Infinite Stars

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  Corcoran resisted the urge to shake his head. Even though the Arat Kur looked like hell, they were unfailingly polite. Even when they were about to destroy you. Which they had just done to thousands of Trevor’s fellow servicepersons at Barnard’s Star. He imagined the Arat Kur crews clicking and buzzing apologies every time they fired another X-ray laser, railgun, or missile at the human ships that had rushed to protect the Pearl: the biggest human naval base beyond Earth’s own. Although the Pearl was located well beneath the surface and soupy-white atmosphere of Barnard’s Star II C (which everyone called Barney Deucy), the defense of the base had been futile, albeit spirited.

  The Arat Kur swayed slightly, but rapidly, from side to side: a sign of anxiety. “You must comply, Captain Corcoran. Please follow me.”

  Trevor nodded before he could remind himself that only a few of the exosapients had any familiarity with human gestures or body language. “I will comply.” He walked forward at a measured pace, partially because he was not too eager to obey any instructions from his jailers, partially because the Arat Kur always seemed a little skittish when interacting with humans—skittish enough that any overly rapid motions might alarm them into using the lethal force his captor had mentioned at the outset. So, better safe than sorry.

  The Arat Kur led the human out of the cell, keeping a respectable distance between them.

  Some conquerors, thought Trevor.

  * * *

  They didn’t travel very far and never passed through any security checkpoint indicating their exit from what Corcoran had come to think of as the brig. However, after a dozen meters, the rather narrow passageway began intersecting with others that were several times as wide and half as high: designed for the subterranean Arat Kur, who were agoraphobic and preferred their ceilings close overhead. Which suggested that this entire section of the rotational habitat was specially constructed for taller species such as their Hkh’Rkh allies, or humans. So the reason they hadn’t passed any security stations was because the Arat Kur, in keeping with their mannerly nature and passive xenophobia, had created this space to accommodate all their interactions with aliens. Including incarceration.

  Somewhere in the course of their short walk through the gently sloped corridors, several almost noiseless quadrotor drones had drifted in behind Trevor, not coming closer than two meters—but that was close enough for him to make out the muzzle of some kind of underslung weapon. Nonetheless, when Trevor began increasing his pace, the guard did also, apparently with the intent of maintaining at least three meters between them. Having no neck and an inflexible body, the Arat Kur had a sizable rear blind-spot: it was logical they didn’t like having anyone except for trusted friends too close behind them.

  Without any explanatory preamble, Trevor’s guard/guide angled toward a round hatchway that slid open at his approach. Trevor followed, ducking to get under the thin coaming of the portal.

  Three Arat Kur were waiting within, sitting in what Corcoran had come to think of as their belly loungers. A single human was sitting before them in one of two conventional chairs, his arms crossed. He glanced sideways, smiled. “Welcome to the party, Trevor.”

  “Nice to be included,” Corcoran responded with a smile of his own. “How long have you been here, Caine?”

  The recently mustered-out Caine Riordan—a commander who was really just a civilian specialist dragooned into service—thought a minute. “About five minutes, I’d say.”

  Corcoran settled into the chair next to his friend. “Anything exciting to report?”

  “Nope.”

  “No wild dancing or racy stories?”

  “Trevor, given that I’m hoping to marry your sister when we get home, I have sworn off all debauchery.” Which was particularly ironic coming from Riordan: he may not have been a Boy Scout as a kid, but he was certainly making up for it as an adult.

  “Y’know,” Trevor drawled, leaning back, “I’m not sure I believe your squeaky clean act, anyhow…”

  The centrally seated Arat Kur raised his front claws, clacking them for attention. “I presume your inappropriate banter is a form of levity. I am aware that among your species, close associates often use situationally incongruous jocularity as a form of greeting, particularly if the situation is uncertain or perilous. I trust you have now dispelled any anxiety arising from your current circumstances. We have matters that require discussion.”

