Lost In Translation

by Edward Willett

  Don’t call me “dear,” Kathryn thought, but all she said was, “I’m afraid the Translator symbiote does not like alcohol. Fortunately, caffeine is . . . acceptable.” She hesitated over the last word, surprised by the momentary, but very real, sense of distaste she had received from Matthews at the mention of the symbiote. Well, she could hardly blame him for that; the notion of accepting a squirming mass of alien tissue into her body hadn’t exactly thrilled her the first time she’d heard about it, either.

  “I’m curious about your . . . profession,” Matthews said. “I’ve had occasion to work with one or two other Translators, and was most impressed with their dedication to a goal I confess I find a little unclear.”

  Here it comes, Kathryn thought. Matthews’ attention had sharpened on her like a hungry hawk’s on a gopher. “Perhaps I can clarify it for you,” she said carefully. “What did you find hard to understand?”

  “Well, in conversation with them, they left me with the impression that they no longer considered themselves human.” Matthews spread his hands. “Yet they were obviously as human as I am—or you are.”

  “I suppose it depends on what you mean by human.” She sipped her coffee; set it down again on the antique rosewood table beside her chair. “Of course we are still physically members of the human species, but intellectually—or maybe spiritually would be a better word—we are not. We are Translators. We belong to all Seven Races of the Commonwealth.”

  “But surely the Commonwealth is only a political entity,” Matthews protested. “You may serve it, but you can’t really belong to it—not in the sense you belong to the human race.” She sensed satisfaction from him as he spoke, like a game player scoring a major point.

  A point Kathryn was willing to concede—if it would help her find out where he was heading. “I suppose that’s true. Nevertheless, that belief is the basis of the Guild of Translators. We have to be separate from all the races, no matter what our own biological makeup, in order to do our jobs effectively. There must be no hint of bias on the part of Translators, or it could be suggested that the Translation was less than perfect.” She laughed lightly. “The fact that it is absolutely impossible for a Translator to falsify Translation under Programming would not in itself be enough to offset that suggestion. Mere scientific fact is no match for suspicion, especially not when you mix in the liberal dose of superstition empaths are still subject to in many cultures.”

  “Is that really true?” Matthews said.

  “Oh, I assure you, it is. The Orrisians, for example, used to exile empaths to a particularly nasty swamp infested with—”

  A flash of irritation from Matthews confirmed this was more than idle conversation, though he tried to cover it with a laugh. “No, I meant, is it really true that it is impossible to falsify Translation? I’m sure I heard somewhere that—”

  Kathryn let a little irritation of her own into her voice. “I assure you, Ambassador, Translators cannot lie under Programming. Ever.”

  Matthews wasn’t about to give up. “I find that hard to believe, Translator Bircher. There must have been occasions when it would have been advantageous for . . . oh, I don’t know, for a negotiator to make a prior arrangement with a Translator so that the negotiator could say one thing out loud, for his own people to hear, while the Translator delivered quite a different message. You could save face and achieve a hidden agenda at the same time.” He shrugged. “Despicable, of course, but I have been a diplomat long enough to know that there are many despicable people who might take advantage of just such a situation.”

  And you’re one of them, aren’t you? Kathryn thought. She couldn’t believe the gall of the man, practically spelling out what he wanted her to do. As though she would violate her Oath for him. “Whether you believe it or not, Ambassador, it is the truth. Programming submerges self-will. No matter what the Translator’s determination beforehand, she couldn’t possibly carry out such a plan. And the other Translator would know immediately upon Linking that she had such a plan in mind. By even discussing such a plan with a Translator, the negotiator would effectively tip off the other side that negotiations were not proceeding in good faith.” Take that, Kathryn thought, enjoying Matthews’ sudden uncertainty. No need to tell him that the other side wouldn’t hear of it from their own Translator, because such information was protected by privilege.

  Unless, of course, the other Translator was not as Oath-upholding once self-will reasserted itself, Kathryn thought, and immediately hated herself for thinking it. Blast Matthews and his devious little mind for contaminating her. And the S’sinn Translator would know she had thought it—that much of what she’d told Matthews was true.

