“Well, you’d better get over whatever it is you have about them,” Feen ordered, the “or else” hanging midair.
“Yes, Polit Feen,” Evan repeated, managing not to sigh.
If only it were that easy. His auto-therapist understood, being programmed with the latest cognitive techniques. So, to be fair, did most of his breathing colleagues. No amount of rational explanation or calm reasoning could budge the hard nugget of FEAR THIS lodged deep in a phobic brain.
His brain.
It wouldn’t work about holes. It wouldn’t work about thunder or slimy snake arms or fruitcake, although the latter was more dread of disappointing the uncle who baked the revolting things every year and took note who didn’t eat their share.
It wouldn’t work now. SPIDERS were the WORST.
Almost . . .
Feen, fortunately oblivious to his inner turmoil, continued with alarming cheerfulness. “There’s some urgency to this, Gooseberry. You’re aware the Urgians insist the ambassadors attend the “To Exhibit Exemplary Behavior” portion of the festival in groups.”
“A Two of Two,” Evan supplied, relieved by the change in topic. This being his first Festival of Funchess, he’d pages of notes. “It’s—”
Feen waved impatiently. “Yes, yes. Four participants. We’re almost there. The Odarians and Cin have leaped at the chance to accompany our ambassador.”
Odarians and Cin having significant ties to the Commonwealth and, in Evan’s opinion, a vested interest in shoving their sense organs into any dealings that might occur, he thought it more likely they’d insisted, vehemently. In the Cin’s case, after a heated internal debate, being a communal species.
“All we need,” Feen continued, “is confirmation from the Popeakans.”
And back they were again. Alarmed, Evan braced himself, suddenly worried about more than his stomach. “A Two of Two is a performance set, Polit Feen,” he said carefully. “The Urgians will have a script. There’ll be—expectations.” Despite the name, no one thought any act titled “To Exhibit Exemplary Behavior” was meant to showcase the fine manners of alien ambassadors. The Urgians would be after a wildly inappropriate and thus hilarious spectacle, with a chaotic retreat by participants being a bonus. “You do realize they plan to make fools of us.”
“We’re aware.”
Then why invite the most reclusive of species, as much a curiosity to Urgians as the rest, to a public humiliation? Humans could take a joke at their own expense; it was a species’ strength. “Surely not with the P—” he struggled to get out the word, failed, and hurried on with, “—not with their ambassador.” Despite the threat of Feen’s about-to-collide eyebrows, Evan couldn’t stop. “Polit Feen, we mustn’t be ones seen as putting ril in an embarrassing position—”
“Nonsense, Gooseberry. Everyone wants to be first to—well, first to sign agreements with the Popeakans, even the Urgians.” She pursed her lips, staring at him, then went on, “There’s more going on than you need to know. This is an opportunity for us to be in the right place at the right time. The ambassador’s been thoroughly briefed.” With a truly worrisome anticipation in her tone. “I assure you he’ll react appropriately when the need arises.”
Evan couldn’t help glancing at the closed door of Ambassador Ny Wimmerly, the highest-ranking Human in the Urgian System. He wouldn’t be part of this. Wimmerly was a fine person. Kind. Knowledgeable, albeit close to retirement and prone to sudden naps, but he’d made Urgia Prime and its people his life’s work. So much so, rumor was the Urgians had agreed to let him stay when he retired.
They should all aspire to such a successful, worthwhile career—certainly, Evan thought, Polit Feen had her sharp eye on the post.
To risk it now with scandal?
“Polit Feen, are you saying Ambassador Wimmerly will somehow step in and, what, save the day?” Did Popeakans even have gratitude as a concept? He’d know, Evan sighed to himself, if he’d dared review the data. Presumably his seniors did.
“Delighted you’ve caught up, Gooseberry. Despite your credentials, there are times I wonder. Yes, indeed.” Feen’s eyebrows rose and fell. “Here.” An envelope with an address scrawled by hand landed on his desk. “I’m doing you a favor. Thank me later.”
