The Blockade

by Jean Johnson

  “Meioas of the Alliance,” Jackie stated carefully, looking at the K’Katta delegates. “Do you have any problems with us threatening to bomb the Salik into oblivion? I am not talking about actually doing so. I am only talking about verbally threatening and intimidating them.”

  “I would threaten to eat my own mother in front of them if I thought it would back them down,” Marbleheart retorted. “Save that such a thought of doing it evokes nothing but feelings of regurgitation and vows of starvation in me. Particularly because they would insist that I start chewing off half of her limbs before they’d believe me.”

  Tlik-tlak, the Commander-of-Millions, spoke up, ignoring his leader’s indelicate sardonicism. “What is this threat that you imply is not an actual act of violence?”

  “It is a trick that is dependent upon one thing,” Nayak cautioned everyone in the room. “Gentlebeings. Is your scanning technology still having difficulty penetrating our ceristeel hull plating?”

  “Of courrrse it is.”

  “Annoyingly sssso.”

  “Such is halfway blocked in our scannings. Data discernment is difficult. Technology of our nature the Salik do not possess.”

  “Your point with that question?” Li’eth asked, though Jackie knew he did have a glimmer of an idea, thanks to their Gestalt.

  “The manufacture of our interstellar ships takes a great deal of time and effort because of the complexity of their interior workings,” Tang-Smith explained, rebuttoning her Dress jacket as she sat up neatly, “as does the manufacture of the exact mechanisms that make a hydrogenerator capable of working, plus the modifications necessary to make it an even more powerful bomb . . . These things all take time and have to be planned in advance. We have also stated that we tend to use assembly-line manufacturing processes to speed up the mass production of our military systems.

  “The bottom line of this equation, gentlebeings,” the major stressed, “is that we may only have so many ships and functional satellites and bombs . . . but we have tens of thousands of casings already manufactured. Most of them are already fitted with basic propulsion systems. Our insystem-thruster technology has been around for many years and has been maximized for swift and cheap production.

  “Because we build in modular stages,” Tang-Smith continued, “they already have a tiny hydrogeneration system installed to operate those thruster fields. It’s not capable of exploding,” she added quickly in reassurance, looking toward the K’Katta, “because it’s not configured to explode. In fact, that engine has the exact same fail-safes that all of our vehicular transports have, to ensure they cannot be turned into a bomb. That’s the difficult part, creating an engine that can become an explosive. We did it that way because it makes industrial sense to get all of the quickest things handled and assembled first, and we kept the propulsion separate from everything else, so that it can be moved in a hurry if a critical cascade is accidentally triggered in the greater hydroengine.”

  Nayak nodded, confirming her words. “We were mass-producing them that way even before the precognitives were beginning to catch glimpses of the Aloha 9 meeting up with the Salik and His Highness. We started building them in large quantities in the first place because we knew we wanted to seed all the star systems within a hundred light-years of Earth with multiple relays placed throughout each system for astronomical, astronavigational, and exploration-based purposes—every single one of our Aloha mission vessels deployed two to three satellites per new system it visited, visiting five and six systems at a time, before they were repurposed for the war effort.”

  “The only thing slowing us down is that the catalyst that allows us to turn plain water into energy-generating fuel can only be produced at a certain rate under current manufacturing methods,” Jackie explained, filling in the rest of the blanks. “We’re attempting to expand that infrastructure, though it will take time. But in the meantime, we built all the bombs and the hyperrelay satellites to be interchangeable in the shape of their outermost ceristeel casings because we didn’t want the Greys getting their hands on our hyperrelay technology.”

  “As in all things that are mass manufactured,” Paea told their listeners, “large production runs are cheaper. Additionally, ceristeel is tough enough, it can sit around for at least a hundred years in the burning heat and icy cold of outer space without losing any of its quality or structural integrity beyond a little bit of scuffing and pitting from micrometeors. They even already come with an aerodynamic shape because that production shape was already in existence for delivery drones, the kinds of remote-piloted drones that deliver packages from door to door, or send medical equipment out in an emergency.”

