Ambassador

by William Alexander

  He sent a text to Lupe instead.

  Here’s my new phone number.

  She sent an answering text quickly. Got it.

  And you should keep going to summer school, Gabe went on. It took a while for him to type out each letter. He’d never owned a phone before, and his thumbs weren’t used to typing with it. Your college counselor just got fired.

  ?!??!?!?!?!?!?!!, she replied.

  It’s true, Gabe typed. Gotta go now. Bye.

  His new phone rang as Lupe tried to actually call him. Gabe made it stop ringing by pushing buttons at random, and then he stuck the phone in his backpack.

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s done. Now how do I search for assassins? What should I do, wander around the Chancery at random and shout, ‘Hey, anybody here trying to kill me?’ ”

  The Envoy sighed. It sounded so much like Mom’s exasperated sigh that Gabe felt something fracture inside him.

  “No, you probably shouldn’t do that,” said the Envoy. “I’m sure you’ll be able to figure out a more subtle way to investigate. Ask Protocol for help—even though Protocol will be reluctant to give it. You might try—”

  Gabe interrupted. He couldn’t pay attention to what it was saying, not at all—not when it used that voice to say it with. “Stop talking,” he said. “Stop talking like her. It isn’t comforting. You need to sound like someone else.”

  The Envoy paused. Then it reorganized its mouth and throat.

  “Is this more comfortable for you to hear?” it asked in a deeper, more concerned, and completely unfamiliar voice. “Are you more at ease now?”

  Gabe shook his head. “No. Not really. Never mind. I guess I’m used to her voice coming out of your mouth, so it’s actually worse to hear you sound like a stranger. I’m sorry. Go back to using hers.”

  The Envoy reshaped its vocal cords again. It spoke kindly and cautiously with Gabe’s mother’s voice. “How’s this?”

  “Better,” said Gabe. “Thank you.” He curled up on the cold stone. “Keep watch while I nap, okay? Wake me up if we’re under attack.”

  “I’ll keep watch,” the Envoy promised. “Sleep well. Learn as much as you can. Then act on the best information you have while also doubting what you think you know.”

  “Right,” Gabe said. “That sounds easy.”

  “Nothing worth doing is easy, Ambassador.”

  Gabe tried to sleep.

  He tried not to think about the word deportation.

  He thought about the Hiawatha poem instead, the one he was supposed to read this summer, the one that called this place “Laughing Water.” Remembering the poem shaped his thoughts into that same plodding rhythm, like a tune stuck in his head. He put his own words to the rhythm.

  Now Ambassador Fuentes

  fled the burning of his household,

  fled the death rays from the heavens

  and took refuge in the parkland

  by the falls that were not laughing.

  The sound of the flowing creek and the THUMP thump THUMP thump of the words in his head calmed him down and slowed his pulse.

  He slept.

  “Ambassador Gabriel Sandro Fuentes, be welcome.”

  12

  “Hi, Protocol,” said Gabe.

  “Hello, Ambassador. Is this self-image to your liking?”

  Gabe looked in the mirror. “Looks great,” he said, though he wasn’t really sure about the ears.

  “Excellent.” Protocol almost sounded pleased. The mirror-door slid open. “Proceed.”

  Gabe did not proceed. “I’m going to need some help,” he told the room around him.

  “Very well,” said Protocol. It sounded weary again. “How may I assist you?”

  Gabe wasn’t even sure which questions to ask. He didn’t know how much he didn’t know. “I’m . . . not sure who to talk to out there.”

  “Your Envoy still has not explained very much to you, I take it.” The room made large and impatient noises. “Very well. It is obviously not possible for anyone to perceive the full size of this place at any one time, no matter how many eyes you happen to have or how impressive your cognitive ability. It is vast. It contains far too many entangled occupants. Both the place itself and the ambassadors gathered inside it are filtered down. You cannot see most of the Chancery while inside. You cannot see most of the representatives here, either. You experience both at a manageable size. With time and training, an ambassador can control their own filters of perception to specifically include the colleagues they intend to interact with. If your world had bothered to establish a proper Ambassador Academy before now, then you would have had the necessary perception training already.”

