The Only Thing to Fear

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Evan, is it?” With a lift of his eyebrow.

  “He’s afraid of spiders. Ril’s afraid of Humans.” I let my shoulders rise and fall. “They’ve been exceptionally brave, considering.”

  He looked ahead to where Rudy squeezed beside Evan, the latter huddled in a thoroughly uncomfortable curl around the bundle of pink coat keeping Prela safe from ‘fruitcake.’ “Have they attached?”

  “No.” I lowered my voice. “We can’t allow it, Paul. You know what it would mean.” Evan would become the symbolic link between their species, a link the Popeakans would insist live within Prela’s group, in the embassy to start and then on to Popeak. He’d be cared for and safe, play a vital and important role in Commonwealth/Popeakan relations, and never be free again.

  “A lifetime commitment.” Paul chuckled. “He’s no older than I was when we met, Old Lady.”

  I ignored the comparison. Evan did not deserve to have his choices taken from him. “Ril intends to attach to a Human. We don’t have much time.” And Paul had, as usual, distracted me. “The Hurns would have kept Prela with them until she attached to one—or died. You can’t tell me that’s right.”

  “By whose rules?”

  An Ersh question, something my Human did disturbingly well.

  Mine, I wanted to say, but couldn’t. Paul was right. The Popeakans wouldn’t object to attaching to the Hurns, if it came to necessity. Better that than fail.

  “Come here,” Paul invited, slipping the knapsack from his shoulders. “I brought you something.” He produced a neatly wrapped square. “Hungry?”

  It was fudge. I turned the offering over in my hands a few times, then looked up at him, troubled. A life committed to someone not of your kind. “Do you—if we—” My mouth shut.

  “Silly blob.” Paul smiled. He’d such a warm, generous smile. “Eat your fudge. And that’s all you’re getting.”

  “This me,” I reminded him, “can eat all day.”

  Then smiled back, content.

  * * *

  The for-hire let them out in the shade of the unadorned arch marking the service access into the Commonwealth Embassy of Urgia Prime and Human territory. The roar of the festival carried over the buildings and trees, a reminder there were those not burdened with secrets or aliens or about to lose the one career they’d always wanted.

  As they walked down the short laneway to the building, Evan found himself acutely conscious of Paul. There was something indefinable about the other Human, a sense whatever he did mattered, that you had to pay attention. Rudy felt it. Bess. They looked to Paul for their next move. Trusted what it would be. Evan wasn’t sure if he felt envious or jealous.

  He didn’t know what to feel about anything, anymore. He was emotionally drained, physically worn, and shuddered every so often at the thought of that Hurn. Not at my best, he acknowledged, but this struggle was familiar. What did Great Gran say? You moved forward, however small the step. To freeze was to fail, and he mustn’t, not with the sun gilding the rooftops—

  A toetip tapped his wrist. “We must not fail now, Evan Gooseberry.”

  He looked down to meet three golden eyes. Tempting, to believe ril experienced the same feelings, to fall into the seductive trap of assuming an alien mind worked like yours. That they felt as you did.

  Though in this instance, it was true. Prela’s time almost up.

  “I can take ril,” Rudy offered.

  Evan gave him a confused look, only then realizing he’d stopped in front of the rear door. He shook his head.

  “Almost done, Evan,” Bess assured him.

  Almost done his career—he shut down the thought and straightened. He’d his ident ready in the hand not locked around the Pink Popeakan, but they’d already be on the vidfeed. Looking up, Evan did his best to smile reassuringly. With what—who—he carried, and surrounded by unfamiliar Humans, the glitter in his hair hardly seemed to matter. What did? The reaction of those inside.

  They’d procedures for entry, most concerned with the appropriate beverages to offer when non-Human visitors came to the front doors. Not poisoning guests was a vital part of their mission, though there was a betting pool on how soon Polit Feen would run out of smaller and smaller containers, the word having spread along Embassy Row about the Humans and free drinks.

  They’d a procedure for Ganthor assault: broadcast a surrender while dashing out the back.

