It wasn't perfect. He didn't grasp all the rules yet. But there were moments when a grouping of words looked right, and only the next moment did he see why.
A few times, he even thought he had heard some likeness of the patterns in spoken words. It was nothing as easy as direct equivalence, or analysts would have noticed it before. He had to work on that—but first things first.
He made a middling play, setting up a line to an orange-red space. He had a big adverb to play there, and the tiles to reach it. Even if it got blocked, there was a second such space across the board he might hit.
Bunwadde did block it. Marcus had a possible play at the second triangle, but saw that Bunwadde's play had opened the way to a third. He got to it, with all four tiles going on their own colors. “Thirty-one,” chirped the board.
Bunwadde said something Marcus couldn't hear. The children had drifted toward him, and started pointing at his tiles and making suggestions. Pesh hushed them, before giving Marcus a strange, nervous look.
Marcus saw something he wasn't used to: Bunwadde making risky moves. Not grammatically risky, but strategically, trying to open the board for eight-tile plays, playing short sentences that could easily be extended, hanging plays close to the triple-value white spaces. Marcus played steadily, taking advantage of openings when he could, extending his lead as the game neared its end.
Bunwadde made a small play back near the apex. Was he fishing for better tiles? Trying to keep lanes open to play all eight? Was it just the best play in a bad dish?
Marcus set the question aside. He had to worry about his own play now—until he spotted it. He ran six tiles down and right, hitting two colors, putting a medium-value tense-mark on the white, and making four more short sentences where it overlapped a previous play. “Thirty-four,” the board said.
Marcus drew new pieces with a calm he had never felt over the board, not even in his best game against Milinor. He was ahead by fifty-five. He almost couldn't lose.
Then Bunwadde picked up all his tiles. His play put a valuable preposition on another white space, and ran to join a previously extended play. The sentence ran seventeen words in all.
“Fifty-one, and a free play."
Marcus managed to nod through his shock. “Excellent move,” he said.
“Thank you,” Bunwadde said, drawing the last five tiles out of the bag. If he could play them all with his extra turn, he'd lock up the comeback win. If he couldn't, he might still outscore Marcus in the stretch run.
It didn't really matter. Marcus had played his whole game without a mistake, without fear, without feeling like he couldn't win. That was victory enough.
Bunwadde took time making his play, and was clearly frustrated when he could only lay down three tiles for eleven points. Marcus looked over the board, knowing he couldn't play all of his. He made a partial overlap with four tiles, scoring a mediocre sixteen, going back ahead by nine. He could easily play his last words, if he got the chance.
Bunwadde studied his last two tiles. He laid them down, then picked them back up. The play would have scored seven, not enough. From the glimpse Marcus got, they were a tense-mark and adjective. They might fit with an existing play somewhere, if Bunwadde was lucky.
The board gave a time warning. Bunwadde's bristles were stiff and trembling, and his light-blue complexion had paled. Finally, just after the board's final warning, he bracketed the tiles around a short play up-board, and held his finger over the “Lustep” button.
“Dad?” Milinor said quizzically. Her father made a feeble gesture, and his finger fell. It spasmed away when the jeering little song began.
“Invalid sentence. You lose your final turn."
Marcus made his play almost before Bunwadde could take off his rejected tiles. “Nine. Second player wins, 299 to 281."
He felt no outburst of joy, but a release of tension inside him that had been there so long he had forgotten it existed. So much for it not mattering whether he won or lost.
Bunwadde met him with eyes that looked hollow. “Congratulations, Marcus. It seems you have learned quite a lot lately."
“Thank you. I have."
* * * *
Marcus had scarcely taken two steps into the briefing room before he found someone shaking his hand. He had no chance to extract it from the series of grips that followed, until a much gentler hand took hold.
“Welcome, Mr. Parrish,” said Inez Quinones, director of the Language Section. “Good to finally meet you. Please, take your seat."
She guided him toward one end of a long oval table, then sat herself at the other end. Jun Hua, Marcus noticed, was already there at her right hand. He hadn't been part of the congratulating swarm.
