Chapter 2
May 27, 2118
Philippe Trang stood outside the door, frozen.
A sound had caught his attention, riveting him to the floor.
Bzz-bzz. Bzzz-bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzz-mbzz.
It was coming from behind the door.
It’s not flies, Philippe thought to himself. It can’t possibly be flies.
He could feel the panic rising all the same. He took a moment to control himself, to suppress all emotion, and then he pushed the button.
The door in front of him opened, and Philippe saw the gently lined face of the evening’s host, Chen Ming, head of the DiploCorps’ Beijing office.
Ming smiled with obvious warmth, and Philippe instinctively smiled back with what he hoped appeared to be equal warmth.
They greeted each other and shook hands; then Ming held onto Philippe’s hand as he escorted him into the apartment. The drone of conversation became punctuated by pleased exclamations. Everyone soon stopped talking, turning their well-coiffed heads to look at Philippe.
“The man of the hour!” announced Ming.
Philippe smiled and bowed slightly, realizing that he was going to be put on display immediately. Good thing I don’t need to go to the bathroom, he thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to present to you Philippe Trang,” Ming continued. His voice was not loud—he seemed far too elegant a man to raise it—but it carried throughout the spacious room.
“As you may have heard,” Ming said knowingly, eliciting smiles from the audience, “tomorrow Philippe will leave Earth and travel to the Titan station. From there, he will go through the portal and take up residence on the alien station.
“Philippe will lead the very first human diplomatic mission to an alien culture—or, more accurately, cultures, since there are fully seven alien species living on that station. Philippe will be the DiploCorps’ first representative ever—humanity’s first representative ever—to the aliens. What he is doing is unbelievably important. Without exaggeration, it is the most historic mission the DiploCorps has ever undertaken.”
Philippe gamely continued smiling. He hadn’t talked things over with Ming beforehand, so he wasn’t sure if he was going to be expected to say a few words.
“It is also something that has never been done before, and as a result, it has generated a great deal of concern,” Ming continued. His tone grew greatly concerned as well, and Philippe realized that Ming had, essentially, prepared a speech.
He stopped trying to organize his thoughts: He wouldn’t have to say a thing. Today, he was nothing more than a prop.
“Some of that concern is legitimate, and some, in my opinion, is the result of an unfortunate xenophobia. It is true, as some critics never tire of pointing out, that we’ve been exchanging messages with the aliens for five years, but there is so much that we don’t know—that we can’t know—just from exchanging video. We need somebody there—someone who can actually interact with the aliens, who can live among them and forge the kind of connections that could never be made from the safety of Beijing or Ottawa.
“I’m not claiming we know exactly what will happen—far from it. But while the road ahead is unmapped and full of pitfalls, given Philippe Trang’s remarkable record in the DiploCorps, I am confident that he will be able to navigate it.
“Congratulations, Philippe, and thank you,” said Ming, shaking Philippe’s hand again. “All of Earth is relying on you.”
Someone started applauding, and soon everyone joined in.
Philippe smiled and waved to the crowd, feeling vaguely sick.
It was his going-away party. Perhaps fittingly, it was a generic DiploCorps affair, held far away from any place that had any personal meaning for Philippe, and populated mainly by people he did not know. It was held in an apartment reliably suited to the typical needs of an upper-level DiploCorps officer, who would be required to throw several large parties a month: The living/dining/cocktail-party room was spacious but also featured several semi-private nooks, the better to foster those all-important one-on-one interactions.
The décor was lush without being vulgar—the deep red, almost burgundy walls with tan paper hangings rose up from an impressively immaculate white carpet. The wall hangings reflected what Philippe assumed was Ming’s own preference for traditional Chinese calligraphy, but even they obeyed the DiploCorps aesthetic—moderate in size and muted in color, they had been hung perfectly at a discreet distance from each other.
This was a room that, like its owner, whispered and did not shout. The same was true of the soft music in the background and, no doubt, of the expertly blended drinks available. Although Philippe had never met most of the people there, they, too, looked familiar—well-groomed, well-dressed, clearly well-off, yet not garish or ostentatious. Tasteful, tailored, and smooth.
Philippe took a deep breath. He knew this world well; he’d worked in it for years.
