First Salik War 2: The V'Dan

by Jean Johnson

  (At least we convinced them to put all the psis into their own shared quarters,) Jackie said. Then wrinkled her nose. (At least, I think we got it through to them.)

  Jackie had brought four other polyglot telepaths with her on this expedition. That had taken away almost half of her people’s most powerful psychic translators. It was deemed necessary, though. With their new potential allies embroiled in an interstellar war, the faster both sides could communicate with each other, the better it would be for everyone involved.

  Two of them were even xenopaths. Unlike Darian Johnston, whose military commission—like Jackie’s—had been reinstated for this mission, Aixa Winkler had never actually touched a fully sentient alien mind before. Johnston had served for ten years, and had faced down the Greys five times. Winkler didn’t have that kind of experience; instead, she had served for decades as an animal-rights advocate, communing with a wide variety of subsentient minds.

  Min Wang-Kurakawa was a newly minted junior-grade officer. She had expected to be sent on patrol ships to pay for her secondary career in engineering, being a technosentient psi as well as a polyglot telepath. Clees—Heracles Panaklion—had been included in the embassy not only because he was a polyglot psi, but a Psi League instructor. His official job would be to assess and offer training to any V’Dan psis, being certified for basic instruction in all known branches of abilities with two decades of practice at training and teaching.

  He had also declared he would be the embassy’s chronicler, hauling along a variety of camera equipment, “. . . to capture the behind-the-scenes history in the making!” Jackie had a hard time imagining where the fifty-two-year-old got all his energy and enthusiasm. He hadn’t been one of her instructors—a case of her living all around the Pacific Ocean, while he had lived and taught around the Mediterranean Sea on the opposite side of the planet—but she had read the glowing recommendations from many of his students, appended to his personnel file.

  The lowest-ranked telepaths were Johnston and Winkler, but low was comparative. At Rank 9 each, they were sensitive enough to pick up thoughts at a mere touch. Bunking with nonpsis could lead to tensions and troubles whenever roommates might bump into each other, as they invariably would. Fellow psis could shield their own thoughts, true, but even if the mental walls weren’t up, they would be far more understanding and forgiving of any accidental touches leading to accidental eavesdropping.

  Robert spoke, though not to her. Still, it drew Jackie’s attention back to the actual docking as he chatted with the station’s traffic managers. Dead ahead, the Dusk Army now filled most of the view through the forward windows. Not just the station, but a large, rounded, rectangular set of doors that were sliding slowly open, revealing a well-lit interior.

  Terran and V’Dan docking technology were not yet compatible, so Commander Graves was having to dock and land manually. Jackie suspected that the “course corrections” on approach were not only for the sake of the insystem defense grid, but to reassure the station’s traffic control center that he would heed verbal directions swiftly and accurately.

  Her comm station pinged. As the chief pilot, Robert was in constant communication at this point with Dusk Army Traffic Control. That meant this was something else. Jackie noted that it was a video link, and opened the channel. The man who appeared on the screen had both mint- and forest-green stripes along each cheek and a stripe down the center of his scalp, tinting his brown hair. He wore a dark shade of green for his jacket, with grass-green lapels, cut vaguely along the lines of Li’eth’s Imperial Army uniform and decorated with gleaming silver buttons molded in a pattern of some sort of beast, but it was not an actual uniform.

  She offered him a smile. “Greetings. You’ve reached the communications officer for the Embassy 1. How may we help you?”

  Hazel eyes narrowing, he frowned at her. “. . . Aren’t you the Ambassador? You look like her.”

  “That is correct, but until I have disembarked from this particular ship, I am also its comm officer. How may I help you?” she repeated. On her left, Li’eth shifted a little closer, peering at the screen.

  He gave her a look somewhere between puzzled and dubious. “. . . May I speak with your protocol officer?”

  “That would be me as well. How may I help you, meioa . . . ?” she asked, using the Alliance term for addressing someone politely. Without a suffix, it was gender neutral and thus considered very polite.

