The Flowery War

by Tim Andersen

  The Flowery War

  By Tim Andersen

  Text Copyright © 2012 Tim Andersen

  Cover Art Copyright © Luca Oleastri | Dreamstime.com

  All Rights Reserved

  To Erica, Isaac, and Oliver

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – A Spoiled Weekend

  Chapter 2 – The Drunken Seeker

  Chapter 3 – The Amida

  Chapter 4 – The Revelation in the Crypt

  Chapter 5 – Hypothermia

  Chapter 6 – The Trolls Attack

  Chapter 7 – The Ambush

  Chapter 8 – The Conspiracy

  Chapter 9 – The Missing Safe Word

  Chapter 10 – Sylvania

  Chapter 11 – The Trap

  Epilogue – An Unspoiled Weekend

  [T]he reason so many men volunteered for war … was that they placed little value on their lives and considered that those who died in war were fortunate, were blessed. War was called xochiyaoyotl, which means “flowery war” or “war of flowers,” and death in battle was called xuchimiquiztli, “rose-colored death, happy and blissful.”

  Fray Diego Durán –

  The History of the Indies of New Spain, 1581.

  Chapter 1 – A Spoiled Weekend

  “What was his name?” I asked.

  “Smith. Tolan Smith,” he said.

  The man across the table, Greg Trexel, my boss and head of the Non-human branch of the Diplomatic Corps, smiled at me. “You’ve been on the job for three months now and haven’t heard of Smith?” He looked out the window for a moment, where the winter snows were picking up. It was just after four o’clock on a Thursday and thousands of government employees were flocking past on their way to nearby Metro to start the weekend. “You don’t want to mess with Smith, Goshan, especially if you’re going to be working for him.”

  “Why would I ‘mess’ with him? Who the hell is he?” I said.

  A small smile crept back onto his face. “Oh, you’ll want to mess with him. He’ll make you want to. Especially if you’re going to be working for him. You have to watch him but don’t mess with him.”

  “Look, start from the beginning,” I said.

  “Ok, lemme get us a couple of drinks,” he said.

  He pressed a couple buttons on the table top and he sat in silence until two huge mugs arrived. Not a beer drinker I steeled myself for a bitter draught but this one, dark brown and frothy, was sweet and mild. I sipped gingerly.

  Trexel gulped his down and ordered another, then, continued, “see Goshan, Smith is what we might call a liaison’s liaison—he’s head of the Special Liaison Unit. He’s the man we call when our ordinary diplomats fail or get themselves in so deep that they need to be pulled out. Aggressive species like the Trollies are like kittens in his hands. Secretive ones like the Shaders let him into their inner circle. He’s a magician, the indispensable man.”

  “Sounds like an interesting guy,” I said.

  Trexel smirked and reached out as if to take my hand but then thought better of it and put it on his beer mug, “look Gosh, I like you. I know your Mom. She’s a hell of a politician. I don’t want to see you get hurt, but I promised her to make something out of you. If a man like Smith takes you under his wing, it’s a blessing down the road, when you’re on your own and your decision can mean life or death not only for your world but you and your team. I’m assigning you to Smith with that in mind, not because he’s an interesting guy that I think you’ll like. I promise you, you won’t.”

  “What’s the matter with him then?”

  “He’s what you might call a rising star around here. All ambition, that’s why he gets things done. He thinks he’s God’s gift to diplomacy and maybe he is. He’s all down and honey when it comes to the aliens, but, for you, his team, its steel and vinegar. He’ll work you hard, and he won’t be your friend. If you don’t do what he says exactly as he says, he’ll give you pain. You’ll find out.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I said. No one can be that bad, I thought.

  He paid the bill, and we walked out into the blustery night.

  Trexel looked thoughtful. “I guess I just want you to be prepared. When he goes at you, don’t think you’re the worst person in the world. That’s just Smith being Smith.” He turned around and headed back up the street while I went towards the Metro station. I was just stepping onto the moving platform when I heard him calling my name and whirled around. I could barely make out his form against the black and the snow as he yelled, “and for God’s sake, pay attention to what he tells you!”

  I swiped my card at the Metro and got into a capsule heading towards home. As thoughts of the weekend drifted into my mind, I forgot about Smith. Whatever awaited me with him was three days away.

  It was Friday morning and I was lolling about in bed. I took my Fridays off religiously. I prided myself on often working well over 24 hours a week Monday through Thursday and felt I earned the time to unwind. I had once seen on a documentary that people, even government workers, had once regularly worked on Friday, which I could not imagine was healthy. Even if I did need to go in on the weekend, it could always wait until Saturday or Sunday. So I was a bit surprised when the phone rang and it was the office number. I picked it up and, clearing my throat, said, “yes?” In, what I later realized, was an irritated voice.

  “Goshan Fenn?”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Where are you? Why aren’t you here?”

  “Er, why aren’t I here, er, there?” I said with a sinking feeling that I’d missed something.

  “Well, yes, Goshan, I suppose they didn’t tell you. You’re on my time now. You’ve been formally assigned to me as of sixteen hundred thirty hours yesterday. “

  “But it’s Friday. Is this Mr. Smith?”

