Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4) (58 page)

He took a breath, composed himself, and embarked upon his speech.

He was, as he would freely admit himself, no kind of public speaker. He was stilted at the best of times and droningly monotone if at all uneasy. He was currently attempting to give a speech in a language he had only just started to learn, with the potential for a tremendously important alliance riding on how it was received. Monotone was hardly the word, as he intoned the speech with all the warmth and personality of chilled duralloy.

For the first time in his life, though, he found an appreciative audience in the Samartians. They listened intently, not the slightest bit bored or frustrated by his robotic delivery. If anything, they seemed quite pleased, perhaps finding something reassuringly familiar about it.

Alex said all the things that he and the mission team had agreed were essential. He spoke of the League’s own long struggle to keep their worlds free from Marfikian domination, and their admiration for the legendary world of Samart. He spoke of what they could learn from one another. He spoke of honour, and friendship.

He was acutely aware, throughout, of Davie North standing beside him. Davie would have made a very much better job of this speech, he knew, but it was his responsibility so he ploughed on doggedly with it. He managed to do it all without having to look at the autocue screen with its phonetic Samartian, and that was the best that could be said, really.

The Samartians seemed satisfied, though, giving an assenting ‘attar’ before delivering their own evidently pre-arranged speech.

‘The people of the World see that there is benefit to a relationship with the League, if trust can be established.’ The matrix translated what the Samartians said and displayed it on a screen, as well as muttering it in League Standard into Alex’s earpiece. He also had the benefit of Jermane and Davie’s more idiomatic translations, flashed up when they differed from the matrix’s literal conversions.

‘This is not quick.’ Dakael Jurore proceeded. ‘You are very different. There is much we do not understand. We must tell you,’ a note of strong severity, with that, ‘that we do not believe that you are gods. Your claim to have a god alive on your ship is against the forming of trust. We require that you retract this claim, or prove it.’

‘But we have never said…’ Alex began to protest, then realised what they meant. ‘Ah! You mean Shionolethe?’ He saw assent in their faces. ‘No, she is not a god. As we have said, she is from a world called Pirrell. Shionolethe is the first of her people to come to our worlds, the first of her people to emerge from her world in many thousands of years. It is true that some civilisations retained a confused memory of her people in the dark ages following the plague, and on some worlds they turned that folk memory into legends of gods and goddesses…’ He was recalling, as he spoke, an incident in which a historian had commented on Shion’s resemblance to a fertility goddess. ‘But that is myth, not truth. They are not gods. We will willingly provide you with all information about Shionolethe, her physiology and the culture of her people.’

The Samartians looked unconvinced.

‘All the Old Ones died,’ said Dakael Jurore, with a note of total certainty.

‘That is what we believe,’ Dakael Tell amended, with slightly more readiness to see that there could be other views. ‘Our history says that in the time of the Old Ones there was a great sickness. Those who were known as our gods brought our ancestors to the world, which was clean and safe. Then they died – all the Old Ones. For some time our people worshipped them as gods but that was a long time ago.’

‘Their temples are places of curiosity now. Nobody believes in the gods.’ Dakael Jurore declared.

‘None but a very few, who are not treated with respect,’ Dakael Tell amended. Worship of ancient gods, Alex perceived, was regarded as a fringe, nutter belief in Samartian society. No wonder they had reacted with such incredulity to the Fourth’s stating that they had an Old One aboard their ship.

‘Your history agrees with our understanding, in important ways,’ Alex said, after a slight pause to code what he wanted to say and select the most formal option offered by the matrix. ‘We have high respect for that. We believe that your people were brought to your world, which we know as Samart, by a people we know as the Olaret. The Olaret were Old Ones who brought people to many such worlds for safety – amongst them, my own world, my own people. And it is true, we know, that the Olaret died, and many other Old Ones with them, a great sorrow.

‘But not
all
died. The Old Ones of Pirrell survived, and so did many others. They made a kind of wall between the worlds where sickness was, and their own worlds, and they live on, many hundreds of civilisations. We have had no contact with them ourselves for many thousands of years, only just now, in the last two centuries, have we even begun to make contact with some of those nearest to our worlds.’

