Chapter 6
Philippe stepped out into the orange light, the strange air burning in his nose and making him wrinkle it. Don’t look disgusted, he thought to himself, forcing his face to relax.
Smile.
He smiled and raised his hand. That didn’t seem to trigger any change in the noise level, so he put his hand down again. He couldn’t see much apart from the backs of the soldiers, who were standing taut with alertness, their hands touching the bulges in their uniforms, doubtless ready to whip out their weapons and mow the mob down at a moment’s notice.
But he could hear, and there was a lot to hear. The translation mikes didn’t broadcast far enough for him to know what the noises meant, but he could hear pings and warbles and blatting and squeaks, low chirpings and high chitterings. Underneath it all was a low, rhythmic thrumming, which Philippe found oddly soothing
“Excuse me,” he said to the soldier in front of him. It was Bi Zui, who gave him a perplexed look. “I should go up and be diplomatic.”
Bi Zui stepped aside, and Philippe walked forward between the soldiers.
He heard Patch’s voice. “Wow, guys, what a reception! Have you, like, been waiting all day?”
Better see what that’s about, thought Philippe, stepping around Shanti.
Patch was standing with a big, doofy grin on his face. In front of him were—Max and Moritz. Philippe shook his head and blinked. It was definitely them—he recognized them right away. Behind them were at least 50 more, a host of Hosts.
Philippe had seen the Hosts in videos a million times. He’d been watching them for years, replaying the videos obsessively like everyone else when the portal was first discovered, and then doing so again, even more purposefully, when he was assigned this mission.
But standing before them, he felt like he was seeing them for the very first time.
The difference between seeing them in real life and seeing them on video was astounding. Back on Earth, Philippe had participated in or wisely avoided thousands of unresolved debates over whether or not the Hosts had faces. And now, seeing them in the flesh for just a moment, Philippe could see that they clearly did—not a stand-alone face on a head like a human, but a definite face nonetheless.
Their faces were on one end of their bodies, and different body parts combined and worked together to create unquestionable expressions. Part of the Host face was in the fringe between the foremost segment and the one behind it, and part of it was the way they held their forelimbs, and part of it was what he had thought were just markings. Philippe had watched hours upon hours of footage and had never really been able to grasp it, but now, he could see their faces as plain as day.
The Hosts had faces—and they were happy to see him!
“Hello!” said Philippe, stretching out his hand.
“Oh, guys, I gotta introduce you to Philippe, our diplomatic guy,” said Patch. “This is Max”—he gestured to the longer and darker of the two Hosts—”and this is Moritz.”
“We are extremely pleased to meet you, human diplomat,” said Moritz. “This is an extremely auspicious day for us.”
“For us as well,” said Philippe, bowing after the aliens did not respond to his outstretched hand. “I look forward to establishing friendly relations between our peoples.”
“Nothing would please us more,” said Max. “On a personal level, both Moritz and I are delighted to be your liaisons. It is a tremendous honor to us and to our family.”
As always with translations, their voices were tinny and devoid of emotion. But Philippe could also hear their actual speech, which was a chittering noise that started and stopped at odd intervals. He realized that the pleasant thrumming was also coming from the Hosts, although it didn’t seem to bear any relationship to what they were saying.
Something moved on the floor, and Philippe realized that the Swimmers had sent several of their drones. “Hello!” he said to one of the devices, waving.
“Greetings,” replied the drone. It made no audible noise—the Swimmer drones apparently broadcast directly in translator code—but a light went on in the front of the device. Philippe supposed that was to indicate which one of the drones was talking—at least, he was going to act as if it did and hope he was doing the right thing.
“We are happy to greet you,” said the drone, “and we hope that our relationship will be one of cooperation and mutual benefit.”
“I, too, look forward to our friendship,” said Philippe.
The Pincushions and the Centaurs/Cyclopes also had large contingents to greet them, and Philippe exchanged pleasantries with them both. He had just finished greeting a representative from the Snake Boys and was noticing that a number of Pincushions had gathered around Shanti when he heard Patch ask Max, “Hey, is the Magic Man here?”
Max’s face fell. “I am extremely sorry his absence disappoints you. I realize that you are likely most accustomed to speaking to him, and I apologize for the discomfort you must feel in speaking to people who are less familiar to you.”
“No, no!” Philippe jumped in, glaring at Patch. “How could we possibly be disappointed when all of you wonderful people turned out to greet us? We are deeply, deeply honored.”
“Yeah,” said Patch in a small voice, his blue eyes aimed at his feet. “I was just curious.”
“Mere curiosity—we’re a curious people,” said Philippe. “So, please introduce me to the representative of the Blobbos.”
God, they really are just blobs, aren’t they? he thought, exchanging greetings with the small, pink creature sitting in what looked like a motorized incense burner. I’ll change that name tomorrow.
“You wished for me to greet you?” said a voice behind him. The English was oddly flat, with pauses of identical length between each word. The enunciation was extremely precise.
It did not come from his earplant.
Philippe turned around, tingling with excitement.
Standing not a meter away was the Magic Man—better known, among the DiploCorps anyway, as the Communicator.
As far as anyone on Earth could tell, there was only one Magic Man. He was the ultimate diplomat, able to speak any language. For the five years between the discovery of the Titan portal and Philippe’s mission to the station, the Magic Man had been the voice and face of the aliens.