Terrified, he pulled his hands into his lap, leaning back to put distance between himself and the script. “What is that?”
“New protocol, Gooseberry. Invitations are to be delivered in person. At once. Oh, and be sure you’re familiar with the Popeakan equivalent of an official receipt. Can’t have a slipup now. The festival’s on its way!”
Before he could do more than close his mouth, Feen was on her way, breezing through the office workstations on the wings of virtue and a job passed along.
Heart heaving, Evan stared down at the envelope. The envelope, despite lacking eyes or motivation, stared back.
An invader, that’s what it was, violating his personal space. Yes, the embassy supplied the desk, chair, and comp access node—all tuned to suit his height and foiled by a habitual slouch. But this clean, shiny surface was his, from the purple “Know Yourself” cup of writing implements to the tidy stack of pristine notebooks to the little personal vid screen, currently paused at a nonthreatening image of the garden outside his family home, it being too hard to work under the steady gaze of that family.
Best of all, his most treasured possession, a gift from his mentor: a fist-sized bust of Teganersha-ki the Terrible, the legendary Dokecian leader responsible for planetary unity and plumbing. While her three fearsome eyes were rendered in fake gems, her gaze was a reminder of his ultimate goal—to serve the Commonwealth on Dokeci-Na.
The envelope lay under her gaze, smack in the center of his desk, an unwelcome reminder of why he was here instead.
Evan started as a freckled hand crossed his field of vision, whisking the thing away. Two other envelopes landed in its place. “Take these, Evan,” Terry told him, “I’ll look after this.”
Being normal and unafraid of things with legs that had joints and were shiny black and hard—
Legs that skittered—
He loved his friends.
Their kindness? He hated the need for it. How he felt to receive it.
Evan held out a shaking hand, not looking up. “It’s my assignment.”
“Don’t say I didn’t offer.” With a rustle, the envelopes did their dance and back it was.
In his face. The invitation to be delivered, in person, to the Popeakan Embassy.
“But why?” he whispered, not intending the words to be aloud.
Terry leaned an elbow on the wall of Evan’s workstation, glancing around conspiratorially because that’s what you did in the political office though they weren’t to have secrets since, by the slogan on every desk, they all—from ambassador to maintenance—worked toward the same lofty goals. In Evan’s experience, it was more a case of some worked while others waited to see if it was safe to attach their names to the result, but he appreciated the aspiration. His friend lowered his voice. “Remember how the comp system was shut down yesterday?”
The question was rhetorical, the fleeting lack of instant data having caused an outbreak of hysteria followed by the swift departure of senior staff to the Collegial Corner, their preferred drinking establishment. “It’s back up,” Evan observed dryly. The loss hadn’t slowed his work, not with two drawers filled with notebooks, chockful of information about every species likely to matter to the embassy. What had started as therapy—to record his reactions—had become, Evan admitted at times, a mild obsession, and he’d worried what his coworkers thought.
Until they’d lined up to ask him for information during the shutdown.
“Data was skimmed. Real sneaky stuff. And you know what that means . . .” Terry paused meaningfully.
More wanting his notes? Evan shook his head. “What?”
&nbs
p; “Everyone’s going solid, that’s what.” His friend flapped the envelopes. “Feen’s ordered everything crucial to move by messenger till it’s resolved.” Terry leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Heard the skimmer sent through a zip and lifted all the senior staff’s data requests for the past three weeks. Something’s going on and this is only the start, Evan. Mark my words.
“Only the start.”
* * *
I didn’t, as Skalet assumed, travel as my Urgianself. Unlike our Library, Urgia System insisted on full bio scans of all ships applying to visit their world. You’d either pause to be processed in the scanning field of one of their orbital stations or be refused permission to reach the ground.
