“I do not understand.”
Downing leaned forward. “If I may: I believe Alnduul is suggesting that, because the blocs did not have the opportunity to create a policy in advance, they had to choose a delegation that would be flexible, versatile, and unperturbed when dealing with unknown situations and species.”
Alnduul’s eyelids nictated slowly. “Precisely.”
Caine checked his palmtop, moved on: “Our next question concerns the Twelfth Accord. Specifically, why is radio and high-power microwave broadcasting prohibited?”
“Primarily, to ensure the normative maturation of young cultures.”
“You mean, you are trying to protect them?”
It was Elena, not Alnduul, who answered: “It’s simply an extension of their rules regarding first contact. They are attempting to ensure that any young culture—including ours—has the chance to develop without advance knowledge of exosapients. To learn too early that one is not alone in the universe would almost certainly have a profound sociocultural effect.”
Alnduul’s nictating lids closed, then opened slowly. “Just so.”
“But what of new races who are using radio before they are contacted for membership? Such as ourselves?”
Alnduul’s fingers spread wide: “Most species sharply limit their use of high-power broadcasts long before they venture out into space. Indeed, only one other member state has failed to do so.”
“Which one?”
“I may not say. It is unlawful for any member state of the Accord to provide information regarding any other member state.”
Caine leaned forward. “I’m curious: why do most races terminate radio transmissions before they achieve spaceflight?”
“There is no single answer to such a question. But suffice it to say that not all species await first contact before they begin to speculate upon the possibly dire consequences of sending signals—intentional or inadvertent—out into space.”
Caine shook his head. “So we spent almost two centuries showing everyone else how stupid we were.”
“Let us say that you revealed yourselves to be ingenuously optimistic.”
Caine allowed himself a small, ironic smile. “You are quite the diplomat, Alnduul.”
Again, the slow close of the eyes, but this time, a ripple distressed the small, perpetual moue of a mouth. “I thank you.”
Caine smelt sandalwood coming closer, just before Elena whispered, “I think that was amusement.”
“Looked like it.” Caine considered his list of questions—and decided to ignore it for a moment. “Alnduul, our next question concerns one of the extraordinary conditions mentioned in the Twenty-first Accord.” Downing looked up suddenly. Caine pressed on. “It indicates that the Custodians will intervene in the event of an ‘impending and probable destruction of a biosphere.’ I take it you are not referring to supplanting indigenous life, but wiping it out summarily. As occurs with weapons of mass destruction.”
“Yes: this is the intent of that clause.”
“Earth must have come awfully close on that one about one-hundred-fifty years ago.”
“We were poised to intervene on several occasions during that period. And it occurred at a difficult moment for us: our monitoring resources were overtaxed at that time. Indeed, this was what compelled us to revise the Eighteenth Accord to allow a sharing of monitoring duties.”
“So we were monitored by another race, also?”
“Rarely, but yes.”
“So, back then in the middle of the twentieth century, were there any unplanned or planned contacts made with humans?”
Alnduul’s lids nictated closed, then opened just a sliver. “That is a topic for another time.”
Uh-huh; I’ll bet it is. But now it was time to return to the list—and arguably its trickiest question: “Alnduul, we noticed that the accords seem to be written with the presumption that all who apply for membership will receive it. But what would happen if we were not offered membership? Or if we declined it?”
Alnduul’s gill flaps shut with a soft slap. Caine didn’t need Elena’s input—“A negative reaction, possibly a rejection or deep concern”—to interpret the Dornaani’s reflex.
“The Accord would decide upon a policy for dealing with you as a non-Accord state.”
“But what if one of our interstellar neighbors decided to seize our systems, wasn’t interested in waiting for an Accord policy? The accords are silent on independent actions taken by a member state against a nonmember state.”
