by John Ringo
“There has been a change in schedule, Human Papa O’Neal. A Tchpth ship has emerged from jump and commed me that they wish to rendezvous for negotiations. We should have contact in just over three of your days,” it said. “I will leave you to resume nourishing yourself.”
Papa supposed that was a more accurate term than calling it eating. He also noticed that the Himmit had no trouble pronouncing oh-hell-dammit-Crabs. Froggy little bastard.
He thought about waking his tutor, and then decided against it. Once the kid woke up he wasn’t going to get a moment’s rest, so he’d better get PT-ing while the getting was good.
Three hours later, Papa was glad he’d gotten his workout in because he could see that his free time was over. Thank god. Even negotiation preparations were a welcome relief from boredom now that he had the promise of not having to endure them all the way to fucking Barwhon.
“So what kinds of things are on our list to negotiate for? I have some ideas of what I want, but what do the Bane Sidhe want, from your perspective?”
The PA sank his head into his palm. “Let me repeat, the Tchpth do not think in terms of deals and arrangements and agreements. The Tchpth think in terms of relationships and favors.” He paused, and Papa could see that he was going to have to listen to another run of xenopsych, only this time he had more incentive to pay close attention.
“Okay, what kind of relationship should I be negotiating for?”
“Let me try to explain things another way,” Allan said, clearly meaning one more out of umpty-jillion he’d already tried. “Humans look at the Galactics and see the Darhel in charge, because the Darhel control the contracts, and the shipping, and the money.”
“And life and death over the Indowy masses,” Papa growled. “And attempting it over humans, and damn near—”
“Let’s not get sidetracked. The Tchpth look at the Galactic organization and see a web of relationships. The Darhel do tasks the Tchpth agree need doing by somebody, but don’t want to do themselves. The Tchpth control what amounts to the money supply, control the technology level available to the Darhel, the Indowy, and us. They see allowing the Darhel to play their contract games as humoring them. It’s an easy favor that, from the Tchpth point of view, they’re getting a lot of favors back for. The Darhel may appear to control what looks to humans like all the political power, but the Darhel’s ability to step outside the Tchpth relationship format and favor economy is exactly zero. The Tchpth own the money supply. Um… picture it as if in the twentieth century, oil were actually money and some government had the power to make an unlimited supply of it effortlessly, and was militarily unassailable. See why the Darhel are stuck?”
“The fucking Elves can and do do a lot to the Indowy, and us.”
“Yes, they do. But their relationship with the Tchpth is entirely on the Tchpth’s terms as to definitions. The Darhel do have a lot of maneuvering room as to the trading of favors, and they understand, and use, that.
“The Tchpth relationship with the Indowy clans are what ultimately allows the Bane Sidhe to function. The Tchpth have more genuine philosophical thought in common with the Indowy than with the Darhel. The Indowy actually get this ‘Path’ thing. The Darhel don’t. Realize that the Tchpth can bypass the Darhel by delivering nanogenerator code keys to the Indowy any time they damned well please. And they sometimes do. The Bane Sidhe is a case in point. The Bane Sidhe nannite pool is entirely off the Darhel books. Maybe it will help for a moment if you think of the Bane Sidhe less as a resistance movement aimed at overthrowing the Darhel than a labor union. That’s not accurate, either, but figure this — the Indowy are lousy at management, economics, logistics, firm and formalized agreements. The Indowy need the Darhel. They don’t want to make the Darhel go extinct, or go stay on their own worlds. The Indowy just want better terms. The Tchpth relationship with the Indowy is to provide enough support to the labor union to keep the balance between the Galactics the way they think it should be. The Indowy also operate on the basis of a favor economy with the Tchpth. Think of this as another form of currency that’s completely off the Darhel books. Relationships.”
“The Himmit? Nobody’s really got a great handle on the Himmit’s story economy, but there are things they can do, and favors can be traded with them, so the Tchpth have their relationship with the Himmit somehow slotted into their scheme of things. We humans don’t actually have any understanding, at all, of the workings between the Himmit and the Tchpth. Are you following me so far?” The PA ran both hands through his hair, thinking so hard he was sweating.
