by David Drake
“We can put the mass detectors into operation,” suggested Croydon. “They use a lot of power, but we’ll know for sure how many Tarnhelms are here, and where they are.”
“But they’d know we doubted them,” Travers replied, attacking the first of his nut-crusted milk balls. “According to everything we know about them, doubting their word is about the worst thing you can do.”
“And believing them is the stupidest,” said Keir. The three of them sat in silence for a short while, each mulling over their shared predicament.
“They’re vital, or so the head office says,” Travers reminded them at last as if they had been holding a conversation. “According to the report, the Tarnhelms will make all the difference for us, now that we’re having to deal with the Alliance. They should have stuck to their systems instead of coming pirating into ours.” He said this last petulantly, annoyed that he was expected to deal with Alliance treachery.
“But suppose their Fleet finds and makes their own deal with the Tarnhelms–they could do, you know–or comes up with something that can see them when they’re out of phase, “said Croydon. “It’s bound to happen sometime.”
“Do you want to tell the First Son he’s wrong?” Travers asked.
Croydon shook his head. “Put it that way, and the answer is no.”
* * *
Goro Kasagio folded his massive arms across his broad chest and glowered at Travers. “It’s not a good idea,” he said. “Letting them in here with none of the mass detectors set up. Might as well throw all the security out and send the squad home if we don’t have mass detectors. Letting them in at all is pretty risky. You’re proposing something to make it worse.”
“But they will be offended by the mass detectors,” said Travers, finding it hard going to convince Kasagio of this since he did not believe it himself. “If we offend them, they won’t make any pacts with us.”
“We have pacts with the Dusties and the Sandies already. There isn’t so much risk with them, or so it appears. We can’t handle the Waxies very well, but someone’s decided this is good. They want those killers off-planet. And you know once one he/he, one he/she, and one she/she leave Siggirt’s Blunder, there will be no way in creation we can stop their spread. Why do we need the Waxies as well? You think we need all of them cooperating–all three tribes–or we won’t have a chance with any of them off-planet: I know the theory, and I think it’s fried.” He was more resistant than ever. “We have a very small force here, and our security is pretty chancy as it is. If we start making changes because watching our backs might not go along with the Tarnhelms, there’s no point to any of it. If the Tarnhelms come in here at full strength and only a few of them visible, I can’t guarantee the safety of anyone here. They eat humans, remember.”
“Not very often; and if they give loyalty, they keep their word.” Travers lowered his head, sighing as he did. “Goro, it’s never easy. If the First Son himself had not demanded this, I might have refused.” This was not quite the truth, for Travers was too much a part of the bureaucracy and too much a diplomat to consider acting against the family’s interests, no matter what the instigation.”I considered refusing. I want you to know that. I gave it serious thought. But I didn’t think that it would be wise for me or anyone on Siggirt’s Blunder to tell the First Son that his strategy was wrong. Unless you’d like to make the attempt.”
“Not me,” said Goro Kasagio. He put his hand on the three energy weapons strapped to his belt. “If we’ve got to do this, I can order my men to set their stunners on wide. That way if there are invisible Tarnhelms around, we’Il be able to knock them out. They can’t stay invisible when they’re unconscious–hell, if they stay invisible too long it knocks them out, takes too much energy–and we’re bound to hit some of them.” He held up the palm-sized stunner. “Is that acceptable?”
“I suppose so,” said Travers, not looking forward to the evening at all.
“While they’re invisible, that’s all they can do: stay invisible,” Kasagio reminded him. “And they aren’t really invisible. We could put up some supra-light scanners: they might show us something.”
”No scanners,” said Travers, wishing he could get about thirty hours’ sleep. “Nothing like that.”
Kasagio shrugged. “Has anyone thought about the problems of turning loose invisible carnivores in the Syndicate? Has anyone read any of my reports? Is anybody explaining this to the board? Do they know what they’re playing with? Are they that blind?” He flung his hands in the air to disown the whole senseless mess. “And they want the Waxies, the ones you can’t get ahold of. Sandies and Dusties provide a little purchase–why aren’t they sending them instead?” He slapped his big hands together. “I’ll report to you when the Tarnhelms arrive, then,” he said. “With my men, in uniform, ready for action if it comes.”