“Before we formally begin,” Quinones said, “I hope your new accommodations are adequate, Mr. Parrish."
“Oh, they are,” he said. “I'm learning to enjoy sitting down again.” Several Section members laughed knowingly.
The Section had been ready to buy Marcus out of his service with Bunwadde, once he informed them of the breakthrough the night after his climactic game. Bunwadde was a step ahead, releasing him that following morning. A human had learned Vetra syntax in his employ. He was hoping to minimize the personal repercussions from that connection.
Marcus resisted the impulse to feel sympathy. Bunwadde had brought him there as a showpiece, maybe useful in other limited ways, but certainly no threat. That arrogance had gotten him what it often does.
Still, he'd give Bunwadde credit for two things. First, he wasn't making Tropid the easy scapegoat, yet. Second, Marcus had gone to sleep that night, in the flush of triumph, and woken up the next morning. Not all humans—maybe not all Kevhtre—would have let him do that.
Quinones started the debriefing with a few questions about the preliminary reports Marcus had written on his breakthrough. They seemed pointed beneath her mild way of asking them, looking for some weak link. His system still had a few of those, but he was forthright about them. If the Language Section had suspected some elaborate deception, their residual worries faded.
“It is excellent work,” Quinones said, “but your work isn't close to over. We're going to need you to instruct everyone in the Section on the fundamentals of Vetra grammar, in intensive sessions. We need to teach all the diplomatic staff as well, but we may just start with a few critical personnel there. Once some of us are up to speed, we can start acting as teachers for the rest, not to mention spreading this knowledge back to Earth. We'll have—"
“Excuse me, Director,” Marcus said. “I intend to give you full reports on the syntactic rules I've learned, nothing left out. I'll even add some work on the link between ideograms and vocables. But I've been indentured once lately. I'm not making it twice. I intend to go home."
“I see,” Quinones said coolly. “Why this sudden drive to return to Earth?"
“It's scarcely sudden. I have a life to lead there. I have business to return to—and a new tool with which to get ahead in it. That is why I agreed to this program, after all."
“You were here to crack the language for all of us,” one of the members said, “not for yourself."
“I have to concur with Mr. Okoye,” Quinones said. “You made a commitment to the Language Section when you agreed to the apprenticeship with Bunwadde. You're shirking that commitment."
“Consider it repayment in kind,” said Marcus, “for the level of support I got on-planet. You handed away my full collaboration, not me."
Quinones was perplexed. “Mr. Parrish, I don't understand what I've done to merit this hostility."
“It isn't directed against you, ma'am.” He let his eyes creep over to her stoic aide. “Mr. Jun, on the other hand, was anything but supportive of my work. He made my life a lot harder."
Quinones turned. “Jun, what is this about?"
“I'd rather not have my humiliations exposed further,” Parrish snapped. “I'll make it short. I want Jun Hua sacked, today, or my assistance will be as limited as I've already
said."
“This is—” Quinones couldn't find words.
“Is that all?” Jun Hua said smoothly. “You'll cooperate, over my dead professional body?"
Marcus sneered. “Yeah, I think that's enough."
“Jun, I want to see you—"
“Done.” Jun stood up. “Director, I'll be in my office, composing my resignation letter. You'll have it within ten minutes."
The shocked silence was broken by a single bark of laughter from Marcus. “What, that easy?"
Jun Hua turned dark eyes on him. “Nothing is easy with you, Marc, but it was necessary. Indeed, that's why it was necessary. I assumed so from the start."
This time, Marcus couldn't speak. “Jun, explain this,” Quinones said.
“Gladly. I learned during the interview process how determined Marcus Parrish is, how ambitious and competitive. I knew we had to harness these traits for him to have a fighting chance at cracking Vetra. So I provided the goads."
He shifted his speech to Marcus. “I gave you String of Pearls, knowing you wouldn't have a fighting chance to win it against native speakers, and that you couldn't resist trying. Then, yes, I rubbed your nose in it. I couldn't risk having you accept defeat. I needed you to pour your whole spirit into making the breakthrough, as unlikely as it might be. But you did it. You beat the odds, and Bunwadde as a bonus.
