by John M. Ford
There were still Humans at the base of the guideway as the train hurtled into the city, now holding colored flags instead of torches. Colonel Rabinowich said, “We’ll be going underground a few klicks before the terminal. And an identical train will come out of the southbound pipe. We’d have done it at the Baton Rouge shunt, but there wasn’t time.”
“And the change of course?” Dr. Tagore said.
“Let ’em think we tried to fool ’em, and failed.”
“An excellent strategy,” Krenn said, careful to draw no comparisons with Klingon methods, though any Imperial officer would have hailed the trick. “You honor your craft and your line.” He understood well now which of the leader’s paths she had mastered: the way of greater cunning.
Rabinowich cast a side look at Dr. Tagore, who sat across the dining car, placidly drinking coffee. He had had no sleep, Krenn knew. Admiral van Diemen was in the sleeping car now.
The Colonel said, “Thank you, Captain,” in her customary soft-coarse voice. “That’s more than Starfleet usually gives us dirtballers.”
The terrain rose past the train. Interior lights came on, and then the windows went black, except for flashes of light that were gone before the eye could catch what was illuminated.
“Sit down, please, Captain, Commander,” the Colonel said, going to a seat herself; Dr. Tagore gulped the last of his coffee, held tight to the ceramic cup. “Gravitic braking,” Rabinowich said.
It was not a bad deceleration—certainly nothing like a combat maneuver when the deckplates were already straining—but Krenn was glad of the chair as invisible drag pulled him toward the front of the train.
In less than two local minutes they were at a full stop. Cool blue lights showed a platform beyond the windows, and more soldiers.
“All out,” Dr. Tagore said lightly, “change here for the Southern Crescent.”
Colonel Rabinowich looked at the Ambassador for a moment, then said, “Your escort to the hotel’s on the platform. We’ll be meeting you at a different platform: right now we’ve got to get the numbers scraped off this train and a different set on. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“You aren’t coming with us?” Krenn said. “Or the Admiral?”
“Or the Ambassador,” Dr. Tagore said.
Rabinowich paused. “You must—no, of course you don’t know. The invitation wasn’t to us. Grandisson doesn’t like Starfleet people.”
“You are not with Starfleet.”
“Never been off Earth, in fact. Max Grandisson doesn’t like me for a reason I thought was extinct until I was twenty-eight years old.” She gave a flat smile. “It goes a long way back. Unto the tenth generation, and then some. Shalom aleichem, Captain Krenn, Commander Akhil.”
“Aleichem shalom,” Krenn said, and as the Colonel’s mouth opened in surprise, and then a grin, Krenn caught Dr. Tagore’s nod in the corner of his eye.
The building was ancient, dull stone among all the bright glass, with new entry steps that led down where it had settled into the earth. The Klingons’ escorts—Humans in plain clothing, driving a vehicle that was like a dozen others on the street—surrounded Krenn and Akhil as all walked briskly inside.
Within, the hotel was a hollow box, balconies lining its interior; the roof, many floors above, was of an age-darkened glass that let only a few shafts of light through. Spindle-shaped lift cars rode up a central black pylon. The lobby was quite empty, and quiet. Bright green plants stood next to dying ones.
All this Krenn saw on the move. Within seconds they were at the glass-walled lifts, which more Humans in plain suits were holding ready; Akhil and half the guards went into one glass capsule, Krenn and the rest into another.
A young Human male in a red and white uniform walked past Krenn’s lift just then, carrying a tray. He looked up. Krenn looked back. The tray fell with a crash Krenn could not hear, as the car moved upward.
They emerged into a curved room: windows ran around the outer wall, giving what must have been a panorama of the city when the building was new, but which now showed only a curtain of glass.