Alnduul’s gills pinched even tighter against his neck. “There is no precedent, so I cannot speculate. It would be a very undesirable turn of events, and we would mitigate strongly against it. However, the accords do not abridge the political autonomy of the member states, nor constrain their freedom of action, except with regard to each other.”
Now it was Downing who jumped in with a topic of his own spontaneous creation. “I understand that you cannot reveal information pertaining to other member states, but since you are permitted to disclose information regarding your own, I wonder if I might ask for the location of the Dornaani sphere of influence?”
Alnduul’s gills rippled faintly, once. “I must refuse your request. Even though I am personally inclined to answer.”
“I am perplexed: why withhold this information?”
“All information is intelligence. Once you are a member state, you are entitled to certain limited information on all states: for instance, you must know the location of each member state’s homeworld.”
“Why?”
“Because attacking a member state’s homeworld will trigger a sharp Custodial intervention, as outlined in the Twenty-first Accord. So, if you are to observe such constraints, you must know the worlds to which they apply.”
“So how does our knowing the Dornaani homeworld put anyone else’s at risk?”
“A member state could legitimately—if speciously—contend that by prematurely revealing our astrographic siting to you, we have contributed to your ability to deduce theirs. By process of elimination.”
Downing smiled sardonically. “So by knowing where you are, we know where they are not.”
“Yes.”
Caine felt the break in the pace of Downing’s line of questioning, took back the initiative. “While we are on the topic of astrographic locations, we have a question about the allowed pathways of expansion outlined in the accords. Specifically, do all species receive fifty-eight systems, with the same general mixture of stellar classes and planets?”
“Unfortunately, there is no simple answer to your query. However, I will attempt to furnish you with a crude overview.” The center fingers on each of Alnduul’s hands rose slightly. “We attempt to balance the number of stars available to each race, maintaining proportionality of type and sequence. We make every effort to ensure that there is no astrographic overlap between the current member states and the developmental pathways that are held in trust for possible future member species. This was the case with your developmental pathway; it remained off-limits to other races so that you might have the sole use of it.”
Caine nodded, looked down the list of worlds, then the list of further questions—and then his eyes returned to the list of worlds. They settled on 70 Ophiuchi. He was supposed to ask about that next. But his attention was instinctively drawn to a different planetary name, a name that was dragging him away from the line of safe inquiry toward one that was potentially quite perilous. In the next moment, Caine realized that his instincts were actually pulling in the same direction as his conscience. Alnduul might be conducting a subtle test here, to see if they’d have the nerve—and integrity—to ask about this other system. Caine realized he’d have to take a chance in order to find out, which meant asking—
“What criteria do you use to determine if a primitive protected race needs to have a pathway—or world—set aside for it?”
Caine felt Downing’s fast, reflexive lean toward him: he’d probably have tackl
ed me bodily if this wasn’t first contact. Visser looked up quickly; her mouth had sagged open. Took you a second longer, Fraulein, but you see where I’m going. She winced and put her hand over her ear: even so, Caine could hear Wasserman’s tiny, muted voice shouting: “Oh, Jesus Christ. Riordan—!”
But Alnduul did not seem to intuit or heed the potential discomfiture in the human delegation. “For a species to be given ‘protected race’ status—and therefore, have worlds reserved for its use—it must demonstrate sapience, or the imminence thereof.”
“What would happen if the Custodians—uh—missed detecting a race requiring such protection? What if it was first discovered by another starfaring species, which had already colonized the world in question?” Caine heard chairs squeaking, fingers drumming, and more Lilliputian outcries from Visser’s earpiece: they all knew where he was heading now. But this is the right—and the smart—thing to do—
“It is hard to imagine how such an oversight would occur,” Alnduul answered. “Sapience leaves clear marks of its presence.”
“But if it did occur?”
“We must end this line of inquiry, unless it has immediate pertinence. Tasking the accords to respond to every hypothetical situation can only—”
“I beg your pardon, but my question is not hypothetical.”
Alnduul paused. “Indeed?”