  “Yes, this is Smith,” he said.

  Not wanting to offend my new boss on the first day, before even meeting him, I said, “I’m sorry I was unaware that we worked on Friday. I assumed that I would check in with you on Monday.”

  “We work 24/7, Mr. Fenn.” The tone was polite but firm.

  I wondered when his team slept. Perhaps he meant that we were on call 24/7, and this was one of those calls. “Would you like me to come in—“

  “Come to the equipment station, in the basement. I want to see you in ten minutes.” He hung up.

  “Ten minutes!” I said out loud to no one. Not only was I unshowered, undressed, and had had no breakfast, I was at least ten minutes away from the office by metro, even on a weekday when there were plenty of cars available. I scrambled to get dressed, grabbed an old breakfast bar and ran out the door with disheveled hair and resolving to find a mint before the end of the day. If I had known that I would not even be on my own planet by the end of the day, I would have brought my toothbrush.

  After twenty minutes I arrived at the building housing the Office of Special Liaisons, which, ironically, was named the Vanchar Fenn building after my grandfather, a famous Ambassador and Minister of State. Usually, I paused outside the door to look at the plaque on the wall outside with his smiling picture in bas-relief, so familiar from my childhood, but today I flew past it without a glance, keyed my way into the deserted building, and descended to the lower floor. Quickly consulting the directory, I found the equipment station’s location and, running full out, skidded into the room.

  There were three people in the room. Looking at each of them I tried to figure out which one was Smith. The first was obviously not because she was a woman. She was petite, at least two or three decimeters shorter than me with short brown hair and quite fit. She was wearing a tan, sleeveless shirt and brown pantaloons tucked into ankle high faux-leather boots---very earthy. From her face it was hard
to tell how old she was, perhaps twenty-five or thirty depending on the light. Her large brown eyes were expressive, and, upon my entrance into the room, she gave what appeared to be a commiserating glance but quickly looked back at the flexible tablet she was holding.

  There were two men in the room. One looked about thirty-five or forty, and the other was about sixty or seventy. The woman seemed to be treating the younger man with deference and the older man with, I would almost say, dislike because of the way she occasionally glanced at him as if she wished he were not there.

  Remembering what my boss had said about Smith being a rising star, I assumed that the younger man was he. I need not have bothered guessing though for the younger man now turned and gave me a curious glance as if I were some strange insect that had alighted on his nose. His mouth smiled, but his eyes registered annoyance—a weird expression that turned out to be Smith’s trademark. I would find that Smith’s ability to conceal emotion on his face was haphazard. In contrast, his voice control was exquisite. “Ah, Goshan.”

  “Sorry I’m late Mr. Smith—“

  He held up a hand. “You are quite late. Please wait in the corridor until I am ready for you. There is a seat there.”

  Confused, I said, “okay.” I walked out of the equipment room and found a tiny school desk with a built in table that looked about a hundred years old. I sat down and wondered why Smith had ordered me to be here in ten minutes and then sent me to wait in the corridor like a naughty child. Nevertheless, from what little I had seen of him, Smith did not seem all that bad. He was demanding and cold, but I had expected a lot of shouting and belittlement. Smith had been polite so far.

  As I sat there I became aware that Smith was speaking to someone. I wanted to find out all I could about how my new boss treated his subordinates so I strained my ears to listen. The conversation came through in bits and pieces.

  “—work is not right. Not right. What is the—“

  A nervous voice broke in belonging to the young woman; she was trying to explain what she had done on the tablet I suppose.

  “The translation network is setup to . . .”

  He broke in, said something unintelligible, sounding like Lila or Mika, perhaps her name. “—this is not up to the standards of this institution . . . if you want to continue to be here . . . you’ve neglected . . .” He spoke to her in a tone typically reserved for five year olds, self-sure and gentle but sending shivers up my spine. I suppose he was giving her instructions. After about ten minutes, he stopped talking and said something like “next time, don’t take the initiative; go back and do it the way I’ve outlined.” She left the room and walked past me rapidly without even a glance. My heart went out to her.

  My sympathy for her turned to dread when I heard Smith call my name. I jumped up so hard that I banged my knee on the desk and hobbled into the equipment room trying to conceal a grimace. Smith watched me come in and again smiled while his eyes showed a different expression. A distinct eye roll made his whole visage look sardonic, but I think that he was expressing frustration.

  The older man who had been there before was gone. Apparently the room had a different egress. Looking at the room for a moment, I saw that it had a desk in one corner with a form kiosk. The back wall had a long window at about chest height. Beyond it was a darker room that was filled with tall metal shelves containing piles of boxes with different equipment labels on it. Next to the window was a door with a keypad entry system. The window had the telltale hum of a force membrane, a paper thin, largely invisible material that, nevertheless, was proof against all but the most determined thieves. I had heard that only a powerful laser-torch could cut through it and even then it took hours. However, it could be removed easily with a key code transmitted through it as a series of light pulses. Spray nozzles concealed around the perimeter could replace it in seconds by spraying a gluey substance into the opening and applying a current which caused the substance’s molecules to align and created a physical barrier.

