Trust Territory

by Janet Morris

  The II's huge eyes never stayed in its head when it focused on you, Croft knew. They swam around in your field of view, or zoomed forward until they were nearly all you could see. They were full of sadness and compassion and they could swallow you up.

  Every person at the table sat back as that gaze fixed on each in turn. Except Remson, who held firm with head high, playing a game of pride and purpose. Lowe dropped her gaze, eventually. But by then her hands were gripping the arms of her chair so hard her knuckles were yellow and red and white.

  The ConSec commander muttered to himself and reached for a cigar to stick in his fat face, so that he could blow the apparition away with smoke and fire.

  The thin, sepulchral ConSpaceCom general, with medals covering one whole side of his chest, let his eyes dart back and forth and pecked continually at a handheld keypad, taking personal notes for his autobiography.

  "All beings smart," said II again, in that aspirating simulation of human speech. "All smart beings. Roving beings. Seeking beings. Self-controlled beings. Growing-up beings. Curious beings. So here we are coming to make the contact, first. Asking hello. Seeking permission to make visitation station, to put at Ball."

  "What?" Remson exploded first. "Mickey, you didn't say anything about—"

  Riva chimed in: "So the Ball is theirs."

  The ConSpaceCom general muttered, "Over my dead body. Remson, you and I need a powwow, fast."

  The ConSec commander rubbed his eyes, hard, with the palms of his hands. Meanwhile his mouth said, for the record: "We're formally against any permanent presence of any non-governable force within Trust Territory-controlled space, Croft. And you know it."

  Since they were all talking at once, the II sat down primly. It folded its six-fingered hands, with their opalescent nails, before it on the table. And it looked at Croft.

  Did they "hear" its intent, these other humans in the room, when the II looked at them? Or was that Croft's privilege alone? He "heard" it not in words, but in washes of emotion: patience, commiseration, and a questioning sense that made Mickey know the II wanted him to speak.

  That was fine. He wanted to speak, anyhow. He lumbered to his feet, wondering why his body felt so cumbersome. But it had felt so ever since he'd brought it back with him from his trip within the teardrop. If he hadn't known better he'd have said that, while inside the teardrop, he'd been separated from his flesh and was only now remembering how to be at home in it.

  What was happening to him? To them all? He held up a hand and everybody subsided. All of their comments could be sorted out later, on the record, by the conference room's transcription device.

  Normally that transcription device would be feeding all comments to the screen set into Mickey's place at the conference table. But there was too much for it to handle. The red letters on the screen when he looked down at it were about five minutes behind the proceedings, back at Riva Lowe's first explosive observation that the Ball and the aliens were connected.

  Of course they were. Hadn't Remson and the others realized even that much? Mickey was disturbed, slightly, that he'd not had the time to transfer to staff the most basic of the revelations he'd had while in the teardrop.

  Never mind. Nothing was ever too late. Time was more elastic, these days, than it had once been.

  When he had total silence and everyone's attention, Croft said, "The Interstitial Interpreter, our guest from the Unity Council, is asking to set up an embassy, nothing more, out at the site of the Ball." He was trying to be noncommittal, carefully choosing his words. "We are, after all, a United Nations of Earth facility, and one of our functions is to host the embassies of diverse cultures." He was stretching a point: The function of the UNE was to host embassies from the varying cultures of mankind.

  "The precedents we are setting here are crucial," he continued, watching Remson's narrowed eyes then Riva Lowe's wide ones, because in those two he expected a degree of support and from those two he could gauge how he was doing. "We're going to need to consult more widely, of course, before we can respond formally to our guest's request."

  Now he had to look at the alien. And before his staff, he wasn't sure he dared risk it. So he hesitated, and his glance fell on the AIP-Therapist. Its console was ablaze with lights, including a red one that was unblinking, staring at him as if it were a representative of some AI constituency that he also must satisfy in his negotiations with this alien race.