A tall, slender Human came around the curve. The cut of his clothing was almost as restrained as the Security guards’ suits, but the tailoring was much sharper, the fabrics more exotic by far. His shirt had a high collar and a lace front. His face was rectangular, with a large jaw, a high forehead from which brown hair fell back straight to the collar. His nose was a blade, his eyes sharp enough to draw blood. There was a wireless phone in his ear, and a black device, the size of a communicator, clipped to his breast pocket.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, and the device in his pocket repeated it in klingonaase. Not only was the black device much smaller than the usual Federation translator, its sound quality was better. “I’m Max Grandisson. Glad you could join us.”
Krenn thought a moment about his answer, not only what to say but which language to say it in. Finally he decided that, while speaking Federation might cost them some interesting side comments, a deception might backfire. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Grandisson. We’re here to make peaceful contacts. I am Krenn, Captain of the Fencer; this is Commander Akhil, my Science officer, and also my Executive.”
Grandisson held quite still, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly; he touched his earphone, then extracted it, smiled. “Pardon my surprise, gentlemen. No one told me you spoke our language.” From his tone, Krenn was certain that someone would regret the lapse.
Grandisson said to the guards, “Why don’t you fellows go on down. Have breakfast if you like; I don’t suppose you’re allowed to drink on the job, but anything you like, just charge it to me.” He waved a hand before an objection could properly be raised. “I don’t think you need worry about our guests; I’ll vouch for the gentlemen with me, and no one comes up here without my approval. Go on down, now, and relax.”
It was one of the most gently delivered absolute commands Krenn had ever heard. And, though they looked doubtful, the Security people got into the lifts and descended.
“Now, Captain, Commander, if you’ll come with me, we can get started. Pardon me a moment.” Grandisson took another black device from inside his coat, pressed buttons on it. “Sally? This is Max. There’s some boys coming down right now, you won’t be able to miss ’em, they’ve got Government written all over ’em in big red letters. You see they get what they want, but give ’em a seat with a good view of the kitchen.”
There was a sound from the speaker. Grandisson said, “That’s right. Don’t annoy them. But keep them out of mischief.
“And, Sally, if anyone from the Constitution comes by, there’s nothing happening here, and there certainly aren’t any Government hound dogs around…. I know you will, Sal. That’s what I pay you for.” He put away the communicator.
Akhil said, “Constitution is what class of starship?”
“What? Ah. Not at all, Commander. The Atlanta Constitution is a news service. Honest men, but not always prudent ones. Now, if you’ll all come this way.” As they went around the curve, past partitions, desks, and bookshelves, Grandisson said, “This was originally a restaurant, built to revolve, you see. But after two hundred years the mechanism became rather delicate…not that there was anything left to see by that time. I wish I could show you gentlemen the old city.”
“Before the fire?” Krenn said.
Grandisson stroked his smooth brown hair. “I daresay, Captain, you have me at a loss.” Krenn thoroughly doubted that. “No, Captain, I wasn’t thinking that far back. That’s a sight I’d like to see myself. Do you know of—ah, here we are.”
Three Human males were seated at a table set for six. Two of them rose as Grandisson and the Klingons approached; the third, Krenn saw, sat in an antigrav chair, because he had no legs. One of the standing men was young, with eyeglasses and a thin mustache; the other had a neat gray beard, and a gold chain across the front of his coat. All were well-dressed, though not so expensively as Grandisson.
Grandisson said, �
��May I present Commodore Amos Blakeslee of the Starfleet Exploration Command, now retired.” The legless Human nodded. Krenn wondered about Colonel Rabinowich’s comment: how did Grandisson feel about Starfleet personnel?
“Doctor Samuel Landers, of the Inner Space Corporation.” That was the young Human. “And T. J. McCoy, M.D., Chief of Medicine at the Emory University Medical Center.”
Introductions completed, all sat down. The chairs were carved wood with leather padding; not really comfortable for Klingon anatomy, but tolerable. The table was of highly polished wood, the service of heavy ceramics, apparently solid silver, and cut crystal that broke the indirect light into rainbows.
“I understand that you gentlemen can eat our cooking,” Grandisson said, as platters were unloaded onto the table. Krenn wondered, if Grandisson should be told the words, if he would consider the Human servers kuve or straave.