This shouldn’t be so tough, he told himself.
They were all there to meet him, of course. Well, not really to meet him—not in any genuine getting-to-know-you kind of way. He was a prop, and they were there to shake his hand and look at his face before he left Earth. Then they would be able to tell their friends, I met Philippe Trang once, the night before he left Earth. I shook his hand and looked him right in the eye. Isn’t it a pity?
Philippe shook his head to stop that train of thought—it would affect his smile, and he needed to smile convincingly now because the flurry of introductions was beginning. The guests were actually lining up, like they would at a wedding or a funeral, to receive the handshake that was due them.
It wasn’t hard. As Philippe expected, no one really wanted to talk to him. Some of them asked him how he was, but luckily they didn’t want a real answer.
Like any reasonably competent diplomat, Philippe was good with names. Still, under the circumstances, it did seem a little pointless to have to learn dozens of new ones. Here, for example, was the last person in the line of new acquaintances, the assistant undersecretary of technology trade standards for the Hong Kong office of the Commerce Division. Philippe couldn’t imagine why he would need to know her, even if she had, as he remarked, certainly traveled a long way.
“Well, I haven’t come as far as you have!” burbled the assistant undersecretary.
Her name was Ling Wei. She was plump and short, with a blunt bob that unfortunately emphasized the roundness of her features.
“All the way from Canada!” she exclaimed. “Is this your first time in Beijing? Have you been able to see much of the city?”
Philippe realized that, oddly enough, Wei actually seemed to want to make conversation.
And why not? he wondered. There was no one in line behind her, pushing her along. She was by herself, but she seemed genuinely friendly and sociable—with none of the scary stalker vibe he had occasionally gotten from people who recognized him on the street.
Plus, this was an opportunity to ease the topic of conversation away from himself. He really, really did not want to spend an entire evening dwelling on his own state.
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I saw the Forbidden City, the Summer Palace, and the Temple of Heaven—and of course the Great Wall. It’s all been fantastic.”
Wei tilted her head. “What do you think of Beijing itself? As a city?”
Philippe thought for a moment. “I guess the main surprise for me has been how big the Space Authority is here—I mean, I knew the headquarters are here, but. . . .”
“You can’t go two blocks without seeing the logo,” agreed Wei.
Philippe nodded. “I mean, the DiploCorps are headquartered in Ottawa, but that just means the offices are there. You don’t see people in the street wearing DiploCorps jackets and shirts—if those things even exist.”
Wei nodded. “Beijing is crazy about the Space Authority, especially these days. We’re always joking about that in Hong Kong—they should just change the city’s name to SA and be d
one with it.”
“That’s a good idea. You could pronounce it Sa,” said Philippe. “You know, ‘This weekend I’m going to Sa to, um—’”
“‘To watch the launch!’” Wei finished.
They laughed. The Space Authority seemed to launch something every few hours—the noise was surprisingly penetrating despite the required muffling. Even when Philippe had gone out of town to see the Great Wall, he had been distracted by a launch—not the noise that time, it couldn’t travel that far, but the blazing light trail in the sky that followed it, a reminder hanging in the heavens that his time on Earth was limited.
A waiter passed them with a tray full of some kind of savory pastry, and Wei almost leapt to stop him.
“You have to try one of these,” she said, gesturing at the pastries.
Philippe obeyed. The pastry turned out to be an excellent crab puff, with just the right mixture of crab, sauce, and pastry. Wei, Philippe quickly determined, was a fellow foodie, and she had taken a careful and thorough inventory of the appetizers available.
After that crab puff, he was more than willing to mine her knowledge of the other tasty bites available, and her judgment did not disappoint. For the first time, his smile felt natural, and he began to feel like this evening might not turn out to be an excruciating slog after all.
“You know, I guess I’m surprised that you’ve never been to Beijing before, given how much you must travel,” said Wei, after steering them to some delicious chicken feet.
“I’ve actually never been assigned to East Asia,” said Philippe. “I’ve spent most of my time in much more troubled places—non-Union countries and the like.”
“Well, um, excuse me?” said a voice behind Philippe.
He turned, smiling.
His smile promptly felt strained.
