“Yes, sir. I’ll inform him.” There was a little quaver of disturbance in the voice, a hasty, apparently afterthought: “Stand by. Someone will be back to you in just a minute. Don’t lose contact.”
“Thank you.” He looked at Tabini. “Aiji-ma. I was speaking with a person of middle rank. I asked him to alert his highest authority. He wishes us to be patient; I believe he’s gone in search of someone qualified.”
There was absolute silence down the table, not the rustle of a paper.
“How do you judge the reply?”
“This is a respectful, proper answer to the proposition of someone of rank. They’ve every reason to deal sensibly, and to find someone—”
“Mr. Cameron.”
A different voice.
“This is Stani Ramirez, senior captain. I understand you’re speaking for a native government. Is this correct?”
“For the elected head of the Western Association—which covers more than three-quarters of the world’s largest continent, and all industrialized culture whatsoever. I’m speaking from the capital of Shejidan. Please hold.” Language switch. For a moment he suffered mental whiteout. “Tabini-ma. This is Stani, house name Ramirez. He is the highest authority over the ship. He’s waiting to speak to you.”
“Explain the Treaty. Inform him we consider this the appropriate association with humans.”
“Yes, aiji-ma.” Switch back. “Captain Ramirez. The aiji wishes me to explain that the Western Association considers that relations between all humans and atevi are governed by a Treaty which the aiji accepts as the appropriately safeguarded conditions of human-atevi interaction. I’m prepared to transmit a copy to you at the end of this conversation. The Western Association asks you to follow its terms as the only mutually agreed means of protecting both human and atevi cultures from misunderstandings.”
“We’ll have to consider this document.”
“Yes, sir, but I believe you know that the first atevi-human contact led to war. The issues are biological, not cultural, and all persons experienced in atevi-human contact will advise you these issues are not resolvable. Atevi are not hostile. They wish to communicate directly with the ship, for protection of their own interests, but communication channels have to be confined to persons educated to interpret what’s being said: that’s the whole gist of the Treaty.”
“Tell him,” Tabini interrupted him, lifting a hand, “to appoint a mediator like yourself, Bren-paidhi, whom you will instruct. This translator will deal with you and come down to Shejidan in person as soon as possible.”
He froze for what felt like a long, stunned moment. There were sinking instants in which he was sure Tabini knew more Mosphei’ than Tabini ever admitted to, and then he said to himself that Tabini had done nothing more than take a rational decision in advance. An appropriate decision. A Treaty-suggested decision. The committee heads shifted anxiously in their seats at his delay—perhaps at the dismay that might have gotten to his face. It wasn’t for the paidhi to rule on the aiji’s decisions, no more than he made policy for Mospheira. He translated. He interpreted. That was all he was supposed to do. It was just—
Tabini had injected a completely unplanned, unknowable variable into his calculations, and with the aiji’s powers to dictate first and have the legislature review it later, Tabini had done exactly what he’d suggested Tabini do: act.
“Sir,” he said to the captain.
“I read you clear.”
“In regard to what I was saying, in your reading of the Treaty, you’ll find all translation and mediation between atevi and human authority rests in a single appointed translator. Let me explain: it’s a difficult, biologically impacted language interface.” One couldn’t even assume, he thought on the fly, that ship personnel knew anything about languages other than their own. One couldn’t assume, over elapsed centuries of restricted, probably small population on that ship, that they even retained the concept, let alone the experience, of different language—let alone had persons able to grapple with the facts of a language with almost no word-by-word congruency with Mosphei’. “The language expresses vast differences in psychological concepts, in basic biology, which we’ve worked out peacefully and reasonably. The leader of the atevi invites you to appoint a candidate to take instruction from me in necessary protocols as well as language. The aiji requires this representative be sent to the capital at Shejidan as soon as possible.”
“You’re saying, appoint a protocol officer to be in regular contact with you. To land on the planet.”
