CHOP Line

by Henry V. O'Neil

  The Amelia-thing attached one of the cables to the speaker and ran it down the stand to the case. She then took out the microphone and hooked it up to a smaller cord. “My people had a very difficult time convincing them to even attempt this meeting. You’re going to doom both sides to continuing this war, if you keep playing around like this.”

  “Sorry I diverted from the script. You’d better get used to that.”

  It finished connecting the microphone to the case, and flipped a switch. The microphone screeched with feedback, and then went still. The alien placed the microphone inside the case, and walked up to Mortas.

  “I know you don’t believe me, but my people are genuinely trying to end this conflict.” The words were tight and hot. She pointed into the distance, where the Sim shuttle was coming in for a landing. “The Sims are trying, too. Otherwise they wouldn’t be here. Now wouldn’t it be a shame, if the first civil conversation between humans and Sims was ruined by a mere lieutenant who isn’t half as clever as he thinks he is?”

  “Tell me what you’re really after. You just dropped the mask, so drop the games, too. What do you want?”

  The shuttle taxied to a stop a hundred yards away. The alien lowered its chin, Amelia Trent’s blue eyes regarding Mortas with distaste. For a moment he thought she was going to actually answer, but then the shuttle’s rear hatch started sliding downward.

  “I want what they want. Peace.” It waved at the craft, and several figures appeared at the top of the short ramp. Despite his skepticism, Mortas couldn’t deny his astonishment. A group of Sims stood watching him from one hundred yards away, with no weapons in sight. The war had predated his birth, and consumed his very existence. It had almost taken his life, and he’d seen it claim the lives of many others. All that time, all that toil, all that waste, and had he ever seen them without weapons in their hands?

  The alien’s voice was in his ear. “So what is it you want, Jander?”

  One of the delegates came down the ramp, bareheaded and wearing a flight suit similar to the alien’s. He appeared to be middle-aged, and an ugly scar ran diagonally across his face. He raised his hand and waved.

  Without believing it was happening, Mortas waved back as if greeting an old friend.

  “Use the microphone. Tell them the box is just a test so that the humans can make sure you can actually speak their language.”

  A trio of unarmed Sims, the one with the scar and two younger ones, stood waiting by the shuttle.

  The alien raised the microphone, and the otherworldly chirps and trills boomed across the expanse. Though steeled for it, Mortas felt the enemy noises penetrating to his very core.

  The one with the scar nodded, and the alien started warbling again. “I told them I don’t know what’s in the box.”

  The trio conferred, and then the leader signaled that Jander should move away.

  “You’re coming with me. They can inspect the box without your help. Tell them to look at the items, but not to remove them until you ask.”

  More birdsong danced in the air, and then they walked back to Varick and Elder Paul. Erica handed the alien the microphone, and Jander turned to see that the Sims were looking inside the box.

  “So much for hating everything human.” He didn’t look at the Amelia-thing, instead taking out a folded list. “Tell them to let us know when they’re ready.”

  Elder Paul couldn’t seem to decide which image captivated him more, the humanoid creatures across the way or the alien speaking their tongue. His face had taken on an expression of near-rapture, and Mortas hoped he wouldn’t upset the man with what he had planned. Tweets and chirps passed between the groups.

  “They’re ready.” The alien’s confidence had returned. “They think this is a little silly.”

  “Really?” Jander’s voice hardened. “Tell them we would have chosen something more complex, but their technology is so lousy they wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

  “What?” The alien lowered the mike, dumbfounded.

  “You heard me. Say what I said, word for word, and don’t try anything funny because I know how they’re going to react to that.”

  “And how would you know something like that?”

  “Easy.” Jander saw the alarm on Varick’s face, and raised a palm to reassure her. “That scar on their leader? He’s like Erica and me. He’s a fighter. You couldn’t possibly guess his reaction, but I can. Now do it.”

  “I never should have asked for you.”

  “That’s right. Get talking.”

  The microphone came up, and the song came out, but this time it was halting, as if the Amelia-thing was searching for the words. Jander shifted the focus on his goggles, zeroing in on the scar. The Sim leader was still relaxed, in expression and posture, but that changed once the sounds reached him.

  “Incredible, how much they’re like us,” Varick murmured, now standing right next to Mortas, watching the reaction. The Sim’s jaw had clenched, and his shoulders rose. When he answered, the chirps contained anger and resentment.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that true warriors don’t rely on technology. He also called you a stupid asshole, and said that anyone who talks like you do is probably a coward.”

  “Do they really call each other assholes?”

  “Don’t test them! They don’t like it.”

  “Maybe they are human, after all. We don’t like it either.” Mortas studied the distant group, and then drew Cranther’s knife from his armor. He held it over his head. “Tell them I’ve killed lots of Sims with this.”

  “You are trying to ruin this. On purpose.”

  “Tell them what I said, or we’re leaving.”