  “Sorry,” said Gabe, though he wasn’t. Not at all. He was not in the mood to apologize for his planet.

  “So am I,” said Protocol. “Given your lack of training, your Envoy should have given you more instruction between Embassy visits.”

  “We’ve been busy,” said Gabe, without further apology.

  “I see,” said Protocol. “Whom are you looking for?”

  Assassins, Gabe thought, but didn’t say.

  “I need to talk to my neighbors,” he said aloud. Space travel takes a long time and a lot of effort, he thought. The Envoy said so, and I knew that already. So I agree with Sapi. Whoever is lurking in the system is probably from around here somewhere.

  “Delegates from systems adjacent to your own?” Protocol asked, clarifying.

  “Yes,” said Gabe.

  “You might consider calling for a local match,” Protocol suggested, though he also sounded doubtful. “In that case, summons will be sent to representatives of every civilization within a certain minimal distance of your own. Once gathered together, you will all play a game of your choosing. By tradition whoever calls the match selects the game. During play you will discuss whatever matters you consider important. Many clusters and constellations of ambassadors meet regularly to resume games of long standing. Your sector of the galaxy, however, does not.”

  “Can I request a match?” Gabe asked.

  “You may,” said Protocol, “though I recommend that you avoid doing so.”

  “Why?”

  The room paused as though very carefully choosing its translated response. “It is not for me to tell you why. It is not my place to comment on the actions of civilizations represented here. I am the place itself and not an ambassador. I am only the protocol by which ambassadors meet to share information and make their own decisions. The purpose of this Embassy is to grant representative communication to everyone capable of communicating within a single galaxy. I am a conduit of information, not a source.”

  The room clearly wanted to say more, even though it also thought that it shouldn’t.

  “But?” Gabe prompted.

  “But you might consider asking your colleagues about the Outlast,” the room told him, still uncomfortable.

  Them again, Gabe thought. “Thank you,” he said out loud. “I will.” He tried to be extra formal and official. Protocol loved formality—it was the nature of Protocol to love formality. “And I apologize for asking you to step out of place.”

  “Accepted,” said the room, sounding mollified. “I understand that you do lack the proper training. Allowances must be made on your behalf.”

  Gabe sidestepped the room’s condescension. “So if I shouldn’t call for a local match, and I don’t know how to notice specific people, how can I find and talk to my neighbors? The Chancery is crowded.”

  “It is certainly crowded,” said Protocol proudly. “It is a place of infinite diversity in infinite combinations. Even if a significant percentage of the galaxy is currently experiencing mass extinctions, the Chancery is still very crowded.”

  “Wait, what was that?” Gabe asked, alarmed. “Mass extinctions? That sounds bad.”

  “I am sure it is unpleasant for those involved,” Protocol agreed.

  “Why is it happening?”

  “That is not for me to say,”
Protocol told him.

  Gabe swallowed his frustration. It took effort. It stuck in his throat. My parents are in prison because they’re from Mexico, he thought. My house lost a fight with a black hole. If the galaxy itself is burning down, then I’d appreciate it if you gave me a heads-up. But he didn’t say any of that out loud.

  Protocol changed the subject. “As for your request to speak with the representatives of civilizations most proximate to your own, I can help you locate three of your closest neighbors—those native to planets within the Centauri cluster. All three are currently entangled and conversing together. I will guide you to them.”

  The lights dimmed—a clear hint that Gabe should leave. He could hardly see anything other than the doorway.

  “Thank you, Protocol,” said Gabe.

  “You are welcome, Ambassador Fuentes,” said the darkened room around him.

  * * * *

  The Chancery weather had changed since Gabe’s first visit. There were more clouds, and the light shining down from each corner of the indoor sky took on new colors. It didn’t seem like any particular time of day, with no rising or setting sun to measure time with. It just seemed different.

