. But they are homes made of stone, and built with no more sophisticated machinery than electrically powered cranes. The truth of it is that we just do not have any advanced technology we could give you, because your own technology is already superior to ours. The only ancient tech we retain, of course, is the Veil, and as much as we want to share that, to protect other worlds, we can’t. So no, skipper.’ She grinned again. ‘No space vessels. No superlight technology. Our aircraft are powered by hydrogen engines.’
Alex had made model aircars powered with hydrogen motors as a child, before moving on to more sophisticated engineering by the time he was ten. He stared at her for a moment, so astounded he just didn’t have the words. He could understand entirely why the diplomats did not believe this, why it had said in the briefing that Shionolethe had said she was unable to share details of her world’s technology with them. Clearly, they thought she was only saying that there was no such advanced tech so that they wouldn’t keep hassling her about it.
‘Wow,’ he said eventually, and that was not a word Alex von Strada used very often.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Shionolethe, with a wry look. ‘Kind of embarrassing, really. But there seems to be a fundamental confusion, somewhere, between what we mean by an advanced culture, and what you mean by it. For us, it’s about continuity of civilisation, traditions, ceremony, art, the most important things about who we are as a people. For you, it seems to be about how big and fast and powerful your technology is. Don’t get me wrong, I love that, myself. I’ve been obsessed with engines and flying since I was an infant, and
it’s been a joy, learning so much since I’ve come here. I just wish that people would believe me, and understand, so that we could get past this ‘teach us, oh wise one!’ attitude and accept me as a student learning from you.’
Alex understood that, and found that he did, indeed, believe her. He had no frame of reference for her people, no way to know how convincing they might be in deception, but at some point you just had to trust your instincts. All of his were telling him that she was sincere. And that changed the relationship. He could actually feel his own attitude shifting, from regarding her as the holder of great knowledge here to carry out some kind of survey about them, to seeing her as she’d defined herself, a student wanting to learn and travel and have fun.
‘Fair enough,’ he said, but asked, fascinated, ‘So, you’ll be sharing our technology with your own people then, when you go home?’
She gave him a startled look.
‘Sorry, I thought you knew,’ she said. ‘I’m not going back – again, I did tell them at the station, but they just gave me that polite smile that means they didn’t really believe it. My world is in quarantine, skipper. Those few of us who make the decision to become leapers, to go beyond the air and leave our solar system, know that in doing so we can never go back. It isn’t that there are laws against it, it’s just so fundamental to our culture that to us, it is unthinkable that anyone would do that. To us, it would be like committing genocide, eating babies, the absolute worst thing any person could do. It isn’t an easy decision, obviously, to leave your world, your family, everything you know. But for me, to stay would have been even harder. I’ve always needed to go higher, further, yearning for the stars. Basically, I ran out of sky.
‘My family knew even before I recognised it myself – I was designing spaceships, you see, not superlight ones of course but still, something that would get me out into space, let me fly around the planets. You have to understand that for us that’s really shocking, there’s such a taboo against leaving the air, so my spaceship designs were my naughty little secret, or at least I thought they were till my aunt told me that if I had to indulge such disruptive imaginings she’d prefer me not to leave the sketches where children might come across them. After that I began to talk to my family about how I felt. The more I heard about the League, too, the more I wanted to come here. I felt trapped, there, so caged and frustrated. Eventually a moment came when I knew I just had to get out, and not just for my own benefit. I was starting to become anti-social, and I knew it, but I couldn’t change the way I felt. I was no use there, really, and to be useless, in my culture, is shameful. It was just the best and right decision for everyone for me to leave. I did so, of course, with the love and agreement of my family, and the blessing of the karlane. I think that’s what confused the diplomats, because I said I was here with the blessing of the karlane, they think that means I’m here on her behalf, so they made me an ambassador. But I mean just that, that she gave me her blessing, her love, her hope that I would find my purpose, out amongst the stars.’
She gave him a little smile that conveyed that she believed she was doing just that with her decision to serve with the Fourth. ‘But no, skipper, I can’t go back, so I won’t be sharing your technology with them. Frankly, even if I could, they wouldn’t want it. Our world is as it is because we choose to have it so, not for lack of ability to have it any other way.’
Alex nodded, feeling an unexpected sense of kinship with her. He too had grown up with a yearning to head out amongst the stars. His father blamed the school. Little Alexis had, admittedly, always preferred toys that flew over ones that didn’t, but his kindergarten had taken him, age four, on a trip to a spaceport. The other kids had watched a shuttle or two taking off and then lost interest, clamouring to go for a wee or to go to the shops, but Alex had stood with his face pressed to the window, utterly entranced. He’d come back from that trip, his father said, talking nonstop about shuttles and starships, and he hadn’t stopped since.