  Jackie nodded. “I even voted on the budget for the half-built casings, as the Councilor for Oceania. It was one of my first voting sessions as a Councilor years ago.”

  “All of this means, meioas, that if the non-Chinsoiy scanners still cannot penetrate our ceristeel plating,” Nayak stated, “then the odds are very high that the Salik cannot, either. That means we could easily bring ten thousand fake bombs to each world, if we have the means to transport them. A systematic saturation of their military infrastructure with the real bombs, plus the threat of ten times as many more supposed weapons lurking in orbit, should be enough of a threat to get them to surrender. A threat made of casings they cannot scan for veracity should be enough to convince them, yes?”

  By his physiology, President Marbleheart could not blink in shock like a Human. But he did dangle his first four limbs in a limp droop that conveyed it rather well all the same. And when he whistle-chirped, the word came out in a breathy V’Dan male voice. “. . . Brilliant. I am blinded by the brilliance of your idea. All my eyes are stunned by the cunning you shine upon us.”

  “I belllieve it willll work,” the top Choya military advisor stated. His title translated something like Madouk-of-Cho, some sort of odd amphibious weapon, either like a trident or some sort of polearm, spring-loaded and dangerous. “The Ssalik are innntimidated only by deeplly ssstrronger opponenntss. They unndersstand xennocide as a vallid attack method.”

  “Then we will delay the next delivery of infantry troops in favor of instead packing those transport ships with fake bombs. Along with the real ones, of course,” Jackie decided. “Those troops can be picked up later and can be trained for handling the gathering and transporting of Salik prisoners.”

  “Trranssporting?” Pallan asked her.

  Li’eth answered for Jackie. “War Prince Naguarr of Au’aurrran gave us the impression that he wished to remove all Salik colonists from his world, to ensure it could never be attacked again from within by subterfuge and misplaced trust. The Eternal throne agrees with this policy. The Salik have lost the privilege of being a trusted ally, and with it all the rights of being a trusted neighbor. If they wish to attack and eat fellow sentients, they should be confined to their own worlds and have access only to their own kind.”

  That same undulating chittering escaped from the K’Katta, but it was milder. President Marbleheart silenced his companions after only a moment. “It is repulsive as an idea . . . but under the sting of the irony insect, it would be culturally appropriate. If they insist upon inflicting such sorrows upon anyone sentient, it should be kept strictly to their own kind. Just because one race’s stimulant is another race’s hallucinogen is no reason to deprive the first race of its morning caffen.”

  (See? Even the K’Katta prefer our V’Dan kind,) Li’eth half teased.

  Jackie tried not to let her lips twitch. (Oh, hush, you know that’s not exactly what he meant. Behave. Or I’ll make you drink more Terran coffee.)

  He grinned in the back of her mind, warming the undercurrents of awareness that lurked between them.

  NOVEMBER 16, 2287 C.E.

  JUL 8, 9508 V.D.S.

  V’GORO J’STA, INBOUND TO LLGHK-PWOK

  BZ-TLD 7661 SYSTEM, TERRAN STANDARD

  T�
��UN SHIEN-SWISH 1271 SYSTEM, SALIK STANDARD

  The bitter-rich aroma of arabica beans wafted Jackie’s way, mixing with the scent of her scrambled eggs and tangy V’Dan-cheese breakfast.

  Ayinda, the source of the scent, set her cup and her meal tray down with the little slide that hitched the clips at their bases into one of the slightly raised metal strips crossing the table. Having traveled on the V’Goro for a few weeks by now, they were all used to these necessary little steps to secure items against being flung around accidentally during maneuvers, and the dark-skinned woman didn’t miss a beat in her conversation with Anjel.

  “. . . but I don’t understand why I have to memorize Salik system designations,” the navigator complained in Mandarin. “I mean, I do understand that’s how the Alliance encodes all the settled systems within a particular nation’s borders. The first of the settlers get to name the stars and the planets. But they’re the enemy! They’re about to be bombed into oblivion, if not already, since the other ships were supposed to arrive ahead of us and get started on that—Jackie, they have arrived already, right?”