  One cloud changed shape to become a great big arrow. It hovered above three ambassadors who stood clustered together near the tree line. They didn’t seem to notice a huge cloud-arrow hanging in the sky and pointing at them.

  “Subtle,” said Gabe. “Thanks, Protocol.”

  He climbed down from the hills and approached the floating arrow.

  An elaborate ball game unfolded over his head, played by flying and hovering ambassadors. It might have been an attempt to make a large and interactive map of several solar systems, or it might have been some kind of space soccer. No one used their hands to catch the ball, which made it look a bit like soccer—but they also avoided using their feet or wings or whatever limbs they happened to have. The players whacked the ball back and forth with the side of their hips. It looked difficult and painful.

  A long line of other kids sat whispering together. Ripples of laughter ran up and down the line. They’re playing telephone, Gabe realized. That must be especially strange and hilarious with so many translations involved.

  He approached the three kids beneath the big orange arrow. The arrow cloud dissipated as he drew near. Then he stopped, unsure how to introduce himself.

  The tallest one, a girl, held a broken branch. The two smaller kids looked boyish. All three took turns plucking leaves, folding leaf-paper airplanes like the one Gabe had made earlier, and then throwing them. They spoke low, whispering to each other. All of them wore simple orange robes.

  Gabe squinted, just for a moment, to see how they saw themselves. Their shapes shifted. The tall girl looked like an eel with an entire cat for a head. One of the smaller boys looked like an armadillo made out of jellyfish. The other one resembled a tangle of tree roots and elephant ears.

  Gabe immediately regretted the squint. He opened his eyes wide and tried to forget about what he had just seen, tried to trust the translation in order to more comfortably communicate and introduce himself. He still felt awkward about barging up and saying hello—especially since one of these three kids might be trying to kill him.

  The other ambassadors noticed him and all turned to stare.

  Gabe held up one hand. He hoped the gesture translated well.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m Gabe.”

  Are any of you surprised to see that I’m still alive? he wondered.

  The tall girl stepped forward, immediately taking charge as though she were the oldest as well as the biggest. Her hair trailed all the way down to the ground. “Hello. I’m Jir of the Builders and the Yards.” She pointed to one of the boys. “This is Ca’tth, Seventeenth in the Unbroken Line.”

  Gabe wished he had used a more full and formal name to introduce himself. Hello, everyone. I am Gabriel Sandro Fuentes of Terra. Or maybe Gabriel the Guardian of Lizard, Bird, and Fox. Except I had to abandon those three in Frankie’s kitchen, so if that was my official role, then I’ve already failed it.

  He nodded to Ca’tth and tried not to think of him as Jelly Armadillo. I really shouldn’t have squinted, he thought.

  Ca’tth said nothing. His translated appearance was completely bald, and his eyes shimmered strangely. The look he gave Gabe was wary, suspicious, and unwelcoming.

  Jir of the Builders and the Yards pointed at the third ambassador.

  “This is Ripe-Fruit-Dropped-in-Sunbaked-Mud-and-Left-to-Sit-Content. It’s his child name. His scent will change after puberty, when he settles and puts down more permanent roots, and then his name will change with it. He goes by Ripe for short, and he might not really notice you if your species doesn’t have a developed sense of smell or a memorably translated scent of your own. Don’t be offended if he ignores you. He doesn’t mean to be rude.”

  “He’s a plant ?” Gabe asked, surprised.

  “He’s flora, yes,” said Jir.

  “Doesn’t he mind tearing leaves off another plant?”

  “No,” said Jir, politely annoyed. “This is a game. It’s a translated plant. And I think he cooks and eats other plants, where he comes from.”

  Ripe had messy hair that waved and twisted by itself. He folded a new leaf-paper airplane without acknowledging Gabe. It did seem more absentminded than rude. I must not have a very memorable smell, Gabe thought.

  He remembered his mother’s powerful sense of smell while she was pregnant with the twins. She could recognize family members by scent rather than sight or sound, so she became impossible to sneak up on. This had seemed like a superpower to Gabe, like something she could’ve used to fight crime. He figured that detectives should always be pregnant, the better to sniff out evildoers. Mom had been less excited about her temporary powers, though, and Dad had had to change all his recipes to avoid cooking up kitchen smells that nauseated her. It was the only time he had ever seemed flustered about which spices to use.