“We’ve done so without harm,” Akhil said.
“That’s fine. Of course, just in case, I called T.J. up here to join us. Best doctor in the state.”
Dr. McCoy turned, slowly. His accent was much stronger than Grandisson’s. “Actually, Captain, I’m just a G.P. from Union County, not a xenophysician at all. And I doubt there’s anyone inside of twenty parsecs with any experience of Klingon medicine. I would, however, give you the medical advice not to eat those.”
“What is that?” Akhil said.
“Those, sir, are called grits.”
Krenn had already tried a forkful. They were, he decided, no worse than Romulan emergency rations. But it was a near thing.
The soft-cooked eggs in silver cups required mechanical mastery, but tasted good, if bland. The peach nectar was blood-thick and incredible. The coffee was void-black and incredibly strong.
The places were cleared; the Humans, except for Commodore Blakeslee, sat back in their chairs.
“I’ve asked you here, Captain,” Grandisson said crisply, “because you’re about to be hustled down to that Florida land swindle they call a Federation City, and double-shuffled past some diplomats and Starfleet officers, and sent home again heavily weighted with one point of view. I’d like to expose you to another, one that a great many Human beings subscribe to.”
He turned, settling into a comfortable three-quarter pose. “For a long time, our leaders have been telling us that we had to progress in certain directions: greater speed, greater height, greater sheer mass and volume. There was a time when this city was filled with architectural masterworks, like the building we’re in now; but progress tore them down, blasted them down, and gave us that in their place.” Grandisson pointed out the window, at the sheer glass cliffs. “We have seen the future, gentlemen, and it is vastly more expensive.
“The other direction we were told we must go was out. A long way out. First to the Moon, then Mars, and some gravitational holes just as far away as the Moon but no more hospitable: and now, the stars. On every one, we were told, we’d find the answers to all our problems. But when we got there, somehow the answers had moved on.”
Dr. McCoy burped lightly, excused himself, and said, “It seems to me, Max, that it started with Columbus, or maybe Lucky Leif, before the Moon got into it. Or maybe it was when some little thing that lived in a pond decided that it had better try the dry land, before the pond took it to dry up.”
“If it was Space he’d had to cross,” Commodore Blakeslee said in a rasping voice, “cold, hard Space, Columbus would have been a shoemaker and glad to have the work.”
Grandisson was watching both the other Humans, with a faintly calculating smile. Krenn wondered if he were delivering them cues. Finally Grandisson said, “When I spoke of expense, I also meant the personal kind. Amos was…hurt, looking for one of those worlds full of answers that always seem just out of reach. As it was, he was caught out of reach…with an injury that, if he’d only been nearer home, would have been fixed—”
“People die on the front steps of hospitals,” Dr. McCoy said. Krenn saw the physician’s hands were folded very tightly in his lap.
Grandisson said pleasantly, “Tom’s always being modest when he doesn’t have to. That’s why I keep him around; I need a conscience.” McCoy tapped a finger on his gold vest chain. Grandisson went on: “I’m not a mathematician, but I know the ratio between a sphere’s diameter and its volume. And I know how much of my money the Federation taxes away every year, trying to fill that bottomless bucket.”
Krenn wondered, if this Human were so powerful, how the Federation managed to take his wealth.
Grandisson was looking directly at Krenn. His eyes were very blue, and very cold. “Captain,” he said, “in Federa-Terra they’re going to tell you that we’ve got to grow in your direction, that if we don’t grow we’ll die, and so on; and I’m telling you it’s a bill of goods. We don’t need your space. We don’t need the space we’ve got now. All we need is the Earth. And I speak for almost one billion Human beings when I say that the Earth is all we want.”
“Well, you don’t speak for me, Max,” Dr. McCoy said, and stood up. “You want your goddamn neutral witness, invite those Constitution reporters up here.” He turned to Krenn and Akhil. “You officers will kindly excuse my bad manners, but I’ve had my intelligence insulted enough for one day. Good day to you; I hope the rest of your stay here is pleasanter and more productive than this morning has been for me…and if your ship’s doctor should feel like visiting, I’d admire to buy him a bottle of whatever he’s drinking.