  The rest were for Humans, typically to do with emergency housing. The lower your rank, the more likely you’d be the one to take home a spacer who’d “missed” their ship.

  His guests, he thought glibly, didn’t fit in any list. Just as well he’d be quitting—the forms for this would have to be invented first . . .

  The com crackled, then a voice asked, “Evan? Is that—the Pink Popeakan?!”

  . . . then filled out in quadruplicate.

  * * *

  The reception area for the embassy in the city of Kateen, on the world of Urgia Prime, was indistinguishable from such areas in Human Embassies everywhere along this edge of the Commonwealth, someone, somewhere, having decided consistency mattered when putting your species’ best foot forward to those who didn’t have feet. Or did, but not like yours.

  A laudable effort that didn’t, in my informed opinion, fool anyone, particularly here, where the majority of species had leaped into space before the Human lineage had shed tails. According to them, that is, the mild exaggeration typically accompanied by snide remarks about living in trees.

  A room walled in pseudo-rustic wood panels, with wooden tables and chairs didn’t help, though I did give the local staff credit for flower arrangements at the significant three tongical loci that would have put any Urgian completely at ease.

  I wasn’t. Daring to be Human in a place devoted to keeping track of their kind wasn’t my first choice. Or fifteenth. To remain Bess while stressed meant continuing to dump heat, my Humanself durable to an extent, though a prolonged high fever would cause damage. I tried not to gaze longingly at the vases of fresh-cut, still-living flowers.

  Paul had come prepared, providing idents for the three of us before being asked in the lobby downstairs, his manner that disarming blend of “don’t want to be a bother” and “so glad you’re here for us” proven to melt bureaucrats at five paces.

  By the grim intensity of her gaze, Senior Political Officer Simone Argyle Feen wasn’t one of them, improving my estimation of her intelligence.

  Another sign? Despite the glitter we shed with each step, we’d been shown to this beautifully kept room without delay, offered suitable beverages, though in very small cups, and asked to wait. The ambassador would join us soon.

  While waiting, we sat, as Humans do, around a table. As Humans do, Evan Gooseberry, Junior Political Assistant, was not invited to join us. He stood beside a floral arrangement attempting to blend into the wood panel.

  There were only Humans in sight. The instant Feen had offered the embassy’s greetings and suggested a chair, Prela had leaped from Evan’s arms, skittered across the floor with commendable speed given ril’s two damaged limbs, and vanished under the table, not to be seen again.

  Post-beverage, there fell one of those awkward silences. Nothing of significance could be said without the ambassador present, and Feen’s stiff posture did not inspire the usual small talk. Predictably, Paul looked relaxed, studying the room and its occupants with interest. Rudy emptied his cup in one swallow, then gazed at it wistfully.

  In the quiet, the forlorn squeak of a raincoat had us all exchanging glances.

  Rudy shrugged and raised his cup to the waiting staffer, who looked to Feen for permission. Feen, meanwhile, lowered her impressive eyebrows at poor Evan as if this, too, was his fault.

  Paul winked at me.

  Rolling my eyeballs in response, I slouched down in my chair, contorting to peer under the table. Pre-!~!-la A
cci-!~!-ari, the Offer, and the only hope for her group of surviving to see more than Day One of the Festival of Funchess had rolled rilself into a quivering ball of pink raincoat.

  I wiggled upright again and shook my head. Stalemate.

  Paul looked thoughtful, always a good thing, then his eyes brightened. “Polit Feen,” he said. “Do you have any jamble grape juice to offer our friend? Preferably warmed to ambient.”

  “Popeakans can’t digest plant material, juice or otherwise.” Feen leaned back, eyebrows lifting sardonically. “You haven’t been a first contact specialist for over fifty years, Hom Ragem.” Proving my point about the dangers of good record keeping. “There’s no shame in not keeping up.”