  Although Trevor only had scant contact with the Arat Kur during the two days that he’d been their prisoner, he’d nonetheless discovered that they were as devoid of clownery as they were overlavish with courtesy. It wasn’t that the Arat Kur were humorless (not all of them, at least) but they always seemed to be so very—well, earnest. Trevor sighed. “I suppose that since you have now questioned us separately, you’re going to put us together and see if any new information comes to light by playing us off against each other? Amateurish: rarely produces results.”

  The Arat Kur was either annoyed or puzzled: his mandibles clattered. “You misperceive. We have completed our interviews of you. This time, our purpose is different. And you will find that I am a very different interlocutor. We surmise that your initial unwillingness to cooperate more readily may have been motivated by a perception that your ranks, and thus opinions, were not fully appreciated by us. We correct that now. I am Urzueth Ragh, Personal Expediter for First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam. I am empowered to speak for him and make binding agreements in his stead.”

  Riordan shook his head. “Where’s Darzhee Kut, the Arat Kur whom we rescued?”

  Urzueth Ragh trilled faintly before his translator kicked in. “Speaker-to-Nestless Darzhee Kut is occupied with other tasks.”

  “Probably being debriefed about his time with us,” muttered Trevor.

  “That is correct,” Urzueth Ragh confirmed guilelessly. “Furthermore, it is deemed unwise to include him in these discussions. It is only reasonable that your time together while stranded on the damaged spacecraft, and your cooperative efforts to contact rescuers, might compromise his objectivity.”

  “So you don’t trust him.”

  “On the contrary, I trust Darzhee Kut implicitly. He is my friend and rock-sibling, whom I have known since we were tutored on Homerock. Were our roles reversed—had I been the one with whom you worked to effect a rescue—he would be speaking to you now, not I.”

  Riordan glanced at Trevor, shrugged. “Not so different from our own protocols.”

  Trevor hitched a shoulder in reply. “Yep.”

  Urzueth Ragh’s mandibles twitched. “It gratifies me that you understand why Darzhee Kut may not be part of our exchanges. It is likely that you will see him, though, before we arrive at your homeworld.”

  Trevor leaned forward sharply, kept his elbows on his knees. “So when does the invasion start, Expediter Ragh?”

  The Arat Kur, even the armored guard, flinched back: the guard drones whined closer. When it was clear that Trevor’s sudden motion did not presage an attack, Urzueth returned to his forward-canted recumbency. “We shall spend nearly two weeks refueling and preaccelerating to effect out-shift. It is difficult to say when we shall arrive at Earth itself, but shortly thereafter, I suspect. No more than five days, at the most.” Urzueth sounded slightly annoyed, probably at having quailed before an unarmed human that was already in the cross-hairs of his security forces.

  Riordan had folded his arms. “So if you are not hoping to extract more totally useless information from us, why are we here?”

  “So that we may formally request one of you to carry our surrender terms to your World Confederation.”

  Trevor shrank back. “No way.”

  Riordan leaned forward. “Why us?”

  “Is it not obvious? You are both accustomed to working as interspecies liaisons. You were both members of your species’ delegation to the Convocation of the Accord.”

  “Which the Arat Kur Wholenest intentionally undermined,” Corcoran added sharply.

  Urzueth’s flexible mandi
bles frisked outward. “The matter of your intrusion upon our territory at 70 Ophiuchi—”

  “You mean our unwitting intrusion—”

  Riordan held up a hand. “Expediter, you no doubt understand our reluctance to cooperate with your people. You attacked without provocation or declaration of war, even though we are still a protected species. Under the rules of the Accord, we are therefore excluded from its political processes, to say nothing of attack from two of its four member-states.”

  Urzueth Ragh’s mandibles wilted, curled under themselves. “I agree that the circumstances are singularly awkward. But we feel that the possibility of peace, and our intents, will be better understood if they are conveyed by humans.”

