A Darkling Sea

Three

The trial is quick and holds few surprises. A good crowd gathers in the commonhouse, about equal numbers of Broadtail’s friends and Ridgeback’s supporters. Half a dozen landowners with their militia bolt-launchers are standing by to keep order. Judge Longfeeler 62 Deeprift opens the proceedings by asking Broadtail to recount his version of events.

“I remember the two of us arguing about the net vote after the meeting. Ridgeback steps onto my property and I order him off. He refuses to leave, and we fight. He nips off the end of my feeler, I stab him with my pincer, and he dies.”

There are no witnesses to the event besides a few children, but the judge calls Cleft-tail 5 Fisher, who describes the position of Ridgeback’s body. Smallbody 19 Doctor confirms that Ridgeback’s fatal injury is exactly the type produced by a downward pincer stab. Finally the judge asks Broadtail to clarify some points.“Do you remember intending to kill Ridgeback?”

“I recall being very angry and striking out at him without thinking.”

“Do you remember being aware you and Ridgeback are on common ground?”

“I do not. The fight starts on my property and I remember being too busy fighting to notice where we are. I also remember Ridgeback fighting back and refusing to leave. Is that a mitigating circumstance?”

“The law is very clear. You may not kill another adult on common ground, even if the fight begins on your property. Your personal law stops at your boundary.”

“What about his death being accidental? I do not remember intending to kill him.”

“Unfortunately it is too easy to tell lies about intentions. The common law can only govern actions. Do you regret killing Ridgeback?”

“I regret it very much. I do not recall liking him, but I am not glad he is dead.”

The judge asks if anyone has any information to add. Nobody speaks up. The commonhouse gets very quiet as the judge pronounces the sentence.

“The law is clear: killing another adult on common ground is murder. No one disputes Ridgeback’s adulthood, and Broadtail admits killing Ridgeback on the public road. The penalty for murder is equally clear: expropriation and outlawry. The Sandyslope property now belongs to Ridgeback’s second-oldest apprentice, and Broadtail is proclaimed an outlaw within the bounds of this community. Does anyone offer him sanctuary?”

A landowner is the ultimate authority on his own property. If another landowner at Continuous Abundance chooses to take Broadtail as a tenant, he is safe—on his protector’s land, that is.

Nobody speaks up. Former landowners are notoriously bad tenants, and many who remember Ridgeback fondly might make things difficult for Broadtail’s protector. Broadtail is actually a little relieved. He hates the thought of being trapped on someone else’s property, lower than any apprentice or newcaught child.

The judge continues. “Because of the circumstances of the crime, I ask if anyone will safeguard him to the edge of town.”

Thicklegs 34 Sandybottom and Longhead 10 Bareslope volunteer. Neither of them belong to Ridgeback’s faction, and they’re both pretty big and have their weapons. If some tenants or apprentices want to try mobbing the outlaw just for fun, Thicklegs and Longhead can give them a fight.

Expropriation means Broadtail 38 (no more Sandyslope, and for the moment he has no profession-name) can’t even set foot on his old property again. Young Smoothpincer 14 owns it all now, even Broadtail’s beads and debts. The apprentices go with the property just like the livestock.

The hardest thing for Broadtail to leave behind is his library. He has several dozen books, including a few he has made himself. Smoothpincer can sell them, or use them to tie up bundles, or whatever he likes. He has a reputation as a hard worker, not a reader.

With Thicklegs and Longhead flanking him, Broadtail sets out down the road leading to the edge of town. They are joined by some of his friends—Roughshell 74 Westcave, Spineback 22 Coldvent, and Bigfeet 15 Ropemaker—and followed by some of Ridgeback’s old cronies. There are some pings and a few shouts of “Murderer! Split his shell!” but nobody does anything. Broadtail is still trying to get his mind used to the idea of exile. As they pass Sandyslope he suddenly feels afraid and lonely despite the crowd. The urge to hold his property against all comers is very strong. He makes himself keep walking, one step at a time. He keeps his pincers clamped shut and folded against his body.

The crowd around Broadtail thins. Nothing is happening, and the crowd gets bored and loses interest. Ridgeback’s friends are satisfied with the verdict and nobody wants to join a hunting posse to chase the outlaw in cold water. The apprentices have work to do. By the time he reaches the edge of town, Broadtail has only his escort and a couple of friends left.