“But not too obvious about it, if you please,” said Travers, hoping that no one in the Syndicate would question his decisions. “If the Tarnhelms think we’ve acted against their honor, we’d never get anywhere with them, and the Sandies and the Dusties might withdraw from their contracts with us, as well. The top managers would not want that.”
“And none of us wants to serve here forever, do we? Or on Wasteland Two. All right. We’ll be careful. Whatever that means. Worry about the Tarnhelms, watch out for the obvious. What’s obvious to a Tarnhelm?” Kasagio asked, chortling. “You answer me that one, Manager.”
Travers shook his head. “Sorry.”
* * *
At a distance and visible the Tarnhelms looked like enormous horned helmets drifting toward the station. In the dusk they remained near the ground instead of spreading their fans and drifting overhead. The largest of them was in the lead, and this was the one who identified him/himself to Kasagio when they arrived at the station perimeter.
Travers and Croydon had changed into their formal robes, each of them wearing the wide collars designating their ranks. Keir had donned a magnificent gown that glittered with jewels from four different planets. Her nose wrinkled as the Tarnhelms entered the atmosphere of the station.
“I hate lentils,” she whispered.
”Quiet,” said Croydon, trying to keep from sneering.
The senior Tarnhelm floated into the room, fans still held low. He/he admitted several nerve-jarring squalks that were translated by the wall monitor as, “The gods of your home protect you on your travels, hideous outlanders.”
“And a gracious good evening to you as well, Senior Tarnhelm,” said Travers at his smoothest. “Please accept our hospitality, and know you are welcome.” This was dutifully rendered as quacks and squeals, which seemed acceptable to the Tarnhelms.
“I am senior Tarnhelm, famed for decades of battle and deception,” he/he announced. “We of the Waxy Tarnhelms, the most accomplished and feared of our race, will listen to your proposition if it is not too boring.”
“We will endeavor not to bore you,” Travers said. “But we do not wish to insult you with nothing more than discussion. It is our intention to provide you with food and entertainment first.” With a sigh he clapped his hands and looked around as Harrington, in full regalia from lace shirt to kilt, came into the reception area. “Where are the uglies? Our guests do not wish to be bored.”
“I will bring them at once,” said Harrington with a bow to Travers and the Tarnhelms.
“Is that he/he or he/she or–“ asked the senior Tarnhelm.
“We have only he/he and she/she,” said Travers, knowing how shocking that notion was to the three-sexed Tarnhelms.
“So that is true, and not a tale? Very dangerous, only having two,” said the senior Tarnhelm as the rest of his/his company yipped in response.
“No doubt you’re right,” said Travers, wishing now he had ordered a scent enhance and the hell with protocol. He knew from past experience that it would take days to get the burned lentil stench out of the station.
“We do not do wrong things.” There were more yelps of agre
ement. “We are honorable Tarnhelms. You summoned us to speak with us,” said the senior Waxy Tarnhelm.
“Yes, of matters to our mutual benefit and honor, and will do much for our mutual accord. But first amuse yourselves with a short ugly hunt. When you have ... dined, then we will speak together.” He bowed, hoping the senior Waxy Tarnhelm had been told what the bow meant.
“Uglies,” said the senior Waxy Tarnhelm, and Travers did not need the even, metallic voice of the translator to know how much hunt-lust was in that word. “Excellent.”
Travers sighed as he gestured to Harrington to release the uglies.
Thirty or so of the spiny, beetlelike creatures rushed through the reception room, and at once the Tarnhelrns rose just far enough into the air to be able to pounce on their prey. As they hovered, most of them disappeared, then became visible once again as they dropped on the uglies, the double row of barbs on the underside of their fans extended to hold the uglies once they were caught. There were twenty-three Waxy Tarnhelms in the reception hall.
