by Tim Andersen
I fingered the book on my belly, and then looked up at her. She was sitting very close to me, looking at the floor. I was thinking about what had happened before the Troll ship had attacked us. “Lika, what happened . . . well, I mean, I didn’t mean to take advan---”
“No, you didn’t,” she said quickly. “I felt it too. It was the drugs. I wasn’t expecting it because I’ve taken motion sickness pills before. I think the guards were playing a trick on us. They didn’t warn us that they were aphrodisiacs.”
“I didn’t think they were,” I said. “I thought they were psychoactive drugs that reduced inhibitions.”
“Same difference,” she said, looking worried.
I knew I should not have said it, but I could not help correcting her. “It’s not the same,” I said. “One makes you aroused, the other makes you do what you always wanted---”
“Knock it off, Goshan,” she said, her face flushing. “I don’t want to talk about what was there and what wasn’t. I’ve only known you for two days. There is no,” she waved her hand between us, “this.” She stood up and stalked out of the cell, leaving me to consider whether I wanted there to be or not.
It was a funny feeling, being alone and, for the first time in the last forty-eight hours, feeling safe. Knowing that I was in the impenetrable domain of a nearly-omnipotent species gave me a measure of comfort. I also had nothing to do.
I decided to follow Smith’s advice and opened my grandfather’s book. It was written not so much as a textbook as an autobiography, a catalogue of anecdotes about my grandfather’s experiences as a Special Liaison and Ambassador to the Trolls and as a founding member of the Xenological Society, that most secretive of scientific bodies.
I flipped through it looking for something on the Trolls and war that would enlighten me when I came across this passage written in my grandfather’s quaint style:
“A friend of mine from XS, who wished to remain anonymous, told me that he had just returned from an expedition studying the Trollish homeworld. He told me the most astounding thing: ‘Vanchar,’ he said, ‘did you know that the Trolls still engage in wars on their homeworld?’ This I did not know, and I felt embarrassed because I was considered to be the foremost expert on Trolls. When I told him this, he laughed and told me not to worry, that this was a new finding, and that I would get a report on the results of his trip soon. Later I did receive his report and upon reading it, I was again surprised to see that the Trolls did engage, not in minor territorial disputes, but full-scale, world ranging battles that killed thousands of their people a day. The curious thing about it though was the shortness of the disputes. Usually, they only lasted a day or two, and neither side in the conflict seemed to gain anything decisive at all. This puzzled me greatly as I knew the Trolls to be an advanced people. (They are very undeserving of their unfortunate appellation, and I have worked hard to correct people’s impression that I was responsible for it.) I knew that the Trolls were capable of forming a world government and resolving any resource or territorial dispute peacefully, and yet, after several years of subsequent study, we had to conclude that these one-day wars were a regular occurrence on Troll Prime. I spent quite a bit of energy examining recordings of the battles in minute (and gory) detail and attempting to piece together the Trolls’ motivation. As it continued to elude me, my wife suggested that I take a break from work and go on a vacation as I was wearing myself out with thinking. We chose Mexico as a restful place and happened to tour some Aztec ruins near Mexico City. While we viewed the remains of that brutal civilization, our guide explained to us that the Aztecs used to engage in a ritual called ‘Flower War’ or ‘Flowery War’. In these ceremonial wars, the Aztecs signed a treaty with their habitual enemies to engage in ritualized battles in order to provide fresh victims for human sacrifice. That this gruesome practice was in fact a mutual agreement has been disputed, but it is clear that the Aztecs viewed war as a religious rite rather than as simply a way of gaining resources or territory. Before the guide had even finished talking, I realized that I had solved my problem. I immediately raced for our hotel, much to the guide’s surprise and my wife’s chagrin, and began drafting a paper about ritual wars on the Troll homeworld. Now it is always important to remember not to place too much emphasis on an analogy between a human and an alien culture . . .”
I stopped reading. “A ceremonial war,” I whispered to myself. I skimmed the rest of the chapter. My grandfather explained that the Trolls, do not, like the Aztecs, engage in ritual sacrifice but that the wars serve as a training ground for their troops, who, due to the Trolls’ biological cycles, can only serve for a short time and need constant replacement. One line also caught my attention, it said, “the Trolls always agree to [these wars] by treaty.” I pondered that for a moment. If they had attacked us for ceremonial reasons, I thought, then somebody must have agreed to it. If it was not Parliament, then who? I looked more through the book, but there was no indication that the Trolls had ever engaged in one of these wars with another species. As an expert on the Trolls, Smith must have known this. That was why Smith was so puzzled, I thought, and it puzzled me as well. Here the Trolls were engaging in a ritual, and we were ready to liquidate their population.
I put the book under my arm and exited the cell in search of somebody to bounce ideas off of. Bouncing off of Smith was like throwing a tennis ball and getting back a boulder, and Lika was angry with me, so that left the Amidans.
I remembered where the Abbot’s office was and made my way there. The Amidans had set their time to Washington, DC hours so it was just getting past dawn, and I found the Abbot in the corridor returning from the singing of Lauds. “Goshan Fenn,” he said, bowing with his hands together, “it is a blessing to see you again. I see you have found some of your own clothes.”