He was assuredly a shape shifter, there was no other explanation. Back when communications were first being established with the aliens, the SA had sent a video of a respected elder statesman, who assured the aliens that Earth was happy to learn of them and wanted only friendship. Several months later, the aliens had sent back a video that looked like a prank—the form of that same elder statesman, speaking in his voice. Only the flow and emotion of the statesman’s voice was gone, and his body was semi-transparent. Colors flowed through him in waves, the polite smile on his face never changed, and his movement was strange and fluid.
That was the Magic Man. Unlike the other aliens, he spoke English. Perfect Union English.
“Greetings, Magic Man,” said Philippe, putting out his hand. “I am so pleased to finally meet you.”
The Magic Man also ignored Philippe’s hand, so Philippe bowed.
“Welcome to the station,” said the Magic Man, the smile fixed on his face. “I hope in the future you become fully incorporated into the body.”
And with that, he walked away.
Shanti and Patch had heard it. The daffy smile on Patch’s face was gone, replaced by a look of puzzlement with vague shadings of something more chilling. Shanti looked like someone had just spat in her face.
It was definitely going to wind up in their reports.
The important thing, Philippe thought, is to make sure they don’t say anything about it in front of the aliens.
“This is a wonderful event,” said Philippe to Max and Moritz. “I was wondering if you had anything special planned, or if we could possibly take the opportunity for a tour of your station.”
Max and Moritz looked
like they were about to explode with delight, which was good—and the comment had drawn Shanti and Patch’s attention as well, which was even better.
“We would consider it a fantastic honor,” said Moritz. “We shall tour the common area with you.”
Shanti hurriedly gestured to the SFers, and Philippe soon had an entourage of soldiers that included her and Patch. Max and Moritz told the crowd that the humans were going to go for a tour, and the other aliens quickly made way. A loose group followed them.
Max and Moritz plodded ahead on their six feet as Philippe tried to follow them and gawk about at the same time.
The alien station looked nothing like Beijing, thank God. Everything was quite brown, although the orange light made it hard to determine exact colors. The area was large and open, with no dividing walls and only the occasional narrow column. The floor seemed to give a little underfoot, although Philippe wondered if that was an illusion created by the difference in gravity and oxygen content. When he had the chance, he discreetly touched one of the walls. It gave a little under his gloved fingers, tempting him to peel off the protection to get a better feel.
“As you may have already determined, we are currently occupying a common area,” said Max. “If you were to look at the station from the outside, we are on a floor located in the large cylinder that comprises the main body of the station.”
Moritz looked slightly apologetic. “You will notice that the common areas are very open,” he said. “That is to accommodate the wide variety of body types present. I realize that some people prefer more-enclosed spaces, and I apologize if our arrangement makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“Not at all,” Philippe assured him. “Humans don’t mind open spaces in the least.”
“Yeah, they’re great,” said Shanti, in an unenthused tone. “What are those things?”
She pointed at an arrangement of low walls that emerged from the floor to their left. They looked oddly like office cubicles, or perhaps stables.
“Those are more-enclosed spaces,” Moritz replied.
“As part of our divine mission, we have created spaces in our common areas where different people may meet and communicate,” said Max. “Since some prefer more-enclosed spaces at times, we have those. We also have many areas with tables.”
They approached one of the narrow columns, which lay at the back of a large oval hole in the floor. The hole was marked off by a low railing with a large gap in it.
“It’s an elevator,” said Patch. “They just go up and down all the time, so you gotta wait and hop on when you can.”
They stopped in front of the gap in the railing to wait.
“Have you seen the White Spiders?” asked Max. “There are several on the ceiling at this location.”
Philippe looked up where Max was indicating. The White Spiders had not had a representative at the reception, but there were at least a dozen of them here, clinging to the high ceiling overhead. Patch’s name for them had been typically descriptive—they had ten long, feathery legs sticking out from an oval body.
Philippe waved and said hello, but they did not acknowledge him.
“They are a quiet people,” Max said.
“They live on the ceilings?” Shanti asked.
“We provided them with a living area, as we do everyone,” said Max. “But for the most part, they prefer to inhabit the high parts of the common areas.”
Shanti made a noise in her throat, communicating to the humans at least her opinion of that particular lifestyle.
The elevator arrived, so the humans and Hosts got on. As they waited for it to start moving, a White Spider let go of the ceiling and started to drift down, parachute-like. A cross-draft caught it, and it suddenly flipped inside-out, like an umbrella in a windstorm, presumably to avoid being blown off course.
Weird, thought Philippe, but of course, they were aliens, and not half as weird as the Magic Man.
An idea occurred to Philippe, and he turned to the Hosts. “Have the White Spiders been incorporated into the body?” he asked.
“I do not understand that statement,” Max said.
“The Magic Man told us he hoped that we would be incorporated into the body,” Philippe said. “I was wondering what that meant.”
Max and Moritz looked at each other, puzzled.
“The conversation of the Magic Man is at times mysterious,” said Moritz.
“I personally believe that he uses the body as a metaphor for friendship or alliance,” said Max. “He has told me that the Hosts are part of the body. But he can be difficult to understand.”
“Oh,” said Philippe, still puzzled. “He always seemed very easy to understand in the videos.”
“He was speaking other’s phrases,” said Max.
That can’t be right, thought Philippe. The translator must not be working very well.