Papa O’Neal was actually kind of impressed. “Yeah, I think so. You’re saying we’ve been mistaken about the Darhel and the Crabs are in control of the whole ball of wax — which tells me that maybe we should be pissed off at them.”
“No. I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying the Tchpth have the power to control the whole ball of wax but don’t have the time, inclination, or aptitude for doing so. I’m saying the Darhel don’t mess with the Tchpth because they know the Tchpth can upset the applecart at any point. We are not negotiating with the Indowy. We are not negotiating with the Darhel. We are negotiating with the Tchpth. If the Tchpth see Galactic civilization in terms of relationships and favors, then we — and you — had better be able to see it that way, too. Or at least fake it real well.” He sighed. “Does that make sense?”
“Yeah. I reckon that makes sense. They could help us, they could help the Indowy, they could jerk a knot in the Darhel, but they really don’t have any percentage in it and don’t give a shit. Is that about the size of it?” Papa O’Neal patted down his shirt pocket before realizing he’d run out of tobacco.
“Closer. They do give a shit. They just think of it differently. Alien minds. Humanity’s opportunity, and our curse right at the moment, is that the Tchpth haven’t decided where we fit in. They haven’t decided where, over the mid-range time scale of the next thousand years or so, we ‘work’ as part of a stable relationship pattern between the races. It is almost as much false as it is true, but think of human involvement in the Bane Sidhe, for a moment, as the Indowy doing a favor for the Tchpth by developing xenopsychological data on the humans as part of the process of evaluating our place in the scheme of things. All this is hampered by all the Galactic races having extreme prejudices against us for all the reasons you already know, and probably a couple more we haven’t figured out yet.
“Your job, as a diplomat, is to almost but not exactly socialize with the Tchpth, and probably a few Indowy, but no Darhel, of course. In the course of this not exactly schmoozing, they and the Indowy will make loaded comments about relationships and balances of favors between different groups, including various Indowy Clans. Possibly the Tchpth will test you by making a few comments about other relationships, such as some internal to them, or some with the Himmit or Darhel. You are not going to pass that test on any level more sophisticated than a grossly barbarous, vicious omnivore, so don’t get your hopes up or give up hope,” he said.
“Right. So I’m at the Mad Hatter’s tea party and I’m supposed to do what?” The O’Neal wore the expression of a man completely out of his depth but willing to go down fighting valiantly.
“Primarily, avoid as many gross mistakes as possible while getting in specific talking points to illustrate how humanity, Clan O’Neal, and the O’Neal Bane Sidhe view the balance of favors between ourselves and the other Galactic races,” the PA said.
“Oh. Is that all?” Papa asked sarcastically.
“Don’t worry about it. You can take your PDA and wear an earbug. They’ll pretend you aren’t, but will be completely unsurprised that you need it. It’s actually an advantage, as they’ll hear what your PDA is telling you. In a certain sense, the PDA will be doing the actual diplomacy, while you maintain the relevant not-exactly fiction that the discussions are with the O’Neal.” The younger man shrugged.
“Oh. A buckley is going to be negotiating our future with the entire Galactic civilization.
I’m so relieved,” Papa groused.
“This is all the better reason for you to understand those talking points well. If what you say contradicts or revises what they hear out of your PDA, they’ll go with whatever it is you say. Which also means, I need not tell you, don’t fuck up. Because at many levels, physical, economic, political and legal, the Tchpth can swat Clan O’Neal, and probably the whole human race, like flies.”
“But no pressure,” Papa said.
“Nope, O’Neal,” Alan said with a grin. “No pressure at all.”
Chapter Sixteen
Papa and Alan followed an Indowy guide through the bowels of the large ship, Papa with interest, Alan with apparent disinterest.
The ship was rara avis: a Tchpth diplomatic transport. Nearly the size of a Posleen War super-dreadnought, it could carry over a million Tchpth. How many were actually on board was uncertain since the only thing they saw were naked Galplas walls and their Indowy guide.