I looked down. “Sorry,” I said, “I left the robes at home.”
He shook his head. “They were a gift. Do with them as you like. What brings you to me?”
“I wanted to talk to you about the Troll attack,” I said.
“Ah, a most grievous occurrence,” he said. “It is a struggle for two species to understand one another.”
“I think that in this case it was not just a misunderstanding,” I said.
“I see,” he said. He eyed my book curiously. “Come into my office.” He gestured for me to enter before him.
Once we were both seated, he said, “you have no doubt come to ask me what I know.”
“Do you know something?”
“It is not for me to tell you all I know, my friend,” he said, smiling. “What must be found you must find, but I am happy to listen to your thoughts.”
“I believe that the Troll attack was a form of ritualized warfare,” I said.
“Indeed,” he said, “not a true attack?”
“No, they attacked us and then retreated. According to this book, it’s a regular thing on their homeworld amongst themselves.”
“They do not do this with other species?”
“No, they don’t and it’s always by agreement, which means some humans or human-like entities somewhere must have agreed with them on our behalf.”
“I detect a note of accusation,” he said. His tone was mild, as if he were simply stating the fact.
“I’m sorry, Abbot, but you have been evasive and, frankly, unhelpful since this all started. How do I know you’re not our enemies?”
“You do not,” he said. “Mr. Smith knows this well, yet he chooses to trust us.”
“I know, I know, because there’s no point in resisting you,” I said.
“Not only that, my friend, Mr. Smith is an excellent judge of intentions. At present, he expects no more from us than he receives and is satisfied. You expect much and so are unsatisfied.”
I was appalled. “Look, this is not the time for little lessons. We’re going to all die, and you’re not taking this seriously at all.”
“No, friend Goshan, Death is a greater teacher than all the Masters of a
ll the Ages combined. It is exactly the time for ‘little’ lessons.”
“Don’t you care if our entire civilization goes up in one great anti-matter explosion?”
He sighed. “We care,” he said, “have we not said so? but our perspective is different. We do not view death with the same finality as you nor do we see one death as ‘timely’ and another as ‘untimely’. If you die now, how different is it from death in the future? You may see this as callous, even morbid, but all things decay and die eventually. Understanding in the moment, even if it is your last breath, is what matters.”
“But I’m talking about right and wrong, good and evil. You are saying that you think it’s okay to allow us to die if we don’t figure things out for ourselves. What good is that? What do we learn from that? It’s a waste.”
“Nothing is wasted, friend Goshan. Your struggles against the inevitable, against some external Evil, are irrelevant, passing distractions. What matters is the struggle in your mind, something we know a great deal about.”
“I see,” I said, feeling as if I were getting nowhere. Then I remembered what my mother had said. “My mother told me there was a mole in the State Ministry---a person who is communicating with another military or intelligence organization from within our own. Do you know who it is?”
“That I cannot answer,” he said.
“You can’t answer a lot of questions,” I said.
“Often, the answers to the most important questions require a shift in perspective,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Consider your recent problem,” he said. “You accused us, just now, of being behind the Troll attack, that we, pretending to be humans, signed a treaty with them for a ritualized attack. Considering what you know about us, that seems far-fetched.”
I nodded. “Maybe.”
“Therefore, rather than seeking the culprit amongst those you know whom you are inclined to distrust, you must search among those who would benefit from the attack and its outcome, whether they are known or unknown to you.”
“Are you saying that those responsible are unknown to me?”
“I am not saying that at all,” he said. “I am saying that you must let go of your tendency to assume you have all the information you need. You may not.” The Abbot gave a small smile and then said, “there is someone here for you.” He looked over my shoulder.
I turned around, and Lika was standing in the doorway. “Goshan?” she said.
“What?” I said, standing, “what’s happened? Has it happened? Did they launch them?” I was suddenly terrified. I had almost thought that my mother had seen reason at the last moment.
She shook her head. “No, not that. On the news . . .” She turned around as if to leave.
“Allow me,” said the Abbot and an image appeared on his wall.
The news anchor’s face that had been in the missile silo before appeared. “This is a special report,” she said, looking down at monitor in front of her. “In response to the recent attacks on the capital and other urban centers, as well as the destruction of our orbiting platforms, Prime Minister Evo has announced the creation of a joint task force in an attempt to broker a cease fire with the Trollish high command. In remarks made earlier today, the Prime Minister stated that the ‘Trolls will not intimidate our way of life’ but that ‘we should not be hasty in retaliating with force when other means for peaceful resolution remain.’
The picture cut to an image of the Prime Minister sitting at desk with the blue and white world flag, with its depiction of the Sol and New Sol systems on it in abstract circles and dots, and the flag of the Prime Minister’s office behind him. I wondered if he was speaking from the secret base, but it appeared that he were back in the White House since I could see a green lawn through a window behind him. The Prime Minister was about sixty, gray hair, dark face, and had been elected on a largely economic platform, promising new colonies and greater expansion into the galaxy.