“I’m sorry?” he asked, and then realized he would have to be more explicit. “I don’t understand.”
“He was repeating phrases that others had created,” Max said. “We or the Swimmers typically handle communication with new people. We and they both lack the vocal range of the Magic Man, however, so we create the phrases, and he speaks them.”
They reached their floor, and Philippe stumbled off the elevator, stunned.
Five years—five years!—of talking to the Magic Man, and Earth hadn’t been talking to him at all! There were actual Magic Man fan clubs on Earth, and he had just been parroting lines penned by someone else.
Worse yet, with all the resources and analysis the Union had thrown at these communications over the years, they hadn’t been able to figure out who they actually had been talking to. The lengthy conversation humanity had been having with the Magic Man had actually been with the Swimmers, a species—no, two species—Earth didn’t know existed until yesterday!
The only hint the humans had had of the Swimmers’ existence was seeing the small, oval shapes that roamed around in the background of the videos the aliens sent them.
All of the videos.
My God, Philippe thought, we know absolutely nothing. He had known that he would be breaking new ground on this mission, but this. . . .
Philippe shuddered, and then quickly suppressed it, mindful of his companions. He suddenly realized that Moritz had been talking rather at length, and he forced himself to tune back in.
Mortiz was apparently pointing out the various living areas—fortunately Shanti had been paying attention, and by asking questions basically got Moritz to repeat everything he had just said. Philippe was polite and noncommittal, hoping to avoid any major blunders as Moritz and Shanti pointed out to him that many of the prongs were unoccupied and that all the occupied quarters were clustered on the middle floors. The Hosts, Moritz explained in response to Shanti’s leading questions, were optimistic that someday enough species would join the station so that it would be fully occupied.
I’m too distracted for this, Philippe realized. He needed time to process the discovery that some of Earth’s most basic assumptions about the station and the aliens on it were utterly wrong. Only then would he be able to absorb the new information the Hosts were throwing his way.
“Maybe we should head back now?” he asked Shanti, casually but with a clear undertone of command.
“Absolutely,” she replied, with a knowing look. Whatever else she was, she was clearly perceptive and quick on the uptake. Philippe was grateful for that.
“Shall we meet again tomorrow?” he asked the Hosts.
“It would be our pleasure,” said Max. “What time would be convenient for you?”
That turned out to be a surprisingly complicated question. The station operated on its own clock, which was based on certain regular fluctuations in the portal that led to the Hosts’ planet. Someone had apparently decided to translate English terms for time directly into the Host’s terms, which created even more confusion because everyone started out assuming they were talking about the same units of time, only to dis
cover that they were not.
Patch was the most familiar with the station’s method of keeping time, but he was alarmingly unsure and chose this particular delicate moment in the history of diplomacy to start making jokes about short-term memory loss.
They did the best they could to select a time, but even with a remote assist from Thorpe back in the living area, no one was entirely confident. Max and Moritz decided to eliminate the possibility of missing Philippe by maintaining a constant vigil outside the door leading to the human’s living area for however long it took for him to emerge again.
Philippe, of course, insisted that some other solution be found. Eventually a passing Swimmer drone was hailed, and it was arranged that, if Philippe were to come out and find that Max and Moritz were not there, he would notify the nearest Swimmer drone, and the drones would find and notify the Hosts.
Philippe returned to his office, where he sat and tried to think of how to best explain to the DiploCorps that the beloved Communicator, the ultimate diplomat, was nothing more than a talking head who may or may not have threatened to eat them.
There was a knock on the door to Philippe’s office. “Come in!” he said, eager for the distraction.
It was Baby, the pale young woman who had pulled out a knife to demonstrate the effectiveness of her lonjons. “Hey, Trang,” she said. “The doctor can adjust everyone’s eyes, if you want, so that it’s less orange out there.”
It was just too much bafflement for one man to take. “What?” Philippe asked.
“You know, an eye adjustment, where he puts an adjustment on there.” She pointed to her eyes.
“How does he do that?”
Baby shrugged. “I don’t know—I ain’t no doctor. He just hooks you up to that thing like they always do.”
“They’ve never done that to me,” Philippe said.
She gave him a perplexed look, and then comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh, you know, I was thinking you was like an SFer—I forgot about the whole Amish thing. Your eyes are natural?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, that’s it—we’re augmented. We all have the implants. That way, we can get adjustment for night fighting or whatever. But if you’re natural, then never mind it.”
“Oh, OK,” said Philippe.
She started to leave, but before she could he asked, “Um, do you know who we’re supposed to give our reports to?”
“Thorpe. Or Vip. They’re the com officers.”
“Do you know where either of them would be?”
“Probably the com center,” said Baby. “I’m headed that way—do you want me to take your report to ’em?”
“I’m not done yet, but thanks for offering.” Philippe looked at her for a moment, unsure. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Go ahead,” she said, stepping in and closing the door.
“Everyone seems to call you Baby—is that what I should call you?”
“It’s my name,” she said.
“Your real name?” he asked. She nodded. “Oh, all right, I thought it was a nickname. And I felt a little funny calling a big tough SFer who I’d just met Baby.”
She laughed. “It’s OK because it’s my name—but I don’t think I’d let nobody just call me Baby. There’s some crazy nicknames, though. Five-Eighths? That’s just disgusting. And I know if I was a man, I wouldn’t want nobody calling me Pinky or Cut. I mean, really. There were some people in one of my other units who wanted to call me Baby Killer, but I said, ‘Oh no.’”
