‘Yes,’ said Alex, with a stab of alarm at the thought of Trilopharus popping up in the middle of a busy Senate Square. ‘Please don’t visit any of our worlds until we’ve been able to make proper arrangements, Trilopharus, is that all right?’
‘No, I won’t,’ Trilopharus assured him. ‘The Gider told us that, too – primary phase diplomacy, yes? Ambassador to Ambassador.’ He gestured from himself to Alex and beamed again. ‘Going pretty well so far!’ he said and with a flourishing wave, vanished.
The upshot of that visit was that, at Davie’s suggestion, they raided the arts and crafts studio and got busy in the gym.
Mister, going in there to find out what they were doing, found himself gaping.
‘What are they doing?’
‘Getting creative,’ said Alex, having followed him in and regarded the scene with satisfaction. ‘Just goes to show,’ he observed, ‘that you never can tell what skills will come in handy on an exodiplomacy mission.’
Mister looked around again and realised what the sixty or seventy people in the gym were up to.
They were modelling the galaxy. And they were doing it in just as many ways as they could think of and find resources for. Davie himself was working on a huge floor painting, with a holo-projected galaxy shone onto the floor and Davie crawling backwards, painting nebulae with one hand and dabbing in the brightest stars with the other. It had already been established that Trilopharus could not make out holographic projections, any more than he could see what was on screens. Fractals, Silvie had observed, couldn’t see fractals, not with the perception which enabled eyes and brains to process an image.
Hence the resorting to physical media, with Davie covering the gym floor in paint. Another group was giving a rather more free-form rendering on a wall, using a splatter technique. A rather more structured effort was under way in a corner where a very earnest team were assembling hundreds of siliplas sheets layered with slice-views of the galaxy, which they were fitting into a frame as fast as people hurried in with them from the SEP. Others were modelling the galaxy in a freefall box with quantities of glitter. The ship’s arts and crafts group was taking the lead, here and evidently loving it.
‘We want to know where Chetharish is,’ Alex pointed out, ‘Trilopharus can’t see data on screens, so we’re trying to find a model he can engage with and point out, at least roughly, where he’s calling from.’ He saw that Simmy was helping as an enthusiastic splatter-painter and grinned. ‘But – may I have a word?’
He gestured back to the door and Mister realised that he’d actually come in here looking for him. So he nodded, leaving the gym with Alex and walking with him.
‘I was hoping you might do me a favour,’ Alex said, strolling through the VR complex with its training rooms and simulators. ‘No slime involved this time,’ he assured him, as the LIA agent looked wary, ‘but I would like your permission to use your situation here as a case-study in the talk I’m giving later. Nothing in-depth, just a mention of your situation as part of a wider discussion of situations where we have felt ourselves to be the aliens.’
‘I…’ said the LIA agent and all his cover-up secrecy instincts kicked in. ‘I would rather you didn’t, sir.’
‘Because that would feel like being exposed,’ Alex observed, ‘And all your instinct and training is towards concealment.’
‘I am,’ Mister said drily, ‘already exposed.’ He gave the skipper a speaking look. ‘My cover,’ he said, ‘has been blown, which is appalling. We are not even supposed to admit that any such organisation as the Firm even exists, but here, everyone on this ship knows who I work for, even the civilians! And I’m stuck here, no backup, no exit, my mission in rags and people taking the mick – I think it’s safe to say that I’m already more exposed than I am in any way trained for or comfortable with. So if you could avoid rubbing it in by using me as a case study, that would be appreciated. Sir.’
‘All right,’ Alex said. He had known perfectly well that Mister would refuse. The point was that he wanted him to refuse and to feel empowered when that refusal was accepted. ‘Not a problem,’ Alex assured him.
‘Really?’ Mister stopped where he was, looking searchingly at Alex. He was highly trained in observational analysis and he could see no indicators other than relaxed good humour. ‘You won’t do it, then?’
‘No, of course not, not if you’re uncomfortable with it,’ Alex said. ‘I do understand.’ And with a raised hand and an air of moving on to the next thing on his agenda, he took his leave, ‘See you later.’
