Lisbeth had monitored the space traffic control communications between the Tah-Leen and the American ships. The controllers had looked human and spoken perfect English. Intercepts from other ships in the system (about a dozen from a bunch of different species were in Xanadu at the moment, making transit well away from the main habitat) had revealed each of them had been addressed by space traffic controllers that looked and sounded like the primary species of each particular vessel. All of which was par for the course in Xanadu. The thousands of ships that used the system as a jump-off point were greeted only by mirror images of their crews. The Snowflakes probably used artificially-generated graphic filters to avoid showing their real faces.
After the Brunhild had docked, with the escort destroyers holding station near the space habitat, its passengers had been asked to wait until a formal welcome reception to be held in three hours. Plenty of time for everyone to get dressed and make preparations for what amounted to First Contact with what probably was the oldest living species in the galaxy.
Not the kind of shindig a Marine major gets invited to, except maybe as staff for someone of flag rank, or maybe to serve canapes. A mistake here would not only happen in front of several people with the power to ruin her life and career (for the second and likely the final time), but it might lead to an interstellar incident that could cost humanity its very existence. Better be on my best behavior. No spitting on the mat or calling the cat a bastard, or whatever the Tah-Leen equivalents are.
Her imp signaled her; it was time to join the shore party. They were assembling at one of the luxury liner’s ballrooms, from which they would head to the main passenger airlock, large enough to fit all hundred and twenty of them comfortably. From there, they would come aboard the Tah-Leen habitat proper. Their hosts had assured them – via another ersatz human speaker – that the environment waiting for them would be ideal for human comfort, so there would be no need for any haz-con equipment or nanite injections. All the military personnel and most of the VIPs would have discreetly-concealed emergency survival systems, of course.
The waiting dignitaries coalesced into three distinct groups as they arrived. The genuine Very Important Persons dominated the center of the ballroom, quietly talking among themselves, men and women both attired in dark business suits, cut in styles that had been fashionable before First Contact and remained so over the past century and a half, in no small part because a near-majority of today’s movers and shakers could remember that bygone era. The dozen or so VIPs were surrounded by twice as many lackeys and some thirty Security Detail agents, orbiting their bosses and principals like so many escort vessels around a dreadnought.
A second group of lower-level flunkies – translators, consultants and the like – were off to one side, not important enough to rub elbows with their betters. Heather was among them, having an animated conversation with someone Lisbeth’s imp identified as an expert in Starfarer protocol.
The smallest group in the bunch beckoned to Lisbeth like a traffic transponder: uniformed personnel, including Captain Fromm and all his company officers, except for the XO, who was staying behind to command the reaction force aboard the Brunhild. The Commander of DESRON 91, Captain Naomi Benchley, was also there, although she could have just as easily been rubbing elbows with the VIPs, being the second seniormost military officer present. General Gage was the number one, and he was hanging out with the Secretary.
She exchanged salutes with her fellow officers before mingling with them. Captain Benchley resumed the conversation she was having with Captain Fromm.
“It looks like the latest Imperium probe into Wyrashat space means business,” Benchley said. “That’s going to be the next main theater of operations, you can count on it. And all we’ve got to back up the Wyrms is the Human Expeditionary Force: a battleship division, plus a handful of cruiser squadrons and support and about the same number of Pan-Asian cans, for what they’re worth. Not a good situation.”
“A new carrier strike group is on its way there,” Lisbeth said. “That should help.”
She watched Captain Benchley’s reaction carefully. The Navy was divided into two camps when it came to carrier-based warp fighters. There was the enthusiastic faction that not only wanted more carriers and fighters built, but who wanted to take the latter away from the Marines. And the pessimistic faction that believed that newfangled devices were just a fad that would pass as soon as the enemy figured out countermeasures that rendered the new toys all but useless. This early in the game, there was no middle faction. Maybe after a couple of years went by.
“I only wish they had more to send,” Benchley replied.
A carrier partisan, then, Lisbeth decided with some relief.
“Hell, I wish they’d given us a light carrier for this cruise,” the Navy captain went on. “Might have given us a chance to fight our way out of this system, if it comes to that.”
“Getting enough pilots is going to be our biggest problem,” Lisbeth said. “The training required is…” She wandered off for a few seconds, images of what happened during some of the training failures flashing past her eyes. “Let’s just say you can’t take shortcuts.”
The other officers eyed her with a mixture of respect and wariness. Over the last few months, warp fighter pilots had eclipsed navigators as the most ‘out there’ occupational specialty in all branches of the service. They probably wouldn’t be surprised if she started telling people’s fortunes, or howling at the moon for that matter.
“Well, let’s just hope we can deploy enough to keep the Imperium off our backs.”
“Amen to that.”
“We’ve been cleared to enter the Habitat for Unique Diversity,” a voice piped in via her imp. “Please proceed to the exit as indicated.”
The gathering became a procession of sorts, spearheaded by the State Department delegation. The Security Detail was right behind them, followed closely by the military officers. The rest of the invitees brought up the rear. Normally the security officers would go first, but under the circumstances it’d been decided such a display would show distrust and, more importantly, fear. So the VIPs were going to be the first to venture into the wolf’s lair. A refreshing change of pace, as far as Lisbeth was concerned.