  Frustrated warbles bounced off of the air, and all three Sims responded. The two subordinates called out with pugnacious trills, and their boss tucked the microphone under one arm while reaching behind him. Mortas almost told the others to get behind the mover, fearing the Sim was going for a hidden gun, but something in the way he’d juggled the mike told him to wait. Mortas squared his body, to show he wasn’t afraid of whatever the leader produced. Despite the sensitive optics in his goggles, his eyesight blurred when the item came into view. The Sim raised it in the air, and Mortas saw it was a knife similar to his own.

  “Infiltrator knife. He’s one of those bastards,” Varick whispered. The Sim spoke into the mike, but now his tone was low and controlled.

  “He says his blade has tasted its share of human blood.” The alien spoke in a monotone. “And you’re still a cowardly asshole who has probably never seen combat.”

  “Tell him I’ve seen plenty of assholes in combat who didn’t act like cowards.” Jan tried not to show pleasure at his ploy’s success. “And that I’ve always wondered if they were actually brave, or just stupid.”

  The alien gave him a measuring stare, and then transmitted the words. Jander stood motionless, keeping his face frozen, feeling the enemy eyes studying him. The scarred Sim pursed his lips when the message reached him, and then broke into a smile. Nodding in what appeared to be appreciation, he answered in a short series of chirps.

  “He says he’s often wondered the same thing.”

  Jander grinned as widely as he could. He raised his arm again, so that the knife pointed at the sky. He moved it back and forth in a short arc, making sure they saw it, and then lowered his arm until it was parallel with the ground. He released the blade, dropping it to the dirt, holding his empty hand out with fingers extended.

  The Sim leader nodded again, repeating Jander’s motion, and then dropped his own knife. He trilled across at them, and the alien turned to Jander.

  “He says he’s glad the humans sent a warrior to talk with him. He was afraid it would be some scientist.”

  “Tell him there are two warriors and a pacifist here, all of us sincerely interested in arranging a truce.”

  The chirping elicited more nods, and the Sims shut off the sound system while they huddled in conference. The alien
did the same with its mike, and aimed slitted eyes at Jander.

  “You never meant to have me describe the things in that box.”

  “No. I wanted to make sure they weren’t just three more of whatever you are, pretending to be Sims. And I wanted to show them that they have more in common with the three humans here than they have with you.”

  “You know next to nothing about me.”

  “You’re no soldier, that’s for sure.” Jander gave it another wink. “And they know that. Tell me something. Is the Sim term for scientist—you know, the kind of human they didn’t want to meet—the same term they use for you and your race of researchers?”

  “But how can you pursue a lifestyle that prohibits violence, even in self-defense? If we as a race had chosen that course, we would have been annihilated by the cousins.”

  The sun was low in the sky, and the air was finally cooling. Both delegations had taken seats on the ground hours earlier, and so had the alien. The conversation had flowed freely, and after a time Jander hardly noticed the lag as the words were translated. The revelations were breathtaking, but the one he found most intriguing was that the Sims referred to humanity as “the cousins”.

  “That is a genuine risk of pacifism.” Elder Paul nodded toward the seated trio. Varick had taken over the discussion after Jander had broken the ice, and the Sims had responded to her as another veteran of the war. They’d found the views of the Holy Whisper disconcerting, and were now trying to work their way through the unfamiliar philosophy. “However, it is one we embrace. We will not commit acts of violence, even if it costs us our lives.”

  The Sims conferred, which was something they did frequently. Varick had already asked them about their command structure, and learned that as a people the Sims valued a consensus approach. They’d admitted that this didn’t work well in emergencies or in a military hierarchy, but maintained that it was followed whenever time allowed.

  “When the cousins came to eradicate our predecessors, we would have been doomed if we had denied our right to self-defense. Even if we espoused this non-violent philosophy—which we do not—it would not have accomplished anything to merely allow ourselves to be killed. It is utterly futile to stand on principle, if the end result is the extinction of the beings who held those principles dear.”

  “I understand your point. Believe me, we wrestle with this ourselves. However, our philosophy is not based on making an argument. It is based on our relationship to our fellow human beings. Non-violence is just one of the things we hold dear, and human beings who do not share our beliefs frequently attempt to divert us from them. We do not allow others to dictate what we do in this life—which is what we would be doing if we responded to violence with violence.”

  The scarred Sim looked skyward, considering the explanation as the alien chirped it. After a few moments he responded, and the Amelia-thing translated.

  “I agree that it is very important to uphold your values in the face of opposition. You’ve given us much to consider. All of you have.”

  Jander sensed the meeting was drawing to a close, and awkwardly rose with his weight on his right leg. The injured limb had gone to sleep, stretched out in the brace, and he winced at the pins and needles sensation. Varick and the others stood up as well, and he saw the Sims doing the same.

  “Please tell our visitors how much we’ve enjoyed the discussion, and how encouraging it is that we’re able to meet like this.”

  “Talking all these hours, and you finally said ‘please’ to me,” the alien hissed. “I suppose that’s progress.”

  “Maybe.”

  The alien twittered the message, and one came back immediately.

  “We are going to return to our ship, and transmit what we’ve learned. As an asshole I once met pointed out, our technology is not equal to yours. We will contact you again as soon as we have received instructions. It may be several days.”