  Offended, Rudy began to speak; Paul silenced him with a sideways flick of a finger. “You are entirely correct, Polit Feen,” my friend agreed, more graciously than I would. “However, Popeakans use an elixir of warmed jamble grape pulp to cleanse their eyes, an important courtesy before a meeting as significant as this. I believe the juice alone should make ril more comfortable.”

  “It would help,” from under the table.

  Evan burst out, “That’s not in my— How could you know?”

  “Because he’s Director of the All Species’ Library of Linguistics and Culture on Botharis.” Rudy finished with a flourish toward Paul.

  And I’d told him, probably not the point.

  “The what?” Feen snapped.

  “We’re not yet open to the public, Polit Feen,” Paul demurred. He produced, of all things, one of my pamphlets, the gold and purple of the emphatic “What You Need To Know” a rather fetching splash of color if I did say so myself. “When it is, all will be welcome to access the largest single repository of such information in the Commonwealth.”

  And beyond, though Paul didn’t like me bragging.

  She took the pamphlet, glanced almost dismissively at the front and back, then opened it. I watched her read the interior text, resisting the urge to mouth the words. The sorts of information to bring in trade. Provisions for non-oxy breathers. No overnight stays, but we did supply transit between the Library and landing field. Reluctantly, I’d included the bit where all visitors must route their trips though Hixtar Station. Hixtar being where Botharan mining ships picked up supplies and offloaded surplus ore, the Botharan government was more interested in good relations with the station admin than us. So it was come to the Library via Hixtar Station or be welcome to land on the other continent and figure your own way from there. Paul was working on a way around that restriction, but it wouldn’t be soon.

  Feen put down the open pamphlet, her finger sliding thoughtfully across the final line. I knew what it was. The Mortuary’s, my template, had ended with a startling if pragmatic: Only you’ll know how little you paid. Now, that line stated our goal and the Library’s purpose: To prevent ignorance of one another leading to conflict.

  With a curt gesture, she summoned her staffer. They whispered, heads together, then she stared at Evan. “Is that why you brought them here?”

  “I was made aware they had—expertise—in the area, Polit Feen.” Evan’s eyes flickered in my direction, and I smiled back.

  “Get the juice, Gooseberry. Warmed.”

  “Laiden should do it, Polit Feen.” Evan stood at attention. “As a consequence of my failure today, I feel I must resign. Effective immediately.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Gooseberry. This—” Feen pointed down at the table and who hid beneath, “—is not failure. Unless you want to resign . . .”

  “I’ll get the juice,” he said hastily, bolting from the room.

  When he was gone, Feen’s lips stretched in the first warm smile I’d seen from her. “Outstanding potential, our Gooseberry.” The smile disappeared. “I’ll deny saying that, mind you.”

  “We wouldn’t be here without him,” Paul told her, in what I considered a fine abbreviation of events Evan probably wouldn’t want in a report. My friend glanced at Rudy, then added, “If we were seen entering, you’ll have more visitors and soon.”

  From under the table, “Only Humankind. I have decided. Only!” A muttered, “sick of slimy crowds” followed.

  Feen placed her hand lightly on the tabletop, fingers spread wide as if claiming a prize, only to curl and be withdrawn. I thought I caught something wistful in her eyes. “I speak for Humans when I say we are deeply honored, as is Ambassador Wimmerly, whom you’ll meet shortly, and who is fully prepared for the commitment.”

  Was anyone? I couldn’t help looking at Paul; his fleeting smile was for me and better than fudge.

  “There is a detail to negotiate first,” Feen continued. “The position of the Commonwealth and this embassy is that we must respect local custom.”

  “We’re on Embassy Row,” Paul objected. He no longer smiled. “Which ‘local’ custom do you have in mind?”

  “Our hosts’. The Offer will meet our ambassador in an impromptu festival event on our street patio. It’s being set up as we speak—”

  Toetips clutched the edge of the table. In a blur of movement, Prela drew rilself up and over, landing in our midst. Spoiling ril’s dramatic entrance, the table had been polished to a gleaming shine and the poor Popeakan spun out of control, limbs flailing, pink raincoat sailing past Rudy. There were gasps as everyone leaped to keep ril from slipping off.