  Then he could delay no longer. Eye contact with the Interstitial Interpreter was always jolting. It carried much more information back and forth than did verbal contact. The huge, sad eyes of the II came flying toward him, demanding and consoling, urging and reiterating.

  Had he made a terrible error, in having this meeting so soon? Was he going to fail, before this observer of an alien culture, to grasp the great opportunities it had thought to offer?

  Or was he going to fail his own kind in another way and bring among them, prematurely, something with which mankind was not yet ready to live? In peace. In harmony. In understanding.

  The way the Unity Council insisted that it was time to live. Croft knew that much. The impatient eyes (hovering so close to his face that he couldn't see the people at his conference table) were unyielding on that point.

  He forced himself to blink, and it took all the strength at his command to bring down his lids.

  Breaking the contact was as real an experience as turning off a light or flipping a switch. He began breathing again, although he hadn't known he'd been holding his breath. He was dizzy and his ears were ringing.

  He was still standing, he realized. He had to say something more. He opened his eyes and, avoiding the II, looked steadily at Remson. "Our guest must be tired. Such a momentous announcement is one we of the UNE must consider in depth. We will reconvene this meeting tomorrow, by which time my staff and I will have a concrete response to the Interstitial Interpreter's proposal."

  Have a dimensional gate installed at Spacedock Seven? Have intercourse on a regular basis with creatures whose native spacetime was so different from that of mankind?

  Or was it? Croft was so glad to sit down, so relieved he'd found a way to close the meeting, that he didn't realize immediately that the Interstitial Interpreter had gotten to its "feet" once more.

  The II said, in a voice that seemed to come from as far away as the beginnings of the universe, "We must very much like meeting the Pioneer who has brought the Ball to your realm. We will like this being, a heroic soul wise and bold. This person, being a privileged person so far as the Council and the Unity is concerned, should be brought to us. We will be feasting him with glory, since this is his rightful prize."

  "Oh, Christ," said Remson, and looked at Riva Lowe, who shook her head and made a face.

  The ConSec and ConSpaceCom reps whispered together.

  Croft didn't at first understand what the II wanted. So, since it was clear that Remson did, Mickey said, "Can you arrange that for us, Vince?" as much to cover the fact that he had no idea whom the II meant as because he wished to facilitate any honoring of a human by the Council. He wasn't sure that any uncontrollable meeting of a private citizen of the human worlds with the II was wise. Not until he and his staff had come up with a position on the establishment of a Unity embassy at the site of the Ball. But . . .

  Remson stood up stiffly. "We'll have Micah Keebler brought around within . . . say . . . twenty-four hours at the latest, Mr. Interpreter. We don't order our civilian population to appear here or there. We can only invite Mr. Keebler, who's a member of the Salvagers' Guild—and who, by the way, still claims ownership of the Ball in question."

  "Ownership," repeated the II in a sibilant aspiration, and floated away from the table toward the door.

  Croft unceremoniously followed, afraid of he didn't know what: Would the II float right through the door, and scare the pants off the security types watching? Would it disappear? Sink through the floor? Float up and through the ceiling? Discorporate altogether?

&nbs
p; Mickey's more practiced eye caught the change in the II's substance level. It was more . . . ethereal. Its six-fingered hands seemed to be fanning, almost like the fins of a fish.

  He caught up with the II. Perhaps the door would open for it, sense it as physical. Perhaps not. The II had displacement, but that displacement wasn't the sort of mass that the conference room's doors were accustomed to recognizing as a reason to open.

  He shouldn't have worried. The door opened and, beyond it, the honor guard stood, waving their censers. The smoke filled the anteroom with a weird multicolored glow.

  Nothing the air-cleaning and -conditioning system could do was moving that smoke away from the honor guard. Or from the Interstitial Interpreter, who stepped right into it. Behind the two Croft saw four harried consular staffers trying to pretend that these guests were no different from any other guests.

  The II waved at Croft, a gesture reminiscent of a benediction, and the three of them turned as one being to let the staffers lead them off to their quarters.