Permanently refused, that was. Few worlds took protecting their biosphere so to heart, or relevant pump, but Urgia Prime had suffered in the past. There’d been the Koni infestation, devastating forests. The Flosf Trumpeting Worms, considered to produce the most aggravating sound known to the Commonwealth. Or to Ersh, which was more impressive.
Then there were the Smoot, who to this day continued to homestead the waters under the south polar cap, insistent it was their origin and would everyone else please leave? So I could understand why the Urgians took such a dim view of unregistered life-forms.
Even if it meant being a Quebit.
I poked gently at a seam, investigating its strength. In several areas, I’d discovered alarming weakness—
As had happened each time, a firm tap dissuaded me from beginning a repair.
Repairing, well, anything, was my current formself’s obsession as well as talent. In fact, so many starships harbored helpful Quebits, uncounted, unpaid—by the standards of other species who ventured into space, but Quebits had learned early on they’d be allowed to putter at will, a most gratifying occupation, while gaining free passage plus access to the exterior hull for rowdy plasma parties and considered this a marvelous trick they were playing on everyone else—one more on the Largas Pride wouldn’t be noticed.
However boring.
It might help pass the time if I was able to talk to Paul during the flight. I could, if I extruded an auditory mass, hear him in conversation with his cabinmates—the ship being packed to the proverbial gills—or with our friend Rudy.
But being a Quebit, I couldn’t bring myself to pay attention to beings who’d tolerate the shoddy work of this piece of luggage.
With me in it.
I remembered I had to stay inside, I just worried. About the seams. About the engines, which sounded fine, but you didn’t know, did you, until you got yourself right inside and could sniff. My imagination might be limited by some estimations, but I could think of more ways this starship could fall to pieces than anyone else here. Quite terrifying, in fact, not knowing, except that fear wasn’t in my current biological repertoire. Only worry. Along with a nigh irresistible compulsion to squirm under Paul’s socks and hunt more faulty seams.
I really hated being a Quebit.
On the bright side, so did Skalet. If I needed memories to share with her, I’d start with these.
At least we’d be landing soon. If the landing gear was in good shape. You couldn’t know, could you—I began squirming.
Another tap, firmer, like the toe of a boot, settled me again.
* * *
Urgia’s sun, a robust star with a penchant for planet-scouring flares—if not yet this epoch—was free to steam the cobblestones when Evan Gooseberry stepped outside, envelope tucked in a satchel. The embassy didn’t have official satchels, of course, there having been no personal deliveries required before now, but the senior political officer expected at least the form.
The satchel was his lunch bag, and plaid, thanks to his Great Gran, but he’d carefully cleaned it of any lingering food odors first. It would have to do. As for the large “G” lovingly embroidered on the outside, hopefully it would be mistaken for an official seal.
The “G” celebrated Gooseberry, a rarity among Human surnames for it possessed a traceable, if not always biological, link back to the species’ fabled homeworld. Earth was a ridiculous name for a planet, Evan had always thought; might as well call it Dirt, or Rock, or Substrate, but there was no arguing the details of Gooseberry heritage with his Great Grandmother, keeper of the Legal Lore. That those first space-faring generations hadn’t managed to alter or lose “Gooseberry” along with their homeworld appeared more cosmic accident than plan. Gooseberrys begat or adopted more Gooseberrys. Before long, the name accumulated the gravitas of tradition, and woe betide the Gooseberry who abandoned the righteous path and forgot to properly register.
There were, of course, innumerable other Gooseberrys in the Human-settled universe, but those were Pretenders with no claim to posterity.
All of this would content Great Gran Gooseberry, a darling if demanding matriarch, if not for the fact that Evan himself was presently her favorite accredited Gooseberry of his generation. She’d have had him implanted with a tracer if he’d allowed it. Instead, with every message from home, she sent all the latest news on reproductive technology, interspersed with vids of suitable partners and a plethora of surely irresistible orphans available for adoption.
She didn’t care how he got it done, or with what, only that the name continued. Needless to say, his career choice was, well, unappreciated.