At the boundary stones they pause for good-byes. Roughshell asks, “Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure,” says Broadtail. “I don’t wish to be a scavenger like Bentpincer 89.” He flicks his tail toward the little hovel where the old outlaw manages a half-starved existence just beyond the boundary.

“What about fishing?”

“No. Not here, anyway. Too many of Ridgeback’s friends are fishers or netmakers. I don’t wish for trouble. For now I will go visit some of my scientific friends and find out if they can help.” Broadtail takes momentary comfort in knowing that even if he is a murderer and outlaw, he is still a scientist, the author of a respected work.

“Good luck to you,” says Thicklegs. Spineback gives Broadtail a bag of roe balls and strips of swimmer flesh. They all brush feelers in farewell, then Broadtail turns and begins swimming steadily out into cold water. The others stand and listen for a moment, then turn and head back toward the warmth of the vent.

Rob was just heading for the galley to meet Alicia for another private breakfast together when the master alarm sounded. All over the station, lights flicked on. The seldom-used public-address system came alive.

“Attention, please, everyone!” said Dr. Sen’s voice from every terminal and comm button in Hitode Station. “I would like everyone to meet in the common area in Habitat Four in ten minutes. The station is not in danger but there is something extremely important I would like to talk to everyone about as soon as it is practical to assemble.”

Rob hurried, and since he was already dressed and halfway to the common room, he and Alicia were the first ones to show up.“What is this all about?” she wanted to know.

Rob pulled out his computer and did a quick check of station systems. “Everything’s nominal—we’re not about to drown or anything. Supplies look good.”

“Look at orbital tracking page,” said Josef Palashnik, coming in just behind Rob. He had a bad case of bed hair, but was dressed and functional.

Alicia and Rob nearly knocked heads as they looked at his computer. The gas giant Ukko was a big red disk, surrounded by green circles marking the orbits of the moons. Ilmatar was a smaller gold disk creeping along one of the green paths, but Rob could see that there was now a little red circle around Ilmatar, with a red triangle moving along it. He tapped the triangle and his computer obligingly opened a new window. SPACECRAFT: Sholen (Aquilan) interstellar vehicle, UNICA class identification INFLUX.

Rob skimmed the technical description of the alien vehicle—most of which was guesswork, anyway. One thing was certain: the Sholen craft was a big one, a giant doughnut a hundred meters across, with fuel tanks and motors filling the hole in the middle. It had room for up to a hundred people, two landers, and immense fuel reserves. The intel said it probably didn’t mount any weapons—but of course any spacecraft could carry combat drones as cargo.

Sending a vehicle like that across thirty light-years cost a fortune. What was it doing here? Rob suspected he knew, and began to feel queasy.

The room was filling up. Rob and Alicia had claimed seats at one of the tables, but with all twenty-eight members of the Hitode staff crowding into the room, they soon could see only backs and stomachs. So Rob stood up and helped Alicia stand on her chair.

Dr. Sen climbed onto the big dining table, and stood with his bald head nearly touching the ceiling. “Thank you all for coming here so promptly. First, let me reassure everyone that there is no danger or emergency. We are all perfectly safe.”

Behind Rob someone muttered, “I sure as hell hope he didn’t get me out of bed just to tell me that.”

“Now,” continued Dr. Sen, “some of you may already know that there is a spacecraft in orbit.” The room erupted in clickings and mutterings as people pulled out pocket computers to check. “It is a Sholen interstellar vehicle, and a lander is just putting down at the surface station. I have received a message from the Sholen commander. Apparently they have learned about what happened to poor Dr. Kerlerec, and have come to evaluate the situation and make sure that we have not violated any of the treaties governing contact with alien species and that sort of thing.”

“How’d they find out so fast?” asked Angelo Ponti. “We haven’t even been able to send word to Earth yet.”

“Actually I have already sent a message. Dr. Castaverde and I agreed that Dr. Kerlerec’s death was important enough to use one of the message drones, so I sent it off just two days after the incident.”

There was a moment’s silence as twenty-seven people did mental arithmetic. Ilmatar was thirty light-years from Earth, but cutting through gimelspace divided that distance by almost a million, so call it about 300 million kilometers. The drones were big solid-fuel boosters carrying a tiny transmitter, and could hit a hundred kilometers per second. That meant a trip time of only a month, which meant…

“The Sholen have been eavesdropping!” Dickie Graves yelled. “There’s no way they could get a message from Earth and send a ship here.”