  Croft was beyond wondering about the timing of the honor guard's appearance, or the way the smoke followed them wherever they went.

  He was too harried at that moment to worry about small things. But the sight of the aliens in his office complex, wafting down the hallway with humans on the edges of the ball of opalescent smoke in which they traveled, was like nothing he'd ever expected to see.

  Remson said, from close behind him, "Mickey, are you coming back in? I don't think you want to let this meeting end here."

  Remson was right. Croft shook his head as if the simple gesture might clear it and walked back inside, shoulder-to-shoulder with his trusted executive officer.

  Before they took their seats he had time to say, "Vince, you and I need to have some time together," and Remson responded, "God, Mickey, I was hoping you'd suggest that."

  So they agreed on taking high tea in Croft's office, once this room was cleared.

  But to clear this room he had to deal with what, the alien had put on the table.

  The ConSec and ConSpaceCom reps were adamant that they needed to consult their own people before they could voice an opinion on the proposed Unity embassy.

  Mickey said, "And of course, we'll consult all the UNE ambassadors as well." That was going to take a couple of all—nighters to accomplish, since one had to include the three hundred colony worlds in the case of a decision this momentous. "But let me just state, for the record, that we may not really have much of a choice."

  "What do you mean, Mr. Secretary?" asked the ConSpaceCom general.

  "You know exactly what I mean, General," Croft said brutally. "We couldn't stop them from setting up an embassy or any other outpost here if we tried with every iota of force at our command."

  He let the ConSpaceCom general and the ConSec commander argue that point until both of them finally ran out of wind.

  Riva Lowe and Remson had their heads together. "Riva, do you have something to add?"

  "I . . . We . . . That is, we were figuring out how to break the news to the Scavenger."

  Mickey Croft grinned. It had been so long since he'd even smiled that the gesture made his face feel unfamiliar. He'd never realized before that when he grinned the flesh under his eyes rose up and occluded his field of vision. Strange.

  But: "Tell Keebler that his dreams have come true: He's going to be rich and famous, exactly as he predicted. He is, after all, the man who discovered an artifact from an alien civilization, just the way he claimed. The vid-show rights to his story alone will set him up for life. You won't have any trouble with Keebler, unless you let on that he's doing us a favor."

  "I'll handle it," Remson promised. "Riva, I'll need your help, though. Can you join us for tea, in a bit?"

  She agreed. Croft adjourned the meeting. He wasn't pleased that Remson had invited Lowe to join them. He'd wanted to really get under the crust of what was happening, and he couldn't bare his soul with the woman around.

  But there wasn't much time, in human terms. The two security reps had to be motivated to serve the greater good in a way that was very different from their usual tasks. They had to understand that humanity might have no choice.

  If that was the case, Croft wasn't sure anyone ought to know. You couldn't un-happen events. You had to go forward. One way or another, even if the UNE declined to allow the alien Council to send a Unity delegation to take up residence at Spacedock Seven, humanity was now in contact with an alien civilization that in all likelihood possessed power beyond man's wildest imaginings.

  "We have to go cautiously, people," he warned them at the end of the meeting. "We don't want any hostile actions, or even a perception of hostility on our parts. No matter how difficult it is, we must behave in as civilized a fashion as we can muster—show our best face."

  Show that face to the distant stars. Show it despite all the internal squabbling in the UNE. Show it despite human and subhuman and animal rights violations. Show it despite prejudices and violent upheavals among competing strains of humankind. Show, most of all, a united front—one that was stable and predictable.

  One that was in no way threatening.

  And show all that despite the aliens' request that Micah Keebler, the crazy, grungy, paranoid old Scavenger, be brought to meet them, there to be honored as a special friend of the Council and the Unity.

  What had the II called Keebler?

  "The Pioneer?"

  If jealousy was what Croft was feeling, then perhaps he could get over it. But he didn't think that jealousy had anything to do with the queasiness he got when he envisioned the Interstitial Interpreter welcoming the Scavenger into the aliens' midst.

