by Ivan Ertlov
For a moment, resistance, a laboriously suppressed rebellion flitted across Freezemayer's countenance before he bowed to the hierarchy and bowed his head.
"Understood, Professor."
There was a silence in the air that was visibly mixed with tension, perhaps even mistrust. The unexpected visitors had caused a disturbance in the balance of things here that had been built up over years and decades - and they were not done with it yet.
Bettsy pulled her antennae up, bobbed them twice with determination, and followed it up with a single, all-attention-grabbing click.
"That will not do. Oh, the reparation payment will be gladly accepted, especially if it is generous enough, but then what? How do you think the council will react?"
Mariella cocked her head to one side, and a hint of nervousness crept into her voice as she turned to her guests in search of help.
"I don't know. That Creesh they call The Cruel is still leading the council, isn't she? What do you know about her? Can you assess her for us?"
"I actually find her quite friendly. Yes, of course, she's devious, cold, rational - but somehow also quite nice."
Bettsy turned her head slowly to the side, measuring Frank with a puzzled look, as did Dila, whose ears had gone to half-mast at his words. His words were met with the same incredulous astonishment that a drunkenly slurred "historically speaking, maybe the Brexit wasn't such a bad idea" or "oh, I don't actually mind having my essence tasted, I've heard herbal oil is good for the skin" would have produced.
Bettsy hoisted up briefly.
"Aarashkvachora is a first-class political strategist who has built her career on a skilful mix of idealism, carefully cultivated networks and psychological intimidation of opponents. She will show no weakness, turning every concession into an advantage for the Protectorate, merciless and relentless."
Gonzales trembled, Freezemayer gritted her teeth - and the Professor's ears perked up.
"Betshrachthora, dear Metaltaster, do you know the speaker personally?"
Bettsy let her mandibles brush against each other carefully, quietly, almost inaudibly.
"We have met once or twice, yes. But what do you think will happen when the Council hears about this? I don't mean the incident with the drones, but - yes, everything? That there's a New Earth, with close to a million exclusively human inhabitants? A civilisation founded by a Terran terrorist organisation building a base and its own fleet for decades? Which, to put it in human terms, takes a big dump on the Lex Humanitas?"
Florbsh bubbled up in protest.
"Friends, I will say it again - the Lex only applies in Protectorate systems and on worlds that voluntarily ratify it. But here ..."
Troshk, who until now had shown remarkable restraint, rose - and all other voices fell silent. At that moment, he was no longer Frank's weapons officer, no longer a simple partner in a Consortium who had given up his well-deserved retirement in favour of questionable adventures.
No, he was now fully the Stormcommander again, one of the greatest military leaders of his generation, a strategist and thinker whose voice, as well as his thought processes, demanded respect. And he got plenty of it because his words carried weight.
"It doesn't matter. If the Protectorate sees even a chance of a threat from New Earth, they will strike with full force. They will convene the Alliance ambassador, share all the details with him, request the green light for an operation in the Rim Worlds. And you know what, Professor? That's exactly what you're going to get. More than that, I'll bet the back of my neck that the symbiote carriers will not only agree but go along with it. Humanity's reputation is no better in the Plachtharr Alliance than it is in the Protectorate, and they will be only too happy to do their part to ensure that no new Terran empire begins to grow like cancer. A joint operation, cooperation between Alliance and Protectorate, perhaps even the beginning of a wonderful friendship - what a historic moment! This will then be to your credit, and the price merely your destruction - or at least the forced evacuation of the planet."
That did it.
While the Stormcommander took his seat again, the Professor, the mayor and the admiral exchanged glances that went from dismay to perplexity and finally to despair.
And with that, the balance of power in the room shifted.
Frank and his crew, still euphemistically referred to as uninvited guests, in reality rather forced to land, politely treated prisoners, became a valuable resource.
A glimmer of hope.
A chance.
Mariella cleared her throat, and her voice sounded occupied.
"I ask you - no, I beg all of you, whether human or Durash, Borsht or Creesh, not to judge us hastily."
Frank did not miss the attempt to move from diplomatic, distant politeness to a friendly chit-chat tone.
"Please understand us - the only thing we seek is a safe, free homeland for all people. Therefore, no expansion, no colonisation, and we are happy to make concessions regarding our resource extraction. I don't know how to convince you of this, but ..."
"I do."
Astonished, she looked at Freezemayer, who leaned forward and let his gaze swing between Bettsy and Troshk.
"I leave tomorrow morning for a routine inspection of our production facilities. Stormcommander Troshk, honourable Metaltaster, I offer you to accompany me. You will be given unrestricted access, be able to inspect all our weapons systems, assess our modest military capabilities for yourself. No door will be closed, no database locked. Yes, I know Hephaestus is in orbital opposition right now, so it's a slightly longer flight. But we'll be back in three days at the latest - and you'll have the first-hand assurance that humanity poses no threat. Well, neither for the Protectorate nor for the Alliance. Of course, we can defend ourselves well against the usual pirates. But the Council won't hold that against us, will they?"