“I can see why,” said Philippe, who had figured out Pinky and Cut but was still stumped by her objection to Five-Eighths.
“Yeah, I don’t kill babies. I ain’t no Yooper.”
The casualness of the jab irritated Philippe and interrupted his mental recitation of all the vulgarities he knew that contained numbers. “I don’t know where you heard that, but I’ve worked a great deal with the Union Police on many, many missions, and they don’t kill babies either.”
Baby’s eyes widened “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “It’s just that, you know, they don’t kill nobody, so everyone thinks it’s OK, but it’s still force, right? But everyone thinks it’s not, so they fight folks who are angry that their guy didn’t get elected or potato farmers who can’t sell no potatoes. I mean, we at least get to fight bad guys, like General Jesus at Guantánamo.”
She caught Philippe’s expression, which given the way his stomach had involuntarily twisted, was probably pretty grim.
“Yeah, I really shouldn’t run them Yoopers down—they do their job,” she said. “I gotta go see George.”
She left before Philippe could say anything.
The next day—or whatever they called it on the station—Philippe stepped out of the no man’s zone with Shanti, Vip, Mo, and the medic Gingko as an entourage to find Max and Moritz standing there, thrumming. They exchanged hearty greetings.
“Are we on time?” Philippe asked.
“Almost exactly,” said Moritz.
“Oh good, we did have the correct time,” said Philippe, pleased. “And you didn’t have to keep a vigil after all.”
“Our vigil was entirely unnecessary as a practical matter because your time-keeping was accurate,” replied Moritz. “But it was a spiritually fulfilling experience nonetheless.”
Oh, crap, thought Philippe. They had spent the entire night outside the door after all.
“I was hoping that you would avoid the inconvenience of such a vigil,” he said, weakly.
“The vigil was a welcome opportunity,” said Max. “Any priest in either one of our orders would be delighted to hold such a vigil. It is always worthwhile to spend focused time with a family member and fellow, contemplating one’s purpose.”
The two Hosts gave each other a satisfied look, and Philippe decided he’d better move on. “In that case, it is an opportune time for us to talk, because I would like to discuss our purpose in coming to this station with you.”
“That is a very good idea,” said Moritz. “There are many convenient locations on this floor where we could talk.”
Philippe had given a good deal of thought to how he was going to frame his next question.
“I have a request, but I do not know if this request might be considered troubling,” he began. “I hope that it is not and I apologize if I offend or frighten you. But I would appreciate the honor of visiting your living area, if it would not be considered inappropriate for me to do so. If it is problematic, even to the smallest degree, I would be delighted to restrict our interactions to the common areas.”
“Everyone on this station has complete authority over the area in which they live,” replied Max. “In the case of the Hosts, we welcome and desire visitation by others. It would please us immensely if you would please come with us to our living area.”
Relieved, Philippe followed Max and Moritz to one of the elevators, followed in turn by his soldiers. They waited for an elevator to arrive, and rode three levels up, getting off and following the Hosts to an open doorway.
“This is our living area,” said Max, gesturing to the passage.
“You have no doors,” said Shanti, almost to herself.
“No,” said Moritz, as they entered the living area, which was less expansive but otherwise indistinguishable from the common area. “It is imperative to us that we not close ourselves off from the other people who inhabit this station. Our purpose is to be at one with your people and the other people, so we do not close off our living area, and we do not modify the environment in our area.”
“You don’t modify the atmosphere?” asked Gingko with surprise.
Philippe watched the Hosts, ready to cut the SFer off at any sign of irritation.
“No, the environment in our living area is exactly the same as the environment in the common area.”
The medic wrinkled his brow. “Uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you have to modify the atmosphere in the common area in preparation for
our arrival?” asked Gingko. “I thought the environment there is just a big compromise—all of the species here can tolerate it, but it’s not exactly optimal for anybody’s health, especially if you’re exposed to it all the time.”
The Hosts’ expressions remained serene. “The more important goal for us is to bring together different kinds of people and create a bond between them and us,” said Moritz. “Living in a sub-optimal environment merely creates a constant reminder of our true purpose.”
“We can discuss it at length in this room,” said Max, sliding a door open.
They entered a room with a low, raised platform in the center. Max and Moritz walked to the far side of the platform and turned to face the humans, standing comfortably. Philippe stood in silence for a moment, and then realized he was waiting for a chair to materialize. Since this was not likely to happen, he decided that he would sit on the ground, cross-legged, a move that was greeted with suppressed surprise by the two Hosts.
“We’ll stand,” said Shanti.
“As will we,” Moritz replied.
“Unless standing is viewed as inappropriate among your people,” said Max, looking hesitant.
“Please do what is most comfortable for you,” said Philippe. “Rest assured that we will not take offense.”
That seemed to restore their confidence. “Is everything on this station to your liking?” asked Max.
“Yes, very much. You have been wonderfully hospitable,” said Philippe. “We only have one or two very minor questions.”
“Feel free to make any request at any time,” said Max.
“These are very small things—nothing that genuinely matters,” said Philippe. “It is only that we were curious: Are we allowed to install cameras and listening devices in the common area?”
“You certainly may install monitoring equipment anywhere in the common area,” said Max. “Other people do, and most activity in the common area is monitored.”