  “That, Ambassador, is Imperial First Lord Mi-en Ksa’an,” Li’eth stated, leaning in even closer to Jackie. (I know him by sight,) he added quickly, telepathically, (but we rarely moved in the same social circles, for all that he’s a First Tier relative by four generations, if I remember correctly.) Out loud, he added, “Greetings, Ksa’an. Are you still working for the Protocol Ministry?”

  “Yes . . . Your Highness. It is good to see that you are well. We will need to speak with these Terrans about the proper protocols for welcoming them into the Dusk Army’s containment quarters,” the green-striped man stated.

  Jackie eyed him. “I am confused as to the need for protocol, Imperial First Lord.”

  He gave her a skeptical look in turn. “How so, Ambassador?”

  A sudden shift of the nose of their ship made everything sway forward and down. Robert cursed under his breath and corrected, compensating for the transfer from weightlessness to artificial gravity. It felt like Mars, lighter than it should be. Jackie swayed and clutched at her console, then breathed deep to adjust to the sudden need for supporting her own weight after fourteen days in space.

  “Please remember that I am not V’Dan and do not understand nor grasp your customs . . . but I would think at this point we are medical patients. Where we come from, all patients are treated equally, save that their needs are based on a triage of who is in need of the most immediate attention. Since we are all healthy as we enter quarantine confinement, the only protocol that should then be followed is a security matter.”

  “. . . Security?” the V’Dan on the other end of the linked screens asked.

  “Yes. My head of security wishes for one of our doctors and some of his troops to tour and assess the quarantine facilities before I disembark,” Jackie told him. “This was outlined in the notes we sent through the hyperrelay node at your system’s edge—speaking of which, we have a satellite node ready to deploy. Your people have not yet indicated where you want it.”

  “That is not my department, meioa,” the protocol lord demurred.

  “Well, it will give me something to discuss with someone else while we wait for the team to make its assessment sweep. You can arrange that, yes?” she asked him.

  “. . . Yes.” He didn’t look entirely pleased about that.

  Jackie chose to address that skepticism with a dose of pragmatism. “My people have a saying. ‘Trust is earned, respect is given, and loyalty is demonstrated. Betrayal of any one of those is to lose all three.’ I believe the speaker was a fellow named Abdelnour from around three hundred years ago . . . This is the ‘trust is earned’ stage, meioa,” she clarified, using the Alliance’s preferred form of address, since she was still a bit unclear on what an Imperial First this or that Lord meant. “My people would like to trust yours, that your facilities are adequate for containing pathogens, and safe for us to live in for the duration of our quarantine stay. However, as this is an incredibly important meeting, my people need direct reassurance that everything is indeed safe.

  “We would have extended the same courtesy to our guests, save that there were so few of them that it was simply easier to view and demonstrate everything in person, with no security chiefs demanding that their checklists of procedures and requirements be met,” she finished lightly. “There are 195 of us Terrans, and Captain al-Fulan takes his responsibility as our chief guardian seriously.”

  Indeed, Captain al-Fulan had literal checklists of everything security- and safety-wise that he intend
ed to mark as acceptable or inadequate. She had rolled her eyes when he had first showed them to her, but the captain had explained patiently that he had twelve years of working high-profile security details, including in areas that were dangerous. The Terran United Planets worked hard at representing everyone they could, but there were still pockets of humanity who insisted on rioting, rebelling, and committing acts of violence against each other.

  Dr. Du would be accompanying him. The pathologist was now familiar with space-station quarantine containment procedures, and intended to study the V’Dan version to make sure they were adequate for her checklists. Jackie had a few checklists of her own, but all of them were in languages other than Terranglo. It wouldn’t be diplomatic to let the V’Dan know what she really thought of the things she observed, right now.

  As it was, she observed the Imperial First Lord sighing. “. . . Very well. What is the proper protocol among your people for welcoming aboard a military security team?”