  “Tell him we’re not going anywhere.”

  The alien transmitted the words, and all three Sims waved. Mortas glanced at Varick, who was returning the farewell, and remembered a question he hadn’t been able to ask.

  “One more thing.”

  The chirping stopped the Sims, and the scarred one picked up the microphone again.

  “Go ahead.”

  Earlier attempts to provide names had failed miserably, so the best they’d achieved was identification by rank.

  “I already told you that the captain here is one of our elite commandos.” The Sims apparently had no equivalent for the concept of the Banshee. “When they go into battle, they paint female biology on their armored suits. It’s meant to point out that you are fighting a unit that is entirely female. We’ve long believed this was a source of irritation for your people, and yet today you spoke with the captain at length, with politeness and respect. What is your opinion of this armor-painting custom?”

  The alien turned to Jander when the answer came back. “He’s genuinely surprised. He wants to know if that really is the purpose of the markings on the fighting suits.”

  “It is,” Varick responded, and the alien translated.

  “He says that females do serve in their combat units, but that their percentage in the overall Sim population is actually quite small. The records are not clear on this, but they believe that the crews of the original missions were mostly male. The replacement crews were artificially grown, and as there was no provision for raising children during the voyages, they believe every crew member had been sterilized.”

  “I’m certain that their troops react badly to the markings,” Varick answered.

  “They do, but not for the reason you suggest. They see the markings as mockery of their inability to reproduce. Flaunting the glands that feed an infant and the orifice from which it is born.” The alien stopped, listening.

  “They find this deeply offensive, because they suffered their mutations in the service of humanity, and humanity tried to eradicate them because of those changes. That’s why they mutilate the genitalia of fallen male cousins.” The alien paused, but the Sim was done talking. “He said the mutilations are a reminder that you wronged them.”

  Late that night, Varick dropped onto the couch next to Mortas. Elder Paul was back at Gorman Station, the alien had walked off into the barrens, and the shelter’s perimeter scanners were all engaged. Jander had removed his fatigue top, but then an overpowering weariness had taken hold. He still wore the brace, his leg propped up on the small table in front of the couch, and had watched as Erica downloaded the recordings of the day’s events.

  “Readout says it’s gonna take most of the night to encode all that.” Erica’s voice was soft, her eyes on the console where a flickering light indicated the all-important encryption was in progress.

  “They’re gonna lose their minds when they see that. An actual translation of Sim speech.”

  “An actual conversation with the Sims.” Varick gave a contented sigh. “Up until today, I figured this was going to be just one more of those crazy plans that never amounts to anything. But then that shuttle landed, and the next thing I knew, we were swapping war stories with the bad guys.”

  “Crazy is the word. The more we talked, the more I opened up to them. I kept flashing back to that column of walking wounded, how I had to keep reminding myself they were the enemy.”

  “I swear, if I was reading a transcript of some of the things that Sim commander said about combat, I’d think it came from one of us.”

  “He did have a couple of funny stories, didn’t he?”

  “It was nice to hear that they run into the same kind of absurd situations we do.” Erica stretched, and Mortas heard her joints pop. “I think the alien felt a little left out.”

  “Me too. But it better get used to that, if it’s going to serve as a translator.” Mortas waved a finger at the blinking light. “And right there is its audition tape.”

  “You know that once we send that, our job here’s gonna end.”

  “
What?”

  “No way they’re going to leave this in the hands of two junior officers.” She slid closer and nudged him. “Especially when somebody started the negotiation with a bunch of insults.”

  “You said you liked that.” He nudged her back, enjoying the closeness.

  “I did. I do. You’re a surprising guy, Jan. And you’re too smart to be in the Force.”

  “You really think they’ll take this away from us?”

  “Absolutely. The bigwigs are going to move in now. We did what they asked, and proved that the alien can act as a go-between. The high-level negotiations will start next.”

  “That worries me. The alien’s going to run circles around our diplomats.”

  “If it ends the war, who cares?”

  “I suppose that’s how to look at it.” He let his head sag against hers, and she didn’t pull away. “I’ll be sorry to see this end. Not the war. I mean this, right here.”

  “There’s still plenty of time.” She sat up, and he felt disappointment. “Come on, let’s get that brace off of you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s going to get in the way.” Varick leaned in, kissing him. He returned it eagerly, and pulled her into his arms.

  The gray light was dull, but it still reflected off of the silver scar tissue on her cheek. Mortas stroked the old wound with the knuckles of two fingers, causing her to giggle. He’d kissed it several times, to show it made no difference to him, but the response had always been the same.

  “Does it tickle?” he asked.

  “No. There’s a little sensation, but mostly it’s numb.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Well that took you long enough.”

  “I thought it was impolite to ask.”

  “That’s you—all manners and diplomacy.” She shifted slightly, sending a twinge up his injured leg that he minded not at all. “I was a platoon leader, pretty new. Banshee platoons aren’t the same size as regular Force units. We pack so much firepower, so much armor, and can move so fast that we don’t need all those bodies. Besides, the suits are really expensive and they’re hard to maintain. So it was me and fourteen other Banshees.