“These are service tunnels,” Papa said, pointing to scuff-marks. “An insult?”
“It’s a Tchpth ship,” Alan said. “More likely they felt that it would be an insult if we had to crawl on our hands and knees the whole way.”
“Point,” Papa said. “I hope the meeting rooms are high enough for us.”
“For you,” Alan said. “I’m not going to be in on them.”
Finally they arrived at a large hatch and the Indowy bowed to them politely.
“Wait here, please,” he chirped. “You will be greeted.”
“Thanks,” Papa said and heard a groan at his side. “Thank you, Good Indowy.”
The Indowy bowed formally, a bending backward at the waist with a complicated leg-twist reminiscent of a curtsey, and then scurried off.
“And now we w—” Papa broke off as the hatch dialed open to reveal a room the size of a cargo hold.
The bulkheads and overhead were masked by fine cloths in a riot of colors. Most of them tended towards blue and purple but there were a few he was pretty sure human eyes weren’t meant to see.
The floor was similarly colored but the material appeared to be crystal. He quickly put a guess at it being some form of very expensive crystal.
Scattered around the room, at apparent random, were very low tables. Well, they were low to a human. They would be just about waist height to the many Indowy in the room. For a human they were more like ankle catchers.
Papa paused in his perusal at a whimper from the “diplomat” next to him.
“What?” he growled. So far none of the people in the room had taken the slightest notice of them.
“It’s a…” Alan said, hyperventilating. “It’s a…”
“It’s a what?” Papa whispered fiercely. “Get a grip, man!”
“This is a formal negotiation,” Alan whispered back shakily.
“That’s what they said,” Papa pointed out.
“No!” Alan said, his voice tight. “This is a formal negotiation! We’ve had ‘formal’ negotiations with the Tchpth and Indowy leadership before. That’s just a way of saying it’s not over tea and crumpets. But this is a formal Children’s Negotiation.”
Papa frowned for a moment and then blanched.
“Wait… You mentioned that…”
“This is the most high form of formal negotiation,” Alan said. “No human has ever participated in one. Not even the highest negotiations of the Posleen War were conducted at the Children’s Banquet. This is a ritual dating back to the very days of the Aldenata! The great table at the center…”
“The Parent’s Table,” Papa said, dredging it up from memory. “That’s a really silly way of—”
“It’s not even the proper term,” Alan snapped. “It’s a shorthand. It doesn’t actually mean those are the Kids’ Tables and the one in the middle is the Parent’s Table. Don’t be absurd. It’s just how it gets translated. But this ritual is more formal than a Japanese tea ceremony. Do exactly what the PDA tells you to do. Make no gesture, make no facial movement, that is not instructed. Fortunately, it moves very slowly. I don’t know where your starting position is—”
He broke off as one of the Indowy in the room came towards them at a slow walk. It was the sort of slow ceremonial walk Papa dredged from the recesses of memory as being used in a coronation.
Or a funeral.
It seemed like it took forever for the guy to get to the hatch and Papa realized that the one thing he was most going to have to cultivate was patience.
“Clan O’Neal,” the Indowy stated, bending forward in an informal bow.
“Bow forward slowly,” the PDA ordered. “Keep going. Further. Slow down. Hold it there. Up just a smidge. Hold that. Say: Clan Kooltan.”
“Clan Kooltan,” Papa parroted.
“I am your Guide for the Banquet,” the Kooltan clan leader said. If he found any distaste it was not apparent. His face gave away nothing and he had exactly zero body language. “If you will follow me.”
Kooltan turned and began to slowly walk back into the room.
“Wait for it,” the PDA said. “Don’t step off until I tell you.”
“What are you going to do?” Papa whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“Stay here,” Alan said. “I’m not invited.”
“Don’t lock your knees,” Papa said.
“Step off. No, not fast!” the PDA snapped. “Just shuffle. You need to move at the same speed as Kooltan. Don’t stride. Never stride!”