In moments of sober self-reflection, Evan conceded the point. Despite the pressure to produce more Gooseberrys, he could hardly do so surrounded by physically incompatible species who assuredly did not want to give him their children. What his Great Gran failed to grasp was his calling to this work. He cared. He believed in diplomacy. In compromise. In getting along.
Despite days like this one. Evan resisted the temptation to clutch the strap and walked steadily onward, head high. On official business, he was.
With five blocks to go before he’d need to acknowledge his destination. First, he’d get to the Skenkran Embassy, with its fluted domes. Then the Cin. Then the . . .
Popeakan Embassy. He could think the name. He’d even managed to key it into his desk node, for a wonder, only to discover the information skimmed from the comp system had included everything about his destination and its occupants.
Oh, well. What did knowing about official receipts matter when his foremost concern was not vomiting on the Popeakans’ doorstep?
Anxious mist curled around building corners and rose from vanishing puddles as the sun’s rays beat down, raising the humidity. Evan felt sweat trickle down the insides of his shirt and welcomed the distraction, if not the potential for body aroma. Only Hurns relished the smell of over-warm Human and the resultant lip smacking was, frankly, disturbing. He kept a wary eye out.
“Why?” he whispered to himself with every third step. Why would the ambassador of the Human Commonwealth to Urgia, and presumably his informed seniormost staff, think this ploy worth the risk? Why, for that matter, do it to the Popeakans?
A shudder coursed through him with the name, but Evan ignored it. Shudders were normal. The whys weren’t. Why? Why? Two of Twos must participate. The Urgians would make sure of it, that much was clear. He’d prepared for the Festival of Funchess both as his job and out of keen interest, it being impossible to view such an array of interspecies’ interaction anywhere else. From the vids, the previous festival had been a model of peaceful disorderly conduct—other than the regrettable incident when a few Anatae had mistaken the appearance of actors costumed as edibles for an invitation to dine on those faux-vegetables not quick enough to run—and inspired a wealth of academic papers on comparative humor. Several of those had been hilarious as well—
Most were cautionary tales, it being risky in the extreme to assume what pleased one species would be welcomed by another. The Urgians, on the other arm, hoped for the unexpected. Thrived on it. Their “why” in this case was understandable. Put the most pompous and polite, namely otherwor
ld ambassadors, into situations of public humiliation and see how they respond.
Evan would have recommended moisture-proof undergarments for his ambassador, perhaps an inconspicuous persona-shield, along with a tracking device and medical monitor.
Had anyone asked. A fine time to need the rank he’d refused—
Evan paused to let a cluster of Rands slither by, waving fingers politely. Getting over its surprise, the outermost individual waved back.
—along with the promotion posting him to Dokeci-Na, face-to-face with members of a dignified, accomplished species able to trigger, at once, three of his phobias, including the worst, which he wouldn’t think about.
“One at a time,” he reminded himself. He was here because he refused to let his fears dictate the parts of this fantastic universe he could experience for himself, the work he could do and, yes, the good he would do—
His jacket jingled. Evan reached for his com link, hoping Polit Feen had had a change of heart and turned the system back on, then realized the sound came from another pocket. A personal call, then, and he hesitated.
The jingle grew insistent. With a resigned sigh, Evan pulled out the little holocube and lifted it to eye level. Inside was a peaceful view of lapping waves and a long beach, immediately supplanted by a familiar face. “Evan. I’m glad I caught you.”
“Great Gran, I can’t talk now,” he whispered. “I’m working—”
“Good for you. So am I. Have you booked your travel home yet?” Her smile vanished. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
Evan gave an apologetic shrug to the pedestrians forced to go around him, then looked into the cube. “Of course, I haven’t, Great Gran. Your birthday—”
“Isn’t for another four months. Your Uncle Hugo’s wedding, child! He and Marvin are expecting everyone to come. Especially their favorite nephew.”
The Only Thing to Fear Page 3