The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fifth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “If you could come into my Ship,” Drill said, “we could get started.”

  “Will we then meet the other members of your delegation?”

  Drill gazed down at the Shar. The fur on her shoulders was rising in odd tufts. She seemed to be making a concerted effort to calm it.

  “There are no other members,” Drill said. “Just myself.”

  His knees were paining him. He watched as the other members of the Shar party cast quick glances at each other.

  “No secretaries? No assistants?” the President was saying.

  “No,” Drill said. “Not at all. I’m the only conscious mind on Ship. Shall we get started?”

  Eat! Eat! said Lowbrain. Drill ordered it to be silent. His stomach grumbled.

  “Perhaps,” said President Gram, gazing at the vastness of the human ship, “it would be best should we begin in a few hours. I should probably speak to the crowd. Would you care to listen?”

  No need. Memory said. I will monitor.

  “Thank you, no,” Drill said. “I shall return to Ship for food and sex. Please signal me when you are ready. Please bring any furniture you may need for your comfort. I do not believe my furniture would fit you, although we might be able to clone some later.”

  The Shars’ ears all pricked forward. Drill entered Zen Synch, turned his huge body, and began accelerating toward the airlock. The sound of the crowd behind him was like the murmuring of wind through a stand of trees.

  Peace, he thought later, as he stood by the mash bins and fed his complaining stomach. It’s a simple thing. How long can it take to arrange?

  Long, said Memory. Very long.

  The thought disturbed him. He thought the first meeting had gone well.

  After his meal, when he had sex, it wasn’t very good.

  * * *

  Memory had been monitoring the events outside Ship, and after Drill had completed sex, Memory showed him the outside events. They have been broadcast to the entire population, Memory said.

  President Gram had moved to a local elevation and had spoken for some time. Drill found her speech interesting—it was rhythmic and incantorial, rising and falling in tone and volume, depending heavily on repetition and melody. The crowd participated, issuing forth with excited barks or low moans in response to her statements or questions, sometimes babbling in confusion when she posed them a conundrum. Memory only gave the highlights of the speech. “Unknown … attackers … billions dead … preparations advanced … ready to defend ourselves … offer of peace … hope in the darkness … unknown … willing to take the chance … peace … peace … hopeful smell … peace.” At the end the other Shars were all singing “Peace! Peace!” in chorus while President Gram bounced up and down on her sturdy rear leg.

  It sounds pretty, Drill thought. But why does she go on like that?

  Memory’s reply was swift.

  Remember that the Shars are a generalized and social species, it said. President Gram’s power, and her ability to negotiate, derives from the degree of her popular support. In measures of this significance she must explain herself and her actions to the population in order to maintain their enthusiasm for her policies.

  Primitive, Drill thought.

  That is correct.

  Why don’t they let her get on with her work? Drill asked.

  There was no reply.

  * * *

  After an exchange of signals the Shar party assembled at the airlock. Several Shars had been mobilized to carry tables and stools. Drill sent a Frog to escort the Shars from the airlock to where he waited. The Frog met them inside the airlock, turned, and hopped on ahead through Ship’s airy, winding corridors. It had been trained to repeat “Follow me, follow me” in the Shars’ own language.

  Drill waited in a semi-reclined position on a Slab. The Slab was an organic sub-species used as furniture, with an idiot brain capable of responding to human commands. The Shars entered cautiously, their weak eyes twitching in the bright light. “Welcome, Honorable President,” Drill said. “Up, Slab.” Slab began to adjust itself to place Drill on his feet. The Shars were moving tables and stools into the vast room.

  Frog was hopping in circles, making a wet noise at each landing. “Follow me, follow me,” it said.

  The members of the Shar delegation who bore badges of rank stood in a body while the furniture-carriers bustled around them. Drill noticed, as Slab put him on his feet, that they were wrinkling their noses. He wondered what it meant.

  His knees crackled as he came fully upright. “Please make yourselves comfortable,” he said. “Frog will show your laborers to the airlock.”

  “Does your Excellency object to a mechanical recording of the proceedings?” President Gram asked. She was shading her eyes with her hand.

  “Not at all.” As a number of devices rose into the air above the party, Drill wondered if it were possible to give the Shars detachable Memories. Perhaps human bioengineers could adapt the Memories to the Shar physiology. He asked Memory to make a note of the question so that he could bring it up later.

  “Follow me, follow me,” Frog said. The workers who had carried the furniture began to follow the hopping Frog out of the room.

  “Your Excellency,” President Gram said, “may I have the honor of presenting to you the other members of my delegation?”

  There were six in all, with titles like Secretary for Syncopated Speech and Special Executive for External Coherence. There was also a Minister for the Dissemination of Convincing Lies, whose title Drill suspected was somehow mistranslated, and an Opposite Secretary-General for the Genocidal Eradication of Alien Aggressors, at whom Drill looked with more than a little interest. The Opposite Secretary-General was named Vang, and was small even for a Shar. He seemed to wrinkle his nose more than the others. The Special Executive for External Coherence, whose name was Cup, seemed a bit piebald, patches of white skin showing through the golden fur covering his shoulders, arms, and head.