“I don’t know if we can necessarily make that assumption,” said Dr. Sen. “They could have better boosters than ours, or have transmitters positioned in gimelspace to relay messages. At any rate, that is not the most important issue at this moment. What is important is that two Sholen are coming down to Hitode as we speak. The elevator is on its way up to collect them right now. We have two days to make everything ready for their visit.”

“What if we don’t let them come down?” Dickie called out. “Tell them to fuck off and send them right back home again!”

“Taking a confrontational attitude like that will accomplish nothing, Dr. Graves. The treaty gives both species inspection rights outside our respective home systems. We are obliged to let them examine the station and interview everyone involved in the Kerlerec incident.” At that particular moment, everybody managed to be looking at something other than Rob Freeman. “However, I think we can avoid a great deal of difficulty if the Sholen find nothing which might indicate contact with the Ilmatarans, or create any mistaken impression. We should place all the artifacts from the city sites out on the seafloor, encrypt any recordings of Ilmatarans, and relabel the cadaver sections. I also need a group to make a thorough sweep of the area around the station to make sure none of our equipment or waste has been left outside.”

“Why do all this hiding?” asked Alicia. “We haven’t done anything wrong. All that research is allowed by the treaty, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, Dr. Neogri. But there is a certain amount of public relations involved here. If the Sholen make a complaint about us and can present things like cadaver samples and artifacts, it will affect public opinion back on Earth. I’m afraid it is not enough to simply be innocent of wrongdoing; we must be sure to avoid anything which could be misinterpreted.”

Since everyone was still not looking at him, Rob cleared his throat and raised his hand. “Dr. Sen? The Sholen are going to need someone to show them around, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they will certainly need a guide. I had intended to perform that task myself but if you have a suggestion I’m sure we all would like to hear it.”

“Since they’re going to want to debrief me anyway about what happened to Henri, why not let me be the tour guide?”

“That is a perfectly sensible suggestion and I am happy to let you take over that part of the work. Now, we must all get started as quickly as possible. We only have two days.”

The Terran base on the surface of Ilmatar was built at the bottom of a long crack in the ice that the Terrans called Shackleton Linea. The landing area and beacon were up on the edge of the crevasse, and in order to reach the base proper the two Sholen had to seal up their suits and descend the cliff face in an open platform suspended from a crane that looked alarmingly makeshift to Tizhos. Their suit radios weren’t on the same channel as that of their Terran guide, so the entire trip down was spent in silence.

The base itself was nothing but a squat foam-covered cylinder, about the size of a lander, standing on a cleared patch of ice on the floor of the crevasse. Clumped nearby were a power plant, an antenna mast, some machinery for making rocket fuel out of ice, and the gaping hole of the shaft down through the ice to the ocean beneath. Some distance off was the plasma furnace for waste disposal, which had made a huge ugly stain of soot on the ice for kilometers around. The whole place was surrounded by a litter of construction equipment and scrap.

Another suited human met them at the airlock, and made some gestures of greeting before they all went inside. According to the glyphs on the hatch, the airlock was built to hold four humans, so two humans and a pair of Sholen made a very tight fit.

Within the habitat it was cramped, overheated, and foul-smelling. The crew consisted of three male humans and one female, and all were dressed in very dirty suit liners. A male with a hairless head stepped forward and extended his hand in a gesture of greeting.

“Welcome to Shackleton. I’m Claudio Castaverde, director of operations up here. We have a room for the two of you, if you need to rest.”

“Very kind of you, but we rested in the lander,” said Gishora. He spoke the most common Terran language far more fluently than Tizhos could. “We must go down to the main base as soon as we can.”

“The elevator is on its way up now. There’s nobody aboard so it will be here in just a few hours. In the meantime, if you’d like something to eat or drink, we were just about to have dinner. Would you like to join us?”

Tizhos felt her mouth grow dry with disgust at the thought of eating in such a foul-smelling place, but Gishora was a hardened diplomat. “Thank you very much. That would give us great pleasure.”

They did not actually eat any of the Terran food. Tizhos knew that Sholen could safely eat the starches and sugars, but she also knew the humans had a dangerous habit of flavoring everything with animal proteins that would almost certainly cause an allergic reaction.