The woman standing there obviously was not a diplomat, or even an assistant undersecretary. Everything about her was a little too. She was a little too young and a little too thin. Her breasts were a little too large for her body, and her lips were a little too big for her face. She wore a little too much makeup, and her short dress was both a little too short and a little too tight. Her hair was a little too shiny, and her eyes were open a little too wide.
This woman was either a politician or, judging from her skirt length, a spouse. Either was virtually guaranteed to be a bother.
“Um,” she began. “Um, I couldn’t help but hear you mention the non-Union countries, and, um, I’m just wondering, what do they think about what you’re doing? Do they think it’s, um, dangerous?”
Of course they think it’s dangerous, thought Philippe. It is dangerous.
“Well,” he said, “the non-Union countries have largely decided to let the Union take the lead in Earth’s dealings with the aliens. The Union is the closest thing we have to an Earth government, after all.”
“But, um, before we were just, um, talking to them,” said the woman. “And now, um, we’re sending somebody through the Titan portal to, um, actually see them.”
“We’ve been talking to them for five years,” said Philippe. “Presumably if they wanted to attack, they would have done so by now. The aliens have never even come through the portal, and they say they never will without a formal invitation. They’ve been consistently friendly and, as far as we can determine, truthful in their communications. I think that it’s natural at this point that we would explore the possibility of deepening our relationship with them.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed. Philippe couldn’t quite decide if her expression indicated actual fear or was merely the vestige of some cosmetic procedure. He really wasn’t in the mood to spend time justifying his mission at this late date to someone who clearly hadn’t bothered to educate herself on the subject, but he decided that a little additional reassurance couldn’t hurt.
“I mean, it’s not like there’s perfect unity among the Union countries, either. Of course, there’s a risk to going through the portal. But there’s also a risk to staying on opposite sides of the portal forever—if we don’t engage the aliens, if we don’t build a positive relationship with them now, then maybe there will be negative consequences down the line from that decision. I can speak only for myself, but I’m not afraid to do this.”
He smiled at her, in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. But he was thinking, Whatever happens, I’ve seen worse right here on Earth.
“Well, I just don’t think that it’s fair,” she replied. “I mean, um, the Union is making these decisions that affect everybody, and, um, what are the non-Union countries supposed to do?”
Philippe looked about for Wei, if only as a reminder of better days, but the assistant undersecretary had cleared off, leaving him to his troubles.
“Who cares about the non-Union countries?” exclaimed a red-faced man who suddenly appeared by the wide-eyed woman’s side. “They don’t have the money, and they don’t have the clout—am I right, Trang?”
Philippe’s smile thinned. “Actually, the non-Union countries do have a say, through the United Nations, and two years ago they passed a resolution of support—”
“What’s the United Nations?” the woman asked the man, putting her arm around his thick waist. He looked like he was about 30 years older than she was—but Philippe was willing to bet that he had never been as good-looking.
The man waved his hand in the air, dismissively. “A useless relic.” He thrust the hand out to Philippe. “Tau Li. Beijing office. DiploCorps.”
Of course, thought Philippe as they shook hands, the suit. Li was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, a model of understated elegance. It seemed somehow not to fit.
“Philippe Trang. Nice to meet you.” Philippe said.
He waited for a moment, but Li didn’t offer to introduce his—wife? girlfriend? Hopefully not his daughter, considering where his hand was now. Whoever she was, she didn’t seem willing to introduce herself.
“So, you’re the wonder kid who gets to go meet the aliens tomorrow,” Li said. He waved his free hand in the air as he talked. “Through the portal, and to the alien station.”
In that instant, Philippe realized two things about Li: The man was profoundly drunk, and he was profoundly jealous. At this very moment, Li was wondering why, with his big mouth and his trophy girlfriend and his willingness to get sloshed at official functions, he wasn’t getting the kind of assignments that put him on the global news feed as the public face of the DiploCorps.
Schadenfreude wasn’t a noble emotion, Philippe knew. But it could be a useful one. He used that feeling of superiority to help him glide fully into the diplomatic frame of mind—confident, serene, benevolent.
“I’m very excited,” he said blandly, “especially about meeting the Communicator.”