The talk he gave that evening picked up from the topic of the Urr Invasion, of understanding that there were two points of view there, that of the humans and that of the Urr. He gave that personal application, then, asking people to think back to times in their lives when they had felt themselves to be an alien, an intruder, uncomfortable in situations where they felt that they didn’t belong, as well as situations in which they felt that their in-group was being intruded on by an outsider. Mister tensed at that, fearing that Alex was about to go back on his assurance, but Alex neither mentioned him nor even glanced in his direction. Instead, he moved the topic on to discuss the Fourth as a unit and the open minded acceptance culture they prided themselves on.
‘When Shion first came aboard,’ he said, ‘she told me that she wanted to be with people who didn’t use special voices when she was around – people who would treat her just like one of themselves. When Mr North came aboard, too, he was amazed by how quickly people accepted him, not ignoring his genetic differences but treating him as they would any other shipmate. And Silvie, poor Silvie, she’d been pulled in a thousand directions by so many people having such powerful expectations of her she hardly even knew who she was, till she came here and found people who cherish her for who she is, not what they want her to be. So we do, yes, have a tremendously open and accepting culture and each and every one of you can feel proud of that.’ He paused and grinned. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘there are limits. Not one of you wanted to make friends with the Urr.’
He was speaking in the ship’s lecture venue, to an audience of about a hundred, though everyone else was watching on screens too. Those in the lecture theatre had been randomly selected, with everyone getting a seat there at one or other of the talks. A big screen at the back of the venue gave Alex an interactive view of the rest of the people watching from around the ship and he paused, then, for the appreciative chuckles to die away.
‘So,’ he said, ‘here is today’s discussion point. How open minded are you? Where do you draw the line? Clearly, Silvie is adorable and we all love her to bits, while Urgog the Urr is revolting and gets shoved in the airlock, but where is the line between those two? At what point do you go from welcome to rejection? And on what criteria?’ He put a work-pack file on the screen behind him, of a type very familiar to anyone doing Fleet courses. It was a discussion module, timed to take no more than a quarter of an hour, with a series of exercises to be worked through with a partner. ‘Access this now, please,’ he said, ‘And we’ll reconvene in half an hour.’
By the time the talk resumed, everyone on the ship had worked through the unit. Mister had found himself partnered by the garrulous Cultural Attaché, Jermane Taerling, who’d leapt at him with a big smile before Mister could even start scowling at the requirement to find a partner.
‘Well, isn’t that interesting,’ Alex said and stepped aside, gesturing for Buzz to take his place at the podium. ‘Buzz?’
Buzz smiled benevolently. When he wasn’t being Skipper Burroughs, Flag Exec, he was Dr Burroughs, a socio-psychologist with a respected reputation in his rather esoteric field of isolation psychology. He was regarded, indeed, as something of an expert on in-group out-group behaviour, so this was very much his field of expertise.
And over the next few minutes he explained very kindly to the Venturi’s crew just how bigoted they actually were. He had designed the exercises to bring that out, pushing people to make judgements on which of
two aliens they would prefer to get to know, given different criteria each time. Some of the choices were image-based, some on data. And it turned out, as Buzz informed them, that a high majority of the Venturi’s people, for all their much-vaunted open minded acceptance culture, were guilty of just the same kind of prejudiced thinking as groundsiders.
‘It seems,’ he said, displaying the percentage of choices that they’d made on the various criteria, ‘That we like our aliens to be more attractive than we are, cleverer than us, to have interesting, exotic qualities and yet to have some flaw which makes it possible for us to feel superior and best of all, some child-like quality.’ He grinned at Silvie, who was giggling. ‘Silvie, in fact,’ Buzz observed, ‘turns out to be our idea of the perfect alien friend.’
‘Yay,’ said Silvie. ‘Way to go, me!’