  That, she could handle easily. “As is our military custom, they will ask permission to come aboard, and when it is given, they will expect an introduction to the officer on deck, meaning the person in charge of the hangar bay. Captain al-Fulan will offer a salute in the Terran fashion, since he is a visiting officer. Your people may use the V’Dan version in return, as His Highness has agreed with me that both are meant as a similar symbol of respect. After that, he will introduce Dr. Jai Du, who will accompany his team as they investigate.

  “They will then expect to be shown all over, have all the basic procedures for safety drills demonstrated, their questions answered, and when the captain says it is safe, the rest of us will begin disembarking and off-loading supplies. At that point, the only thing you need do is have whoever is in charge of the quarantine procedures welcome me aboard as an Ambassador—literally, just say ‘Welcome aboard, Ambassador,’ or however you wish to phrase it—and welcome the others aboard.

  “At that point, we’ll just expect you to run our people through the safety drills and explanations, show us where to stow our equipment, that sort of thing. Simple and efficient. This is quarantine, after all,” she finished, “not a grand introduction to your Empress. That comes later, and can be conducted with full ceremony at that time.”

  Ksa’an hesitated, then dipped his head to the side a little. “I will admit I have not done any formal greeting ceremonies under quarantine situations before. It has not been needed in decades. But if you will find no offense in such an . . . abbreviated greeting as you outline,” he allowed, “then that could be acceptable.”

  “We Terrans will take no offense so long as we are all polite to each other,” she reassured him.

  “Ambassador, if you are done speaking with their protocol officer,” Robert called out in the pause in their conversation, “we are now safely parked, and Embassy 2 is coming in for a landing behind us.”

  “Thank you, Commander. Meioa, if we have satisfied the preliminary needs of protocol, I shall contact Captain al-Fulan to let him know he will be free to board the station upon his arrival.”

  “Of course, meioa—welcome aboard, Grand High Ambassador Maq’Enzi,” he added politely, giving her name a V’Dan twist to its pronunciation . . . and not quite the same one Li’eth had used. The transmission ended.

  Sighing, Jackie shook her head to clear it and typed in the link to the 2. “Time to let al-Fulan know he can start checking off the items on his lists.”

  (It’s only going to get worse from here on out,) Li’eth comforted her, in a backwards jesting way. (Our military’s protocols aren’t that much different from your own because so many even of our officers are commoners by birth and etiquette . . . but the civilian sector . . .)

  She reached over and squeezed his hand gently, letting their intertwined fingers rest on the edge of the console. The gravity was still less than Earth Standard by about two-thirds, but that was understandable, as it no doubt allowed the incoming ships to maneuver with less wasted fuel. On one of her tertiary screens at the bottom of the main trio, she could see an analysis of the molecules on board, more of the same sort of highly complex, potentially toxic petrochemicals the Salik had used. Not exactly an abundant fuel source when compared to clean, pure water, let alone a safe one. She knew that Maria, their chief doctor, was worried about their exposure to those long-abandoned chemicals. Petrochemicals on Earth were synthesized strictly for lubrication and hydraulic needs, not as a fuel source.

  Aside from certain basic needs, everything was different here. Everything was going to be different in how those needs were met. Some of them were needs the V’Dan simply hadn’t considered but might be able to supply once they were addressed. Some were going to be things they hadn’t even dreamt of, yet . . . or might even balk at providing.

  (We’ll try to be ready for it,) she reassured him. (And try to be understanding whenever a conflict comes up.)

  —

  “And this,” their contamination-suited guide stated, gesturing at a door painted a paler shade of gray in the shades-of-gray halls around them, “will be your quarters, Ambassador. Now, if Your Highness will come with me, I will show you to your own suite.”

  Li’eth frowned at the man. “I was told in our communications that the Dusk Army’s quarantine sector only has twenty cabins, two bunks apiece. Between the V’Dan of my surviving crew and the numbers of the Terrans, we have two hundred people in need of places to sleep. I thought I made it clear that we were all willing to share to ensure the comfort of our guests.”