Alex could still remember, too, the awkward conversation with his father when he, aged twelve, had bought a model starship for his already extensive collection. He could see, even now, the embarrassed look on his father’s face as he’d asked, ‘Don’t you think you’re getting a bit old for that sort of toy, Lex?’
Alex had stared at him, feeling the lack of understanding between them yawning into an uncrossable gulf. His parents, he knew, were proud of him, but uneasily so. They commented frequently that they didn’t know where he got his brains from, and though they turned up to applaud when he won science fair prizes, he’d long since given up trying to explain the projects to them. They wondered doubtfully what he might do when he grew up, since it was evident that they didn’t feel you could really make a proper living from being a scientist – not a proper, respectable, suit-and-briefcase career. The furthest their imagination would stretch in that was that he might become something like a university lecturer.
In the circumstances, Alex felt, they had been remarkably supportive when he’d broken the news that he’d applied to the Fleet Academy. They might have wept and asked each other where they’d gone wrong as parents, but they had at least done so in private, pinning brave smiles on as they said they were proud of him. They had wept when he’d come top in the second year exams and told them that meant he’d be doing his final year at Chartsey, because they’d thought they’d have at least another year before they’d have to say goodbye, but to their credit they had not laid any guilt on him for that, telling him, once they’d dried their eyes, that yes, of course he must go, it was a great achievement and an incredible opportunity.
He had not been home since, and had no plans to do so in the foreseeable future. He wrote regularly to his parents, telling them as much about what he was doing as they would be interested in, and they sent him back letters about their neighbours and the garden. There was love, there, but no real connection with them.
Escaping the shibboleths of middle-class suburban Novaterre was hardly in the same league as Shionolethe leaving her world, of course, but even so Alex felt that they had that in common, that they’d both made the decision to break away from expectations of them, heading for the stars. It was a story many spacers could tell. Some few were born out here, raised on starships, spacers in the blood, but most ended up in space because they just couldn’t bear to be confined to one planet, just had to see what was out there.
‘Well, we’re very pleased to have you with us,’ he assured her, ‘And we’ll do our best to make you feel at home, here.’ And with that, he held his hand across the desk, signalling that this time the meeting really was over. He had questions, oh so many questions he would love to ask, but he was being conscientious, there, in following the rules he’d laid down for the crew, not to badger her with their curiosity. That didn’t mean that they couldn’t ask any questions at all, but they were to keep it reasonable, considerate, allowing her to tell them what things she wanted to in her own good time.
‘Thank you, skipper.’ She shook hands with him and got up, looking happy and purposeful.
‘Oh – just one thing,’ A thought occurred to Alex as she was moving towards the door, and she looked back at him enquiringly, ‘Would you have any objection to me sharing what you’ve told me with the crew?’
Shion looked surprised. ‘Not at all,’ she replied, adding frankly, ‘I thought you had to report on everything I do and tell you, anyway.’
‘I do,’ Alex confirmed, with an apologetic look. That was one of the terms under which it had been agreed that she could travel with them, that Alex provided the Diplomatic Corps with detailed reports, including records of such meetings with her and anything she might confide in them about her world. ‘Sorry, but all official meetings in here are recorded routinely anyway and have to be filed with the relevant Admiralty departments whenever we go into port, so I’m so used to that myself I don’t even think about it. What I meant was, though, do I have your permission to tell the crew what you’ve told me?
It is customary to regard meetings in here as confidential, other than for the automatic records, so I won’t disclose anything you’ve said without your consent.’
‘No, that’s fine,’ she said, and having considered for a moment, ‘That would be helpful, actually – if I only need to tell you something and you share it with everyone else, I won’t have to keep answering the same questions over and over.’
‘Well, you still might,’ he advised, with a grin at that. ‘People often like to hear about things for themselves. And we don’t just broadcast records of cabin meetings for the crew to see, either – even I’m not quite that radical. What we do here, customarily, if there’s something we want the crew to know that they’re not technically entitled to be told about, is that Buzz and I have a conversation about it on the command deck, calling up files, where the crew can see and hear everything we’re doing.’
‘Ah, I see.’ She looked intrigued. ‘I didn’t know about that.’
‘It’s one of those unwritten protocols, shipboard custom and practice, that you only find out, really, by being here,’ he said.
She nodded, pleased. ‘A lot to learn about each other,’ she observed. ‘But I’ll remember, in future, to talk to you about things on the command deck, and no, of course, I don’t mind you sharing what we’ve talked about, I took it for granted that you would.’
He smiled, and she went out with that, heading off straight away towards engineering.
She was already at work there, or at least, shadowing a delighted Morry and listening as he pointed out to her what work was being done, when their permission to depart came through forty minutes later. Alex spent a couple of minutes taking a friendly leave of Froggy Croker, and with that, they were off, curving away from the system and heading back out into deep space. The Stepeasy followed them and fell alongside, and this time, after a minute or two, Davie North did call.
XD:317 (Fourth Fleet Irregulars) Page 7