  Trevor glanced at Riordan, who was nodding slowly. Corcoran knew what that nodding meant: Caine’s gesture of careful listening and receptivity was also buying him time to think. “Please expand upon that, Expediter.”

  Urzueth relaxed into his belly-lounger. “You have both seen how swiftly and completely our fleet defeated the very best ships of your most advanced nations and blocs. You have also seen that we are not cruel or inhospitable to prisoners, that we do not seek punitive concessions from your species, and that, in general, we are not eager to wage war.”

  “Strange that you’d start one then,” Trevor muttered.

  Urzueth faltered. Caine frowned at Corcoran, who detected the faintest hint of a smile under the superficially disapproving facial expression. Okay: so you want me to keep Urzueth rattled. So I’ll keep playing the bad cop to your good cop. Lead on, Riordan.

  Who held up an apparently restraining hand toward his friend while speaking to the Arat Kur. “It is, as you said, an awkward situation.”

  “Most assuredly,” Urzueth replied, a nervous chittering rising up in counterpoint to the voice emerging from the translator. “I appreciate that you would normally be unwilling to help us. I am making this request in the hope that you will see the circumstances as I do: that this is the only way to help your own people.”

  Trevor didn’t need to act angry: he already was. “Help them how? By convincing them they should just surrender and welcome their new Arat Kur overlords?”

  Urzueth made what sounded like dysfunctionally repetitive clacking noises—the Arat Kur equivalent of a startled stutter?—before the translator began to emit a response. “We have no desire to be Earth’s overlords. We merely wish for you to withdraw from 70 Ophiuchi and adjust your political structures to conform with the encyclopedic self-reference you presented in your bid for Accord Membership.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  Riordan “interceded” once again. “Expediter Ragh, no polity on Earth has the power, or the moral cowardice, to enact arbitrary changes dictated by a would-be conqueror. Furthermore, the Custodians would not approve of our doing so, any more than they will approve of your flagrant violation of the Accords by invading us. However, I understand the humanitarian intent behind your hope that we will bear the terms for an armistice to the powers-that-be on Earth.”

  “Mr. Riordan, I am afraid you are mistaken. I repeat: we request that you impart our terms of surrender, not armistice.”

  “With respect, Expediter, I am not mistaken. I am simply unwilling to carry terms of surrender to my homeworld. I am, however, willing to carry conditions whereby an armistice may be established so that the proper authorities may enter into negotiations. If, that is, you can prove that it is in the interests of Earth to enter into such an armistice.”

  Urzueth Ragh stopped in mid claw-wave. “Mister Riordan, I am not sure I heard you correctly.”

  “I assure you that you did. I remain unconvinced that an armistice, let alone surrender, are in the interests of my species and my homeworld.”

  Trevor overcame his own surprise enough to nod vigorously even while he thought: Damn, I hope you know what you’re doing, Caine. They just kicked our ass at Barnard’s Star and are probably less than a month away from putting Earth itself in the bag.

  Urzueth’s mandibles clicked asynchronously once again. “But… but you have just witnessed the destruction of your fleet. With the exception of a few lighter hulls that escaped outsystem, and one shift-carrier that was completing preacceleration for out-shift when we arrived, all your ships were destroyed. They inflicted few losses upon our formation. How then can you remain unconvinced that it is not in the best interests of Earth to seek an armistice, at least?”

  “Because I have not seen conclusive evidence that your victory was won by superior technology. You forget, Expediter: Mr. Corcoran and I were trapped in an auxiliary command module, adrift, for the great majority of the engagement. We had no opportunity to witness how you won the battle. We only know that you did indeed prevail. For all we know, you may have retained saboteurs to ensure the outcome you are now claiming to be the proof of your technological superiority.”

  “We had no contact with Earth until you came to the Convocation, less than five weeks ago.”

  Riordan smiled. “Considering how much advance knowledge you had of Earth, I cannot help but consider that assertion ingenuous, Expediter.” And he sat calmly, still smiling.