“So let me ask you, Marc. Was it worth the pain to reach the goal? No,” he said, raising a hand, “don't answer me. Think about it. For my part, I'll say it was always worth a high cost to have a human finally achieve mastery of the language. I got what I wanted. I won't shrink from paying a fair price. Gentlemen, ladies.” He gave a short bow, and walked out of the conference room.
Quinones's eyes followed him to the threshold, then fastened on Marcus. He found all eyes on him now. “I take it,” she said, “that you're on board with us now."
“I..."
“Let's be clear, sir,” she said, all the gentleness from their introduction gone. “I just lost a very good man because of you. You said that was what it would take to get your fullest cooperation. I mean to hold you to your word."
Marcus said nothing. He didn't look at Quinones, or at anyone.
“We need this knowledge,” she said, her tone changed. “The human race needs it. We have to get some leverage in relations with the Kevhtre Union. It's the same problem you face in your business dealings, magnified a million times. If you can't understand how—"
“You don't have to go on.” Marcus could barely be heard across the table. “How soon can I start lessons for the Language Section?"
The whole table brightened, Quinones most of all. “I was hoping for tonight."
Marcus tipped his head. “My lesson plan will be a bit rough, but you're right, there's no point in delaying. Tonight it is."
“Done. I'll lend you a staff member so you can pick out a room and get all the materials there you'll need."
“Of course. And thank you, Director,” he added, “for that last reminder."
She smiled, as he had hoped. Her appeal to their common humanity had been fitting, but it wasn't the reason he had gone along. Better that they think it was, so they would gloss over what really had moved him: Jun Hua's parting question.
Marcus had endured humiliations, and their sting would last with him. So, too, would the pride of his accomplishment. He wouldn't have that pride if he hadn't gone through the humiliation, been the kind of man who would feel it so keenly, and take it to heart. Jun had read him perfectly.
And Jun had been right: it had all been worth it.
No reason anyone else should know, though. It was hard enough that Marcus knew.
Copyright 2006 Shane Tourtellotte
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
A NEW ORDER OF THINGS: PART III OF IV
by EDWARD M. LERNER
Illustrated by John Allemand
* * * *
Skepticism is annoying but useful in a universe where things are seldom what they seem....
Synopsis
For a century and a half, a growing interstellar community has maintained radio contact. A vigorous commerce in intellectual property has accelerated the technical progress of all its members. Travel between the stars seems impossible, but InterstellarNet thrives using an elegant alternative: artificially intelligent surrogates who act as local representatives for distant societies. Quarantine procedures strictly govern the delivery and operational environment of each alien agent, protecting agents and their host networks from subversion by the other.
A radio message shatters this comfortable status quo. The signal comes from a habitat-sized decelerating interstellar vessel, its unannounced trip from Barnard's Star now ninety-nine percent complete. Citing damage en route and a shortage of supplies, the starship Victorious goes to Jupiter rather than Earth. The starship's crew are whippet-thin, iridescent-scaled, bipedal carnivores who call themselves Hunters. Humans refer to them as K'vithians, after their home world of K'vith, or, informally, as Snakes (because Barnard's Star lies in the constellation Ophiuchus, the Serpent Holder).
Not only humans are surprised by Victorious’ short-notice arrival. Pashwah, the AI trade agent on Earth for the Hunters, is also taken unawares. So are her internal sub-agents, the representatives of the Great Clans. Pashwah rejects the starship's unauthenticated demands for Great Clan InterstellarNet credits with which to buy supplies, but she does transmit to Victorious a translator and human-affairs advisor: a partial copy of herself named Pashwah-qith.
Helmut Schiller is hiding from a shadowed past: As Willem Vanderkellen, he had made a major mineral find in the Belt, only to fall afoul of a claim-jumping criminal syndicate. He has found work as a pilot for free-lance media star Corinne Elman, who first breaks the news of the onrushing starship.