  Of course, that little doubting of his sincerity shouldn’t bother the S’sinn very much, what with all the loathing and hatred of him that would already be swirling around . . .

  Matthews smiled, once again suavely in complete control. “Well, the question was, of course, purely theoretical. I am relieved to know that this vital mission is in such good hands.”

  Oh, sure, Kathryn thought, a Translator with a phobia about the S’sinn and a diplomat with a secret agenda of his own.

  Really good hands.

  Chapter 9

  The trade negotiations for the Hasshingu-Issk satellite system that were Jarrikk’s ostensible reason for visiting S’sinndikk did indeed take only a single session; much of the work had been done ahead of time via Guildtalk, and Jarrikk’s presence was really more to satisfy Commonwealth legal requirements than anything else. He immediately took advantage of his suddenly unlimited funds to travel, not just around the capital city of Kkirrik’S’sinn but around the world, just as Karak had suggested—and everywhere he went, he found hatred for the humans, anger at the Commonwealth for supporting the new upstart race at the expense of one that had been a part of the Commonwealth for a hundred S’sinndikk years, and an almost universal desire for revenge on both of them: directly on the humans, through war, and indirectly on the Commonwealth, by showing its leaders that it could not dictate to the S’sinn.

  He also found a wide range of reactions to his disability, from simple curiosity to disgust to embarrassment to outright hostility. Twice he had to retreat from flocking halls to avoid a brawl with intoxicated Hunters. There were, he gathered, other disabled S’sinn still alive on S’sinndikk, where rigid belief in the traditional practices of religion had softened in the face of exposure to so many other races and belief systems, but they were still rare and lived mostly in seclusion. Certainly he was the first living Flightless One most S’sinn had ever seen.

  He had a feeling reactions would have been even stronger if he’d let them know he was also a Translator for the despised Commonwealth, so that was one fact he kept to himself on his flocking-hall forays, leaving his distinctive collar at his lodgings.

  Every couple of days he reported to Karak, who in turn kept him apprised of the worsening situation on Kisradikk/Fairholm. In the coastal city of Ukkill Nek kassik, home of the magnificent Floating Gardens built a thousand years before by the Supreme Flight Leader Ittikk the Red-Clawed for her mate, Karak’s report brought both good news and bad, inseparably intertwined.

  War seemed imminent—but a final round of negotiations had been arranged by the Commonwealth, on S’sinndikk. “And you, Translator Jarrikk,” Karak said, “will be Translating for the S’sinn.”

  Jarrikk’s foot-claws clutched the thick black floor-pad of his luxurious inn-room. “I? I know of at least two other Translators currently on S’sinndikk, Guildmaster. Why me?”

  “I can trust you.”

  “With a human?”

  “You are a Translator. You’ve already shown your loyalty is to the Guild. I am confident you can overcome your distaste for humans.”

  I’m not, Jarrikk thought, but out loud he only said, “Understood . . . and accepted.”

  “Good.” Karak picked up something that looked like a porous rock and poked his manipulators into various openings. “I’m u
ploading the necessary information to the Dikari. Return to Kkirrikk’S’sinn at once to review it. The human negotiating team will arrive with their Translator in two days.”

  Half a day later, wearing his Translator’s collar again for the first time in days and still groggy from a sub-orbital fight halfway around S’sinndikk, Jarrikk wearily entered his quarters on the Dikari to find two messages flagged for his attention: the briefing material from Karak, and one other.

  He keyed it up, stared at it for several seconds, then cleared it bemusedly and touched his collar, dimly thinking he should see about having it polished and that he should definitely take time to have his wings properly tattooed.

  One wanted to look one’s best before appearing before the Supreme Flight Leader, after all.

  Jarrikk had already visited the Great Hall of the Flock once in his guise as a tourist; it was quite a different matter arriving on official Guild business, collar shining, claws buffed, right wing newly emblazoned with the Guild symbol, and fur carefully groomed, and to enter, not through the towering arch used by the general public, but through a much smaller arch at the other end of the building. On entering as a tourist, one was impressed by the sheer size and magnificent design of the soaring building, with its fine pillars of polished bloodwood and gleaming floor of black marble. On this side of the building, one was impressed by something quite different: the grim-looking, heavily-armed, black-furred Hunters whose red eyes raked over Jarrikk like beamers before one of them escorted him into the quietly opulent vestibule beyond.