‘Endearing, see?’ Buzz chuckled too. ‘But what we don’t want are aliens who make us feel uncomfortable, either with their physical characteristics – just look how many of you rejected this guy purely on the basis of an unpleasant body odour – or because some aspect of their culture crosses our boundary from ‘interesting exotic’ into ‘disturbing’. Look at these two profiles. The only difference between them is that one is vegetarian and the other eats frogs. 97% rejected the frog-eaters. And on that basis, you’d have rejected friendship with Jarlner and Bennet.’
There was a frisson of distress, at that, real anxiety that the Samartians might be upset by that. But Jarlner and Bennet had been in on the exercise and knew very well how it would come out.
‘No offence,’ said Bennet, ‘but the food you eat is just as disgusting to us.’
‘Indeed,’ Buzz said, with a warm smile. ‘And my thanks to Jarlner and Bennet for allowing me to make this point. We make judgements about whether we like people or not based on a whole lot of criteria we’re not even consciously aware of, some of them not as creditable as we would like. And we are certainly not as open minded as we like to think we are.’
‘Thanks, Buzz.’ Alex resumed the podium. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Have a think about that. And I just want you to consider, being totally honest with yourself, just how open and accepting you could really be, if aliens moved into your mess deck or wardroom with qualities you found unattractive or disturbing. And where would you, personally, draw that line?’ He paused and nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Mister was puzzled, as he left the lecture. All that guff about finding the lectures too challenging to cope with and they were barely even interesting. He lacked the insight to understand that he was not finding them challenging because he wasn’t engaging with them, dismissing and forgetting what had been said almost as he walked through the door.
He was, however, starting to see a pattern emerging. So when he saw Alex strolling over to him the next morning with an amicable air, Mister looked at him with cold suspicion, knowing very well that he was going to be asked for another favour.
And so he was.
‘I just wanted to ask,’ Alex said, having taken him aside for a private conversation, ‘if you would mind keeping half an eye on Mr Taerling for me this afternoon.’
Mister looked dubious. They would be starting first-footing after Trilopharus’s visit today and Mister had already been allocated to a group which included Jermane Taerling. On the whole, Mister would rather not have gone off the ship at all, with the situation as it was, but Simon had made it clear to him that shoreleave trips like this were mandatory. Exactly what would happen to him if he refused to comply hadn’t been specified, but Simon had given the distinct impression that it would be prolonged and that it would be terrible.
‘Why?’ he asked, bluntly.
Alex gave a slight, wry smile. ‘If you pay attention,’ he said, ‘you will see that he is more nervous about first-footing trips than he likes to let on. He had a bad experience a few years ago – that’s why he always goes with a group and with someone keeping a particular eye on him. Normally, in fact, Buzz goes with him. But I can’t spare Buzz this afternoon so I would appreciate you just keeping an eye on him and if you see he’s getting stressed, distract him, get him talking…’ he grinned a little at that, since there was never any difficulty in getting Jermane Taerling to talk.
Mister drew his brows together. ‘Are you,’ he asked, with a dangerous note, ‘trying to spin me, Commodore?’
‘No.’ Alex did not pretend he didn’t understand. Mister was asking if the Fourth was trying to subvert his loyalty to the LIA and work him around into becoming one of them. ‘My apologies for being blunt about this, Mister, but I would not want you working for me.’ He looked him straight in the eyes. ‘We do not,’ he said, ‘share the same values.’ Then, rather more courteously, ‘Which does not mean I don’t sympathise with your situation. The rest of us have a strong – very strong – support network around us. You are essentially isolated. And as the skipper responsible for your welfare, I am doing what I can to support you through a particularly challenging period. But it is, I assure you, a purely social integration. And I do mean it, too, Mr Taerling does get nervous on first footing trips and I’d appreciate you bringing your field observation skills into play, to pick up if he’s becoming anxious and to help him deal with that, as he does, by talking about something else.’
Mister found himself agreeing to that, even while he was figuring out all the double-play the Commodore might be laying on him, there. And it would do no harm, he decided, to go along with the lure, so long as he remained alert and resistant to all their manipulative mind games.
