Spy Station

by J. M. R. Gaines

  All the other delegations, both present and communicating by distance, agreed readily to this suggestion and the representatives headed for the exits under the watchful eyes of the Robotic Guild attendants, murmuring amongst themselves about the brusqueness of the day’s exchange.

  The evening of the opening ceremonies (evening being an arbitrary term in Varess, where day and night were determined only by clocks), there was a reception that Ayan’we did not want to miss. Calm, slow instrumental music that the Blynthians favored played gently in the dining hall as she entered. Since the Blynthians couldn’t mingle in person with the other races, they had thoughtfully provided a sound track. She watched as diplomats and politicians sauntered through the room, gathering around the tables with glasses of punch and hors d'oeuvres. Ayan’we went over to a table and munched on a small piece of human bruschetta. It reminded her of Entara’s beloved toast, but with more vegetables and seasoning. She enjoyed the savor of this unfamiliar human cuisine, letting the strange flavor saturate her taste buds before reaching for a punch glass. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see two people from the Human Delegation walking up to her. One of them was an elderly man with thin white hair and a slight paunch, the other a tall, thin woman with thick horn-rimmed glasses. The man held out his hand first. Ayan’we enthusiastically shook it; she had been trained well by her mother in the arts of conversation and interaction with humans. Then she turned to the thin woman and was surprised when the woman’s gloved hand darted out and grabbed her hand for a quick shake. “Erica Duquesne,” the woman said. “You?”

  “I am Ayan’we, of the Eyes of Alertness,” Ayan’we said.

  “He’s Anthony Wilson, the Earth diplomat who sponsored me,” Erica continued. “He’s not feeling very talkative now—he just got through a roundtable trilateral meeting with some of the Song Pai and Garanian delegations, and let me tell you, it was absolutely excruciating! They just can’t agree on anything! Would you mind answering a few questions I have involving the Song Pai? I know your species is allied with them, maybe you could give me some help figuring some things out about them?”

  Erica looked at Ayan’we expectantly. The elderly man still stood silently, gazing in Ayan’we’s direction. Was he was the Earth texts called an eminence grise? Ayan’we was wary of revealing too much information about the valued allies of the Forlani to this woman. She was suspicious of the humans’ time-proven tendency to try to hold private negotiations in the midst of a collective conference, so news of the trilateral meeting had not startled her. Moreover, she was all too aware of the necessity of engaging in friendly conversation in order to further diplomatic interests, no matter how false or counterproductive it seemed to her. “Certainly,” Ayan’we assented. The silent politician in turn gave a nod of approval.

  “What do you know about their home planet?” Erica asked. “We humans know very little about Song Pa, since our history of diplomatic relations with them is so antagonistic that few of us have ever been allowed to go there. And come back. Is there anything you can tell us?”

  Erica’s voice had an odd tone to it that put Ayan’we on alert. She was thankful for getting a question that she had very little personal experience with. Since she had never set foot on Song Pa itself, she doubted that any of the information she remembered was considered classified. “I’ve never actually been there. Most mammalian and quasi-mammalian sentients haven’t wanted to go to Song Pa since the discovery of the prion disease.”

  “The planet is potentially lethal to humans?” Erica asked.

  “Verified lethal,”Ayan’we continued. “There were numerous cases of individual humans brought there as indentured servants to the Song Pai. The disease was quite slow-acting, and the people who contracted it could often live years before the symptoms began in earnest. But it is one hundred percent fatal, and the deaths are said to be agonizing. The Song Pai have been forced to rely on non-mammalian species for the indentured servant program for the foreseeable future.”

  “How terrible,” Erica said. “I seem to recall that info on the death of a Willie Klein, a convict who was assigned to Domremy, appeared on the news—you know how late and spotty the news from Domremy is these days, since the colony was closed. The descriptions of his death were just horrific. To be eaten alive by parasites! I know how agonizing the prion disease must have been, but to choose to die like that, he must have been a madman!”

  So Erica was using Klein, whom Ayan’we considered an adoptive father, to try to put her on the defensive. The Forlani security director fought the sense of disgust and anger toward Erica that was forming inside her. Who was this woman to belittle the memory of the great hero of Domremy, a man respected and loved by multiple species? “I actually find his death quite beautiful. To sacrifice his own life so that new life may come forth. Perhaps I find it reminiscent of the Forlani credo, that motherhood—the giving of so much of one’s life for the next generation—is the noblest expression of existence. But whatever it was that made Klein decide to end his life in such a manner, I prefer to believe it a noble impulse, rather than a vile one.”

  “Well, he certainly didn’t look noble on the reports,” Erica said. “Everything I saw claimed that he was quite mad in his final moments, driven to insanity by a life of desperation on an inhospitable, alien world. Of course, it wasn’t a very high profile report; I think it aired only once on a late night streaming broadcast and no follow-up investigation was made. I guess Klein wasn’t that important to us Earthers in the end.” Erica had not said a word about her own involvement in Klein’s exile to Domremy or her activities as an executive of the powerful colonizing corporation, Hyperion. That had not prevented Ayan’we’s intuition from realizing that there was some personal connection in this discussion, perhaps an attempt to compensate for a failure in regard to Klein.