  This was, Croft thought as he shepherded everyone out of the conference room, one of those days when you wished you could redo everything you'd just done, and come out with a different result.

  What were they doing, the lot of them? Were they qualified for this incomparable task? Was anybody qualified for such a momentous undertaking?

  He noticed that Riva Lowe was followed by the wheeled and self-powered AIP-Therapist as she left the conference room.

  Maybe the AIP-Therapist would have some insights that would be helpful. After all, it wasn't human. It wasn't trying to cover up anything. It wasn't embarrassed by its faults. It wasn't overly conscious of its flaws. It didn't know a damned thing about Original Sin, except what had been programmed into it.

  And it certainly didn't care if its god turned out to be less than perfect.

  After all, its god was humanity, who'd created its kind out of what was lying around in the Earth's crust.

  And humanity wasn't much of a deity.

  If it turned out that these Unity beings were being so paternal to mankind for some good and sufficient reason, then that wouldn't bother the AIP-Therapist or its kind.

  But it bothered Mickey Croft that he might be the ticket-taker at the first-run showing of Judgment Day. It bothered him one hell of a lot.

  CHAPTER 20

  Contact

  "So, Mickey," said Remson, wishing that his boss didn't look so much like someone blinking away a deep sleep, "are we going to ask the Unity Council what they know about the missing Cummings and Forat kids?" Remson put a chocolate-covered tea biscuit carefully on his plate.

  Croft frowned and sipped his tea. He didn't want to answer. Or couldn't, quite yet.

  Riva Lowe was pouring the Darjeeling, and it was so damned civilized here in Mickey's quarters that it could have been any century, Remson mused, back on Earth—if you discounted the canister-shaped AIP-Therapist sitting at the table, its head just rising over the edge and one red light blinking steadily.

  Croft finally said, "We have no proof that the disappearance of the lovers' spacecraft was related to the Ball."

  "We've got plenty of circumstantial evidence, sir," Riva Lowe burst out, and then subsided, biting her lip.

  Remson pressed the point. "If they're admitting the Ball is theirs, then I think we've got a right to ask
. Think about it, Mickey. The kids disappeared in a suddenly perturbed spacetime. We've got that on the records. Right near the Ball."

  "But we'd be accusing them of something. Or it would look as if we were, Vince. And I want to avoid unpleasantness at all costs."

  "If we don't ask them about it, Cummings will," Riva Lowe said positively. "I've been spending time with him, getting ready for the Earth trip. And I can tell you he's determined to see those aliens. And he's xenophobic."

  Mickey snapped his fingers and Remson looked up.

  "That's it! We'll invite the aliens to Earth. On the same junket. It'll be—"

  "How can we—" Riva started, and stopped.

  Remson picked up her thread: "Can we do that? Do we dare?"

  "What have we got to lose? If the Unity wanted to land on Earth, we couldn't stop them. I think perhaps they're waiting for an invitation. Sort of, 'I showed you my planet, now you show me yours.' "

  "They showed you their planet?" Remson couldn't keep the. bewilderment, and the disbelief, out of his voice.

  Croft nodded. He looked a thousand years old today, as if he'd become a Chinese dowager suddenly. All the skin on his face was loose and creased, and it flapped as he moved his head. "While I was in the teardrop they took me . . . somewhere. There. It's so hard to describe, I can't begin. But I know I was somewhere much larger than the inside of that teardropshaped ship. ..."

  "Okay, maybe Earth's the ticket," Remson said slowly. Give in on the easy points. Mickey had taught him that. But Mickey wasn't himself, these days.

  Where was the down-to-brass-tacks discussion of how much of this alien pronouncement was misinformation? Disinformation? What about traps? Were they friends or foes? Or didn't Mickey care? Was he under some kind of spell?

  More than anything, it was this that worried Remson. He'd had Riva bring the AIP-Therapist to monitor Mickey, not the aliens. You couldn't monitor the aliens effectively. You had no template for standard "good" and "bad" behavior against which to judge the II.