After about twenty minutes of this grisly sport, the senior Waxy Tarnhelm floated toward Travers, sucking at the last bit of ugly caught in his/his facial tusks. “A pleasant beginning,” he said to Travers.
“Kind of you to say, Waxy Tarnhelm,” Travers replied, feeling that the first hurdle had been cleared.
“You want to make pacts with us, as you have with the lesser Tarnhelms,” said the senior Tarnhelm. “It is not our practice to do what Dusties and Sandies do.” He/he drifted over toward the largest window where he/he spread out his/his fans to the fullest extent.
Travers did his best not to be impressed, though the Tarnhelm was more than twice his height across. “We are aware of that. But we know also that you Tarnhelms have remained here on this planet, and you have not been “–he almost said “allowed,” but changed his mind–“asked to leave this place for other planets.”
“It is true,” said the senior Tarnhelm.
“We can make that happen; we can place you on other worlds. In fact, this is what we want to do: we want to offer you positions with our security forces, in your capacity as guards who can become invisible.”
“We are not invisible,” said the senior Tarnhelm. ”We have perfect camouflage.”
“It amounts to the same thing,” said Travers, going on. “Few other species we have found have your remarkable abilities.” He did not add that of those who had good camouflage, none were intelligent enough or large enough to serve the Syndicate’s purpose.
“No others can do what we do,” the senior Tarnhelm corrected with pride.
“Quite likely,” agreed Travers at once. “That is why we wish to deal with you, don’t you see? We know that we can find your talents nowhere but with you.” He saw that Croydon was looking pale, and so gestured to him. “This is my second-in-command, my proctor. This is Croydon,” he said, knowing that the Tarnhelms were not comfortable with the concept of names and wanted to keep them as simple as possible.
The proctor set his teeth and bowed. “An honor, Senior Tarnhelm.”
“His name is not the same as yours,” the senior Tarnhelm accused.
Travers cursed inwardly, but did what he did best: faked it.
“We are cousins,” he lied, jabbing Croydon in the arm to cue him. “But we are of the same blood.” If you stretched a point, he thought, it might be remotely true, for both of them were descended from English-speaking colonists.
“A poor arrangement,” said the senior Tarnhelm. “It is what comes of having only two sexes.”
“No doubt you are right,” said Travers, then with determination got back on the subject. “We wish to enter into an agreement with you. You, we are aware, wish to be able to travel beyond this planet. We of the Syndicate need dependable security ... uh, beings. You have the capacity to imitate invisibility, and that invisibility extends to those inside your fans. With practice, two Tarnhelms can provide almost complete protection for a human, covering everything but the eyes, if that is necessary.” The thought of having those fans with their curved hooks all around him made Travers feel nauseated, but he went on gamely, “We are empowered to make such a bargain with you, if you are willing to do this for us.”
”As senior Tarnhelm, what I tell them is law,” he/he declared.
“I, too, am so empowered,” said Travers, trying, not to wince as he held out his hand to the senior Tarnhelm’s fan.
Apparently the senior Tarnhelm shared his distaste. He/he puckered the row of tusks around his face as he/he brushed his/his fan over the edge of Travers’s knuckles. “We will send teams of two to protect you with our capacity for mimicry, and you in turn will aid us in moving about the territory known as the galaxy. Given the troubles we have experienced in the past, we are going to have to detain one of you as token of your bargain.”
“Token!” Travers burst out, knowing beyond doubt that he would be the one selected. That was the way the family did things. It was not possible. Not when he was almost off this abysmal rock in the middle of nowhere. “I only have three more months.”
“Then they will send another,” said the senior Tarnhelm, though Travers knew the manager, and was certain he would not.
“I do not think so, Senior Tarnhelm,” he said heavily.
“The greater the honor for you, then,” countered the senior Tarnhelm.
Keir and Croydon listened to this in silence, Keir showing almost nothing of her emotions, but Croydon doing his best to conceal the little smile that hooked the corners of his mouth upward.
“We will notify the Syndicate that we have achieved the first level of accord,” said Travers, his eyes growing slightly glazed at the prospect of years spent on Siggirt’s Blunder.