  Ayan’we struggled to control her hostility, but it began to bleed through into her verbal communication. “Maybe he wasn’t very important to you, but he was --and still is -- important to us.”

  “Well, this conversation seems to have gone a bit sour,” Erica said. “I’m sorry if I offended you. Sometimes it can be a bit difficult for us provincial Earthers to grasp the cultural importance of certain of our less prestigious people to other civilizations. You will forgive my offense, won’t you?”

  Ayan’we made a subtle movement of her mouth so that Erica wouldn’t notice her clenched teeth before she spoke. “Absolutely. Most Forlani—including myself—are very protective of Klein. We wouldn’t speak of him amongst ourselves as unimportant!”

  “Well, I certainly won’t make that mistake again. There’s plenty of time left at this conference, maybe we can talk another day?”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Anthony finally spoke. “We’ve got another mindstorming meeting with the Blynthians in five minutes,” he said. “We have to be there on time -- you know how annoyed they get when people show up late.”

  “Goodbye!” Erica said and walked away briskly with Anthony, leaving Ayan’we alone with her neurosis and uncertainty about the encounter. Her gut reaction—disgust with the human woman for her ignorance and hostility towards Klein—faded away, replaced with a nervous apprehension about the woman’s true intent. Had she really been as ignorant as she seemed, or was the discussion of Klein some sort of personality test, a trap to study Ayan’we’s psychological weaknesses? Ayan’we feared she had not acquired her mother’s iron self-control yet, and that she would somehow suffer for it over the course of the conference. She tried to dull the suspicions swirling in her mind, reaching for another glass of punch on the table.

  The reception was making Ayan’we feel tired and out of sorts. After checking with her operatives and leaving Lila in charge of the next work shift, she retired to the Forlani quarters and slept close to Entara and Quatilla so she could watch over them personally. The other delegates eventually grew weary of the reception, too, and settled down in their own areas to relax in anticipation of the
coming day’s events. But not all of them. In some of the delegations, little nodes of activity furtively sprang up to push the unending quest for advantageous information ever farther. One such group waited in a small, neutral room deep in the labyrinth of Varess’s corridors.

  Tashto blinked his eyes as he waited in the room with the two members of the Garanian spy team. Almost unconsciously, he began his typical nervous ritual—rubbing his long, talon-like fingernails together. Zarath, one of the Garanians accompanying him, hissed at him, “Would you stop making that accursed noise? The last thing I need while waiting for your accomplice to appear is to listen to that awful scraping.”

  Tashto turned to meet Zarath and snarled back, the feathers on the back of his neck flexing erect in nervous anger. He disliked Zarath for having the gall to make a request of himself, a ranking superior, but also for distracting him during his attempt at calming himself. Garanians were not a patient race by nature, unless they were hunting. Being forced to wait without a target filled their minds with neurotic, apprehensive thoughts. “You will make no requests of me, inferior. We will wait here patiently for my contact to begin communication on the monitor. You will say nothing unless spoken to, and be as polite as possible. If you violate these codes of behavior, there will be severe consequences. Understood?

  “Certainly,” Zarath grumbled.

  Tashto rued the fact that the Garanians with him lacked the tact of his kinsman Vahon. Though Tashto found Vahon simple-minded in comparison to himself, he could at least be counted on to provide pleasant conversation and to obey instructions. Zarath and the others on this assignment were much more quarrelsome and disrespectful, perhaps due to their youth and their desire to advance quickly through the ranks of the Garanian government’s spy forces. But they were the only help the Overseer had assigned to him on this mission. Unfortunately, Vahon had always worked in a separate division of government, the Ministry of Engineering. Tashto was left only with his testy rabble of subordinates for a meeting that the Overseer had told him would be his most important task at the conference.

  The monitor on the right wall of the room finally crackled to life, and a bright light shown out of it. The image onscreen resembled a distorted kaleidoscope of colors, and Tashto could not make out any shapes that would indicate what species was speaking to him. “Welcome, Tashto of Garan,” a grating metallic voice greeted him. “Have you met the terms of our agreement?” the voice asked him.

  Tashto nodded. “It cost the Garanian people many lives to obtain this object from our enemies, the Song Pai. We find their name for this technology difficult to translate, so we refer to it as the Hydro-Motion Device. It allows the user to create any fluid shape around a living being or inanimate object. We believe the Song Pai conceived it as a means of hydrating themselves in environments where naturally occurring water was difficult to find; being an aquatic species, they required such a device to move about on arid land environments.”

  A primitive robot clambered in through a doorway to the left. It advanced to the table and silently surveyed the device with its beady yellow sensors. Tashto had never seen an automaton like it before, nor could he guess what race had constructed it. He silently mouthed a curse, frustrated at the fact that he was no closer to knowing the identity of his mysterious partner than he was during the Overseer’s briefing. The robot gave a soft bleep and picked up the object with spindly plastic hands.

  “Excellent,” the voice from the monitor said. “We have just received confirmation from our robot that this device matches the specifications that we agreed upon. Our deal is now complete.”