‘But it is true, then?’ Dakael Tell persisted. ‘This woman, she
is
of the Old Ones?’

Alex confirmed it again, patiently.

‘We would be happy for you to meet her, if you wish,’ he told them. ‘You may meet any of my ship’s company. She would be here to meet you, but some of our own people find it strange to meet her at first.’

‘
Your
people? She is strange to you too, then?’ Dakael Jurore queried.

‘Oh, yes,’ Alex said. ‘Her arrival is one of the most important things that has happened in the League in our recent history. Our president, our head of state, came a great distance to meet and welcome her. She could go anywhere, be treated as our most honoured guest. Instead, she chooses to serve with us, to learn from us and help us in our missions. We are greatly privileged. We are honoured to have Mr North with us, also.’ He indicated Davie, who looked a little taken aback for a moment. ‘Mr North was created to be like an Old One, to help us as we begin to form relationships with the Ancients. Our government has been trusting him with important role, in that, since he was a small child.’

That was actually true, as Davie had only been six years old when the Diplomatic Corps had accredited him to meet a party of Solarans. ‘He is very special,’ Alex said. ‘Unique. The only one of his kind.’ He was actually wrong about that, but believed it to be true at the time, as indeed did Davie himself.

‘He was asked by our head of state, personally, to come with us on this mission to assist us in offering greetings to you. It is his skill which has enabled us to learn your language.’

Davie smiled modestly, and the Samartians looked at him again with rather obvious doubt.

‘We do not allow manipulation of genetic material into strange or experimental forms,’ said Dakael Jurore.

‘In the old days,’ Dakael Tell added, ‘it would have been considered sacrilege, an offence to the gods. We still believe that it is wrong.’

‘So do we, in general.’ Alex admitted. ‘We do not allow genetic modification beyond a limit defined in our law. Mr North, though, was created for us by another race, called Quarians. They too were taken to their world by the Olaret, but learned to adapt their bodies to many different forms. They do not visit our worlds but our ships go there sometimes. Mr North was created to assist with the relationships we are forming with the Old Ones. He is of very high status, highly respected.’

He could feel Davie flicking a glance at him, with that, and just
knew
that the fifteen year old was as uncomfortable with this as any teenager would be at being discussed in this manner. He knew that Davie would pick up the tiny tells of amusement in him, too, and that felt good, reassuringly normal. He was feeling much more relaxed, now, well within his comfort zone in discussing such matters. It was hardly the first time he’d had to explain things like this to people like system presidents, after all. In comparison with trying to get the president of Novamas past his xenophobia, in fact, this was relatively easy. At least the Samartians already had some basic understanding of the presence of ancient races, even if they believed that they had all died out.

‘Attar,’ said Dakael Tell, and her colleague said the same, after a very slight hesitation. This, Alex realised, was a tacit acceptance of Davie’s role, whatever their views might be about him. The two Samartians looked at one another, and Dakael Tell gave a very slight nod.

‘We wish to learn more about you.’ Dakael Jurore said, looking back at Alex. ‘We understand that you wish to learn more about us. For this purpose we propose that we exchange a member of our crew for an agreed period. We offer Janai Bennet. We request teen eek a look horse.’

There was a moment before the matrix caught up with a context translation, offering ‘Tinika Lucas’ instead.

‘We believe they are equivalent,’ said Dakael Jurore, as Alex gazed at them, feeling some consternation though that certainly didn’t show in his formal, poker-faced expression. ‘Janai Bennet is quick to observe, quick to learn. And if mistakes are made, they are junior people so it is forgiven, no loss of pride.’

That was a very good point, Alex had to admit. The Diplomatic Corps called such a role ‘pawn sacrifice’, putting a relatively junior person in a front-line role so that if things went wrong, they could apologise quickly with minimal loss of face at senior level. Alex had undertaken that role more than once, though it had not occurred to him that he might save his own dignity by putting someone more junior to him in that position.