Li opened his mouth, but quickly closed it. Philippe realized why when he heard Ming say, “I would be, too. Philippe, I’d like you to meet someone.”
Even Li has the sense not to mouth off in front of his boss, Philippe thought.
He turned to Ming, and all thoughts of Li vanished from his mind. Standing by Ming was Shridar Bhattacharjee.
Shridar Bhattacharjee?
Philippe did a double take, but there was no mistaking that friendly, bearded face, that long, slightly crooked nose, those large, chestnut-brown eyes. Shridar Bhattacharjee! Winner of the Nobel Peace Prize!
“This is Shridar Bhattacharjee,” said Ming, as though Philippe needed to be told.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Philippe managed to say, eagerly shaking the older man’s hand. The hand felt somewhat thin, and Philippe noticed that Shridar did seem somewhat frail—he had retired from the DiploCorps at least a decade before, and of course his remarkable work in Korea had taken place quite some time before that.
Shridar’s eyes were still lively, though. “It’s an honor to meet you,” he said, generously.
Philippe suddenly felt warm.
“Now, don’t you think,” brayed Li in Shridar’s general direction
, “that someone like you should be the first diplomatic contact with the aliens?”
Shridar laughed and waved his hands. “Oh, no. I’m far too old. This is a job for a younger man.”
“But really,” Li klaxoned.
“The Space Authority was quite specific in their physical requirements,” said Ming, cutting Li off without the least visible trace of irritation. “And Philippe’s not exactly a child—how old are you?”
“Thirty-six,” said Philippe.
“And you’ve got a lot of experience in, shall we say, non-conventional situations,” Ming replied with a smile.
Philippe smiled back. “Well—don’t tell anyone I said this—but I think the DiploCorps’ attitude is, if somebody has to be eaten by a space monster, it should be somebody junior.”
Li exploded with laughter. His companion waited a moment, and then joined in with a nervous giggle.
Ming and Shridar didn’t laugh, however. Instead, the two older gentlemen exchanged a look of concern.
“About that: What do you think of your security arrangements?” Shridar asked. “Are you satisfied with your level of personal protection?”
Philippe paused for a moment. It seemed like a bizarre and tragic waste of possibly his only chance ever to speak with Shridar Bhattacharjee to be talking about the minutiae of his own life. Still, one had to be polite.
“I don’t—” Philippe almost said care, but that sounded a little too blunt, or perhaps a little too honest. “I don’t worry about that—like Ming said, I’ve been in any number of dangerous missions, and I’ve always felt like the Union Police had those sorts of matters well in hand.”
“But this isn’t like any other mission,” said Ming.
“Well, of course,” Philippe agreed. “But I guess I feel like people who know a lot more about security than I do are taking care of that end of things. There’s not much I can do except leave them to do their jobs.”
Shridar and Ming exchanged another look.
“Ordinarily, I would agree,” said Shridar. “When the Union is, ah—”
“Unambivalent,” chimed in Ming.
“Unambivalent,” Shridar nodded. “When the mission is clear, then, of course, you would leave security to the Union Police. They’re the experts. But when things are like they are now—the mission is utterly open, there is no way to define success—then sometimes you don’t really get the support you need.”
“You may be pulling in one direction,” said Ming. “And there are factions in the Union that may be pulling in another. There is still, as I mentioned, a great deal of xenophobia, even among the upper echelons of the Union. It can complicate things.”
Philippe stared at the two older men, the noise of the party washing over him. What was there for him to say?
“It’s a bit like what happened to you with General Jesus in Guantánamo,” said Shridar. “When the larger direction of a mission is unclear, the staff on the ground tends to suffer.”
Philippe heard a gasp.
It was the woman. Her eyes were open even wider than before. Philippe was momentarily surprised that such a thing was possible.
“You were at Guantánamo?” she asked.
Philippe stared at her for a moment.
Li let rip with another braying laugh. “Sweetheart, you are so dumb—it’s cute. Trang here was the hero of Guantánamo.”
The buzz of the conversation around them seemed to rise and cover Philippe’s head. Bzz-mbzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzz-bzzzzzz.
“There were no heroes at Guantánamo,” he said.
Bzzz-bzzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzz-bzzzzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzzz.