First Contact - Digital Science Fiction Anthology 1

by Ian Creasey

  I know now that she was angry with herself. The hunger of her body offended her; her loneliness she saw as weakness.

  This morning, as on so many others, I needed to get home ahead of the tentative proposal of dawn to be in my own room with my wife Psamathe before we showed our public faces. She naturally expected me to exercise good taste and not make a spectacle of myself. An Olympian would no more announce having a mistress or paramour than introduce his servants to guests.

  Psamathe was already dressing when I pulled open the heavy, polished door of our bedroom. She hooked an elbow around my neck and kissed me playfully. We were exactly the same height, the same coloring; her dark yellow braid nearly matched her gleaming scalp.

  “How is your little mistress?” she asked.

  “Well, thank you.”

  “Did she teach you any new tricks last night?” Psamathe lifted her razor-thin eyebrows and grinned.

  “No, none to speak of.”

  “Tsk, what a shame. If you are free to stay with me tonight,” she held a fingertip against my chest, “I might show you some new tricks of my own.” Psamathe’s paramour was inventive, as she was always telling me.

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” She tapped the finger on my chest. “What are your obligations today?”

  “Annika debates the genome question until noon. In the afternoon, the Committee on Transport Standards.”

  “Hmm, that’s the bill about Kern, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Kern closely orbits an orange dwarf star, vulnerable to any stellar fits or tantrums. They had been experiencing increased solar flare activity for decades. It had impacted their climate, slowing down their mining and other industries and causing them to miss deadlines and quotas on deliveries of ore and refined metals. These lapses had become so numerous and severe that the Parliament was considering legislation on sanctions for chronically unreliable deliveries – a provision that would, in practice, apply only to Kern. Hence Merro’s worries about the Transport Standards negotiations.

  Psamathe said, “And I shall languish here, writing yet another dull paper on neomonetarist trade theory.”

  “The same paper, I believe.”

  She pinched me. “Don’t forget: this evening we have the reception for Orlando’s anniversary.”

  “His fifteenth, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I shall wear silk.”

  The whimsical designers who planned the Parliament’s campus three hundred years ago modeled it on the sort of archaic-Terra university that once trained clergymen and the sons of the mighty. We lived in red-brick houses with octagonal towers and tall, narrow windows, an easy walk from the meeting rooms, social gathering places, and the Parliament Chamber itself. In the warm breeze, I listened to the unhurried scrapes and faint echoes of my footsteps on the flagstones.

  I ascended the wide, stone staircase into the Chamber. It resembled a medieval banquet hall: stone floor with thick rugs, enormous windows graced with stained-glass insets depicting great events from the history of the Confederation. The acoustics were terrible.

  Inside, about twenty delegates already sat – not nearly enough for a quorum, had a quorum been required. The desks formed a crescent seven rows deep, so that all could see the delegate speaking from the rostrum. At the moment, it was empty; the Speaker sat at her own desk to the left of the rostrum, engaged in a lively conversation with Yitzakh of Tikkun. Everyone chatted with friends and colleagues except for Annika of Himmel, who was perusing the text of her speech, and Merro, who sat alone.

  Annika, tall even when seated, pale and thin with a dark-green rune tattooed on her forehead, wore not the undyed, natural fibers that the Himmelli display with such relish, but the pastel cotsilk robes that were popular at the Parliament. We had each arrived on Bower wearing our native garb, the most status-conscious we could find, but within a year or two, nearly everyone sported the cotsilks. They were well-adapted to the climate, but, more important, when one spends every day for twenty years with the same people, it feels natural to blend in with them. Of all of us, Merro wore the cotsilks least often, but not in favor of the bright colors that would have shown off her black hair and eyes. Instead she preferred the dark, heavy working garb of Kern. She was wearing such an outfit this day: a coverall of brown denim with a badge of office on the shoulder.

  Annika was one of Merro’s few friends at Parliament, quick and mischievous where Merro was intense and grave. They attended each other’s speeches like supporters at an athletic contest. Annika’s presentation today was part of the twenty-fourth debate on the definition of “person” for purposes of reciprocity of citizenship.

  Just before the address, Orlando of Halcyon bustled apologetically into the hall. A stout, dark-skinned, grey-bearded man, Orlando looked absurd in the cotsilks. He bowed to the Speaker, sat down on his chair – and shot up again with a yelp. He glared at Annika, who did not return his glance but smirked as she looked over her notes. Orlando snatched the tickler disk off his chair and stuffed it into his bag, then sat again, fuming.

  I sometimes wondered whether playing pranks is a customary pastime among the Himmelli or a quirk of Annika alone. Most of us made a habit of checking our chairs and desks.

  “The question of boundaries,” Annika began, her strong, low voice reverberating on the bare walls and ceiling, “is inherently fluid in the absence of natural separations. On the one hand, any genome will invariably have variations, so that clear delineation of a ‘species’ is suspect. At one time …”

  We had heard similar arguments before; I could have written out a fair approximation of the speech myself. But an article of faith at the Parliament was that an issue should be addressed repeatedly, in detail, and with the greatest possible nuance, before any action was taken. This followed naturally from the fact that none of us received instructions from home any sooner than a decade, sometimes a century, after they were sent. We all knew that we were working from obsolete information, and that our decisions, if they were to serve any purpose at all, must remain relevant in all climates. Slow deliberation seemed the best course. It was even written into the Charter.

  Three hours later, after the customary applause, Merro walked over and put her hand on Annika’s arm, speaking softly. The taller woman bowed her head and murmured into Merro’s ear, one corner of her mouth twitching. Merro rolled her eyes and gave a little huff, then shook her head and strode away.

  I fell in step beside Merro. She always took energetic, decisive strides, as if finding the quickest way out of an unpleasant place.

  “What were you saying to Annika?” I asked.

  “That she wastes our time. That she says nothing that hasn’t been said in earlier presentations.”

  “I can imagine what she said to that.”

  Merro rolled her eyes again. “She said that one doesn’t criticize a dancer by saying she didn’t reach the other side of the floor in the most efficient way.”

  “She has a point.”

  Merro’s hands flicked up in a gesture of impatience. “But she isn’t a dancer. This isn’t a performance.”

  “Are we in a hurry to reach a resolution on this issue? It is a pleasure to see Annika’s work.”

  “We’re never in a hurry about anything,” said Merro. “Nobody wants to reach any conclusions.”

  Impatient as Merro could be with our process, it was unusual for her to express irritation with Annika. I said, “Is there something else?”

  Her mouth tightened, and I expected her to shut me out again. But then she said, “I’m expecting a report from home tomorrow, about the solar flares.”

  A report tomorrow meant a report sent nearly forty years before. Bad as Kern’s trade situation was, the consequences of the flares could be far worse. I asked, “Has there been damage?”

  She shook her head. “The last communiqué said the Astrophysical College expected to make an announcement. It’s overdue.”

  Of course she was fretting. I was t
ouched that she’d told me. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.” Then, in a lower, if not a softer tone: “No, thank you, Tithonos. The news will be what it will be.”

  We approached the stone fountain where our paths would separate – I toward the workroom for my committee, she for home. I remembered what I needed to tell her.

  “Psamathe wishes me to stay at home tonight.”

  Merro bent slightly at the waist, continuing her pace but looking down at the foot of the fountain. “Of course.” Her posture displayed not the sullenness of a jealous lover, but the resignation of a fugitive. A pang twisted the space behind my eyes, and I felt like a callous idiot for choosing that moment to mention it.

  Not for the first time, I thought of breaking off the affair for her sake. Olympian courtesy does not sanction a dalliance when it becomes more than a convenient pastime. Kernish mores do not permit it at all. It was hurting her.

  But I could not say the words. I told myself that the timing was wrong, that this was a cruel moment to trouble her about such things. But the truth, the truth I would not admit, was that her grim countenance and flat, truthful voice had become necessary to me, like an anchor. I feared losing her.

  It might seem surprising that such influential delegates as Annika and Yitzakh served on so minor a committee as Transport Standards. But it was responsible for the report on the proposed punitive measures against Kern, and I had suggested to them that they could do some mundane legislative labor to show the junior delegates that they shared the burdens. Orlando and Dzuling of Tianming welcomed us newcomers to the Committee and pretended not to notice if we had our own agenda.

  I even served as Vice Chair, and this day I was to run the meeting, as Dzuling was having her annual attack of allergies to the flora of Bower.

  A tart, fragrant luncheon was served by Dzuling’s favorite cuisinartists, and we gossiped over our meal before coming to order.

  “Today we review the fifth draft of the Report on Anomalous Interworld Orders and Deliveries,” I said. “Yitzakh has done a masterful job, I think all will agree.”

  “Yitzakh is always masterful,” said Annika.

  Yitzakh snorted and waved a hand at her for silence. “Anything I’ve done is the result of Tithonos’s excellent first draft, Dzuling’s superb second draft, Annika’s masterful third draft –

  “Very well,” I said. “First of all, has anyone received any – “

  Yitzakh and Annika finished in chorus: “ – new instructions from home?” Everyone laughed. Protocol required that I put the question, but the concept of new instructions was so absurd that one could not recite it without irony.

  “Have the vague terms concerning nonconforming tender been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction?”

  There was a moment of silence while everyone reread those paragraphs.

  “Well,” said Orlando. “I suppose that the term ‘machine’ could be better defined – “

  Annika groaned. “Sun and rain, Orlando! Every single time. Nitpicking perfectionist, I wonder how Miranda lives with you. Why don’t you volunteer for the next draft?”

  Orlando beamed at her. “I should do that, if only as repayment for the tickler disk, you adolescent. However, I can live with the current imperfections, for Yitzakh’s sake.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” said Yitzakh.

  “Dear man,” said Orlando, reaching over and patting Yitzakh’s hand. “Your work is splendid, as always. I’m sure you’d show me the same consideration if our places were reversed.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, then.”

  There was a pause. I asked, “Is everyone still comfortable with the current language on timeliness of off-world requests?” A general murmur of assent followed. “Do we want to proceed to a final report to the full Parliament, without further discussion or drafts?”

  Annika pointed out, “Article 17, Section 4(d) of the Charter requires seven drafts under normal circumstances.” Only Annika could quote the precise subsection, a talent about which she was unbearably smug. A few people sighed; they were tired of this document, but there was no basis on which we could find “abnormal” circumstances to shorten the process.

  “Annika should do the next draft, as punishment,” said Orlando.

  “Punishment for quoting the Charter, or for the tickler disk?” she asked.

  “Both.”

  “No, Wise Delegate of Halcyon; I already did one. Your turn. Happy anniversary.”

  I asked, “Is there an objection to Orlando’s preparation of the sixth draft?”

  “Apart from mine?” growled Orlando.

  “Out of order. We will reconvene in four standard months, to examine Orlando’s sixth draft.”

  Things were well in hand. The negotiations so far had given every appearance of calm give-and-take between worlds with disparate interests, but Dzuling, Annika, Yitzakh and I had contrived to word the document so that circumstances warranting sanctions would never coincide with sanctions of any consequence. Orlando, who saw what we were doing, would go along for the sake of earning later favors from us, and because he enjoyed process without conflict.

  Merro would never have countenanced such a backhanded way of protecting her planet. She would have preferred an open, honest fight – which she would have lost. One does for one’s friends what they cannot do for themselves.

  Annika loved the ploy’s cunning; Yitzakh appreciated the precision and misdirection of the wording; Dzuling simply disliked having her committee used for a vendetta against one world. As for me, although Olympia had never given explicit instructions on the topic, I knew that our Council of Arbiters frowned on Confederation intervention in private commerce; this was the justification I mentioned aloud. But in truth, I had dreams about the miners of Kern, plagued by a wrathful sun, suffering wrong upon wrong as the Parliament penalized them for something they could not control.

  They all had Merro’s face.

  When I returned home to dress for Orlando’s reception, waiting for me like a bad joke was the first official message I had received in three years from Olympia. It had been sent some 28 years earlier, while I was still on my way to Bower to assume my post.

  Delays and substandard shipments from Kern have resulted in steadily increasing costs for replacement materials and lost opportunities for sales. Much as we sympathize with the plight of Kern, Olympian vital interests will best be served by imposing greater discipline on our trading partners. If Confederation policies are proposed to levy sanctions against worlds dishonoring good-faith agreements, you are directed to support such measures.

  We realize that by the time you receive this directive, you will have been working diligently for more than twelve standard years to advocate Olympia’s prior trade policies. We feel confident that you will find a way to effectuate our developing economic priorities.

  Cytherea, Lead Arbiter (for the Council)

  I stood still, my mouth open, trying to imagine what Orlando would say when I told him, to say nothing of Annika. Merro’s reaction I did not want to think about.

  Psamathe, who had stolen into the room as I read, put her hand on my shoulder. She nodded slowly while reading the new directive, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes as she did when thinking hard. Finally she looked up. “Well, this was coming. I told them as much in my last presentation to the Council before we left.”

  “Well, yes, but – “ I spluttered, hardly knowing where to begin. “But the last five drafts of the Report have been anchored on the importance of nonintervention! Every word I have written, not to mention every speech in the Chamber, has been based on that principle. I will look like a fool. And how will I ever persuade the others to reverse course on such a fundamental issue?”

  My wife considered for a moment, tilting her head to look at the message from a different angle. “With two more drafts to go, and three years before a vote on the legislation, a subtle, mm, nudge at this point could be enough to deflect the t
rajectory in a more, mm, congenial direction.” Her voice had become playful; Psamathe could make political strategy seem like a game of seduction.

  “Perhaps,” I said, trying not to be distracted as her hand snaked around my waist. “But I’m not sure that it would be the best thing to do.”

  Her hand stopped sliding, and she pulled away to look at me. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, think of how many years members have been working on this bill in good faith. It seems unfair to Dzuling, Yitzakh, and the others to nudge them abruptly in another direction, as if Olympia’s interests trumped everyone else’s.”

  She frowned as she settled herself on the divan near the door. “You represent Olympia, not Tienming or Tikkun, and you certainly don’t represent Dzuling or Yitzakh. It isn’t about them personally.”

  “I am not so certain of that,” I said. I sat down next to her and put my hand on her knee, but she slid away – not very far away, though. “No one at home understands the daily reality of working in the Parliament for ten or twenty years. All we have are our families here and the others who have devoted their lives to it. Besides, what am I here for, if not to see the big picture?”

  She slid back to me so that her leg touched mine. “How can there be a big picture without the little pieces that make it up?” She walked her fingers from my knee to my thigh. “If you don’t speak in Olympia’s voice, no one will. Do you suppose that the others sacrifice their planets’ interests for the sake of the big picture?” Her fingers were now walking up my side toward my armpit.

  A vision of Merro’s face came into my mind. “Merro probably doesn’t,” I admitted.

  “Yes,” said Psamathe, now running her fingers through my hair. “Tell me more about Merro. Does she like to nibble and bite? Does she swallow you whole? Does she ride you like a horsemistress, bucking to stay in the saddle?” Nothing aroused Psamathe more quickly than to hear me speak of my mistress; she began to nip at my neck, and with one foot she shut the door of the study. I should have enjoyed this game, too, talking of Merro as if she were a toy we shared.