‘Ms Lucas is very young,’ Alex said. ‘Only just qualified as a junior officer.’

As he spoke, a message was flagging up from Tina Lucas herself, watching from the lab.

‘
Sir. I volunteer
.’

She packed whole reams of pleading and persuasion into those three words, as Alex knew very well how desperately she would want this. He knew that because he wanted it just as much. He would give everything he owned, and then some, for the opportunity to go aboard the Samartian ship, to see it for himself.

It was apparent, however, that they wanted Tina, and Alex could see the logic of that.

‘Janai Bennet also,’ Dakael Tell observed. ‘It was Janai Bennet who saw that she and your teen eek a look horse are equivalent. She is also junior – janai, but with high expectation of what she will be in the future.’

‘Ah,’ Alex said, and recognised that he was not the only one with a counterpart on the other ship. ‘But are you satisfied that it is safe for you to have a member of our crew aboard your ship?’

‘No, we are not,’ Dakael Tell said, readily, and explained, ‘This is our contact ship. We have made a special crew – all of us have chosen this. We must remain outside the border and have supplies brought to us by drones which will be destroyed. If we live then after we are finished here we will go to a place where we must stay for one or two years, perhaps more, for tests and observation. We must know if it is possible for us to survive meeting with your people.’

‘You must understand,’ Dakael Jurore told him, ‘that this is of the ultimate importance. Our history tells us that long ago a ship came to our world – before the Enemy, the first ship to come to us. We were exploring our solar system at the time and we sent a ship to meet them. All aboard that ship died within days. If they had returned to our world, it could have been the end of our civilisation. We cannot allow you to come to our world, the danger is too great. But we must know whether it is possible for us to survive being aboard your ship, and for you to survive being aboard ours. We must know if your safety rules are effective.’

‘They are,’ Alex said, without hesitation. ‘I have complete confidence in our quarantine procedures. And if necessary, we have developed techniques – medicines and medical tools – to treat infections. Shionolethe has no resistance to any of our pathogens at all, and no immune system of her own with which she could fight infection, but we have been able to provide her with equipment and medicines which enable her to live safely amongst us. We will provide you with all the technology, medicine and information you need to assess this for yourselves.’

They looked at him, considering that.

‘Trust may be established,’ Dakael Jurore said, and somehow that sounded as if he had made up his mind, though there was no obvious clue of tone or accompanying gesture.

The rest of the meeting was taken up entirely with negotiating arrangements for the officer-exchange. An attempt on Alex’s part to negotiate that up into allowing an exchange of first-contact teams met a flat negative. The Samartians had made up their minds. For whatever reason, it was apparent that they had decided that ‘teen eek a look horse’ was someone they could trust to come aboard their ship, and they were not prepared to discuss any other possibility.

Alex, seeing that, capitulated. He agreed to all their other stipulations, too, and had only one, himself, that should Tina Lucas wish to leave the Samartian ship for any reason before the agreed time, the Fourth would be notified immediately and allowed to take her off their ship without delay. The Samartians seemed rather baffled by that, as if they couldn’t understand any circumstances under which a junior officer would take it upon themselves to change the arrangements made by superiors, but agreed to it readily enough.

The exchange was agreed, therefore, to take place the following day, for a period of around five and a half hours, League time. Neither officer would be allowed to bring any weapon or recording device. They had also to give an undertaking not to touch or even look at any technology unless they were specifically shown it by their hosts. Both would wear their own versions of survival suits, with whatever quarantine precautions both ships felt to be necessary. They would bring nothing with them, and take nothing back.

Once that was all agreed, the Samartians gave a formal ‘Gratitude’ and ended the call. Once they had done so, Buzz Burroughs adjusted comms so that Alex could hear the riotous cheering which erupted throughout the ship, adding his own warmest congratulations, ‘Very well
done
, dear boy! Excellent!’

Davie congratulated him, too, with a slightly spluttering laugh.