  Jackie looked up from her display tablet and nodded. She framed her reply in V’Dan, however. She could understand Ayinda’s discretion in complaining about semiarbitrary rules for naming star systems across the Alliance in a language no one in the Empire would understand for a few more years, but her reply to that particular question was not quite so indelicate, it couldn’t be aired in the local tongue. “They have started the battle, yes. The outermost airlock assigned to it is open and the hyperrelay is transmitting ship to ship with the fleet vessels currently engaging the system defenses. We still have another fifty-plus minutes before we’ll be in combat range.”

  “You sound rather blasé about that battle, amiga,” Anjel observed. She lifted her chin at the Terran-style tablet in Jackie’s hand, clipping her own dishes to the table in the officer’s mess the Terran crew had been given for their personal use. “What’s got your attention?”

  “Mail from V’Dan. I’ve already gone through the stuff from home. My niece broke a bone in her foot a while back, and they finally let her out of the walking boot.” Jackie smiled wistfully. “Lani thinks her mother—my sister—is being mean because Hyacinth won’t even let her use a bodyboard for two more months, let alone a surfboard.”

  “Poor kid, that does sound a bit mean,” Anjel sympathized, digging into her meal. “I don’t surf, but I have gone bodyboarding on one of the rivers back home, in the waves at the base of some rapids. How did she hurt her foot?”

  “She pearled her he’e nalu—drove the nose of it under the wave accidentally—and smacked her foot into the board when she wiped,” Jackie explained. “I think Hyacinth’s right to be a little paranoid at the moment, though I’d only restrict her from surfing for a month.”

  “I don’t know, I’m going to have to side with the mother,” Jasmine said, joining them. She, too, had a tray of food, which she balanced in her good arm, carefully slotting it into place. She lifted her other arm, wiggling the artificial fingers awkwardly. The skin tone looked palpably more golden tan than her natural warm brown, and someone had streaked it with pink fake-jungen marks. “I’ve been getting the physical therapy lectures for V’Dan-style limb replacement. If that charming little girl just got her walking cast off, then she’s got tight fascia covering atrophied muscles, all of it attached to tightened tendons.”

  “Ah, the three-days-in-bed syndrome,” Anjel agreed, nodding sagely as she dug into her food.

  “Come again?” Ayinda asked.

  “Yeah, what?” Jackie added, confused.

  “It’s an old physical-fitness study from a few centuries back,” the pilot and gunner explained. “My regimen trainer talked about it at the Academy. Apparently, some scientists took Olympic-level athletes at the peak of their training performance and tested their performance abilities. Then the scientists had them lie in bed for three days straight, virtually no movement, no walking, other than, I presume, short trips to the bathroom.”

  She paused to take a bite of her food, making Jackie antsy to hear what happened next. While Anjel chewed, Li’eth came in and moved over to the galley window, requesting his own breakfast from the V’Dan-staffed kitchen crew. (Good morning. Again.)

  (Good morning, and shh. Anjel’s telling a story, something new,) she replied. She quickly fell silent as the pilot cleared her mouth and spoke again.

  “. . . Anyway, at the end of the three days, the researchers started testing the athletes’ performances as they resumed their training. They discovered that it took each athlete about two weeks to get back into top physical shape after lying in bed for just those three days,” Anjel told Ayinda and Jackie. “It’s absolutely crazy how long it takes to get back into shape after just a few days off.”

  “Now that I think about it, I can totally believe it,” Ayinda told her, and lifted the mug of Terran coffee out of its clip line. “Every time I’ve been laid out flat with a bad cold for just a few days, I’ve felt as weak as a new kitten, and it takes me a week or more to get back on my feet. And that’s with being free to move around and not literally spending every hour in bed save for toilet breaks. Certainly, I can’t lie around all day even if I wanted to because I have too many responsibilities.”

  “Agreed,” Anjel asserted, lifting her mug to clink it lightly against the other woman’s. “Whoops, sorry, didn’t mean to smack your knuckles, there . . .”