“And good day to you, too, Max. I’m gonna go change my grandson Leonard’s diapers now, but I’ll be thinkin’ of you the whole time.” He turned, and walked toward the lifts.
“Oh, come on back, T.J.,” Grandisson said, smiling. McCoy did not break stride. Grandisson’s smile wavered. “Tom, come back here.”
McCoy did stop then, and turn. “I’ll see you at the Clinic on Thursday, won’t I, Max?” he said, rather quietly. And then he walked away again.
“McCoy!” Grandisson shouted, but the Doctor was already out of sight. Grandisson pulled out his communicator. Commodore Blakeslee looked violent and Dr. Landers looked baffled.
“Sal? Well, get her…. Sal, Tom McCoy’s coming down, and he’s inanother of his moods. You just—no, listen. You just make sure he doesn’t talk to any reporters. No, don’t have Billy follow him, if he doesn’t do it right off, it’ll blow over. Yes, honey, your job and then some.”
Grandisson looked up; Krenn was looking at him. To have looked at anything else would have been an absurd gesture.
“I have,” Grandisson said, recovering with amazing speed, “a somewhat dramatic conscience.
“But I assure you, Captain, that I, and the Homeworld Movement on whose behalf I speak, are entirely serious and committed. Dr. Landers heads a multi-megacredit corporation that is, right now, developing the technology to make the Earth not only habitable for the many millions who will return, but a self-sufficient paradise for them.”
Akhil said, “Komerex tel khesterex?”
Grandisson turned, reached to his ear. He took the phone from his pocket and inserted it. “I’m afraid I didn’t—”
Krenn said, “What of the Humans who do not wish to return?”
“Naturally we can’t explain everyone’s motives. But we also cannot take responsibility for those who choose irresponsible paths. A Human not on Earth will be…homeless. As, in a way, they always have been.
“Now, all I ask is that you take this message back to your leaders, along with the ‘official’ one. Will you do that?”
Krenn said, “Which message do you mean, Mr. Grandisson?”
The Human stared, then laughed shortly. “I suppose I have gone on a bit. Tell your people that not all Humans want their territory, and endless rounds of gunboat diplomacy and saber-rattling.”
Krenn had no trouble understanding the idioms. He rather liked them. But he was tired of this meeting.
Grandisson’s dramatic was an interesting choice of words, Krenn thought. The stage
was effective, the lead performance good, the three Human props adequate…though Krenn wondered about the character of the physician McCoy.
It did not matter. What mattered was whether Krenn and Akhil were supposed to take the presentation at its face value, or find some secret meaning.
It was simpler in the Empire, Krenn thought. One had the komerex zha: one was always safe in assuming the other player was enemy, the next move a trap.
Well. He would show the Human a Klingon face. But perhaps not the face he was expecting.
Krenn said, “If you wish, I will take that message. But there is something I ought to tell you. We have a word, komerex: your translator has probably told you it means ‘Empire,’ but what it means truly is ‘the structure that grows.’ It has an opposite, khesterex: ‘the structure that dies.’ We are taught—by those you wish to receive your story—that there are no other cultures than these. And in my years as a Captain, I have seen nothing to indicate that my teaching was wrong. There are only Empires…and kuve.” Krenn saw Grandisson’s long jaw go slack; he knew how the Human’s machine had translated the last word. “And this is the change you say you wish to make in yourselves….
“So, yes, Mr. Grandisson, if you wish I will take your message. But I tell you now: there are none Klingon who will believe it.”
Six: Games
Krenn had some vague ideas about what a diplomatic conference might be. None of them prepared him for the reality. He shortly began to doubt that he could have been prepared: there were ideas so new and strange, as the epetai-Khemara had taught him, that they must be shown by example.