I’m going to get Nathan for dumping this on me.
The intricacies of the ceremony were lost on Papa O’Neal. He was pretty sure that it was all incredibly special and that he was missing a bunch of stuff that really mattered. But it was like a tea ceremony. What in the hell was wrong with just dropping a bag in hot water?
Walk, slowly, shuffle, to a table. To a particular position at a particular table. There would be a morsel of human food at that particular position and particular table. Bend over, at the waist, pick up the morsel of food. Straighten up. Look into the distance.
An Indowy or Tchpth might or might not already be at the table. If there wasn’t one or the other one would show up sooner or later. Or two. A maximum of four, total, at a table, no more. Usually two.
A statement would be made. The first person speaking was determined by some arcane rule Papa had no clue on. This person was the Prompter. A second person would speak. This was the Rebuttor.
Prompter, Acceptor, Rebuttor, Supporter. Each of the four possible combinations had a name, a time to speak, and a particular subject to discuss. Most of them related to some equivalent of “The vacuum outside is very hard today, isn’t it?”
Occasionally one of them would speak in Indowy or Tchpth. Twice he had to reply in Indowy. They apparently gave him a pass on Tchpth. Since he couldn’t even pronounce the species name, doing the whole language was out of the question.
Apparently at those times they were actually negotiating something and he had no clue what, how or why. He just parroted what the PDA, with occasional references to Alan, told him to say.
Even when they engaged in actual negotiations in English he didn’t have any clue what, how or why.
“Clan O’Neal,” the Indowy Prompter said.
“You’re Acceptor, third,” the PDA whispered. “Wait for your Acceptance which is fourth.”
Whatever the fuck that means, Papa thought.
“Now: Clan Selatha,” the PDA said.
The Rebuttor and Supporter had both greeted each other, an off-hand way of introduction apparently. Papa wasn’t bothering with trying to keep up with any names.
“Clan Selatha,” Papa said, bowing from the waist.
“Stop there!” the PDA screamed. “You’re a major Battle Clan! Selatha is known for mass Galplas production which is about as bottom of the food chain as you can get! You nearly raised his social prominence by about fifty points!”
After a moment Selatha said: “Disassociative resonance in material space is unharmonious.”
>
An Indowy was the Rebuttor and replied almost instantly: “All change is motion state.”
Fortunately it was a bit like chess. You had a four-minute clock. Actually, it was more like four minutes and twelve seconds since it was based on the Tchpth clock.
They almost ran out before Alan and the PDA between them came up with a response:
“Life is aentropic,” Papa parroted.
The Crab Supporter took nearly as long a pause. Papa had to wonder if it had a PDA stashed somewhere.
“Life is motion.”
“Take a quarter turn to your right,” the PDA whispered. “See the table right in front of you?”
“Hmmm…” Papa hummed.
“Wait for it. Wait for it. Step off.”
Papa took a step that nearly trod on the Tchpth Supporter. He could only look straight forward except when taking the food off the table.
“Small steps!” the PDA said.
“How’d we do?” Papa asked.
“I think we just bought a solar system,” Alan whispered in his earbug. “Just shut up and soldier.”
It was the end of the whole complicated, annoying, slow as hell shooting-match when they got to get to the big, huge, vital, future of everything hinges on it issue.
For that he, finally, was allowed to approach the Parent’s Table.
“Stop here,” the PDA said, when he was a good two steps away. “You can’t actually stand at the Parent’s Table.”
The Parent’s Table was bigger, with room for at least twenty Indowy and Tchpth or ten humans. And it was actually tall for a human. The Indowy and Tchpth were looking under it. Not that they were saying much.
Part of the big kicker to the Crab withdrawal had been not just the killing of Erik Winchon. A large part of their break with the O’Neal Bane Sidhe had been their own shock at the ripples of what they’d done. They’d reached out to make an admittedly significant adjustment to the scheme of things to protect one extraordinary human, and had destroyed an entire Darhel business group, completely by accident.