  Urzueth spent several moments either considering, or being stunned by, Riordan’s counter-assertion. “So I surmise that you require some form of proof, of evidence?”

  “We do, if you wish us to carry your official terms for an armistice to our authorities. Neither Captain Corcoran nor I are eager for history to remember us as playing a role in facilitating Earth’s possible capitulation. But if doing so saves lives, then we would take up that mantle of responsibility”—Caine glanced at Trevor, who nodded—“but only if we are convinced that our defeat is, in fact, inevitable.”

  “Very well. And what evidence do you require to be certain?”

  Riordan shrugged. “The records of the recent combat. Sensor and visual recordings.”

  Urzueth’s mandibles drooped. “I am not sure I am familiar with the recordings of which you speak.”

  Riordan sighed. “Expediter, we will not cooperate if you start becoming coy. No military rises to your—or our—level of sophistication without ensuring that there are multiple sensor streams generated and recorded during every encounter. Planners use them to determine points of failure and success in tactics and equipment, to enable forensic analysis of adversaries’ technology and doctrine, and to corroborate or disprove the reports of combatants. And it is imperative that we screen them within the next five minutes. Otherwise we cannot be certain that we are screening unedited images and sensor results. In which case you would have to find someone else to carry your words to our leaders.”

  Urzueth’s rear legs moved fretfully. “That would be most inconvenient. There are few survivors. And none with your rank or experience as interspeciate liaisons.” He swayed up out of his belly-couch. “Very well, but we shall attend you as you screen our recordings. And there are some—not many, but some—which we will not share. They are highly classified, even among our own people.”

  “I expected as much. We do not require comprehensive data: merely enough to prove that your fleet prevailed because of technological superiority and any other factors which you would bring to bear during an invasion of our homeworld.”

  Urzueth may have been in communication with his superiors, or they may have been listening in or watching all along. Either way, he bobbed curtly and announced, “Permission has been granted.” Polyps just beyond his mandibles licked out, apparently manipulating a set of controls mounted on the sides of his mouth. A concentric pattern of small spheres emerged from the ceiling and the floor. In the space between, an array of holographic images appeared. “You may choose what you will. My assistants”—he dipped toward the two Arat Kur flanking him—“shall control the imaging.”

  “Control—or modify?” Trevor asked.

  Urzueth’s translator imparted the impatience of his reply. “You are welcome to attempt to manipulate the controls yourself, Mr. Corcoran, but I think you will
find them somewhat challenging. Neither your mouth nor your extremities have the shape or flexibility of our own.”

  The lights dimmed slightly and Trevor settled back, careful not to look at Riordan. Damn it if Caine hadn’t gotten the two of them a peek at the enemy’s play book. Of course, the enemy knew that and probably didn’t care because they had swept the field today. But if Earth ever got the chance to strike back…

  Ten minutes later, Trevor was already struggling to keep alive the thought, let alone the hope, of a successful human counterattack. The footage and integrated sensor results depicted the same basic outcomes again and again and again: a human craft ripped asunder by an unseen beam, or torn apart by a missile impact, secondaries erupting and further ravaging the hull as magazines and fuel tanks exploded. In some cases, on the larger ships with fusion plants, a blue-white sphere bloomed out of the afterdecks, annihilating everything and often blanking the screen: engine containment had been lost. In most cases, the interval between first damage and final destruction was under half a minute: not enough time for any surviving crew to get into lifeboats or pods. So Urzueth Ragh probably wasn’t exaggerating when he asserted that Trevor and Riordan were the two most senior humans left.

  Riordan never looked away from the scenes. Rather, he called for them one after another, with increasing speed as the minutes wore on. Trevor had already committed key items of technical intelligence to memory: the superior speed and endurance of the Arat Kur drones, their higher efficiency MAP thrusters, and the curious absence of nuke-pumped X-ray laser missiles from their armamentarium. But Caine seemed to be looking for something else.