  While I was observing the room, Smith said my name again. His voice was cool. He sat down in the only chair available. I felt it would have been bad form to sit on the edge of the desk, so I stood. “Hello, Fenn,” he said. “Trexel has told me that you are more than a beneficiary of nepotism, which is good, because, unlike with him, I’m sorry to say, your mother’s name carries no weight with me, and your grandfather’s, even less.”

  I was taken aback. I was used to being compared to my famous relatives. Everyone in the Diplomatic Corps recognized my name and automatically assumed that I had a sinecure and was to be kept away from any “real” work. I always took pains to set them straight. Still, my grandfather was revered in the state department in general and the diplomatic core he helped to create in particular. I wondered if Smith was trying to put me off guard, convincing me that I was to expect no special treatment. If so that was good, because I wanted none. I would just have to set him straight as well.

  I hoped to come back with a snappy retort, something out of the movies where the clean cut young recruit cracks a joke at the crucial moment and the gruff, hard-as-nails commander smiles in a fatherly way, puts his arm around the lad, and says something like “you’ll do fine” etc. One glance at that face, and I knew that there was not a fatherly bone in Smith’s body. Intimidating was not the word for Smith’s demeanor, terror-inducing was more appropriate. Trexel had not helped by talking about him like he was the Devil-himself. I felt my whole body tense, and my mind went blank. All I said was, “uh, yes, okay.”

  I started to say, “my grandfather—“, intending to say something about how Vanchar Fenn had always expected me to stand on my own two feet, which was not really true because he died when I was still in grade school and had never told me anything of the sort. My mother, however, had told me that he did expect as much from his own children, and she expected the same from me, so I switched to saying, “—my mother—“ but at that moment Smith began to speak.

  “Vanchar Fenn screwed up first contact with the Trolls,” said Smith, “that why the war started.” He watched my face intently, and I had the feeling that he was doing what Trexel had warned about, making me “want to mess with him.” As my relationship with Smith continued, I would become used to his style of starting conversations from the middle.

  The Trolls were originally named because they were perceived as stupid and unnecessarily aggressive. (What they call themselves is unpronounceable.) They had the distinction of being the only species to fight a war with humanity. Vanchar Fenn was well-known as the broker of the deal that ended the war and established one of the first interstellar laws between humans and an extra solar species. No one that I knew had ever accused him of starting the war. Remembering what Trexel had said, I was terrified of what Smith would do if I appeared to take offense. All I managed to say was, “oh?”

  “Fenn, you were trained as a mathematician?” said Smith.

  “Yes,” said I, starting to wonder if I should start saying “yes, sir,” but Smith did not seem to care.

  “Odd choice for one wanting to go into xeno relations. However, any training you would have received in an XR program would have been a detriment, so nothing lost. You are probably not aware that all species so far encountered have the facility for counting. Mathematics is something that has so far proven universal,” he said.

  I almost thought he was complimenting my choice in studies, something that I had chosen more to get away from my family’s shadow than anything else. I smiled a bit and immediately regretted it because it spawned a nasty look on his face while he continued, pointing a finger at me for emphasis:

  “Almost nothing is. While humans have always had a particular knack for starting wars with other humans, the same rules do not apply in interspecies relationships. We kill a few of them, they kill a few of us, but their very nature makes it impossible for us to think of them as we would another group of humans. It is nearly impossible to experience the key ingredient for war, the self-perpetuating h
atred that leads to cyclical conflict. We are fundamentally different in ways that are so deep that we cannot begin to understand the different assumptions that we make about how to interact and how to behave. That is why we have become so heavily dependent on computer models to predict their responses and not a little bit on direct experimentation.”

  “I see,” I said, wondering what sorts of experiments were done on the aliens and where the test subjects came from.

  He stared at me. “Do you?” he said, eyes bulging. My face flushed as I realized that I must have said the wrong thing. Perhaps I was not supposed to understand what he was saying. “Do you see that it was nearly impossible for a war to get started with the Trolls but that your hallowed grandfather managed to do just that and then, when the war ended, scoop up the credit and have his early bungles completely forgotten?” He said this in the same cool voice, developing only a slightly quickened pace towards the end.

  Now I had to say something. “What bungles?” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice with only moderate success.

  Smith, paused, “you of all people should know that Vanchar Fenn commanded the original liaison team.”

  I nodded, offering, with some pride, a description that my grandfather had given me personally about the meeting, “nothing much happened.”

  “I’ve studied the transcripts from that meeting, one of the first true communications between human beings and alien intelligence,” said Smith. “Everyone thinks that nothing much happened.” Smith walked over to a screen on the wall and pressed a button. He spoke to it. “Run Vanchar Fenn Troll encounter one.”

  The screen came to life and I could see an image of my grandfather as a young man with his light curly brown hair, wearing an old fashioned outfit. He was standing in a bare, gray room separated from the Troll delegation by an atmospheric shield. It was a clip I had seen before, his first meeting with the Trolls. “There,” said Smith, “look at the headset he's wearing.”