  A grizzled female rose slowly from a shikk behind an electronic desk to greet him. “Translator Jarrikk. The Supreme Flight Leader is pleased you could come.”

  “I am honored to be asked,” Jarrikk said.

  “This way.” The old female led him through another arch into a short corridor of gold-stippled black marble, where another black-furred Hunter even more grim and deadly-looking than the ones out front met him.

  “I am Her Altitude’s Left Wing,” the black S‘sinn said. “Please proceed ahead of me into the audience chamber. You will spread your wings and kneel. You will not speak until spoken to. You will—”

  “I am aware of the proper protocol for a Translator meeting the Supreme Flight Leader of the S‘sinn,” Jarrikk said briskly. “May I proceed?”

  He felt the Left Wing’s cold anger, but the black S‘sinn stood silently aside.

  Jarrikk walked the final few steps to the end of the corridor and rattled through the curtain of obsidian beads that covered the arch into the Supreme Flight Leader’s audience chamber. Though only a few dozen spans in diameter, the oval room’s walls soared up much further to a distant opening in the ceiling. A bright white shaft of sunlight stabbed down from it, illuminating the unadorned bloodwood shikk of Supreme Flight Leader Akkanndikk and her Right Wing, a female version of the Left Wing.

  Jarrikk spread his wings as best he could, displaying the Guild symbol, but he did not kneel. Despite the pounding of his hearts, he no longer served the Supreme Flight Leader of the S’sinn; as a Translator, he served only the Guild, and through it, the Commonwealth.

  He hoped Supreme Flight Leader Akkanndikk appreciated that. Even more, he hoped the Left and Right Wings appreciated it.

  Left Wing growled behind him, but Akkanndikk raised one hand in a gesture of peace. “Translator Jarrikk is no longer, strictly speaking, of our flock. Do I read your actions aright, Translator?”

  “Yes, Your Altitude. I do you honor, but I am not, I fear, at your command.”

  Left Wing growled again, but said nothing. Akkanndikk motioned for Jarrikk to come closer. He did so, stepping into the beam of light from above. Akkanndikk’s eyes moved to his crippled wing, then back to his face. “I am pleased to meet you, Translator. I have heard a lot about you from a variety of sources.”

  “Your interest does me honor,” Jarrikk replied cautiously. Akkanndikk’s interest in him certainly was keen—far too keen to be mere idle curiosity. He also sensed great dedication and purpose, plus worry and—perhaps strongest of all—weariness. Akkanndikk was tired, to the core of her being.

  Not that it showed outwardly. “May I offer you refreshment? Hus’staan nectar, perhaps?”

  “Thank you, Your Altitude.”

  Akkanndikk raised her hand, and after a moment the Left Wing stepped into the circle of light, bringing with him two silver goblets on a tray. The Supreme Flight Leader took one and motioned to Jarrikk to take the other. As he sipped the tart, icy liquid within, its fruity aroma filling his nostrils, the Left Wing disappeared again, returning an instant later with another bloodwood shikk. Akkanndikk indicated Jarrikk should rest on it, which he did. But he didn’t relax, sensing Akkanndikk was about to come to the real purpose of the meeting. She didn’t disappoint him.

  “No doubt you are curious as to the reasons for my invitation to you,” the Supreme Flight Leader said. “There are two. One was simply to help prepare myself for the negotiations tomorrow. I wished to see through whom I would be speaking.” She sipped her nectar, but Jarrikk tensed, sensing her interest sharpen, like a Hunter focusing prey-sight on a fleeing jarrbukk. “The other reason was to ask you about your meeting with Flight Leader Kitillikk on Kikks’sarr.”

  Jarrikk took another drink from his goblet to cover his shock. “I’m surprised you heard of that,” he finally said. “But I’m afraid there is little I can tell you about it. Guild Law is very strict about confidentiality.”