So Tizhos and Gishora dined on the food they had brought along. Their rations were simple balls of blended carbohydrates and lipids, but each was flavored with a mixture of aromatics, pheromones, and psychoactives, and the balls were coded to be eaten in sequence. The meal began with subtle vegetable tastes mixed with stimulants, progressed to strong spices and disinhibitors to improve the conversation, and wound up with aphrodisiacs and a mild narcotic with a blend of pickled fruit flavors. Tizhos felt mellow and well-disposed toward everyone afterward.

While they ate, Gishora and the Terrans discussed the scientific research they were conducting. The hairless one, Castaverde, was studying the ionosphere and magnetic fields of Ilmatar, and how they interacted with the more powerful fields of the giant planet it orbited. The female was using a series of laser reflectors to measure the movement of the ice plates. The other two males were in charge of maintaining the base and the elevator. All four of them seemed desperately eager to show the two Sholen around. Tizhos had to suffer through a trip out to view the waste incinerator, and tried to stand patiently as the female human went on endlessly about the accursed thing.

“The shell’s just hull plating we scavenged from some of the cargo drop pods. Inside it’s all lined with native basalt. Satoshi and I spent two weeks in the crawler dragging a sled full of rock back from the nearest outcrop. There’s a pure oxygen feed and a hydrogen plasma torch; anything organic gets completely burned up in minutes. No contamination.”

“But it produces much soot,” said Tizhos. “One can see it from orbit.”

The female made a gesture with her shoulders. “The original plan was just to dump all the waste on a piece of rocky surface somewhere and let it sit there for the next billion years. But you guys wanted us to burn everything. Burning stuff makes ashes.”

“You could take it all away from this world.”

“Are you kidding?” her voice was shrill over the radio. “That’s what, ten kilos of fuel for each kilo of garbage? We’re already mining as much ice as you guys will let us.”

Tizhos looked over at the station and saw that the elevator capsule was just emerging from the top of the shaft.

“I have enjoyed speaking with you, but I see the elevator coming up. I need to go now.”

Despite their best efforts to make the humans hurry, it was more than an hour before Gishora and Tizhos could board the elevator, and then more delays as their gear was loaded and two of the Terrans checked out all the onboard systems. So when the ice wall began sliding upward past the tiny porthole in the hatch, Tizhos felt a tremendous sense of relief.

The elevator was a little self-contained habitat unit, almost as big as the surface station. It had four human-sized beds, a table, a little waste-disposal unit, and a cabinet stocked with dehydrated Terran foods. The two Sholen had their own foodmaker and distilled water to drink, and plenty of time for conversation. The descent took thirty-six hours to give their bodies time to adjust to the pressure.

Tizhos actually enjoyed the elevator descent. She and Gishora had complete freedom to talk about their work—Ilmatar and the Terrans. It was almost like being a student again. Tizhos could simply enjoy the company of another smart, curious Sholen for the better part of three Shalina days. Their sexual play became more than just an official duty.

She briefed him about the planet and its inhabitants. “Of course,” she cautioned, “most of what we know about Ilmatar comes from the Terrans. They may well have learned more since my last opportunity to read their findings.”

“I must ask you to compare what you have read with what we see here,” said Gishora. “Note any differences. If you find anything the Terrans have concealed, let me know at once.”

“I believe you said we did not come here to judge.”

“True. But we must strive for accuracy and impartiality. Just as I cautioned against too much suspicion, we should also avoid trusting them too much.”

“I understand.”

“Please proceed,” said Gishora.

Tizhos called up an image on her terminal. “The moon Ilmatar orbits the giant planet the humans call Ukko. I believe these names derive from the mythology of a human culture exterminated long ago by a more aggressive one. Ilmatar fits a standard model for giant planet moons far outside the life zone of the central star: a rocky core covered by a thick layer of water ice. Diameter of 6,400 kilometers. Tidal heating has liquified the interior, creating an ocean two kilometers deep, buried under a crust of ice a kilometer thick.”

“Hence this long ride down. I understand the physical details. Tell me about the things which live here.”

“Life on Ilmatar resembles similar ecosystems on other subglacial ocean moons. We know of three others. On all of them, volcanic vents on the seafloor serve as energy sources, giving off warm water and carbon or sulfur compounds. The native organisms make use of both heat gradients and chemical energy.”