“In addition,” Moritz chimed in, “you should meet with the Swimmers. They are, as it was sung, ‘the ones who will know how to listen and who will see.’ They provided us with the translation technology, and their drones act as the station’s security and maintenance system. They habitually allow others to access their security footage.”
“They are truly invaluable,” said Max.
“A blessing to all people, provided by benevolent providence,” said Moritz, looking rapturous.
“Thank you—they sound great,” said Philippe, feeling somewhat less rapturous. He definitely planned to meet with the Swimmers—humanity should at least be able to see who it was they’d been speaking to this entire time.
“The other matter,” he continued, “is also insignificant, and I hesitate to bring it up. But as you know, the names for other species were provided by one of our security experts. He did his best, but I am concerned that some of the names he chose are not appropriate and will lead to confusion. For example, he chose to call one species ‘Pincushions.’ A pincushion is a common household object on Earth, and I fear that in the future people will not be able to have conversations about pincushions with other species without causing confusion.”
Philippe mentally crossed his fingers. He had spent the night trying to hit on a way to make the request without revealing how flippant some of Patch’s names were.
Max and Moritz looked at each other, hesitating. Philippe could tell what the answer was going to be.
“Unfortunately,” Max began, “yours is not an uncommon request. People often want to change the names they have chosen for other people, for a range of reasons.”
“In some cases, they have named people after figures in their own culture who then fall out of favor. Or, as your expert did, a person names a people because they physically resemble an object or creature, and then another person disagrees about the resemblance. Or new leadership comes to the station, and wants to create new names as a way of establishing authority,” said Moritz
Both looked uneasy—it was clearly unpleasant for them to say no.
“When names change frequently, it creates additional work for the Swimmers. In addition, frequent changes of names for other peoples often confuse individuals of the same people, who forget which name is now in use,” said Max. “So we have become very conservative regarding such name changes.
“You mention the Pincushions as an unacceptable name. I ask, did you bring many pincushions with you to this station? Are conversations about pincushions likely to occur with great frequency? If not, then we would request that you not change the name.”
“I understand. It’s perfectly OK—it was not an important request,” Philippe replied. “I have one last question for you, which is not a request but instead an attempt to learn. You have built this large station. What is it used for? What was your purpose in building it?”
“Those are two very separate topics,” said Moritz.
“I assume, however, that you are wondering what the various people who live here do, and what your people can do here on this station,” said Max.
“To a degree, yes,” said Philippe. “Our goal in coming here is to hopefully establish friendly relations with the various alien races, so that we can learn from each other.”
“Our purpose is similar,” said Moritz. “To create friendship and fulfill our destiny as being friends to other people.”
“Other people have somewhat different purposes in being here,” said Max. “Some trade goods on this station, while others seem content merely to observe. Some, such as the Swimmers, feel they have an obligation to help different people interact in a cooperative way.”
It seemed like an opportune time to shoehorn in his most important request, so Philippe went for it. “Do you think that—with your assistance—it would be possible for me to meet with the various alien races? I would like to visit them in their living areas, like I am doing with you right now.”
The Hosts looked delighted.
“We would be very pleased to help you as much as we can in that endeavor,” said Max.
“What we shall do,” said Moritz, “is contact each people in the order that they arrived here and attempt to arrange a meeting with each of them.”
Philippe smiled. At least this much is going to plan, he thought.
“Thank you so much for your help,” he said. “I believe that concludes my business here. Do you have any questions or requests for us?”
“Not at this time,” said Max. “We will contact you when we have arranged one or more of the aforementioned meetings, which we will do as soon as possible.”
Philippe stood up. “I thank you again for your time, your help, and your wonderful hospitality.” He bowed to each of them.
“I will show you the way,” said Max.
“Thank you,” said Philippe.
Max took them to the doorway to the common area. “Do you require an escort back to your living area?”
Philippe looked at Shanti, who shook her head. “I believe we can find the way, but thank you again for all your assistance.”
“We deeply appreciate your friendship, human diplomat, and that of the humans,” said Max.
The humans walked in silence to the elevator, waited for it as it came down, and stepped on, the only passengers. They traveled down a floor.
“What the fuck was that?” Vip spat the words out.
“Hey!” said Mo, punching Vip in the arm. “Language!”
“Sorry, but come on. What the freck was that?” Vip looked at Philippe. “When did those cameras become unimportant? They’re not unimportant.”
“Shut it,” snapped Shanti. “Remember what they said about the common area.”
Vip glared at Philippe all during the walk back to their living area. Cut and Doug were standing guard at either side of the closed door, which opened to let them into the no man’s land.
“What—” Vip began.
“Door’s not shut, Vip,” Shanti cut in.
The outer door closed
and the inner door opened. Sucre was standing guard on the inner door.
“Vip, Trang, my office,” said Shanti.
Philippe walked into her office, wondering when he became her soldier. They sat in two chairs, while Shanti sat behind a desk.
“Now, Vip, I understand you have a problem with what just happened. Air it,” she pointed at him.
It was like she opened the floodgates. “Why did you tell those bastards that we didn’t have to have the cameras?” Vip yelled. “We told you last night—we gotta have those cameras.”
“And we have them,” said Philippe.
“Hey, Trang?” said Shanti. “Let him say his piece.”