  He is elderly, said Memory.

  That’s what I thought.

  “Down, Slab,” Drill said. He leaned back against the creature and began to move to a more relaxed position.

  He looked at the Shars and smiled. Fur ruffled on shoulders and necks. “Shall we make peace now?” he asked.

  “We would like to clarify something you said earlier,” President Gram said. “You said that you were the only, ah, conscious entity on the ship. That you were the only member of the human delegation. Was that translated correctly?”

  “Why, yes,” Drill said. “Why would more than one diplomat be necessary?”

  The Shars looked at each other. The Special Executive for External Coherence spoke cautiously.

  “You will not be needing to consult with your superiors? You have full authority from your government?”

  Drill beamed at them. “We humans do not have a government, of course,” he said. “But I am a diplomat with the appropriate Memory and training. There is no problem that I can foresee.”

  “Please let me understand, your Excellency,” Cup said. He was leaning forward, his small eyes watering. “I am elderly and may be slow in comprehending the situation. But if you have no government, who accredited you with this mission?”

  “I am a diplomat. It is my specialty. No accreditation is necessary. The human race will accept my judgment on any matter of negotiation, as they would accept the judgment of any specialist in his area of expertise.”

  “But why you. As an individual?”

  Drill shrugged massively. “I was part of the nearest diplomatic enclave, and the individual without any other tasks at the moment.” He looked at each of the delegation in turn. “I am incredibly happy to have this chance, honorable delegates,” he said. “The vast majority of human diplomats never have the chance to speak to another species. Usually we mediate only in conflicts of interest between the various groups of human specialities.”

  “But the human species will abide by your decisions?”

  “Of
course.” Drill was surprised at the Shar’s persistence. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  Cup settled back in his chair. His ears were down. There was a short silence.

  “We have an opening statement prepared,” President Gram said. “I would like to enter it into our record, if I may. Or would your Excellency prefer to go first?”

  “I have no opening statement,” Drill said. “Please go ahead.”

  Cup and the President exchanged glances. President Gram took a deep breath and began.

  Long. Memory said. Very long.

  The opening statement seemed very much like the address President Gram had been delivering to the crowd, the same hypnotic rhythms, more or less the same content. The rest of the delegation made muted responses. Drill drowsed through it, enjoying it as music.

  “Thank you, Honorable President,” he said afterwards. “That was very nice.”

  “We would like to propose an agenda for the conference,” Gram said. “First, to resolve the matter of the cease-fire and its provisions for an ending to hostilities. Second, the establishment of a secure border between our two species, guaranteeing both species room for expansion. Third, the establishment of trade and visitation agreements. Fourth, the matter of reparations, payments, and return of lost territory.”

  Drill nodded. “I believe,” he said, “that resolution of the second through fourth points will come about as a result of an understanding reached on the first. That is, once the cease-fire is settled, that resolution will imply a settlement of the rest of the situation.”

  “You accept the agenda?”

  “If you like. It doesn’t matter.”

  Ears pricked forward, then back. “So you accept that our initial discussions will consist of formalizing the disengagement of our forces?”

  “Certainly. Of course I have no way of knowing what forces you have committed. We humans have committed none.”

  The Shars were still for a long time. “Your species attacked our planets, Ambassador. Without warning, without making yourselves known to us.” Gram’s tone was unusually flat. Perhaps, Drill thought, she was attempting to conceal great emotion.

  “Yes,” Drill said. “But those were not our military formations. Your species were contacted only by our terraforming Ships. They did not attack your people, as such—they were only peripherally aware of your existence. Their function was merely to seed the plants with lifeforms favorable to human existence. Unfortunately for your people, part of the function of these lifeforms is to destroy the native life of the planet.”

  The Shars conferred with one another. The Opposite Secretary-General seemed particularly vehement. Then President Gram turned to Drill.

  “We cannot accept your statement, your Excellency,” she said. “Our people were attacked. They defended themselves, but were overcome.”

  “Our terraforming Ships are very good at what they do,” Drill said. “They are specialists. Our Shrikes, our Shrews, our Sharks—each is a master of its element. But they lack intelligence. They are not conscious entities, such as ourselves. They weren’t aware of your civilization at all. They only saw you as food.”

  “You’re claiming that you didn’t notice us?” demanded Secretary-General Vang. “They didn’t notice us as they were killing us?” He was shouting. President Gram’s ears went back.

  “Not as such, no,” Drill said.

  President Gram stood up. “I am afraid, your Excellency, your explanations are insufficient,” she said. “This conference must be postponed until we can reach a united conclusion concerning your remarkable attitude.”

  Drill was bewildered. “What did I say?” he asked.

  The other Shars stood. President Gram turned and walked briskly on her three legs toward the exit. The others followed.

  “Wait,” Drill said. “Don’t go. Let me send for Frog. Up, Slab, up!”

  The Shars were gone by the time Slab had got Drill to his feet. The Ship told him they had found their own way to the airlock. Drill could think of nothing to do but order the airlock to let them out.