“Tell me how such a low-energy system can support intelligent beings.”

“The Ilmatarans descend—according to human scientists—from smaller species which live as scavengers and predators around energetic vents. At some point the Ilmatarans became intelligent enough to cultivate chemosynthetic organisms, and eventually developed a sophisticated analog of agriculture, using stone pipes and channels to conserve and distribute energyrich vent water.”

“What sort of communities do they form?”

“Again, the information I have only includes archaeological data and some images taken from a distance. It appears that the Ilmatarans live in small communities, each centered on an active vent. They have some sort of division of labor, as the humans have observed individuals performing distinct tasks consistently.”

“How much they sound like Sholen,” said Gishora. “Small communities, careful stewardship of their resources, mutual assistance.”

“I only wish we could learn more about them,” ventured Tizhos.

“We will have the human rec ords to examine,” said Gishora. “I feel certain you look forward to that with great anticipation, as I do.”

“In all honesty, yes.”

“Tizhos—this elevator ride may represent our last chance to speak in complete privacy. Tell me if you pay much attention to the politics of consensus back home.”

“Only somewhat. I attend my community and workinggroup meetings.” She did not add that she had long ago stopped paying the slightest attention to anything discussed at those meetings.

“I assume you know that our world has not yet achieved consensus about the Terran problem.”

“Yes.” Tizhos hesitated for just a moment. “I myself adhere to the Noninterference tendency on that issue.”

“As do I,” said Gishora. “But I find it highly frustrating that most other members of our tendency support a complete withdrawal from space altogether.”

“It frustrates me, as well. I suspect most in the space working groups agree.”

“Some, but not most. Irona came on this voyage because he takes a prominent part in the Interventionist tendency regarding the Terrans. He wishes to restrict them to their own world, possibly even compel them to adopt planetary-management policies like our own.”

“I know. He spoke to me about it several times during the voyage. I can’t understand why you brought him.”

“I had no choice. The Interventionists support space travel—after all, one cannot meddle in the affairs of other species across interstellar distances without spacecraft.”

“So you needed Irona’s support to get consensus for the mission, but at the price of including him.”

“Exactly. Which means that our conclusions here must support Irona.”

“You know your conclusions before gathering data?”

“I fear we must use bad science to accomplish good politics. Our only hope for more space exploration lies with the Interventionists. I know for a fact that Irona has risked a great deal of his own prestige for this mission. If we return to Shalina and announce no need for any form of intervention, Irona loses much influence and the anti-space tendency can point to the enormous waste of resources our mission represents.”

“You sound like an Interventionist yourself,” said Tizhos.

“Not at all! I loathe the idea of imposing our consensus on the humans—and I don’t feel at all certain we would win a violent conflict with the humans. Their world holds ten of them for every one of us on Shalina.”

“But surely our technology gives us the advantage!”

“I have seen estimates of capabilities,” said Gishora. “They do not reassure me. We have knowledge far beyond anything the humans possess, but we have spent generations reducing our ability to use it effectively. Shalina has a single facility building spaceships; we know of at least eight on Earth. Right now we possess twelve starships, each superior to anything the humans can build—but they have thirty that we know of.”

“Then I fear I don’t understand what you mean to accomplish,” said Tizhos. “You fear intervention but support it at the same time.”

“We must produce a report which supports Irona’s beliefs, but which won’t tip the consensus at home in favor of the Interventionist faction.”

“That sounds difficult. Especially with aliens involved.”

“Very difficult. But consider what it means for the future: Irona and the Interventionists will owe their prestige to us. That gives us a way to control them.”

“Tell me if you would like some food,” Tizhos asked.

“Please,” said Gishora.

She operated the foodmaker, feeling herself settle into the role of a subordinate. A comfortable feeling—especially if she didn’t have to make the kind of terrifying decisions Gishora did.

As they began the meal she asked one final question. “You wish to maintain a balance between factions—but so much depends on the actions of the humans. Tell me how you can predict the behavior of alien creatures.”

Gishora popped a food ball into his mouth and stretched lazily. “The Terrans have an obsession with rules and pride themselves on behaving rationally. Predicting their behavior seems like analyzing a computer’s output—as long as you know the relevant rules and inputs, determining the result poses no difficulty. Of all the elements, I worry least of all about them. They seem entirely predictable.”