“Sir, yes: send down a person with authority to make agreements which you may ratify. A diplomat.”
“What does Mospheira say to this?”
“Mospheira is a member state of the Western Association. The island is a province among other provinces. It does not speak for atevi or for this planet. It’s required to abide by the decisions of the Western Association regarding foreign policy and trade. Such things are easy to set up—there are channels, appropriate routes, that kind of thing. There are abundant agreements attached to the Treaty which handle protocols, shipping points—I understand you’re looking for some manufacture and supply that lies on the mainland. A protocol officer could facilitate treat—but a real aptitude for language is a must. I can provide short cuts, but there has to be a natural ability.”
There was a silence. Damned right there should be a moment of silence. Then: “I have my own council to consult. How will we contact you?”
God, it sounded like Mospheira. One thought the captain of a working ship could make a decision. “The ground-station operators will be aware of my whereabouts. We have one gap in the relays which I imagine you will have noticed: the satellite went down a considerable time ago. The operators are aware of that and can work around it.”
“Are these native operators?”
“They are atevi, yes, sir. They won’t understand your operators, but the Western Association is linguistically homogeneous and I’m well-known. Use my name and they’ll have no doubt that you’re looking for contact. I suggest another call tomorrow at local midday. Can we expect that?”
“It may take longer to go through this document. What’s your sending mode?”
“Standard to the station. Atevi communications are identical systems to the ones you’ve been reaching on the island.” Yes, Captain, we are receiving what you say to Mospheira, but you don’t know at what levels and how legitimate or thorough our penetration of ship communications is, do you? “You’ll find the document very brief, in the style of atevi legal documents. The details rest in specific subsequent agreements. If you need me at any hour of the day or night, you can reach me simply by calling the earth station. They can patch me right into the local phone system, wherever I am.”
“Mr. Cameron, this may be late to bring up—but what assurance do we have that you’re authorized, or even a real official?”
It was at least one thing he’d thought of in advance. “Sir, if you’ve located the source of transmission—” and I’ll bet you’re doing that, sir, and trying to figure what it is “—you’ll find it a very large, very official installation which regularly monitors the station’s telemetry. In point of fact, there are only three or so humans in the world fluent in the atevi language, there’re no atevi fluent in the human language, and there’s no other channel appointed by the Treaty for contact except me. Call anywhere on the planet you like: you’ll get no answers but from me and Mospheira. The big dish at a site called Mogari-nai is the only place besides Mospheira that can put you in touch with anyone who understands your language.” He cast a glance at Tabini, who’d been quite patient. “Aiji-ma, jis asdi parei’manima pag’ nand’ Stani-captain?”
“Masji sig’ triti didamei’shi.”
“First atevi word to learn, sir, is aiji. That’s the title of the atevi president—more powers than ‘president,’ but it’s the closest translation. His personal name is Tabini: call him Tabini-aiji, and call that name whenever and every time in
a conversation you say a sentence to him: it’s basic courtesy. He’ll await and expect your acceptance of the entire Treaty. Atevi don’t understand making exceptions during initial agreement: please consider the Treaty document as a sweeping statement of principle, closer negotiations to follow. Atevi law is based on equity stemming from such broad agreements. —Have you any special word, sir, to the aiji of the Western Association?”
“Tell him we hope for friendly contact and we’ll stand by for your document transmission.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m concluding now. —Daiti, nadiin tekikin, madighi tritin distitas pas ajiimaisit, das, das, das, magji das.”
“Pai sat, paidhi-ma.”
He set the computer on the table, with the last-moment help of an aide, flipped up the screen, pulled out the line to the phone connector on the table.
Then he called a file; actuated; and the Treaty document flew, presumably, to the atevi earth station and bounced to the ship.
That simply, that easily, from a phone connection on a desk in the Bu-javid.
Mind-boggling even to the arbiter of technology.
