The Human Division #9: The Observers (2 page)

“Precisely,” said Doodoodo. “These are of immense value to your colonies.”

“And so are our spaceships to yours,” Abumwe pointed out. The Colonial Union was hoping to sell five recently-retired frigates to the Burfinor in exchange for several hundred of the scanners.

“But there is a fundamental mismatch in the technologies, is there not?” Doodoodo said. “The technology we are offering you is state of the biomedical art; what you are offering us is a generation or more behind your latest ships.”

“The technology is robust,” Abumwe insisted. “I would remind you that we arrived here in a ship that is several generations older than the ships we are offering you. It’s still spaceworthy and in fine repair.”

“Yes, of course,” Doodoodo said. “We’re well aware how the
Clarke
is intended to be an advertisement for selling us these discounted goods. Nevertheless, the minister feels that the imbalance is too great. We seek a renegotiation.”

“These are initial terms that your minister originally sought out,” Abumwe said. “To make these changes now is highly unusual.”

Doodoodo tugged at the base of his eyestalks, gently. “I believe the minister is of the opinion that circumstances have changed.” One of Doodoodo’s eyes, possibly unconsciously, swiveled to take in the Earthling observers.

Abumwe did not fail to catch the implication but could do nothing about it in the moment. Instead she pressed forward, hoping to have Doodoodo go back to his boss with a request to reconsider her change in the negotiations. Doodoodo was exceedingly pleasant and sympathetic to his human counterpart but promised nothing.

During all this, Liu and his Earth counterparts said nothing and gave no indication of whatever they might be thinking. Wilson tried to catch Lowen’s eye for an indication of her thoughts, but she kept her focus forward, at Doodoodo.

Negotiations for the day ended shortly thereafter, and the humans, frustrated, rode the shuttle back to the
Clarke
in silence, and dispersed from the shuttle bay equally quiet. Wilson watched Abumwe stalk off, followed by her assistant. The other members of Abumwe’s staff on the shuttle milled about uncertainly for a moment before heading out themselves. In a corner of the bay, the Earth contingent huddled together for a moment, talking; at one point, Lowen popped her head up and looked in Wilson’s direction. Wilson tried not to read anything into it.

Eventually, the Earth cluster broke up and Liu and Lowen walked directly toward Wilson.

“Greetings, Earthlings,” Wilson said.

Liu looked politely puzzled; Lowen smiled. “How long have you been waiting to use that?” she asked.

“For at least a dozen years,” Wilson said.

“Was it everything you wanted it to be?” Lowen asked.

“It really was,” Wilson said.

“It was an interesting trade session you had today,” Liu said, diplomatically.

“That’s one way of putting it, yes,” Wilson said.

“So what happened back there?” Lowen said.

“You mean, why did a routine trade agreement fly off the rails, embarrassing the Colonial Union in front of the observers whom it wanted to impress with its diplomatic acumen?” Wilson said. He noted Liu’s expression to his summation of the day’s events, discreet though it was.

“Yes, that would be the event to which I was referring,” Lowen said.

“The answer is implicit in the question,” Wilson said. “You were there. The Burfinor know something of the Colonial Union’s predicament with Earth. I suppose they figured that we would be motivated to make a deal of any sort in order not to embarrass ourselves in front of you.”

“It didn’t work,” Lowen said.

“Yes, well,” Wilson said. “The Burfinor don’t know Ambassador Abumwe very well. She’s persistent, and she doesn’t like surprises.”

“What will happen now?” Liu asked.

“I expect that Ambassador Abumwe will go back tomorrow, inform Doodoodo that any new terms are entirely unacceptable and as politely as possible threaten to walk out of the negotiations,” Wilson said. “At which point our Burfinor friend is likely to walk back the request for new terms, because while it would be nice for the Colonial Union to get our hands on some sweet new biomedical scanners, the Burfinor have a low-grade border war simmering with the Eroj and are running low on ships. So they need this trade agreement more than we do, and if it fails, they lose more.”

“Interesting,” Liu said again.

“We didn’t want you to be bored,” Wilson said.

“You also didn’t want us to see a diplomatic negotiation where the Colonial Union would be at an actual disadvantage,” Lowen said, looking directly at Wilson.

“And you’re surprised by this?” Wilson asked, looking at both Liu and Lowen equally.

“No,” Liu said. “Although I’ll admit to being mildly surprised that you admit it.”

Wilson shrugged. “I’m a glorified tech support, not a trained diplomat,” he said. “I’m allowed to say obvious things.”

“Your boss might not be happy with you saying ‘obvious things’ to us,” Lowen noted.

Liu opened his mouth before Wilson did. “On the contrary, I think Ambassador Abumwe knew exactly what she was doing when she assigned Lieutenant Wilson as our liaison,” he said.

“She’s the opposite of stupid,” Wilson agreed.

“So I am learning,” Liu said, and then yawned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Space travel is still new to me and I’ve discovered that it wears me out. I believe I will get some rest.”

“How are you finding your quarters?” Wilson asked.

“They’re cozy,” Liu said.

“What a diplomatic way of putting that,” Wilson said.

Liu laughed. “Yes, well. That’s
my
job,” he said. He excused himself and exited.

“Nice fellow,” Wilson said, as he left.

“An excellent fellow,” Lowen said. “One of the best diplomats in the world, and one of the nicest people you’d want to meet. He even gave up his private berth for Franz to use and roomed with Thierry. Franz got a bit claustrophobic. Said he’d seen prison cells that were larger.”

“It’s probably true,” Wilson said.