Say what you would about their choice of transport, but the Brunhild was at least designed to allow large numbers of people to walk around its innards in relative comfort. Trying to move over a hundred mostly-civilian passengers in the cramped corridors that predominated even inside dreadnoughts would have been downright painful. The group made it to the oversized airlock without anybody bumping into a bulkhead, and there was only a slight delay as the equally large station airlock – baroquely-decorated gold and silver overlapping doors, covered in fancy bass-reliefs of what could be monsters or perhaps the mysterious Tah-Leen themselves – slid open, revealing a single greeter standing on the other side.
A single, apparently human greeter.
The woman that met the diplomatic party looked perfectly normal, other than being on the tall side, topping a good six-five despite wearing sandals. Light olive-skin, hazel eyes and jet-black hair could have belonged to any of a dozen ethnic groups or nationalities on Earth. There was no way this was an alien in its original body. Starfarers were humanoid more often than not, with nine of the seventeen major species in the known galaxy following the same body plan as humans – bilaterally symmetrical bipeds – but nobody looked exactly like anyone else.
Just for the hell of it, Lisbeth tried to access the woman’s profile. Just about every human in the universe had one, either via Facettergram or one of the handful lesser services trying to compete with the social media giant. Most Starfarers had equivalent systems and compatible public profiles as well. All she got from her imp query was a ‘Profile Set to Private’ message, which could mean a dozen different things. No help there.
Human or not, the woman was extremely beautiful even for an American, where thanks to modern medicine only the very poor
or very eccentric were unattractive. If she ever got tired of working for the Tah-Leen, she could make a living as a fashion model. She was wearing a charmingly-archaic ankle-length tunic, closely fitted and dyed black with a vertical ochre stripe adding a dash of color. The tunic was fastened at the shoulder with a golden brooch and belted tightly right below its wearers’ breasts. A shawl over her head, the curly hairdo, and the somewhat crude golden jewelry she wore made the woman look like an actor in a historical media production set in Biblical or Classical times.
“Welcome,” the seemingly Terran female said. “The Tah-Leen are delighted to have you aboard the Habitat for Unique Diversity, Jewel of Xanadu, Home to All True Individuals. We celebrate diversity, self-expression, and individuality above all things. We, a rainbow of infinite colors, bid you welcome, for in welcoming you we are, for once, united and speaking as one.”
Her English was just like what you heard from news readers or other public speakers. The words themselves… What did Heather call them? Special Snowflakes indeed. Magnificently unique, every last one of them. Except if everyone is special, nobody is.
“Today, I am Helena,” the alien spokesperson went on. “My name and shape were inspired by your legend of Helen of Troy. My Core’s role is that of Priestess.”
Shape-shifters? With nanotech you could alter your physique a great deal, but the procedure wasn’t something you did lightly, and there were limits. If you changed enough things, staying alive became difficult, if not impossible. At least not at the common Starfarer tech level.
No, not shapeshifters. Body-jumpers. That had to be an artificial body, used like a drone. That was still beyond even a Level Five bio-fabber’s capabilities, but it was easier to believe than a species able to alter its entire structure at will.
“And you must be Michelle Raina Goftalu, Secretary of State of the United Stars of America,” Helena added, turning towards the leader of the delegation. “Your first name means ‘Gift from God.’ The middle one means ‘Queen.’ And your surname can be translated as ‘She Who Stands in the Center.’ I can see they all apply to you and make you a unique and precious individual who is here to speak on behalf of your people. May I hug you?”
Secretary Goftalu didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
Helena stepped forward and warmly embraced the Secretary as if they were old friends meeting after years of absence. The senior diplomat hugged her back in good grace, even though their nearly one-foot size difference meant her face ended up pressed against Helena’s breasts. Lisbeth was sure that the Security Detail would proceed to scan Sec-State’s clothes and body down to the molecular level, looking for anything the direct contact might have left behind. Pheromones, mind-control nanites, or just plain alien cooties; they were all possibilities. Galactic diplomacy wasn’t for the faint at heart.
“If you will all follow me, I shall convey you to the reception prepared in your honor.”
The wide corridors of the habitat were covered with colorful glass and stone mosaics, the kind of thing one could find in museums. Earth museums. Both the style and depictions were of Greek or Roman origin. Lisbeth’s imp quickly informed her that the dress Helena wore was a variety of Greek chiton, a tunic commonly worn back in pre-Christian times.
“I chose the motifs for the decorations that would greet you upon your arrival,” Helena said. “It was I who selected them. Do you like them, Michelle?”
If the Secretary minded someone of undetermined status calling her by her first name, she gave no sign of it. “It is truly magnificent, Helena. I couldn’t imagine a more gorgeous sight.”
Helena actually giggled like a little girl at the compliment. Giggled and pranced ahead of the group.
I’m no expert, but I don’t think Starfarers usually go for prancing as a form of expression.
Lisbeth looked around at her companions. The top diplomats in front of her seemed bemused. Captain Fromm looked tense. She could sympathize. Unusual, seemingly childish behavior was never a good sign. An erratic alien could go from friendly to hostile without warning.