  “. . . Yes, Your Highness,” the masked, enclosed figure stated after a brief but palpable hesitation. “We have arranged for the Grand High Ambassador to have a private room, and for you to have a private room, as is proper for your station. The rest will all share quarters in rotation, or sleep on their ships. As was indicated.”

  “Then why are we wasting space with two of us having separate quarters from the rest?” he asked. It was hard to see the other man’s face through the silvered plate of his protective suit, but Li’eth could sense that the man’s aura was the sort of dull, muddy gray associated with a blank, uncomprehending stare. Jackie’s aura was mostly calm tinged with a touch of impatience, and the Terran soldier behind her had an air and aura of alert boredom. He returned his gaze to the quarantine worker. “At the very least, I should be sharing my quarters with Leftenants Superior Ba’oul Des’n-yi and V’kol Kos’q.”

  “They . . . are Leftenants Superior, Your Highness. You are Imperial Tier, and they are Second Tier. It would not be appropriate,” the other man finally stated, his tone cautious, as if he was trying not to offend someone who had lost his wits.

  “I am also a Second Tier officer,” Li’eth returned. “If it will ensure that two sleeping schedules are freed up on one bed so that two more Terrans do not have to sleep on a floor or in zero gravity, I will share my cabin with my fellow officers.”

  (Wait, you picked the wrong people,) Jackie cautioned him, while the other man processed that suggestion. (If they’ve changed this, then they may have changed something else.) She addressed the quarantine aide aloud. “On a related note, I specifically requested that the telepaths who accompanied us—what you would call holy ones, with the ability to speak mind-to-mind—be given separate quarters from the rest. Did you set aside a cabin for them?”

  “Ah . . .” That, too, was a question that seemed to faze him.

  “If he is indeed willing to share with others, technically His Highness and I should share our cabins with the other holy ones. Two males and two females,” Jackie clarified. “It is a point of Terran protocol that psychics—what you call holy ones—be given quarters separate from those without such gifts whenever they will be confined in close quarters with many others for more than just a day or two.”

  The quarantine worker eyed her, then turned to look at Li’eth, his flexible suit twisting slightly. Li’eth nodded. “I am willing to sha
re with my fellow holy ones.”

  “Your Highness, that would be highly—”

  “—The Terrans’ understanding of holy ones and holy powers is vastly advanced compared to our own,” he stated, interrupting the inevitable, protocol-based protest. “In anything relating to holy powers, they are the authority. Arrange things as the Grand High Ambassador directs. I will share my quarters with the two male holy ones, and she with the two females. That will free up four sleeping shifts for four more Terrans.”

  The man hesitated like he wanted to protest, but sighed and gestured for the prince to follow him. Li’eth sighed mentally. (I think I have been in the military too long . . .)

  Pressing the button on the doorframe, Jackie stepped into a cabin only slightly larger than the previous ones she had seen her fellow Terrans being guided into, with two bunks built into one wall, a narrowish long couch along the other, a door at the back for the bathing facilities, and two square-and-beam arrangements on the wall behind the couch that could swing down as a pair of tables. More shades of gray were livened by beige bedding and beige cushions with the same sort of easily wiped surfaces as the Terrans used, though she had no clue what kind of material it was.

  (Why do you think you’ve been in the military too long?) she asked.

  (Because while the military does have a Tier system, it’s considerably more practical and pragmatic in how it handles various matters than V’Dan civilian life tends to be. I had forgotten how rigid and confining it could be, to be near the top of the Imperial Tier instead of near the bottom of the Second,) Li’eth explained, moving away from her cabin door. His guide hadn’t gone far, just around the corner and down a short distance.

  At a gesture from the suited guide, he stepped inside his own quarters and shared the awareness that the only differences between his and hers were that his quarters had an actual desk with a workstation between the door and the bunk, the sofa had three individual tables that could be pulled down, and the cushions and bedding were light blue, which blended in more pleasantly than beige, given the dull pewter gray of the walls.