  “No damage done,” Ayinda reassured her.

  A moment later, Li’eth moved over to their table, speaking aloud with the Terran manners he had learned. In V’Dan military matters, any higher-ranking officer could join any table and sit, as a privilege of their higher rank in the Tiers, but there wasn’t a similar privilege for the Terrans. So he asked, rather than assumed. “May I join you meioa-es?”

  Anjel slanted a look up at him, then eyed Ayinda and Jackie. She grinned, and quipped slyly, “I don’t know, it might ruin our little Bechdel Test moment, here . . .”

  Ayinda choked on her coffee as she laughed, and had to scramble for the napkin holder to mop up the spluttered mess.

  “Anjel!” Jackie protested, though she couldn’t stop herself completely from smiling in amusement. “That is not appropriate . . . Yes, Li’eth, you can join us. Please, sit down and ignore our laughter; it’s honestly no insult toward you.”

  “I’m sure I’d probably find it equally funny if I knew the cultural background behind it,” he murmured, mouth quirked up on one side.

  “The Bechdel Test is an old . . . umm . . .” Anjel tried to figure out how to explain it. “Basically, it’s a way to gauge sexism in entertainment shows, back when women were being portrayed as warping their whole lives around how they related to men, as if men were somehow the center of all existence.”

  “Men are important,” Jackie reassured Li’eth, catching his puzzled subthoughts as well as his puzzled smile. “But for a very, very long while, most cultures back on Earth suffered from toxic patriarchy. The Bechdel Test was proposed a few centuries back as just one of many ways to measure how well each culture allowed women back then to have and display their own story arcs, separate arcs, rather than their existence in the story being centered around or dependent upon some man in the script.”

  “This isn’t scripted,” he pointed out. “And it isn’t an entertainment show. It’s breakfast on a battleship. The only thing we’re supposed to be centering our lives around is surviving a successful fight against our enemies.”

  “No, it’s not scripted,” Ayinda rasped, coughing again to try to clear her throat. “But it was funny, even if I half drowned, there.”

  “I do apologize if the cultural quip caused offense, Highness,” Anjel offered formally. Mostly seriously, too, though the corner of her mouth kept quirking upward.

  “I accept the apology, though it didn’t cause any offense, just some confusion.
Speaking of which,” Li’eth added, frowning thoughtfully at the quartet of women sharing their table with him. “Last night, Robert showed that movie about zombies . . . What is your people’s fascination with the gruesome idea of supposedly dead bodies that somehow get back up and start attacking people? V’kol said he checked the database and found thousands of cultural entertainment methods referencing these horrible things.”

  All four women raised their brows, opened their mouths . . . and ended up eyeing each other in helplessness. Finally, Jackie just shrugged, and said “. . . To be honest? We don’t know. We honestly do not know. It’s just . . . something we do, culturally.”

  Ayinda shrugged. “Historically, the actual, original zombies were simply Humans living in one particular archipelago of islands whose minds and bodies were drugged by a local plant life into a very lethargic yet highly suggestive state. While in this near-mindless, drugged state, they were used as slave labor by the people who drugged them.

  “I don’t think anybody here with us knows how it changed from that,” the navigator confessed, continuing. “There’s probably been doctoral dissertations on it at several universities back home by now, since it’s been centuries. But all I know is that somehow, it evolved from shuffling drugged slave labor to necromantically raised dead brought out of the grave as mobile, shambling corpses, then as faster shambling horrors caused by strange viral infections. In the centuries since the idea of zombies entered popular culture, there have been a hundred different varieties from that, each one more frightening than the last.”

  “Hang on, Ayinda. That’s rather biased. There have been some rather funny zombie movies, and some romantic zombie stories,” Anjel interjected. “And even a couple romantic zombie comedies. Not all of them have been horror stories.”

  Anjel rolled her eyes, clearing her throat so she could mutter, “. . . And the moment we mentioned romance, we definitely failed the Bechdel Test.”