“Really? Most ships I heard about always could do with an extra pilot. Plus, you did say you’ve been waiting for two days. Do you want to take a chance on waiting longer?” She hated job hunting, she found it hard trying to convince people into hiring her. That was one reason why she had hired on with TSL, so she wouldn’t have to go hunting after every contract. TSL tended to keep people who worked hard and did a good job. She did both.
He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “Thirty-five thousand for all of you, and one crew’s share.”
Pat was amazed. As an offer, that was robbery. Even as a starting TSL copilot, she had earned more than that. “No way,” she said firmly. “We each get twenty thousand and a crew’s share. On a one-year contract.” She did not want to chance a longer contract until she knew the captain and the ship better.
“I don’t need another copilot,” he said quietly. “And these three are unskilled. Forty thousand. And a one-year contract with a one-trip probationary period.”
That was a good idea. If the situation did not work, then he wouldn’t be stuck with an expensive foursome for a year, and they wouldn’t be stuck on a ship they hated.
They settled on ten thousand for her and twelve thousand each for the Kreene, with two crew’s shares for the four of them. Even a short trip would give her a better basis for job hunting.
And a year would give her time to think about what to say to “Modher.”
Telling Human Stories
Margaret Ball
The raised voices bounced all the way down the hall and around the corner to where I stood. There seemed to be three of them wrangling; and the voice in the middle, the loudest of the three, had a pronounced Old Terran accent—might have known. You want conflict in an interspecies relationship, just put a human in the middle of it. We’ll do it every time.
Yeah, I know. Who am I to run down my own species, and all that. Well, for one thing, I’m a professional, trained to deal with situations just like the one I could hear developing as I zipped down the corridor. That one fact puts me ahead of most of the human tourists and diplomats and travelers that pass through Hotel Andromeda. And I’m not from Old Terra—which puts me way ahead of anybody who had just checked into the Terra 4 module with the OT delegation.
The argument was going on in the public corridor just outside the Terra 4 mod. A Dendje was growling and brandishing something at a red-faced Terran in a loud checked synthosuit. Bouncing off the walls to either side of them, a Skiouros chittered and squeaked and added its own discontinuous element to the controversy.
As I got closer, I could see what the Dendje was waving; one of the Skiouros’s furry little legs, ripped clean out of its furry hide.
“Okay, okay, all of you, calm down, please, gentlespecies. What seems to be the trouble here?”
“What’s it to you?” the Terran wanted to know.
“Any disturbance is automatically reported to Hotel Security,” I said, which was true enough, although Security didn’t always respond this fast. “Now, if you’d just explain the problem in your own words…”
“That big ape just assaulted the little guy!” the Terran announced. “Right out here in front of God and everybody! And when I told him to lay off, the both of them started in on me. Sheesh. They’re both crazy, you ask me.”
“Chitter. Chitter. Squeak,” the Skiouros interrupted. Skiouroi aren’t equipped to speak Standard Galactic and they refuse to carry voicemods, insisting that the squeaky little noises they make sound just fine to them.
“…smashing your head down in between your external genitalia and cutting off assorted body parts…,” the Dendje continued the line of conversation that had been occupying it when I came on the scene. I sympathized some with the Dendje. I’m told their native language is particularly rich and fluent in assorted insults that just don’t translate into Standard Galactic. It takes a little mental agility to figure out a totally culture-free phrasing for insulting someone. Dendje like to insult other gentlespecies, but they aren’t agile in any way. Must be frustrating.
Then again, when you out mass any other species in the Terra-normal modular zone by at least fifty kilos, and stand a meter higher than most of them, with arms longer than most Terra-norms’ bodies, you don’t really need a lot of agility.
“I see,” I said in my best professionally soothing tones. “Just a small misunderstanding, eh? Shall we sit down?” I nodded toward the Old Terran suite, hoping he’d take the hint. “I’ll need a vox of your version, gentlesir Terran…”
“And who’s going to protect the little guy if this ape wants to finish the job?”