Visser tugged sharply at Caine’s elbow and hissed in his ear: “Don’t you dare tell them about—”
Caine didn’t stop: “I feel it is our responsibility to bring such a possible oversight to your attention.”
Alnduul stared. And repeated: “Indeed?”
“Yes. After we had established several colonies on the third planet in the Delta Pavonis system, we discovered various artifacts indicating prior, and possibly persistent, sapient habitation. We eventually confirmed a relatively small group of this race is still extant.”
Alnduul was silent for a long time. Then his gills flared and rippled. “This is known to us, Mr. Riordan.”
The nervous chair squeakings to either side of him stopped. Hah: thought so. “Then why was this world on our pathway of allowed expansion? I would have expected it to be excluded—along with others held in trust for those sapients.”
“A reasonable deduction. And a most reassuring display of self-declaration and good faith not specifically mandated or required by the accords. However, the situation on Delta Pavonis Three is a special case: there has been no oversight.”
“But how—”
“Mr. Riordan, I cannot share the specifics of the case with you until Earth receives and accepts Accord membership. To do otherwise would be to violate the Accord’s confidentiality protocols.”
Violate the protocols? That would logically mean—“So some other member race is somehow connected to the sapients on Dee Pee Three? And therefore, you can’t discuss the situation without violating your Custodial restraints upon sharing information that pertains to other member races?”
Alnduul’s gills flared outwards with a pop: a signal of surprise? “A most stimulating conjecture, Mr. Riordan. But I cannot respond to it, either.”
“Of course he can’t,” whispered Downing. “Not without revealing it to be the very reason he can’t respond—thereby confirming what you asked in the first place. Well played, Caine: very well played indeed.”
Caine smiled tightly, but thought: This is no game, you ass. They may be allowing us to ask the questions, but we’re under a microscope, being watched and judged. “Alnduul, I must finish by pointing out another problematic situation pertaining to the fifty-eight worlds we have been allotted.”
Alnduul’s lids nictated slowly. “Yes. 70 Ophiuchi. This is a difficulty.”
“Had we known—”
“You are blameless in this. The fault lies within the Accord.”
Caine waited for him to expand upon his comments; he did not do so. “And, once again, that is all you can say.”
“Just so. Naturally, you must anticipate that the topic of 70 Ophiuchi will be raised. However, the member states know that you cannot be pressed to decide your species’ policy on this matter. At most, you can be charged to bear the Accord’s—and the individual states’—perspectives on the matter back to Earth.”
Caine looked at Visser and Downing: they exchanged satisfied pouts and nodded at him. “Very well, Alnduul. We thank you for your answers and your candor. That is, I believe, all the questions we have at this time.”
“Very well. Allow me to acquaint you with the itinerary and protocols of tomorrow’s Convocation . . .” Alnduul paused. “But before we consider the official agenda and your introduction to the other races, allow me to ask if I may summon two associates to join us.”
Visser nodded. “Certainly.”
“Thank you, Ms. Ambassador.” Alnduul turned his attention, and left hand, to several glowing tabs on the large, complex greave he wore upon his right forearm.
Elena leaned over toward Caine. He smelled a faint hint of sandalwood and tried to ignore it. “Notice what he’s doing?”
“What?” asked Caine, trying not to sound as distracted as he was.
“His actions are a match for those anthropologists and naturalists use when dealing with potentially hostile animals or indigenous peoples. He introduces only one new object—or idea or condition—at a time. He always tells us beforehand what he wants to do, and he always gives us a chance to decline or question that action.”
“Is that bad?”
“No, it’s smart.” The ensuing pause was filled with the scent of sandalwood. “It’s also a little depressing.”
“You mean because he’s treating us like dangerous savages?”
“No. Because we are dangerous savages.”
He looked at her. She was facing Alnduul but her eyes shifted sideways towards his, accompanied by a rueful sideways smile. And there was still the smell of sandalwood. He flinched away from the unusual emerald-green eyes. You’ve already got a lovely pair of pecan-colored eyes to look into. Watch yourself.