“We’re extending our perimeter,” said Vip. “And we can’t fucking do that if we can’t fucking see. So don’t say shit like that isn’t important, unless you want to spend your whole fucking time here holed up behind the no man’s zone.”
Shanti pointed at Philippe. I guess it’s my turn, he thought, making a face.
“I think you’re missing the larger point here, which is that we have the cameras,” said Philippe. “We now have explicit permission to put whatever surveillance wherever we like in the common area.”
Vip made a noise, but Shanti waggled her finger at him and pointed it back at Philippe.
“I’m sorry if you feel that I slighted what you do,” said Philippe. “I know that surveillance is crucially important. But you have to understand my job here, which is not only to get us what we need, but also to do it without getting anyone upset. If I had stormed in their and pounded my fist on their table, what good would that have done?
“I know you’re thinking, since it is really important to us, I should have told them it was really important.” Vip raised his eyebrows and nodded. “That’s because you guys do things straightforwardly—if you need something badly, you say, ‘I need that badly’ so that you’re sure to get it. But in diplomacy, you have to be a little more devious, because everything’s a favor. If I say to you, ‘I need that badly,’ and you say, ‘OK,’ then you’ve done me a huge favor and I’m going to owe you a big favor back. But if I’m a little sneaky and say, ‘This isn’t very important, but if you don’t mind’—even though it is important, very important—then you’ve done me only a small favor, so I owe you only a small favor back. As far as you know, anyway.”
“You duplicitous bastard!” said Shanti admiringly. She pointed at Vip. “You happy?”
Philippe doubted if Vip had ever been happy, and he certainly did not look happy at the moment. But the SFer nodded.
“Good,” said Shanti. “Now go get those fucking cameras up.”
Vip stood and left the room.
Philippe started to stand, too, when Shanti said, “Hang on a sec, Trang.” He sat back down.
“So, you didn’t like Patch’s names?” Her face showed no emotion.
“I—uh—no.”
She smiled. “At least he didn’t go with Cluster Fuck. I have a question for you. You noticed what the Hosts did with their living quarters, with keeping the atmosphere and the gravity the same as the common area.”
“Yes,” said Philippe.
“I was wondering, do you think we should do that here, where we live? I mean, if we’re used to functioning with different oxygen and different gravity, maybe that puts us at a disadvantage in the common area if something bad should happen.”
Philippe wondered for a moment why she was bringing this up to him. Perhaps after treating him like some soldier who should just follow orders, she now felt compelled to acknowledge his status by consulting him on something that he knew absolutely nothing about.
“Did you think it made a big difference?” he asked. “After a few minutes, I didn’t even notice it.”
“But we weren’t really exerting ourselves,” said Shanti. “What I’m worried about is what will happen in a combat situation.”
“I really don’t know anything about combat, but wouldn’t it all even out?” She shrugged. “Well, the atmosphere is under our control, and I can talk to the Hosts about lessening the gravity—I’m sure if I say that we too are trying to relate better to the other aliens, they’ll be happy to do it. But maybe you should talk to George first—isn’t it supposed to be bad for people to be in low gravity all the time? Of course, that’s how they live on Titan. I wonder what they do there?”
“I’ll see what George says, and if he thinks it’s OK to change the gravity, I’ll get back to you. But you know what I can do,” said Shanti, snapping her fingers. “I can alter the training simulations so that the gravity matches the common area. I was planning to feed in some of the visuals from our cameras anyway—give them a more realistic sense of the battleground.”
“Training simulations?” Philippe asked, surprised. “Aren’t they already trained?”
Shanti gave him a withering look. “It’s combat training,” she explained, the words you idiot hanging unspoken in the air. “With combat training, you have to keep doing it, or you’ll lose your skills. You won’t have that killer edge.”
Philippe smiled weakly. “So, in these simulations,” he asked. “Do the soldiers fight the aliens?”
“Who else would they fight?” she asked.
Philippe excused himself and went into his office. There was a memory widget on his desk—the mail had apparently arrived.
He opened it on his workstation. There were more than 80 messages in his office file. In his personal file were seven messages. Five were from Kathy.
He deleted those and started on his next report.
It wasn’t long before a Swimmer drone wheeled up to one of the outside guards and extended a hearty invitation for Philippe to come visit. Philippe—accompanied at Shanti’s insistence by four soldiers, even to take three steps outside and talk to a friendly vacuum cleaner—arranged to meet the Swimmers the next day in their living area.
Which was apparently a massive tank filled with water.
“It’s not a problem,” said George, sitting on a bed in the infirmary. “If you put on the gloves and the hood and seal it all up, your suit can keep you alive for two hours under water, assuming the pressure’s not too high.”
“Raoul, grab a pal, go outside, and find a Swimmer. Find out what the pressure’s like in that tank. If the Swimmers don’t give you an answer that you can understand, ask the Hosts,” said Shanti. Raoul took off from the infirmary like a shot.
She slapped her mike. “Patch, Rojy, get over to the infirmary.” Two minutes later, Patch and Rojy walked in, and she asked them. “What do we have that works under water?”
“Under water? The guns will work with the right ammo, which I’m pretty sure we have,” said Patch. “I’ll check that. But the range is going to be a lot shorter, only about a third of the usual, and the ammo will be slower and less lethal.”
Shanti looked at Philippe, questioningly.
“I am not carrying a gun,” he said.