Ambassador Hong-yee Chung heads the United Planets response team, based on Callisto. His technical support team includes theoretical physicist Eva Gutierrez, xeno-sociologistKeizo Matsunaga, and Interstellar Commerce Union executive and systems engineer Arthur Walsh. Most humans have forgotten, or at least forgiven, a half-century-earlier inter-species crisis. Art is not among them. The “Snake Subterfuge” involved a trapdoor hidden in licensed Snake biocomputer technology, potentially compromising most human infrastructure. That crisis ended when Pashwah was convinced that one Hunter corporation's extortion plans must not be allowed to compromise overall inter-species relations. The biocomputer vulnerability has long been removed.
Art finds much the Snakes have chosen to reveal about themselves replete with anomalies. His suspicions grow, as most of Victorious remains hidden from closely chaperoned human visitors. The K'vithian explanation for picking Jupiter as their destination rings false to Art and Eva, who at different times worked at the UP laboratory on the Jovian moon Himalia. That is where the UP does its interstellar-drive research, and where it produces and stores antimatter in hopes this research will eventually bear fruit. The antimatter stockpile is vastly dangerous; its existence supposedly a tightly held secret. Chung remains trusting.
There is subterfuge at hand, and it involves a third species. Twenty years earlier, the starship then named Harmony was boarded and captured, its crew in suspended animation, on its final approach to Barnard's Star. Harmony's rightful crew—a hypothetical human observer would see arboreal octopi covered in green fur—remain shipboard prisoners of the K'vithians. The captives are members of the Unity, the intelligent species of Alpha Centauri A, commonly referred to by humans as the Centaurs. The K'vithians had sent a rigged lifeboat back toward Alpha Centauri. The lifeboat radioed a contrived distress call and then self-destructed, to disguise the piracy and make the Unity distrust their own technology.
K'choi Gwu, the ka (leader by consensus/captain) of the Unity prisoners sabotages the shipboard environmental systems. Only a fresh supply of specialty home-world biochemicals can avert eco-collapse. It is all a ruse to justify Gwu finally revealing the InterstellarNet
credits hidden deep within T'bck Ra, the long-suppressed shipboard AI. Gwu's captors reactivate the lobotomized AI just long enough to retrieve the hidden financial codes—or so they believe. T'bck Ra has actually hidden himself in computers distributed across the starship.
T'bck Fwa is the Unity's long-time trade agent to humanity. Unity authorities have ordered him to search for human antimatter and interstellar-drive research. His diligent data mining long ago revealed a clandestine human antimatter program on Himalia—and now a K'vithian starship has made Jupiter its destination. Skeptical of news reports that an en route accident destroyed the starship's antimatter refueling capability, he imagines a human/K'vithian conspiracy. His suspicions grow when he learns Unity biochemicals are being synthesized on Earth for delivery to the Jupiter system.
Firh Mashkith, Foremost of clan Arblen Ems and of the stolen starship he has renamed Victorious, has more on his mind than the ailing ecosystem. Twenty years earlier when the starship emerged from the outer darkness, no Hunter clan held the technology for antimatter or star travel. As for Arblen Ems, they were out of favor among the clans, hiding on the fringes of their solar system, and hunted to the brink of extinction. His boldness has changed all that.
The interstellar drive, however esoteric its theory, is easy to build. Mashkith's problem is fuel. The starship never carried antimatter production equipment. Antimatter intended for its return to Alpha Centauri A was used instead to reach Sol system. Mashkith hopes to trick the humans into revealing how to produce and control antimatter on very large scales. If he succeeds, his clan—alone—will have access to the stars. A carefully contrived demo with antimatter from dwindling reserves convinces human skeptics that K'vith already has antimatter technology. Mashkith's senior officers, Rashk Keffah and Rashk Lothwer, disparage human antimatter technology. They “allow” human experts to convince them the UP's “primitive” antimatter mechanisms can safely refuel Victorious. In the process, the K'vithians master antimatter technology.
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