I didn’t sigh or roll my eyes. I am, after all, a professional.
“I expect they both want to finish their business, sir.” I glared at the skittering Skiouros. “Might I recommend some more private area than this corridor?”
“…right to pursue peaceful social interaction unimpeded by prejudice of horribly underground-pale, exceptionally low-IQ interfering species…,” the Dendje grumbled.
“…duty to abstain from deliberate provocation…,” I replied in the same low-pitched monotone. “An Old Terran delegation just checked in; there’ll be more like this gentleman coming along, and all subject to the same, ah, tendency to misunderstand. Now, if you two gentlespecies want to finish your ritual in private. Hotel Security will appreciate it was all just a misunderstanding. Remaining in public space could be construed as conduct tending to alarm or frighten fellow species.”
The Dendje grunted and shambled off, gnawing meditatively on the shredded Skiouros limb. The Skiouros bounced up to its shoulder, cartwheeled off a side wall with seven or eight furry limbs sticking straight out, caught itself on the Dendje’s mat of backbone hair, and squealed something rude at us in departing.
“I don’t believe it,” the Old Terran said. “You gonna let him tear the little guy up and eat him, long as they do it in private?”
This time I did sigh. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood a grooming ritual, sir. Dendje and Skiouroi have a symbiotic relationship. Skiouroi continually extrude new limbs but have no mechanism for shedding the old ones; takes more muscular strength than they possess to pop the dead limbs out of the cartilage. Dendje groom them, pull off dead legs, and get to eat them as a reward.” I paused while the Old Terran assimilated this information.
“Christ on a crutch,” he said finally, “that’s disgusting.”
“Watching a Dendje eat anything is kind of disgusting, by human standards,” I agreed. “And if I were telling human stories about them—which I advise you not to do—I’d accuse them of deliberately eating in public, every chance they get, just to gross out other species and provoke little scenes like the one you were just in. But the first thing we learned in our training is not to tell human stories. And now, sir, if I could just get a vox of your story—”
“I, urn, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” the Old Terran said. “If that’s the way it is, I don’t want to file a complaint. Guess I owe you my thanks, young lady, for explaining things. Jack Kerensky’s the name. 1 Buy you a drink?”
“Not on duty,” I said, “but I’ll take some kave, if you have any.”
He beamed and turned a few shades redder. “Ever know an Old Terran to travel without kave?”
I’d hoped to be invited into the delegation suite, but instead we wound up in one of the attached modules that was being set up around us for a party. An extensive party, to judge from the number of roboservitors bustling about, unfolding seating and bar modules and stacking supplies behind the movable paneling. I sipped my kave and let Jack pick my brain about human stories and interspecies relationships.
“You see a lot of interspecies problems at an intergalactic center like this,” I admitted, “but we humans are far and away the worst. I think it’s because we evolved in isolation. We got in the habit of telling stories about our own feelings and actions. Protecting the Young, Claiming Territory, Who’s In Charge Here…” No us
e rattling off the names of the classic myths; they clearly didn’t mean anything to this guy. I slowed down. “Anyway. Our stories work pretty well as long as they’re only applied within one species. We even told the same stories to explain our domestic animals, cats and dolphins and so forth, and because they couldn’t talk, they never told us how wrong we were.”
“Dolphins aren’t exactly domestic animals,” Jack corrected me, “but I don’t get the point.”
“Well.” I stirred the kave and watched it turn from muddy brown to brownish white and back again in lazy spirals. “Take Protecting the Young. That’s one of the most basic human stories.” It was also one that would lead very naturally to the point I wanted to bring up.
“Because we bear weak young that need years of nurturing and training before they can survive on their own, we have a very strong social drive to protect our young—anybody’s young—anything that appears weak. When you thought the Dendje was assaulting the Skiouros you intervened without thinking, because you were in the human story of Protecting the Young. But that story doesn’t really have much bearing on species that have evolved symbiotic relationships. And it can lead you completely astray in dealing with a species like the Hatartalan, who spawn thousands of self-sufficient young at a time and then actively test them so that only the best will make it to the next life-cycle stage. You see?”