No, they couldn't. In fact, Frank saw a realistic chance of not losing his new potential home straight away, and the rear admiral's openness amazed him.
Not only him.
Mariella raised her eyebrows in surprise but finally nodded slowly.
"You see? Normally, not even Gonzales or I have direct access; we only get the reports and receive the requested goods. As I said, strict separation of powers. But if it helps prevent a conflict and you are willing ..."
A brief exchange of guttural growls and enthusiastic hoots, a hasty dialogue between Bettsy and Troshk that only they could both follow, erupted.
Frank and Dilara looked at each other briefly, shrugged their shoulders - this was their friends' decision, and if they wanted to discuss it in some privacy, then ...
"Alright, we agree, on the following condition - I use my own tools and scanners, Troshk may carry his traditional assault rifle."
Freezemayer smiled broadly - which didn't necessarily make him look more likeable, only uglier.
"Of course."
Mariella took a deep breath, and Frank could see a bead or two of sweat standing on her dark forehead. But she kept her composure, unlike Gonzales, who was panting like a breeding bull after the fifth consecutive insemination.
"To be honest, that is also the best thing for our population. Don't get me wrong, no one would bother you - but to have two representatives of those races walking the streets which were once mainly responsible for our almost-extinction would be, well ..."
The politician raised his shoulders in embarrassment, and Frank understood. He was a human being and certainly didn't cause a stir here. Dilara, apart from the odd lustful glance at her quadruply endowed bust, probably didn't either - as long as she didn't bare her teeth. A Durash was always and everywhere a curiosity, and curiosity combined with fascination conquered resentment with ease.
But the inhabitants here were descendants of the True Humans, the oldest of them even former terrorists in the name of Terra. So a Creesh and a Borsht war veteran on a state visit represented the greatest possible provocation one could imagine - apart from a juicy orbital bombardment.
"Excellent! And until you fly home with a favourable final report - and the reparations, of course - please consider yourselves our guests of honour. Frank - I can call you Frank, can't I? - Frank, Dilara, Florbsh, you are free to move about the city, participate in social life as you wish. Storm commander, Metaltaster - we'll be a little more discreet with you, but you shall want for nothing. Mayor, we're sure to have a beach villa or two standing empty, aren't we?"
Gonzales leaned back.
"You bet. Veranda, private jetty, leather sofas, and a fully stocked minibar. The full works!"
*
Frank understood what the Professor had meant by "more discreet", at the latest at that moment when the armoured float turned into a waterfront promenade.
Yes, they were villas, located in a somewhat secluded beach district north of the government quarter, secured above all by triple checks with two dozen policemen: no permanent residents, no curious onlookers, no witnesses to their presence.
Oh, Frank didn't doubt for a moment that he and Dila would be able to move about freely the next day - but the sight of a big, brutish Borsht or a slyly creeping Creesh was spared to the normal average people.
Just like the stay in one of those beach villas in front of which they dropped off the pilots and bodyguards, handed them two key chips and withdrew exceedingly politely. This was no housing estate for the common people, no collection of luxurious holiday residences for the stressed pig farmer from the agricultural zones - oh no.
It was a bonze settlement, reserved for decision-makers, for the top of society when they felt the need to relax in peace.
Probably for headteachers and school inspectors.
The villas were square, gleaming white-painted houses with blue roof domes that vaguely reminded Frank of the pictures of Greek islands in the Terran Museum. The evening was drawing to a close, the sun conveniently preparing to set right where the best view was from the spacious wooden verandas, between swaying palm trees across a magnificent sandy beach out to the sea, whose turquoise-green colour formed an exciting contrast to the shimmering pink foam on the waves.
A paradise for the mighty, a perfect idyll.
Too perfect?
Bettsy sighed and rummaged in her endless bag until she had the object of her search in her hands. Then, wordlessly, she held it out to the others, accompanied by a silent question, answered just as wordlessly with a general nod, at least by Dilara, Troshk and Frank, who had secretly been thinking the same thoughts as the Metaltaster.
Florbsh, on the other hand, raised his pseudo-pod in confusion.
"What is this? And what are you going to do with it?"
Bettsy bobbed her antennae.
"Just a little test to be on the safe side."
The EMP grenade flew in a high arc towards the beach, rolled over a spur of the carefully tended lawn into the sand ...
... and detonated.
A loud, dry bang, a flash of light, a horrified cry from Florbsh, who compressed into a flat puddle in a split second.
And nothing else.
The sand was still sand, the palm leaves still swayed in the balmy evening breeze, and the wooden jetty beside it still led its ten or fifteen metres out to sea.
Nothing happened.
Well, almost nothing.
The upstairs window of a villa some fifty metres away from them was torn open, a head stretched out into the open, and a shrill call in old English echoed across the promenade.
"Fuck off, you asshole!"
The window slammed shut again, and puzzled looks were directed at Frank.
"What the Plachtharr was that?"
A good question. A damn good question even, but Frank didn't want to embarrass himself in front of his friends.
Not here, not in his new home.