“What might be better is some of the stuff that burns,” Rojy volunteered. “Even if it doesn’t burn them, you could heat up the water pretty quick and boil them. And some of the really powerful explosives do just fine underwater.”
“I don’t need to be a part of this conversation,” said Philippe, and took his leave.
He passed Five-Eighths and Thorpe in the hallway.
“His full-body massage is amazing,” Thorpe was telling Five-Eighths. “Everything they say about older men is so true.”
“They can’t get it up?” Five-Eighths replied.
“No, asshole. It’s just a much better experience. Sensual, you know? You should totally check him out.”
Philippe walked into his office and shut the door, manners winning out over curiosity. He went to work on his mail, but a few minutes later someone knocked on his door and opened it without waiting for a reply.
Shanti stuck her head in.
“Would you consider carrying an explosive?” she asked.
“No,” said Philippe curtly. r />
“They’re really easy to use,” she continued.
“I am not carrying any sort of weapon.”
“Not even a knife?”
“Not even a knife.”
She sucked her teeth. “Is that, like, an Amish thing?”
That did it.
“Were I actually Amish, it might be,” Philippe snapped. “As things are, it’s standard DiploCorps policy—diplomats do not carry weapons of any kind. If you were Union Police, you would know that.”
Shanti left, and he returned to his work—several SA and DiploCorps officers had read his report on their reception and had sent in additional queries, some of them laughably naive. He was in the midst of explaining that he lacked the expertise, equipment, and time to have made a detailed chemical analysis of the alien construction materials—nor had he permission to take samples in the first place—when someone banged on his door again.
“Raoul and Bubba are back!” yelled Shanti, not bothering to open the door.
Philippe jumped out of the office and followed the pack into the infirmary.
“You gotta see this,” said Raoul, tapping the camera on his suit.
It turned out that Raoul’s question about water pressure had proven difficult to answer because, of course, the aliens did not use the same measurements for pressure that humans did. After talking around it with a Swimmer drone for several minutes, the drone led Raoul and Bubba to the Swimmers’ living area in hope that they could satisfy their concerns that way.
An open scroll in the infirmary displayed what Raoul’s camera had recorded: The Swimmer living area was a massive fish tank. There was a large window at the end of the living area that faced the doors to the common area. A wide ramp cut diagonally across the window. That section was lit, but the rest of the living area was not. Large, dark, tube-like shapes were moving in the dark water, barely visible.
“But,” said Raoul, “it’s open on top. You see right there—” he pointed to the top of the scroll, which was displaying a shot taken with the camera right up against the glass, pointing upward “—that’s air there. You go up the ramp and there’s a place where you can just drop right into the water.”
“It’s like a swimming pool,” said Shanti.
“Yeah, it ain’t sealed, so it ain’t under pressure,” said Bubba. “Their place has the same atmosphere and gravity as the common area, it’s just filled with water.”
“That’s good, that’s good, that means there’s oxygen,” said the doctor, patting Philippe on the shoulder. “I was wondering about that—you know, the suit keeps you alive underwater by pulling in dissolved oxygen from the water.”
“And you weren’t sure there’d be oxygen?” Philippe asked.
“Hell, I’m not sure that’s water,” said George. He drew his thick eyebrows into a frown, and then shrugged. “If you feel like you’re drowning, get out of there.”
“This is excellent,” said Shanti. “This is good. Bubba, you gotta download what you have too. Patch and I are going to look this shit over. Men, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Damn straight,” said Bubba. “Ain’t nobody better than us at playing dumb.”
“You sure you’re playing?” Raoul asked. Bubba responded with an obscene gesture.
“Hey, Trang,” said Shanti, watching the screen. “I realize that if I were a good Yooper instead of a dumb Sister Fucker, I would know this, but: Would you object to a tether?”
“Not at all,” Philippe replied.
As the hour to meet the Swimmers approached, the hallway outside of Philippe’s office became ominously silent. Philippe’s nervousness had caused him to get ready far in advance, and now he was just sitting around in his lonjons and his dress suit, too distracted to concentrate on anything. Because he was going underwater, Vip had given him translator and com mikes that stuck directly to his skin, and they felt like a persistent worry on his collarbone.
The waiting was killing him, so he went out. He found Shanti, Patch, Bubba, and Raoul in one of the armories; they were sealing up the pockets in their uniforms, which were bulging with particularly ill-concealed weaponry.
“Hey, there’s Trang,” said Shanti. “Bubba, you got the harness?”
Bubba held up a mass of webbing.
“OK. Should we put it on now? You’re not wearing that suit into the water, are you?”
“I thought I’d wear it on the way over and take it off when we get there,” said Philippe.
“OK. We’ll put the harness on you then.”
Shanti started. “What? Oh, OK. Tell him we’ll be there in a few minu—as soon as we can. Say ‘as soon as we can,’ OK? ‘Minutes’ doesn’t translate.”
She slapped her mike. “Max is here,” she said to Philippe.
“Oh, is he going to take us to the Swimmers?”
“Apparently,” Shanti replied. “Is everybody ready? You got your hood?”
“Yes,” said Philippe.
“Then let’s go.”
They walked through the no man’s land, pausing as the outer door opened. Max was standing next to the two guards. As they came out, he began to thrum.
“Greetings, Max,” said Philippe. “I am so happy to see you.”