“Funny you should mention the Hatartalan,” Jack said. He waved one hand at the activity all around us. “Know who’s in the adjoining module? The Hatartalan ambassador to Sokol Sector. That’s what all this hoo-ha is for. Going to connect the modules tonight, have a grand diplomatic bash. Two ambassadors of equal status—our fellow and the Hatartalan—crossing paths in space, pausing to render honors and courtesies and all that. Interesting, huh?”
I agreed. I didn’t add that a number of parties found the repeated pattern of “accidental” meetings between Old Terrans and Hatartalans very interesting indeed. Instead I widened my eyes and looked impressed.
“A genuine Hatartalan?” I breathed. “You know, I’ve never actually met one. It would be so fascinating to find out how their behavior compares with what I’ve read in research papers—ah, I mean in the hotel training manual.”
That was the point at which my dear new friend Jack was supposed to come across with an invitation to join the grand diplomatic bash. Unfortunately, he missed his cue and kept on missing it, no matter how wide-eyed and wistful I acted. There must have been something faulty with his Protecting the Young story. I eventually left with a little information about the party, a lot more information than I’d bargained for about the life and times of Jack Kerensky, and no invitation.
Oh, well; if you can’t get what you want, you just have to use what you’ve got…
By the time I came back to the Terra 4 module, the joint Terran-Hatartalan party had been going for some time—long enough for guests on both sides to make maximum use of their icebreakers of choice. The air was heavy with leaking smoke and vapor trails from the Terran poppers, while the Hatartalans were whooping it up with what the library index told me was their usual stimulant—translucent, wobbly eggs that burst to reveal some stuff like seaweed that had been dead a couple of days too long. The organic component of the seaweed turned into a cloud of small airborne particles the minute the egg burst, leaving a few dried wiry strands that the Hatartalans usually dropped while they were ecstatically inhaling the rotted-weed clouds.
The index hadn’t mentioned that the process gave a Hatartalan party the distinctive aroma of a marsh in an advanced state of ecological breakdown, or that the wiry seaweed remnants crunched underfoot while the jellyeggs squished.
Did I mention that Hatartalans are real slobs? Woops, human story. Let’s say that their species, having evolved to treat its spawn as disposable commodities—“Throw ‘em out, there’s plenty more where they came from!”—treats everything else exactly the same way. Hatartala is said to be the only planet whose ecology is trashed worse than Old Terra’s.2
No, I hadn’t gotten access to the party yet. I was standing on a walkway under the balcony when a roboserv lurched out with a scoop full of seaweed and jellyeggs, missed the disposal chute, and showered me with the debris. That’s how I happened to be an expert on Hatartalan trash before I got to meet any of them in person.
I was still picking seaweed crackle out of my black dress and reflecting that at least now I smelled like somebody from the right party when a pair of human bopper-chicks spilled out of the lower entrance. They were both glassy-eyed, giggling, and scantily dressed, and they barely noticed when they nearly pushed me off the edge of the walkway. They probably wouldn’t have noticed at all if I hadn’t just had the unfortunate encounter with the malfunctioning roboservitor.
“Eeew, you smell gross!” one of them exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. “What’ve you been doing, seducing a buzzhead?”
Did I mention that the mature form of Hatartalan is vaguely insectoid, with long sticklike limbs and a head that’s all buzzing, constantly vibrating mandibles?
“Some of my best friends are buzzheads,” I told her.
“Where are we going?”
She giggled. “Saying goodbye to Bips and Puffy, of course!” Her eyes glazed over and she took a moment to untangle her tongue. This one was really far gone. “Or do I mean Pips and Buffy? Good ol’ Buffm, bes’ Men’ a girl ever had, and I do mean best. You shoutd’ve met Puffin, he’d show you a good time. Lots more fun than hanging around with the buzzheads.”
“Breaks my heart to’ve missed the opportunity,” I agreed. “But Jack gets so jealous. You know, good old Jack Kerensky?”