“The irony is that the person who is going to suffer most for it is Thierry,” Lowen said. “Liu is brilliant and wonderful, but he also snores like a freight train. Thierry’s got to suffer through that now. Don’t be surprised if for the next few days you see him look very, very tired.”

“You could prescribe him something to get to sleep,” Wilson said. “You’re a doctor, after all.”

“I don’t think my scripting privileges extend past Neptune,” Lowen said. “And anyway, Franz travels with a white noise generator to help him get to sleep. He’s already given it to Thierry for the duration. He should be fine.
Should
be.”

“Good,” Wilson said. “And you? How are your quarters?”

“They suck,” Lowen said. “And Luiza already claimed the bottom bunk.”

“It’s a hard life you lead,” Wilson said.

“If people only knew,” Lowen said. “Speaking of which, who do I have to kill to get a drink around here?”

“Fortunately, no one,” Wilson said. “There’s an officers lounge three decks down. It offers a regrettable selection of terrible light beers and inferior spirits.”

“I can fix that,” Lowen said. “I travel with a bottle of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig in my case.”

“That’s not necessarily healthy,” Wilson said.

“Relax,” Lowen said. “If I were genuinely an alcoholic, I’d take along something much cheaper. I brought it on the off chance I might have to butter up one of you folks and pretend to be friendly and such.”

“Thank God you didn’t have to do
that,
” Wilson said.

“Before we arrived, I thought I might ask Ambassador Abumwe if she’d like a drink,” Lowen said. “But I don’t really get the sense she’s the sort to appreciate a good buttering up.”

“I think you’ve accurately assessed the ambassador,” Wilson said.

“You, on the other hand,” Lowen said, pointing at Wilson.

“I am all about the buttering, Dr. Lowen,” Wilson assured her.

“Wonderful,” Lowen said. “First stop, the crawl space you folks laughingly call officers berths on this ship. Second stop, officers lounge. Hopefully, it is larger.”

The officers lounge was larger, but not by much.

“Does the Colonial Union have something against personal space?” Lowen asked, hoisting the Laphroaig onto the very small table. The officers lounge was empty, except for Lowen, Wilson and the Laphroaig.

“It’s an old ship,” Wilson explained while selecting a pair of cups from the lounge’s cupboard. “In the old days, people were smaller and appreciated a good snuggle.”

“I am suspicious of the veracity of your statement,” Lowen said.

“That’s probably wise,” Wilson said. He came over to the table and set down the cups. They made a
click
as they connected with the table.

Lowen, puzzled, reached for one of the cups. “Magnetic,” she said, lifting the cup.

“Yes,” Wilson said. “The artificial gravity doesn’t frequently cut out, but when it does it’s nice not to have cups floating about randomly.”

“What about the stuff in the cups?” Lowen asked. “What happens to that?”

“It gets slurped frantically,” Wilson said, picking up his own cup and waggling it in front of Lowen. Lowen eyed Wilson sardonically, opened the Laphroaig, tipped in a finger and a half and gave herself an equal amount. “To artificial gravity,” she said, in a toast.

“To artificial gravity,” Wilson said.

They drank.

Drink two, some minutes later:

“So, is it easy?” Lowen said.

“Is what easy?” Wilson asked.

Lowen waved at Wilson’s body. “Being green.”

“I can’t believe you just went there,” Wilson said.

“I know,” Lowen said. “Jim Henson and several generations of his descendants are now rolling in their graves, many dozens of light-years away.”

“It
is
a funny joke,” Wilson said. “Or at least was, the first six hundred times I heard it.”

“It’s a serious question, though!” Lowen said. “I’m asking from a place of medical curiosity, you know. I want to know if all those so-called improvements they give you Colonial Defense Forces soldiers are actually all that.”

“Well, start with this,” Wilson said. “How old do I look to you?”

Lowen looked. “I don’t know, maybe twenty-two? Twenty-five, tops? You being green messes with my age sense. A lot younger than me, and I’m thirty-five. But you’re not younger than me, are you?”

“I’m ninety,” Wilson said.

“Get out,” Lowen said.

“More or less,” Wilson said. “You’re out here long enough and you eventually lose track unless you check. It’s because as long as you’re CDF, you don’t actually age.”

“How is that even possible?” Lowen said. “Entropy still works out here, right? Physics hasn’t totally broken down?”

Wilson extended an arm. “You’re engaging in the pathetic fallacy,” he said. “Just because I look like a human being doesn’t mean I am. This body has more genetic material that’s not strictly human than it does material that is human. And it heavily integrates machines as well. My blood is actually a bunch of nanobots in a fluid. I am and every other CDF soldier is a genetically-modified cyborg.”

“But you’re still
you,
right?” Lowen asked. “You’re still the same
person
you were when you left Earth. Still the same consciousness.”

“That’s a question of some contention among us soldiers,” Wilson said, setting his arm back down. “When you transfer over to the new body, the machine that does the transfer makes it at least seem like for an instant you’re in two bodies at once. It
feels
like you as a person make the transfer. But I think it’s equally possible that what happens is that memories are transferred over to a brain specially prepared for them, it wakes up, and there’s just enough cross talk between the two separate brains to give the
illusion
of a transfer before the old one shuts down.”

“In which case, you’re actually dead,” Lowen said. “The
real
you. And this you is a fake.”

“Right.” Wilson took another sip of his drink. “Mind you, the CDF could show you graphs and charts that show that actual consciousness transfer happens. But I think this is one of those things you can’t
really
model from the outside. I have to accept the possibility that I could be a fake Harry Wilson.”