They were not, he was determined, going to win him over.
Nine
Trilopharus’s visit that day took place in the gym, since that was where Alex was waiting when the ‘ready for a chat’ comms blast was broadcast. Trilopharus, it had to be said, was more amused by their efforts to model the galaxy for him than impressed, going around them with rather the manner of a visitor looking at kindergarten art.
It worked, though – he pointed out to them on two of the models where Chetharish was located, adding that if they enlarged that sector he’d be able to show them the system he was calling from.
‘We’ll do that for tomorrow,’ Alex said. ‘Thanks, Trilopharus. Though we would really appreciate, if you can, more in the way of data – even, perhaps,’ he asked hopefully, ‘images?’
‘Can’t do that. Not directly. This transducer won’t take it and we daren’t try to interface with your systems anyway; the Gider have told us how easily they overload. But we will ask the Gider to pass on a datapack to your guys at the Embassy III if that’s any help?’
‘Thank you,’ said Alex, trying not to let his frustration show. ‘That would be very helpful. And if you could just…’ he looked imploringly at the Chethari, ‘tell us a little about your world?’
‘Oh.’ Trilopharus appeared somewhat daunted. ‘We could be here for years,’ he observed. ‘And that isn’t…’ he appeared to be distracted, perhaps by someone talking to one of his other projections. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed and laughed. ‘Three wishes!’ he said and to Alex, ‘Three questions. You get three questions, like the three wishes in your stories. Three a day, right? And simple, not ‘tell me everything there is to know about the history of the universe’, but like, ‘what kind of houses do you live in?’’
Alex laughed, nodding. ‘Excellent, thanks,’ he said. ‘So – what kind of houses do you live in?’
‘We don’t,’ Trilopharus said and laughed too. ‘We stopped living in houses a very long time ago – other people do, like the Gider and the Perithin, but ours is a garden world, Alex. We live in the gardens. All the technology we use is available to us anywhere, we don’t need to build houses to have somewhere to sleep or to relieve ourselves, we can create whatever we need wherever and whenever we need it.’
Eden, thought Alex. Humans remembered a time, a people who had lived like that. They had turned it into myth, even sometimes into religion, but it was something they had known, once. That it was possible to live i
n a garden where everything you needed was magically available.
Alex, personally, thought it sounded more like hell than heaven. He’d give it a month after the novelty wore off and he’d be going nuts.
‘So – what do you do?’ he asked. ‘How do you spend your time? Do you work?’
‘No!’ Trilopharus chuckled. ‘Nobody works! We spend our time chatting – visiting friends,’ he gave a flourish which filled the gym with aurora, ‘doing this! Oh, I see – physically, you mean? The same – meeting friends, having chats, going about to see things in the gardens.’
Definitely hell, thought Alex. It sounded utterly aimless, days without any more purpose than having a chat.
‘Are your people creative, then?’ he asked, ‘Artistic, I mean? Musical?’
‘We enjoy art and music made by other people,’ Trilopharus said. ‘And sometimes – perhaps once every few hundred years or so – someone will be moved to create a – well, you’d call it a sculpture, perhaps, or a poem. But there are only so many notes and combinations of notes which you can produce before you realise you’ve already made all the music there is and the only things left are random or unpleasing noise. Only so many words and forms for a poem, too. So there is nothing new. Only rediscovery, sometimes, of things we had forgotten. And great interest, too, now, of course, in learning about you.’
There was a lot of discussion about that after the visit.
‘Is that all there is to aspire to?’ Jermane Taerling was still talking about it as he settled into the shuttle seat next to Mister LIA. ‘Five million years of evolution and you end up in a state of stagnant indolence? Seen it all, done it all, nothing left to do but sit around and chat? That’s just sad, don’t you think?’
He didn’t give Mister a chance to answer, which was just as well since he didn’t have an opinion he would have been willing to share, anyway. But he was interested to note that the skipper had been truthful at least in one respect – the cultural attaché was hiding it well, but Mister could see signs of anxiety in him.
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