  Tashto still felt apprehensive about having to deal with his nebulous, illusive ally. “Why did the agreement specify this mechanism? It is a simple device for moving fluids, nothing more. How can it possibly accomplish the goals we have agreed upon?” he asked.

  “Patience. If this device is capable of using the types of fluids we hope to—and we will begin testing it immediately to verify this—our plan will be quite easy to implement. There will be no way it can be traced to your group, or any other Garanian, because you will not be involved in the execution of our plan.”

  “Why is this?” Tashto nervously hissed. “You are unknown to me, hidden through some sort of incomprehensible distortion, yet you are free to observe us if you wish. If you were to be discovered, could you not reveal everything about us in confession?”

  “You think that little of us? The distortion effect of this monitor applies both ways. I have only heard a total of two distinct voices on your end. I do not know how many Garanians are in the room, and I have no idea what your physical features are.”

  “And that thing?” Zarath hissed in the direction of the robot. “Its visual record would surely incriminate us.”

  “We will have this unit deactivated and completely destroyed once it brings the Hydro-Motion Device back to our headquarters. There will be no way that its memory, already pre-hobbled, could be recovered after we destroy its CPU and memory banks.”

  Tashto was happy that Zarath had asked such a critically important question, though he still longed to punish him for insubordination after the meeting. Tashto had one final question, one which expanded on Zarath’s earlier remark. “You still know we are Garanian! Yet we have no idea what you are. How are we to trust you if you hold such an advantage over us?”

  “Your Overseer knows our race, though not our personal identities. Perhaps you should attempt to ask him about us and see how he responds. If you dare! In truth, you were always merely couriers of this device, and the agreement was made with your superiors, not with you personally. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  The monitor cut off, and the robot began to shuffle off stealthily into the darkened doorway it had arrived from. “Not even telling us what species he is?! What kind of fools does this cowardly lurker think we are?” Zarath said.

  Tashto nodded, and then reflected a second before he spoke. “I would have you punished for your earlier insubordination, if I did not agree with every single word of your statement.”

  “I will go unpunished after a threat of punishment? This is quite unusual…”

  “The punishment was for insubordination. How can I punish for insubordination when you act and speak as I wish you to?” Tashto said. “Now we must return to our quarters.” And with that, the Garanians quickly turned to leave, moving together as swiftly and silently as they could across the space station, just as their distant ancestors had when they stalked a prey animal.

  The next day’s plenary session began early and roughly.

  The Song Pai turned expectantly toward the Blynthians, as their spokesman shot out, “We made our intentions quite obvious in the last meeting. Now we demand a similar statement of intention from our mysterious adversaries. Speak, Blynthians, what is it you seek to achieve?”

  The worm creatures zipped several messages back and forth and then responded with a single statement: Someone must take care of things.

  All the delegations were just as perplexed as the Song Pai appeared to be, since the cephalopods were rapidly sliding through a range of color patterns that conveyed their turbulent emotions. Entara turned to Ayan’we and whispered, “Are these Blynthians always so cryptic in their conversation? We’ve yet to hear more than a single phrase, and this latest seems like some sort of proverb.”

  Ayan’we hastened to answer, “They are always very direct in my experience, but I have never asked such a loaded diplomatic question, mainly more technical explanations. I’m sorry mother, but I know as little as anybody else about the way their affective minds work. They’ve shared a few things about trade and culture, but very little in the realm of ethics.”

  The Song Pai finally decided on a new line of questioning and asked the Blynthians, “At least tell us if you are willing to offer battle strictly in the name of your own race or do you speak for others within your control as well? We of Song Pa do not make slaughter indiscriminately like savages. If a race exp
resses their reluctance to fight, we will not make them suffer, provided they obey a few simple orders. So for whom do you speak?’

  Again, a brief exchange among the Blynthians before announcing, in a long buzz that translated laconically as, “It takes all kinds.”

  “What kind of pacifist nonsense is this?” sputtered the Song Pai spokesman. “This conference is useless if we merely propose to waste time circling around the edges of a cowardly and elusive peace. Explain yourselves or we leave now.”

  The Blynthians were quite silent for several minutes. Just when the Song Pai roused themselves to troop triumphantly out of the assembly hall, a simple zip translated, “State rules of engagement.”

  “That’s more like it!” exclaimed the Song Pai, with such haste that it almost seemed to be a call of happiness. “However, don’t try to save yourselves by negotiation. We can agree to some good, plain procedural points that will make it all the easier to show our valor in a sensible way, free of chaos and confusion.”

  Suddenly the Kael intervention light lit up and their main delegate spread his wings a bit in a dignified way before suggesting, “Might we recommend that any terms of engagement would have to be divided into formal categories? After all, for hostilities to be orderly, is it not necessary to have a sense of a beginning and an end? Time rules every life form, after all, and it must be taken into consideration, just as though it were a physical delegation here in this hall. Space is also important. In a decent conflict, there are always zones where death is not allowed. So we propose that all delegations first draw up a set of parameters regarding when, where, and finally, how such a proposed conflict should take place. Once that is agreed upon, we can proceed much more efficiently to determine our respective positions.”