The portal opened; two Dornaani entered, the first slightly shorter than Alnduul and wearing the same kind of garment. But the second Dornaani was so markedly different in appearance that Caine did what he had resolved not to do when he first entered: he stared.
This Dornaani, who was carrying a small satchel, was almost two meters tall, evidently emaciated (or starving) and completely naked. Its dusky, cream-colored skin was irregular in appearance, evincing a somewhat repetitive striping and mottling. Standing out in high relief against this ghostly camo pattern was a veritable constellation of colorful tattoos of circles (or planets? or spheres?) grouped together in what seemed to be fractal variations upon a common theme.
Caine remembered his role in the proceedings, resisted the urge to correct his stare with an immediate averting of his eyes. Instead he smiled, nodded, turned slowly to face his companions. Downing was poker-faced but still fixated. Visser needed someone to tap the bottom of her chin to make her aware that her mouth was hanging open slightly.
But it was Elena who was the most surprising. Her head tilted very slightly to one side, she was looking frankly—but not staring—at the last Dornaani, her face relaxed. The amiable and utter calm that Caine saw there taught him in one millisecond how best to encounter new beings in a mostly unstructured social setting. The key—the answer—is in the difference between looking and staring. Looking is the product of the natural curiosity occasioned by encountering something new. Staring is the product of confronting something that upsets our assumption that the universe will accommodate itself to our expectations.
Detecting his steady gaze from the corner of her eye, Elena turned to look at Caine. One eyebrow rose and one half of her mouth curled into a wry smile. He had a sudden pulse of something very like déjà vu. Had her father affected a similar expression? If so, then here it was recast in feminine form.
“Yes?” Elena’s eyebrow arched a bit higher; her voice was an amused alto
.
Playful: a part of her he hadn’t seen before—and in the very moment he found his perception of her brightened by that discovery, his conscious mind jumped in like a wholly separate entity and yanked the unthinking reactive part backward. I’ve got a job to do. I’ve got Opal. I’ve got to stop this. He may have shaken his head; he wasn’t sure. But he managed to get out the words: “Sorry. You’re very good at that.”
“At smiling?” Her voice was faintly, ironically, incredulous.
“No, no. At meeting—um, encountering—the new, the unexpected.”
“Oh. Well, I try not to have any expectations.”
Alnduul had carefully crowned himself with a smooth platinum band, reminiscent of a broad, leafless victor’s laurel. “Just as you limited the size of the group you have brought to this first meeting, we are observing a similar protocol. Many of my colleagues are listening, but it was deemed prudent to limit our presence to three.” His fingers rippled through a sweeping gesture that indicated both himself and his associates. “However, I shall be the only one speaking. We find that the only way to reliably identify and correct for speciate differences in a first contact is to ensure that they are not confused with the differences that arise simply as a consequence of interacting with multiple individuals and their distinctive personalities and habits of thought.”
“So, your two colleagues are your assistants?” Visser suggested.
“Closer to what you would call journeyman apprentices.”
“So you are their superior?”
“It would be more accurate to think of me simply as their mentor, even though I am fully and solely responsible for the outcome of this—and our subsequent—meetings. However, I reemphasize that their silence is not indicative of hierarchical deference: it is merely to streamline this process.”
Alnduul approached the chair behind the crescent table, Caine anticipating the bent-waist backward motion of sitting. Instead, Alnduul took his seat with a movement more akin mounting a horse—and for the first time, Caine noted that the Dornaani’s seat was unlike any other he had ever seen or imagined. It resembled a front-tilted Swedish Modern version of a child’s swing seat, albeit with a short, split backrest. Alnduul settled into it like a saddle, resting his small belly forward into a low, broad abdomen-rest, and sliding his meaty upper legs atop the forward-sloping seat.
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