  He sensed amusement. “I’m not asking for information about what you Translated,” Akkanndikk said. “I already know what transpired. Kitillikk negotiated a separate treaty with Ithkar. In the event of war with the humans, the Ithkarites will support us.”

  Jarrikk didn’t even try to hide his shock this time. As a Translator, he had every right to be shocked. “Separate treaties are forbidden by Commonwealth Law. How could you know about this unless—did you authorize this? Your Altitude,” he added hastily as he sensed both Wings’ quick anger.

  Akkanndikk’s own anger flashed beneath her words. “I did not. But Kitillikk is not without support—powerful support—among Flight Leaders here on S’sinndikk whose support I must also have if I am to remain Supreme Flight Leader. I fly through turbulent air, Translator. War is not my choice, but it is the choice of a great many of the S’sinn who elevated me. They have been taking their own actions to make war more likely. I have countered when and where I could. These final negotiations are my best and last attempt. If they fail, I will have no choice but to take military action.”

  “Then I fail to understand what information you need from me concerning the meeting with Kitillikk, Your Altitude,” Jarrikk said. “If you already know all about it—”

  “My sources could not tell me one thing: one very important thing, Translator. Were you a willing participant in those negotiations?”

  Jarrikk felt himself gripping the goblet so hard that had it been glass, it would have shattered. He carefully relaxed his hand. “No, Your Altitude. I was not.”

  “So you would say, even if you were.” Akkanndikk’s eyes bore into his. “I find it a distressing coincidence that you were Translator at that illegal and clandestine meeting and are also to be my Translator for these negotiations. How do I know you are speaking the truth?”

  “I am a Translator.”

  “And Translators do not lie,” Akkanndikk said. “So the Translators say. But that statement itself could be a lie.” She handed her goblet to the Left Wing, who had somehow appeared at her elbow without any signal being given. “I am sorely tempted to reject your appointment to these negotiations. Considering your past, and your injury—inflicted by humans—I do not see why I should take the risk of trusting you.”

  “That is your privilege,” Jarrikk said. “The Guild would have no choice but to accept your decision. But it would be a mistake, Your Altitude.”

  “Convince me.”

  “I have no love for humans, it’s true. But consider this: I live on
ly because of the Guild of Translators. I am flightless. Who is more likely to be working for those who want a war that could destroy the Commonwealth and with it the Guild of Translators: those S’sinn who are whole and long for revenge and glory, or me? Destroy the Commonwealth, destroy the Guild, and you destroy me. I have no part in the glory of the S’sinn race; I died to that race the day the human beamer crippled my wing.” He stood and spread that wing to the limited extent he could. “My scars are proof of my loyalty—not to you, and not to those who want war, but to the Guild of Translators. I will do nothing to hinder these negotiations, and everything in my power to facilitate them. I have sworn an Oath to the Guild, Your Altitude, and now I swear that oath to you. You can trust me.”

  “I believe you,” Akkanndikk said after a moment, and Jarrikk could feel that she spoke the truth. “Very well.” She stood, and the Left Wing moved forward, taking Jarrikk’s goblet from him. “The humans are already in orbit. Negotiations will proceed on schedule tomorrow morning. I look forward to working with you, Translator.”

  “And I you, Your Altitude.”

  Akkanndikk nodded, then snapped her wings open and leaped into the air, climbing toward the opening high above with strong, sure beats. Right Wing followed at once; Left Wing, disposing of the goblets somewhere in the shadows, sprang after them a moment later.

  Jarrikk clamped his own wings tightly closed and walked slowly out of the audience chamber.

  “Akkanndikk did what?” Karak stared at Jarrikk’s image. A silverfin swam in front of the screen and he snapped at it irritably.

  “Called me to her,” Jarrikk repeated. “To be certain she could trust me.”

  Karak could do nothing about the angry writhing of the feeding tentacles around his beak, but hoped that Jarrikk didn’t know what the motion meant. “Most unusual,” he said. “Most unusual. It could be construed as questioning the choice of the Guild.”

  “It could be,” Jarrikk said; ironically, Karak thought.