And evidently mind-boggling to the heads of committee at the table. Usually at a meeting there were half-attentive looks and the momentary fidgets or a consultation of notes or aides. Not this time. There was solemn anxiousness, absolute quiet They might not yet realize what had happened They certainly didn’t know what all that chatter back and forth had been.
“So what did he say?” Tabini asked.
“I asked, aiji-ma, what he would say to the aiji. He said, quote, ‘We desire peaceful contact and we’ll stand by for the Treaty agreement transmission.’ End quote. I sent it. I did substitute one word in that: his ‘peaceful’ contact carries an expectation of nonwarlike interaction that has no atevi equivalent.”
“Does it change the meaning of contact?” the head of Judiciary asked.
“It expresses routine politeness. Sometimes it has a casual and not highly specific application, meaning not-war, or, equally, can mean a real yearning for association. It’s that word friend, nadi, the one that always confuses translations.”
“A pest of a word,” Tabini said.
“Always, aiji-ma. Even another human has to figure out how the other human means it at the moment.”
“Intended confusion?”
“It can be.” The atevi leap to suspicion was possibly hardwired. It was at least fast. “I could have predicted he’d use it—in a way I find it reassuring that he did use it. But he doesn’t realize you won’t know its nuances. I suspect there’s no one on the ship that’s ever met another language. They want to know about the Treaty document—and I can equally well predict they’ll ask if they got it all. They won’t expect it to be that short. Their own legal documents try to nail down every minute exception and possible eventuality in advance.”
“This seems excessive trouble,” Tabini muttered.
“Tradition. Law—I’m not sure I know the history behind it. But they try to think of all the problems that could come up.”
“Negative thinking. Is this not your expression?”
“But they will almost certainly do it. I confess I’m daunted, nadiin, aiji-ma. I just hadn’t realized operationally until I talked with this man how far back I have to start explaining our mutual history of relations. Clearly I’m not dealing with the university on Mospheira: I’m going to have to interpret very heavily. No one on the ship is going to know how to avoid troublesome concepts. I’ll have to explain them as I go.”
“How accurate can this interpretation be?” Judiciary asked.
“As accurate as the paidhi’s recognition there’s a difficulty, nandi, which is why I must ask, if you hear something disturbing, please interrupt and object. Context makes a vast difference. So does historical background. I’ll advise you of the words I find suspect; and I find the idea of creating a specialist from among them—startling as it was to me—is an excellent notion, aiji-ma. Granting they can find someone with the ability and if I can teach the right ideas to this person—it may be a vast help.” He found himself more nervous than if he’d been facing guns and grenades. One didn’t second-guess the aiji. Or any other atevi lord. But he had to supply the objection he saw. “But if I detect the person isn’t capable or that the interface is getting worse—I request the authority, aiji-ma, nadiin-ma, to shut this person off immediately from information and to reject this contact. If that should be, we may be thrown back on the resources of the university. And we may have to go to them, if I find I can’t deal with the translations alone.”
“This would have severe implications,” Tabini said. “And I would rather you succeeded, paidhi-ji.”
“I would most earnestly rather I succeeded, aiji-ma.” He’d been more anxious than he knew. A number of conclusions were coming home to roost, one of them a surmise that, since he’d put himself on very shaky ground with the university and the Department, he might still have to deal with Hanks as the representative of Mospheira and himself … God only knew. As Tabini’s, he supposed.
It wasn’t a situation he wanted. But that little jarring note in the negotiation had rung alarm bells all up and down his nerves: not that he hadn’t expected it, but that word friendly, that no regular contact he used would have dared use, advised him of dangerous problems.
Friendly contact.
The War memorials and the fact that humans lived on an island weren’t part of the ship captain’s growing up, the captain’s constant awareness, the captain’s conceptual reality. He didn’t know that lives were in danger. Or didn’t know that they were in danger for the reasons that they were. Mospheira had transmitted a history of the war. But knowing the details of history wasn’t the same as stopping for that minute of silence at 9:16 A.M. every Treaty Day; or seeing that time frozen on the clock in the photos of Alpha Base. He’d been there once. Every paidhi went there once.