“You will do that, of course,” said the senior Tarnhelm, one of his/his sounds transformed into language sounding like metal dragged along smooth metal, raising sparks as it went.
“We will need your ... fan impact impression to settle the dealings,” Travers said uncertainly, confident that he would encounter resistance on that point.
“I do not think so,” said the senior Tarnhelm, his/his expression very thoughtful. “Perhaps later but not now.”
“I see,” said Travers, hoping he had not entirely destroyed the first level of accord. “For our kind, we need some sort of endorsement.”
“You may take Waxy Eight,” said the senior Waxy Tarnhelm.
This was just the confrontation Travers had hoped to avoid. “But we cannot do that, not until we have some endorsement of the accords.”
“Waxy Eight will be sufficient,” said the senior Tarnhelm, his/his voice rising to a jumble of hisses and squeaks.
“But he must remain on the surface until the accords are met,” said Travers, feeling he had fallen into the most ludicrous farce. “We must have an endorsement–not an actual Waxy Tarnhelm–to present before we can proceed with accepting your terms.”
“If not Eight, then Five,” said the senior Waxy Tarnhelm.
Travers decided it would be enjoyable to throttle the senior Waxy Tarnhelm, but could not make himself do it. He stifled a cough–who knew what that might mean to the Tarnhelms–and made another game try. “We don’t want to ask you questions you might find offensive, but you see, our accords have been established over hundreds of years and thousands of agreements. I have an obligation to my senior, or first cousin, to make these arrangements in a particular way. This is the agreement we advocate everywhere, so that all dealings are the same and no one can question our contracts. Before any goods change hands, before any services are performed, it is our tradition, the very core of the Syndicate, to have our accords set out so that everyone may be clear of what we are doing and how it is valued. Do you understand that?” He suspected that the senior Waxy Tarnhelm had no comprehension of it at all. “I am not permitted to do it any other way. If I do it another way, then I fail.”
“We comprehend failure,” said the senior Waxy Tarnhelm. “We have executions for all sor
ts of failures.”
Travers swallowed. “Yes. I rather thought you would.”
It took very nearly five hours, but at last the Waxy Tarnhelms agreed to leave the impression of their first and second fan claws as tokens of acceptance of the terms. The senior Waxy Tarnhelm was the last to put his impression on the document, and pronounced himself satisfied, which made Travers more worried than ever.
* * *
Travers’s continuing assignment, which came just as soon as confirmation of the agreement with the Waxy Tarnhelm reached the family headquarters and was returned to Siggirt’s Blunder, was no surprise; everyone expressed sympathies to Travers and three station staffers asked almost at once for a transfer form: Croydon was one of them.
“I’m sorry you’re stuck with this place, of course. Anyone would be. But you know how these things are. Well, you can’t want me to stay here forever. I know you’ve been here a long time and it’s really your turn to rotate out, but you’re used to this, aren’t you? It doesn’t get to you the way it does to me. You handle it better. Leave me here another year and I’d have to be kept in a mental protection unit for a good long time,” said Croydon with ill grace. “It’s bad enough one of us getting marooned on this god-awful rock, but more than one, well, it simply isn’t realistic. Is it.” He gave a gesture of mollification to Travers. “No need to tell you that, is there, old son? You’re the one being shafted, after all. Still, at least you’ll have double salary for every day you stay here after your official tour is up. A pity you don’t get the double salary while you’re here. Still, it’s a gesture. You’ll be able to enjoy yourself when this is over. That’s better than nothing.”
“What am I going to do with it here on Siggirt’s Blunder?” Travers asked unhappily, then squared his shoulders. “On the other hand, they can’t extend my time here more than ten years”–the very thought was enough to make him gibber–”and on this place, that’s only ... Christ! Eleven months of twenty-six days, that’s two hundred eighty-six days per year, and in ten years, that means two thousand eight hundred sixty days. Almost eight years Old Earth time.” Saying the last made Travers lower his voice to a whisper.