I’d hoped for recognition, but all I got was generic agreement. “Oh, darling, I know. Aren’t men the limit sometimes? Oh, look, there they are now!”
I crowded into the overlook at the far side of the walkway and squealed and waved as enthusiastically as the rest of them while two very young Galactic Service officers hopped on an interior transport and zipped out of sight. While the girls were competing to see who could call out the most artistically obscene farewells, I slid out of my jacket and yanked at the collar of my dress until a seam parted and I could slide it down over both shoulders. Now I looked almost as trashy as the girls who’d dressed for this kind of party. I stayed in the middle of the group and let them swirl me right up to the module doors where two large Terrans in diplomatic uniform were checking IDs and party invitations.
“Oh, sweetheart, you just saw us come out!” protested one of my new friends.
While the girls in front of me were fishing around their skimpy dresses for IDs, I let out a piercing shriek and clapped both hands to my cheeks. “My bag! I left it inside. Oh, now, I’ll simply die if Jack looks in it—there’s my diary and everything. Boopsie, do you see it? Oh, there it is, just behind the bar!”
Both girls in front of me looked confused. Chances were neither of them was named Boopsie, but they knew somebody who was. One of them squealed and nodded as if she could actually make out a handbag amid the shadows behind the bar. I scooted inside, closely followed by the Poopsies and Muffles, and the guards looked at one another and snickered behind us.
Once inside, I didn’t have much trouble shaking Buffy or Moopsie or whatever their names were. They spotted another brace of Galactic Service officers to home in on. I drifted around the fringes of the party, making vague noises about looking for a lost handbag, and always keeping a few people between me and the gatekeepers’ line of sight just in case they grew suspicious about the girl with the missing handbag. This wasn’t hard to do; the room was packed elbow to mandible with partying Terrans and Hatartalans. It was a perfect milieu for exchanging secret information.
It was a lousy milieu for catching anybody at it.
But then, my unsupported eyewitness testimony wasn’t what we wanted. We needed documentary proof of what I’d been sent to investigate. A pattern of “accidental” overlapping layovers for Hatartalans and Old Terrans didn’t, by itself,
mean anything. A corresponding pattern of information leaked just before scheduled diplomatic talks, maintaining the high tensions of all parties, was suggestive but didn’t constitute absolute proof.
Even the digging that had turned up the same two parties involved in all layover meetings—the Hatartalan ambassador and my new buddy Jack—didn’t, in the eyes of the galactic court, constitute grounds for a search warrant.
Which was where I came in, poised insecurely between Terran skinpoppers and Hatartalan jellyegg sniffers, laughing and throwing my head back and shrugging one shoulder a little farther out of my dress and trying to figure out where the hell I would hide my notes if I were an Old Terran passing inside information to a Hatartalan.
Not on any network or comlink, that’s for sure. There isn’t an electronote system made that can’t be compromised. In my real training manual—which did not, by the way, have anything to do with the one they give to hotel security—they emphasized that old-fashioned mnemonics are the best kind. Forget datahedra, bit chippers, tone volts. Anything that has to be set up through some kind of complex machine can be spied on the same way. If Jack and the Hatartalans had been passing data via computers, our hackers would’ve found it from remote and I wouldn’t be hanging my body on the line here.
Species tended to keep notes in the formats they’d evolved to use. So Skiouroi said it with nuts and berries, Terrans scribbled on synthpaper, and Hatartalans—Hatartalans probably encoded it as a giant pseudowax honeycomb.
If I were an Old Terran passing data to a Hatartalan, I’d have already passed it, hours ago, and there’d be nothing on me or in my quarters to prove the connection. So if I slipped into the Old Terran personal quarters, it would be easy to make up an excuse for being there, and I’d be able to read whatever I found, except there wouldn’t be anything to find. Whereas if I searched the Hatartalan ambassador’s private suite, I probably wouldn’t recognize any compromising data, and I’d have one hell of a time explaining my presence.
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