“Aiji-ma,” he said, “I’ll prepare another document for transmission. A handbook of protocols, by your leave. I can assemble it by tomorrow, out of the dictionary.”
“As the paidhi will,” Tabini said. “Whatever the paidhi deems necessary.”
It was an appalling grant of power. It meant—in atevi terms—he bore direct responsibility, along with that grant of power.
He folded up his computer quietly, thinking, God, he’d put his neck in the noose now. After that it came down to operational details, a handful of answers he needed to give, a confirmation of meeting dates, all of which he had to sit through, but his mind wasn’t on committee housekeeping, or even the few questions committee members asked.
It was the moment, in a curious retreat of his mind, in which he really, definitively said good-bye forever to Barb. In which he thought of the letter he’d write to his mother, and Toby.
In which he held himself and his motives and his mental condition entirely suspect. The aftershocks of an irrevocable, previously confident decision were rumbling through the mental landscape, disturbing precarious balance. He felt slightly sick at his stomach. He questioned his motives and his sanity this time from hindsight, not theoretical actions. Reality always put a texture on things, a chaotic topography of imperfections, that imagination had foreseen as smooth and featureless. Now it was all in past-tense conversation between two minds, not one mind reasoning with itself. Now it was interaction with a very potent and distance-wise inscrutable third party, as well as a Department that was going to ask the paidhi what in hell he thought he was doing.
“Nadiin,” Tabini said, “we are adjourned. Nand’ paidhi, thank you.”
“Aiji-ma,” he murmured, and with one aide to help with the chair and another to help with the computer, he gathered himself up, still with that hollow feeling inside, and collected his belongings.
Lord Eigji of the Commerce Committee cleared his path to the door—perhaps in consideration of his small stature and his necessary awkwardness with the outward-braced cast—but such a reversal of ordinary protocols of rank requ
ired first the acknowledgment of a bow of the head, then puzzled afterthought, so deep a thought he knocked the doorframe with the cast in leaving and, expecting Jago, didn’t look up quite enough: his view was suddenly and entirely black leather and silver metal.
“I have it,” Banichi said, and collected the computer from his hand.
“Where have you been, nadi?” was his first unthought question, while they were still blocking atevi lords from the doorway.
Banichi led him aside before saying, “Sleeping, nand’ paidhi. One has to, eventually.”
It wasn’t at all the truth. He gave not-the-truth back to it. “I never was sure you did that.”
He amused Banichi. That Banichi could be amused was a reassuring stroke in itself: if Banichi was in good humor then something that was security’s concern must have gone right.
One had to wonder, on the other hand, where Jago had gone now, and he wasn’t at all sure it was back to the residence, but the recipient of their duty couldn’t pursue the question, even in the most security-conscious area of the Bu-javid—
Or especially because they were here, in an area where anxious, life-and-death interests hung close about them. They walked toward the lift not quite elbow to elbow with the lords of the Association, but possibly within earshot.
“I have to go to my office, if not today, tomorrow,” he said, off his balance in this switch of personnel; he’d mapped out how to deal with Jago. And atevi had changed the situation on him again without warning. “I have to find out what’s been done there—I need to consult with Hanks.”
“I thought you’d declared war on her.”
“Not—quite that far. Understand, please, Banichi-ji. I don’t want her to come to harm.”
“You must be the only one on the mainland,” Banichi said, “to say so.”
“We can’t allow it, Banichi. Can’t. Daren’t. —Where is Jago?” They’d reached a relatively isolated area by the lift that served the more securitied floors, and he pounced on the first chance for the question. “Algini’s back, did you know? You go, Jago goes, you come back, Algini’s got the foyer stacked with my luggage—”