The walk to the reception wasn’t very long, maybe fifty meters or so, so they were still right on the outer edge of the massive space habitat. Another large set of doors slid open, revealing a party in progress.
Where the corridor had been decorated with ancient Greek mosaics, the reception hall – big enough to fit a basketball court and an audience of a few hundred spectators – was shaped to look like a massive grotto, covered in Paleolithic cave paintings. Colorful depictions of prey animals in assorted poses filled the walls, broken up by clusters of painted handprints immortalizing the original artists. The huge artificial cavern and its painted walls had an eerie cast from flickering lights that were the only sources of illumination, clearly meant to mimic torches or campfires. Lisbeth wasn’t sure if the setting was meant to flatter human achievement, or to draw a cruel comparison to the splendors of Xanadu. She knew that this particular station long predated the original cave paintings by several millennia.
I’m going to go for insulting, she decided. ‘Look at what these pitiful primitives were doing when we ruled the galaxy!’ That’s what they’re telling us. Assholes.
The thought barely had time to cross her mind before her attention was drawn to the gathering waiting for them in the wide center of the cave.
About two hundred people in a dizzying variety of costumes were cavorting inside.
Humans. They all looked like humans.
Male, female, and androgynous. Tall and beautiful, except for some grotesque exceptions, representing just about every racial group imaginable. Their garments – other than a handful of completely naked revelers – were just as diverse. Lisbeth saw someone in full Samurai armor dancing with a woman wearing a black leather corset, a stovepipe hat that made her think of Abraham Lincoln, and 1950s style red Capri pants over silver platform shoes. Not too far away, someone in what seemed to be a very faithful replica of a Scots Highlander outfit, complete with kilt and Glengarry cap, whispered sweet nothings into the ear of a man wearing a pre-Contact astronaut suit, but with a gorilla mask in lieu of a helmet. Romans in togas drank with Beninese warriors in battle harness, French Crusaders in chain mail and Tibetan lamas in simple robes. And so on and so forth.
Music was playing in the background, switching styles every few seconds, Gregorian chants swiftly replaced by tribal drumming before giving way to a jazzy sax solo, followed by something Lisbeth had to Woogle to identify as a Polynesian melody. Smells filled the cavern as well: cooked, fried and grilled food from various cuisines, tobacco smoke, incense, assorted perfumes and some disgusting stenches that her imp ID’d as crack cocaine and methamphetamines, wafting in and out her olfactory range.
This is ridiculous.
For several seconds, the party went on, ignoring the new arrivals. Finally, Helena clapped her hands over her head. The resulting noise was as loud as a gunshot – 195 decibels, her imp helpfully informed her – more than enough to cut through the noise and silence everyone.
“The Human Americans are here,” the Priestess said.
The gathering of weirdos exploded in loud cheers. Streamers and clouds of confetti popped out from both sides of the entrance, showering the US delegation with glittering crap. Somebody started chanting “USA! USA!” and soon all the Tah-Leen took it up, making the whole thing sound like a stadium at a football game.
I guess it’s better than ‘Death to America,’ but this is beginning to feel like a bad trip.
A figure emerged from the mob of revelers and floated over their heads. Unlike the majority of the Tah-Leen, the hairless pseudo-human was fat to the point of obesity. He was wearing golden robes that left most of his ample gut uncovered and carried prayer beads in one hand and a small cloth sack in the other; his costume was that of Budai, the Chinese folk deity of prosperity that had eventually become associated with the Laughing Buddha popular in Asian art.
“It is well and truly wonderful to finally see you, o
ur new American friends,” the floating Budai said after the cheering had subsided, his voice artificially magnified so it was almost painful to hear. “I am the Hierophant, Keeper of the Lore of Tah, given the task of guiding the True Individuals as they each pursue their unique path towards happiness.
“Here there is no want or strife, except for amusement’s sake. This is a place of safety, happiness and comfort for my people, and my primary purpose is to keep it that way. Your arrival here has been a source of much merriment among us. In that, the Multitude of the Unique is unanimous. So today we celebrate your arrival, by getting to know one another in informal, pleasurable ways. Tomorrow we shall discuss the very important issues that brought you here.”
Even though his smile didn’t waver, Lisbeth thought there was a hint of a sneer in it as the Hierophant went on:
“Admittedly, their importance is relatively minor to us. We, the True Individuals that comprise the Celebration of Diversity, desire very little from our younger cousins among the stars, although we have a great deal to offer them, especially to vigorous civilizations still finding their way in the universe. But those things can wait. Tonight, we party like it’s the last day of the last year of the last eon of our existence!”
The crowd roared its approval.
A furious flurry of implant communication ensued as the American diplomats and the rest of the entourage smiled and nodded while they insta-messaged each other.
The orders from the State Department came quickly enough. Do not indulge in alcohol or any mind-altering substances; have your bio-implants alert you of any signs of intoxication or toxicity. Scan all food and drink carefully before consuming anything. Do not engage in sexual congress with the locals. Be friendly and polite. Ignore verbal provocations and anything less than direct physical assault.
Warp Marine Corps- The Complete Series Page 73