  Fortunately for interspecies’ relations, and the integrity of what were easily damaged limbs and a fragile mindset, I got there first, sprawling across the table. It wasn’t the graceful move I’d imagined. I slid on my stomach, cups flying, stopped at the last instant by a hand on my ankle. With a magnificent effort, Prela seized my tunic and pulled rilself to perch on my rump.

  Where ril announced, somewhat anticlimactically, “This was the Urgians’ plan all along! I refuse them!”

  * * *

  This late on an ordinary day, the embassy should be closing down, seniors about to head to the Collegial Corner for the evening’s vital debriefing, while the rest of the staff chose another establishment for theirs.

  Today, the halls buzzed with excitement, and Evan encountered person after person on his errand to and from the kitchen, everyone eager to know what was happening in reception.

  As, he assured each, was he, but he was on an important task and couldn’t stop.

  Being embassy staff, too. Relief charged him with renewed purpose. He’d do better, he would. Learn more. Study harder.

  Visit a certain Library and its director?

  One day, he promised himself. After his time here. After Dokeci-Na. Surely, if he, Evan Gooseberry, could hold the Pink Popeakan in his arms, anything must be possible—

  Just not evading friends. “Evan. Evan!”

  Cradling the warm juice, he paused impatiently for Terry to catch up, then resumed walking, forcing his friend to match his long strides. “I have to get back.”

  “Hey, we’re all in a rush.” Terry rubbed his hand over Evan’s hair, bringing it away covered in glitter. “Got a head start, I see.”

  Had rumors spread? Of course, they had. “Start on wh—” he began to protest, quite sure what he knew was above almost every pay grade, including his own. A trio of senior archivists ran by the other way—he hadn’t known they could run, and why were they wearing ribbons with their names and ranks—and why in Urgian? “—what’s going on here?”

  “You’re always the last to know, Evan,” Terry sympathized. “Polit Feen’s ordered everyone to stay till the crowds disperse.”

  Having experienced the difficulty of moving anywhere in a festival crowd, Evan thought this a fine idea. With possible benefits. “Will the patio stay open? Will we be allowed on it to watch the festival?” A safe vantage point with walls? Bess would love it.

  Would . . . Paul?

  “Are you kidding?” Terry smacked him on the shoulder, almost causing Evan to drop his prec
ious container. “We’re part of it! Stage and all. You missed the briefing. Your leggy friend will do—” with a wiggle of fingers, “—with Wimmerly and then the celebration starts. The Urgians are wild about the idea. They’ve named the event: ‘Found in The Last Place Imagined.’”

  Feen’s idea, it had to be. The same heartless ploy as before, to use a public spectacle to embarrass a Popeakan then gain advantage. Only this time it was Prela. This time, it was to force ril to attach to the ambassador. Ril was hurt. Terrified.

  Furious, Evan shoved the container in Terry’s hands. “Take this to reception.”

  “Okay.” His friend gave him a worried look. “Where are you going?”

  “To find Ambassador Wimmerly before it’s too late.”

  “Evan. Wait.” Terry grabbed his sleeve. “Wait, will you! The ambassador’s already on the stage. You can’t—”

  “Give me the juice,” Evan demanded.

  He’d stop this even if it meant his career.

  Again.

  * * *

  A staffer laid a small rug on the table. The Popeakan accepted the gesture and moved with care to stand on it, though toetips fidgeted with the pearl-crusted bag suspended from ril’s neck.

  Time was running out, that meant.

  With Paul’s help, I climbed down and stood wondering what to do next.

  Along with wondering if anyone would notice if I walked out of the room with an armload of flowers, found a handy closet, and cycled into anything but Bess, but I might as well wish we were back at the Library while I was at it.

  “I am the Offer. I decide Human.”

  Showing more sensitivity than I expected, Senior Political Officer Feen bowed low. “You decide,” she echoed as she rose. Gold eyes locked with brown. “We ask you allow your decision to take place in front of impartial witnesses.”