“Good morning,” he said, looking haggard as if he had not slept. The dynamic make-up on his face was working overtime to cover up the dark circles and worry lines. “As you know, there have been breaches in our defense perimeter, and we are once more in a state of conflict with the Trolls.
“I have stated many times that we would never appease an alien species, and this applies to the Trolls as well. I have, however, chosen to exhaust all diplomatic options, in concert with our off-world allies, to make the Trolls see reason and stand down their aggression. An hour ago, at my order, a highly skilled diplomatic task force arrived on the Trollish homeworld. The Trolls have received them and ensured their safety.
“It is their mission to broker the immediate cessation of hostilities, and, if the Trolls do not accept peaceful measures, they will assure them of our willingness to do whatever is necessary to protect our homeworld from harm.
“Because of the complexities of communicating with them,” (and the loss of our superluminal communications arrays in the recent attack, I thought, but he probably would rather not bring up our vulnerability in an interplanetary address) ”I have made the expedition leader, decorated veteran and xenodiplomacy expert Gregory Trexel, my plenipotentiary. He will have full power to offer concessions and to threaten retaliation for continued aggression. I have every confidence that he will succeed. In the meantime, I urge you to go about your normal lives and pray for his success. Thank you.”
The screen switched back to the anchor who continued talking, apparently from a press release: “Gregory Trexel is legendary for his skill in handling hostile aliens, having negotiated a treaty with the Persephonians after the original envoy became ill---”
“Shut it off.”
Chapter 9 – The Missing Safe Word
We all looked up. The image of the news anchor disappeared. “Original envoy indeed!” said Smith, who seemed to have snuck into the room while we were watching. I also noticed that the Abbot had snuck out. It was just the three of us now. “I talked him through the entire negotiation with the Persephonians. He kept running back to me with questions while my head was stuck in a bucket. You see now how the incompetent gain their positions.”
“Do you think that Trexel is working against us?” I asked. I knew my mother trusted him and thought I should too, but I couldn’t help feeling that Trexel was more than he said he was.
Smith quickly dismissed the notion. “The man is reckless and incompetent as a diplomat,” said Smith, considering. “He is a capable soldier and should have remained one. He is well versed in the minutia of procedure and singularly loyal to his superiors. I doubt he would do anything that he was not ordered to do.”
So even Smith believes Trexel is not malicious. “What did the PM mean that Trexel is his plenipotentiary?” I said.
“A remarkable word,” said Smith. “I’m surprised you don’t know it. Mathematicians do tend to be verbally challenged.”
“The word is archaic!” I said.
“Quite,” said Smith. “The Prime Minister explained it in his address. In the days before swift communications, pre-telegraph, ambassadors were given the power of kings. Not a bad idea. I could have benefited from it on more than one occasion. Plenipotentiary comes from the Latin: plenus, meaning full, and potens, meaning power.”
“So,” I said, “the Prime Minister has given Trexel all his powers?”
“Only in this negotiation, but essentially yes. If Greg wanted to give the Trolls the moon, he could do it, and the PM would have to either back him up or risk the war starting again.”
“But I thought that the Trolls weren’t at war with us. This is a ritual war to them, and they’ve stopped. There’s nothing to negotiate!”
Smith shook his head. “We have an hypothesis that this is a ritual war. We don’t know who brokered it, let alone why. Second, ritual wars are cyclical until the agreement is broken, which means---” Smith broke off to let me finish the sentence.
Lika beat me to it. “The Trolls will attack ag
ain! But won’t Trexel figure that out when he gets there and stop it?”
“Trexel,” said Smith, “even with his gross incompetence, is perfectly capable of communicating with the Trolls thanks to the simplicity of the models I’ve developed for them. A trained chimpanzee could do it. I imagine he will find a way to rise to that level. We've even considered allowing political appointees use the system. Ha! But nothing he says will matter because he doesn’t know the original ritual agreement.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Ritual wars,” he said, “for Trolls are like sadomasochist relationships are for humans. There is a ‘safe word’ that must be communicated to end it or the abuse continues. If you had read more than the opening paragraphs on the subject in your grandfather's admittedly dull treatise you would know that.”
“I wish I knew the safe word for this relationship,” I murmured.
“What was that?”
“Oh nothing,” I said, but Lika smirked.
Smith grunted and continued: “The Trolls will be perfectly happy to negotiate a cease fire with us, then break it, because it is all part of the ritual. We will give them the moon, and they will take it, but that won’t stop them. They will only start to take notice if we start annihilating their home planets. By then it will be too late. It will be them, us, or neither. I would bet on the latter.” Smith seemed grim but also a little pleased with his analysis of the situation. Although it often appeared that he had thought things out carefully beforehand, I suspected that he was making it up as he went along. At least he no longer seemed embarrassed.
“Ok, so there’s a safe word,” I said. “Why not just broadcast a big list of words and hope that the safe word is in it?”
Both Smith and Lika burst out laughing. “My God, Fenn!” he said. “You are a genius! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Did I say something wrong?” I said.
“I will let you know when you say something right,” he said.