  “Why would I lie?” he asked. “Why would I lie to them?” Things were so very simple, really.

  He shifted his vast weight from one foot to the other and back again. Drill could not decide whether he had done anything wrong. He asked Memory what to do next, but Memory held no information to comfort him, only dry recitations of past negotiations. Annoyed at the lifeless monologue, Drill told Memory to be silent and began to walk restlessly through the corridors of his Ship. He could not decide where things had gone bad.

  Sensing his agitation, Lowbrain began to echo his distress. Mash, Lowbrain thought weakly. Food. Sex.

  Be silent, Drill commanded.

  Sex, sex, Lowbrain thought.

  Drill realized that Lowbrain was beginning to give him an erection. Acceding to the inevitable, he began moving toward Surrogate’s quarters.

  Surrogate lived in a dim, quiet room filled with the murmuring sound of its own heartbeat. It was a human subspecies, about the intelligence of Lowbrain, designed to comfort voyagers on long journeys through space, when carnal access to their own subspecies might necessarily be limited. Surrogate had a variety of sexual equipment designed for the accommodation of the various human subspecies and their sexes. It also had large mammaries that gave nutritious milk, and a rudimentary head capable of voicing simple thoughts.

  Tiny Mice, that kept Surrogate and the ship clean, scattered as Drill entered the room. Surrogate’s little head turned to him.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Surrogate said.

  “I am Drill.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Drill,” said Surrogate. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Drill began to nuzzle its breasts. One of Surrogate’s male parts began to erect. “I’m confused, Surrogate,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Why are you confused, Drill?” asked Surrogate. It raised one of its arms and began to stroke Drill’s head. It wasn’t really having a conversation: Surrogate had only been programmed to make simple statements, or to analyze its partners’ speech and ask questions.

  “Things are going wrong,” Drill said. He began to suckle. The warm milk flowed down his throat. Surrogate’s male part had an orgasm. Mice jumped from hiding to clean up the mess.

  “Why are things going wrong?” asked Surrogate. “I’m sure everything will be all right.”

  Lowbrain had an orgasm, perceived by Drill as scattered, faraway bits of pleasure. Drill continued to suckle, feeling a heavy comfort beginning to radiate from Surrogate, from the gentle sound of its heartbeat, its huge, wholesome, brainless body.

  Everything will be all right, Drill decided.

  “Nice to see you again, Drill,” Surrogate said. “Drill, it’s nice to see you again.”

  * * *

  The vast crowds of Shars did not leave when night fell. Instead they stood beneath floating globes dispersing a cold reddish light that reflected eerily from pointed ears and muzzles. Some of them donned capes or skirts to help them keep warm. Drill, watching them on the video walls of the command center, was reminded of crowds standing in awe before some vast cataclysm.

  The Shars were not quiet. They stood in murmuring groups, but sometimes they began the crooning chants they had raised earlier, or suddenly broke out in a series of shrill yipping cries.

  President Gram spoke to them after she had left Ship. “The human has admitted his species’ attacks,” she said, “but has disclaimed responsibility. We shall urge him to adopt a more realistic position.”

  “Adopt a position,” Drill repeated, not understanding. “It is not a position. It is the truth. Why don’t they understand?”

  Opposite Minister-General Vang was more vehement. “We now have a far more complete idea of the humans’ attitude,” he said. “It is opposed to ours in every way. We shall not allow the murderous atrocities which the humans have committed upon five of our planets to be forgotten, or understood to be the r
esult of some inexplicable lack of attention on the part of our species’ enemies.”

  “That one is obviously deranged,” thought Drill.

  He went to his sleeping quarters and ordered the Slab there to play him some relaxing music. Even with Slab’s murmurs and comforting hums, it took Drill some time before his agitation subsided.

  Diplomacy, he thought as slumber overtook him, was certainly a strange business.

  * * *

  In the morning the Shars were still there, chanting and crying, moving in their strange crowded patterns. Drill watched them on his video walls as he ate breakfast at the mash bins. “There is a communication from President Gram,” Memory announced. “She wishes to speak with you by radio.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Ambassador Drill.” She was using the flat tones again. A pity she was subject to such stress.

  “Good morning, President Gram,” Drill said. “I hope you spent a pleasant night.”

  “I must give you the results of our decision. We regret that we can see no way to continue the negotiations unless you, as a representative of your species, agree to admit responsibility for your peoples’ attacks on our planets.”

  “Admit responsibility?” Drill said. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Drill heard some odd, indistinct barking sounds that his translator declined to interpret for him. It sounded as if someone other than President Gram were on the other end of the radio link.

  “You admit responsibility?” President Gram’s amazement was clear even in translation.

  “Certainly. Does it make a difference?”

  President Gram declined to answer that question. Instead she proposed another meeting for that afternoon.

  “I will be ready at any time.”

  Memory recorded President Gram’s speech to her people, and Drill studied it before meeting the Shar party at the airlock. She made a great deal out of the fact that Drill had admitted humanity’s responsibility for the war. Her people leaped, yipped, chanted their responses as if possessed. Drill wondered why they were so excited.