“I apologize profusely,” said Max. “We did not agree that I would escort you to the Swimmers, but I became concerned that you might be expecting an escort and might not know the way, so I took it upon myself to escort you. I hope my presence here is not unwelcome.”
“Your presence is always welcome, and I thank you for your consideration,” Philippe replied.
Max still looked worried. “I know you are probably wondering why Moritz is not here as well. Unfortunately, his religious order requires his participation in a ceremony at this time.”
“I hope that you are not missing a religious ceremony on our account,” Philippe said.
“I belong to a religious order that has fewer ceremonies,” Max replied. “Despite his not being here, I wish to assure you that your people and their happiness are very important to Moritz.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said Philippe.
“Hey there, fellas.” It was Shanti, who was speaking to three Pincushions that had made their way slowly up to her.
“Greetings, scaled human,” replied one of the Pincushions.
“Hello. I am afraid that we must leave you now to meet with the Swimmers,” said Philippe to the Pincushions. He noticed that the blobs stuck on the backs of the Pincushions were blue and gray. “But we look forward to meeting with your people as well.”
“Bring the scaled one,” said another Pincushion.
“Cannot translate. Please excuse that remark, I ask you in a truthful manner,” said the first Pincushion. Philippe was confused for a moment, but then he realized that the first remark was the translator speaking for itself. “It is extremely accurate to say that we would be happy to meet with any representatives you choose.”
“I look forward to it,” Philippe said.
They walked over to one of the elevators. “What was that about?” Philippe asked Shanti.
“The Pincushions are very interested in the armored human’s scales,” said Max.
“I beg your pardon?” Shanti said to him.
“I apologize. I do not understand your remark,” said Max.
“That makes two of us,” said Shanti.
“She doesn’t understand what you said about her scales,” said Philippe.
“The scales on her main body,” said Max. “The Pincushions are fascinated by them; they consider them both very beautiful and quite intimidating. They also say that the other humans in your party do not have such armor.”
“Oh,” said Shanti. “I get it.”
Philippe didn’t. “You have scales on your body?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” she replied. “So, Max, the Pincushions can see through clothing?”
“Yes, the Pincushions have unusually good vision. They can see a very broad range
of light, and their brains incorporate the reflection of the sound waves that their bodies give off into their vision, so they also have excellent depth of vision. The Swimmers have attempted to adapt some of those processes into their drones, but even with their best technology they cannot see as well as the Pincushions do. We and the Swimmers know of your scales only because the Pincushions have told us.”
Shanti looked impressed. “Shit,” she said. “Oh, sorry—shoot.”
“Here is the Swimmers’ living area,” said Max.
The doors opened as they approached, courtesy surely of one of the nearby drones, and the small party walked in. There was not much room—roughly two meters separated the doors, which were now closing, and the glass. The ramp, which began at the lower right corner of the window and sloped up to the left, was itself less than a meter wide.
Philippe took off his suit jacket and pants as Bubba pulled out the harness. He stepped into it, and Bubba tightened it up. The tether attached to the harness was coiled, but it looked long enough to give Philippe freedom of movement. Bubba pulled on Philippe’s hood and sealed it, checking his gloves as well.
“Who else is going in?” Philippe asked.
“Just you,” said Shanti. “Stick near the window.”
“I’m sorry?” said Philippe, glancing at Max. “What if there’s a p-r-o-b-l-e-m?”
“Unless you’ve turned on your body mike? Your only working translation mike is in there,” said Shanti, who stopped fiddling with her own mike to point at his suit jacket on the floor. “Anyway, if it’s small, we’ve got the tether. If it’s big, we’ll have an incident. Don’t you trust us?”
Philippe chose not to answer that question, instead walking up the ramp with Bubba and Patch behind him. Behind the glass was the water, dwindling away to darkness, and the massive figures moving vaguely in that dark. Suddenly, something white drifted into the light.
“Hey, hey look!” said Philippe, pointing at it. “It’s a White Spider!”
It pulsated like a jellyfish and moved back into the dark.
“Wow,” said Patch. “Those things are everywhere, aren’t they?”
“They’re a damned nui—” Bubba began, before a look from Philippe stopped him. “OK, they’re a darned— Hey!” Patch, blessedly insightful, had smacked him.
Philippe walked to the top of the ramp, which turned out over the water to make a platform. He got on all fours and crawled out onto the edge of the platform. He could see the roof of the living area over the water for a few meters before all was lost in the darkness.
“You guys ready?” said Philippe to Bubba and Patch, who was uncoiling the tether.
“Hey Shanti,” Patch said, in a quiet voice that echoed weirdly in Philippe’s ear. “We ready?”
“Yeah, coms are set. Mikes on, everybody. Trang? That means you,” Shanti’s voice came into his ear. He turned on his com mike.
“Unless something comes up, we’ll just let you have your lead,” said Bubba, his voice echoing. “But stick near the glass and stay in the light.”
“OK,” Philippe sat down, his feet in the water, then slid the rest of the way in.
He quickly sank down to the bottom of the tank. I guess it’s not salt water, he thought, as his feet hit the bottom of the chamber.
“Can you hear me in there?” Shanti’s voice broke in.
“Yeah, clear as a bell,” said Philippe. He turned toward the glass and waved at the three figures standing there. “The suit seems to be working fine; I don’t feel like I’m suffocating.”
“Good. Max says they should be along any minute,” said Shanti.
Philippe turned the other way, facing the darkness.