  Gabe gently set the memory aside. Then he shut a mental door on that memory, locked the door, and hid the key.

  Ripe tossed his folded glider. It didn’t go far.

  “Can I play?” Gabe asked. The whole playground setup really was useful. It gave them something to do and a way to interact, even when they weren’t sure what to say to each other. He reached for the branch to pluck a leaf of his own.

  “No,” said Ca’tth immediately. “No, no, no, no, no.” He kept his eyes fixed on Gabe while shaking his head, which was unsettling to see.

  “Maybe later,” said Jir, still polite, still annoyed. She sounded like a babysitter who wasn’t getting paid enough for the job. “This is a private game. We live in overlapping systems, so we have shared concerns to discuss while we play.”

  “Then maybe I should join in,” said Gabe—also polite, and not wanting to intrude, but not willing to leave, either. “Protocol says that we’re neighbors, so we might have some of the same things to talk about.”

  He would have done this differently if not in a hurry. He would have waited, observed, sorted out the politics and learned how to navigate them—just as he might have done in any other kind of playground. It’s important to know who hates to share the swings. It’s good to figure out which bullies find fart jokes funny, and whether you can get them to stop throwing rocks by telling one. Gabe would have tried to make friends slowly, to figure out where he was welcome before barging into a group and a game uninvited. But he didn’t have time for that. Someone was shooting at him. His sleeping self hid underneath a bridge. He needed to hurry.

  The other three ambassadors looked alarmed at the news that they were neighbors.

  “Send him away,” Ca’tth whispered, urgent. His shimmering eyes grew very wide, and he tugged at Jir’s sleeve with both hands. “Send the Gabe away now. Quick. Do it. Send away the Gabe.”

  “Just keep playing!” Jir told him in a loud, urgent whisper. “Focus! We might attract his attention if we stop playing. Fold another
leaf.”

  “Whose attention?” Gabe asked.

  The three all busied themselves with folding gliders. They pretended that they hadn’t heard him. Gabe looked around.

  Omegan of the Outlast stood on a hilltop nearby. Gabe remembered the phrase mass extinctions.

  “Don’t look at the Outlast!” Ca’tth hissed. His eyes grew wide enough to take up most of his face, and his ears began to flutter up and down. “Don’t ever, ever, ever, ever, ever look at the Outlast. And please go away.”

  His voice rose and fell whenever he said a word over and over, from whisper to loud and then back down to whisper with every ever.

  Gabe didn’t protest or bother to argue. Instead he took one slow step closer, plucked his own leaf, and threw his own airplane. It flew a long way.

  Jir sighed. “Maybe he should stay,” she said, though she still sounded like a babysitter with better things to do. “He might hurt us more out of ignorant blundering than by knowing our business. He should learn enough to keep quiet. And he might be able to contribute somehow.”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Ca’tth insisted. His ears still fluttered like an agitated moth. “He can’t help us. He’s brand-new, and he can’t travel far. We would have noticed his people already if they could, and we haven’t, so they can’t.”

  He folded a glider and threw it hard. It did not travel far either.

  Ca’tth’s aggressive nervousness and distaste made Gabe suspicious. Why exactly are you trying to get rid of me? he thought. Why do you want me to go away? Did you recognize me? Did you expect me to be crushed inside a clothes dryer rather than here?

  Ripe sat down. He made several gliders and set them all on the ground beside him. “This is a meal,” he said. “This is all a cooking cake inside an oven-cave with worms alive inside it. This is the sort of cake that might eat everyone else slowly after they digest it.”

  Gabe was not sure what that meant or whether it might be suspicious.

  “The newcomer is still more dangerous to us ignorant than he is knowing,” said Jir. She folded two gliders and tossed them together, one from each hand. They spun around each other in a double spiral before drifting apart. “And his system is close. This matters to him, too.”