New home? Calm your tits, boy.
The thought already frightened him as it formed on the edge of consciousness. His home? What was it really? The Splinter City with its run-down human quarter? The headquarters of Stargazer, perhaps Yrsha's bridge?
He associated all this with the term, but he was standing on a planet that belonged entirely to his species for the first time in his life. Something that had been unthinkable to him for decades.
A new Home? That was a question for later. Or tomorrow. Or some other time.
"I believe this is a traditional welcome greeting in an ancient Terran dialect. It means, if I remember correctly, enjoy your stay and have a good time!"
Bettsy clicked contentedly.
"All right, at least the civilians here are friendly. I am curious to know what we will learn about their military."
So was Frank.
"By our knowledge, we differ little, but in our boundless ignorance, we are all alike."
- Sir Karl Popper
8.
The Tribunal of Knowledge
Frank strolled in amazement through the streets of the metropolis, whose name he did not know for a very simple reason - it did not yet have one. Apparently, the descendants of the True Humans had not agreed and had not become one until that day. Neotokyo was one of the proposals that stood high in favour of the inhabitants. Still, Moga-Kinshasa, Beijing 2.0, and New Indianapolis also fought amicably for first place in the various rankings that were conjured up by small projectors alongside all kinds of news and the prevalent educational programmes on every other street corner.
Mariella had by no means promised too much - knowledge, or the search for it, ruled the planet. Numerous educational institutes were open from morning till night. Anyone who wanted to further their knowledge in agricultural sciences, chemistry, astronomy, or fine arts could do so at any time without paying a single mineral unit.
Money didn't seem to play any role at all - indeed, it didn't even exist. Sure, the breakfast that had been delivered to their villas was on the house, they had assumed, as well as that they would at least make an effort to meet the needs of the non-human visitors. So Troshk had been served a whole bowl of bananas, apples and mangoes, Dila a chicken breast, although far too little raw for her taste. Bettsy had poked sceptically at the bowl of earthworms at first, but after finding that the bottom dwellers were both alive and marinated in lemon and vinegar, she had gorged all the more enthusiastically.
She and the Stormcommander were now on their way to the star forge, where they would prepare a detailed report on the technical and military capabilities of the people there.
Frank secretly prayed that these were underdeveloped despite their impressive interceptors.
He wanted them to be primitive.
That would mean no danger for the Protectorate, no excuse for the council to show up here with a punitive expedition and end the experiment.
Because that's exactly what it was - a wonderful, exciting experiment, the venture of a new beginning for humanity. Without expansionism, without campaigns against everything that wasn't at three in another sector and yes, actually without money.
It became obvious at the latest when he stopped off at a small, cosy inn on a quiet street corner - alone, Dila was still at the Polithistorical Museum to learn more about the alleged peacefulness of New Earth, and Florbsh had already lost them at the Central Statistical Office earlier.
The menu was short, clear and had no prices - but only Terran ingredients. Plants and animals from the lost Earth, presumably bred thanks to the generally accessible gene sequences from the databases of the Terran Museum. There was no Shrava larvae, Frugal wine, or Gulptar milk, but instead a note to ask the host for the dish of the day.
He immediately appeared at Frank's table and judging by his apron and clipboard, the same person was the cook and waiter. He was a good sixty, maybe even seventy years old, rather short, slightly stocky, with wispy grey-brown hair and cheeks reddened by the sun, the heat of the hearth fire or too much schnapps.
A cliché of a host, so to speak.
"Hello, hung
ry friend! What would you like?"
A good question. Frank's eyes flew over the menu in concentration, trying to make sense of the exotic-sounding names.
"What is a Španělský Ptáček, please?"
The innkeeper's eyes widened in astonishment at the stupid question.
"The same like everywhere, just mine is better. A finely spiced beef roulade filled with egg and pickle. An incredibly tasty delicacy, one of the specialities of my house - and unfortunately out."
Frank cursed inwardly.
"And this Klobása?"
"A hearty sausage smoked with beech wood and spruce needles. Exceptionally delicate but unfortunately sold out, too. Forever."
"What, forever?"
The innkeeper's eyes narrowed. He pulled one of the armchairs out from under the table, deliberately slow, before sitting down himself and looking at Frank suspiciously.
"You're not from here, that's for sure. Nor are you one of the new citizens - you don't exactly look like a newly freed mine slave. No, you must be that guy who works for the Protectorate, right? The henchman of those aliens who landed yesterday?"
Something about the way he had said the word aliens bothered Frank - apart from anything else.
"First of all, we don't work for the Protectorate; we are independent prospectors."
That was an indirect lie.
"And secondly, I am not their henchman, but their commander. The ship is registered to me; I am the boss, so to speak."
That was the truth, albeit a very generously formulated one - and it was enough to make the gastronome's clipboard slip out of his hand in surprise.
"What, no shit?"
"No shit. Prospector's freighter Yrsha, registered to Frank Gazer, unrestricted operational authorisation in all Protectorate systems, trading licence for the Rims and exchange with the Alliance Exchange. The full works."