Strongpincer learns of the attack when a bolt glances off his headshield, waking him from a sound sleep. He pings and is shocked to hear a throng of armed adults converging on the rocks where his followers are camped. Half the attackers are on the sea bottom, arranged in a crescent around the rocks and moving inward. The rest float above, ready to intercept anyone trying to escape. There must be two dozen in all.

“Wake up!” Strongpincer thwacks Hardshell’s headshield and pings the others as loudly as he can. “Militia!”

The militia must be from Three Domes; many of the adults there are merchants and don’t like bandits, even if they don’t prey on Three Domes convoys. For them to come out in force like this is a surprise, but not impossible. It’s just Strongpincer’s bad luck that they’re out looking for bandits here.

Where is Tailcutter? Strongpincer remembers leaving him on watch. The coward is probably swimming away as fast as he can go. Of course, that isn’t a bad idea, but how to get away without being cut off and shot full of bolts?

“Onefeeler!” Strongpincer calls out. “Take Headcracker and Hardshell—try to get free. We hold them here.”

He’s lying, of course. In battle, sacrifices are sometimes necessary. As soon as Onefeeler’s group go half a cable, Strongpincer and the rest scatter, each swimming as hard as he can in a different direction. That makes poor Onefeeler and his companions the biggest target, and Strongpincer can hear them getting swarmed by militia.

The squad hovering up above are launching bolts at the fleeing bandits, and a couple pass near Strongpincer as he zigzags desperately. Halftail gets snared in a net, struggling to free himself until half a dozen bolts send him sinking gently to the bottom.

There’s one soldier moving to intercept Strongpincer. He knows that he can’t afford to get tied up fighting, so he tries to brush past and keep on going. It doesn’t work. The soldier jabs with a spear, and Strongpincer has to do a sudden roll to avoid getting an obsidian point in his head. He’s not called Strongpincer for nothing: he gets one pincer onto the shaft of the spear and snaps it.

Now the soldier’s grappling with him, trying to hold one of his limbs and slow him down. Strongpincer gives the fellow a powerful blow to the head, deafening him for a moment. He loses his grip on Strongpincer’s leg. That’s all Strongpincer needs—he dives for the bottom, where the rocks and rubble make confusing echoes. The soldier tries a few pings, but evidently he doesn’t want to fight Strongpincer alone, and his comrades are busy chasing down Headcracker and Onefeeler. Strongpincer swims away, slowly at first as he weaves among the rocks, then rising above them and picking up speed. The soldier doesn’t follow.

Strongpincer swims until he’s ready to pass out, then listens. Nobody’s following him. The sounds of fighting are dying down. He lets himself sink to the bottom and finds a sheltered spot to rest. The bottom here is silty, and Strongpincer digs in until only his feelers stick out of the dirt. He wonders if any of the others are safe. There’s a big rock slab a few cables away where he remembers agreeing to meet, but nobody’s meeting anywhere until the militia leave.

Volunteering to guide the Sholen around didn’t get Rob out of his share of the cleanup work before their arrival. Since he was the imaging and video specialist, Dr. Sen gave him the task of going through all the visual data stored in the station network and removing all the frames that showed living or dead Ilmatarans.

The Sholen weren’t as far ahead of humans in computer technology as in other areas, but they weren’t behind either, and Rob had to assume whoever they were sending would be familiar with Terran systems. So he couldn’t just delete the images, he had to replace them. He dug up some of his early files, from when he’d first arrived on Ilmatar and was still learning the ropes. There were plenty of shots of silt, lens covers, his fingers, and black water to use as filler.

Of course, the researchers didn’t want to lose their images, so he had to store everything he cut out on a disk, heavily encrypted and labeled ANIME PORN. For verisimilitude he copied in a few videos from his private collection.

Since he spent the whole day on the station network, he was one of the first to see the new feed go up, entitled: “Ways the Sholen Can Go Fuck Themselves.” He watched the list grow as the day went on.

DGraves: Immediately.

JPalashnik: Far from here.

GWeiss: Sideways.

Fouchard: With an Aenocampus.

PAdler: Sideways, with an Aenocampus.

Sergei: Senseless.

HIshikawa: Is that a comment, or a suggestion for the Sholen? Sergei: Suggestion.

APonti: Responsibly.

SamIam: In a house, with a mouse, in a box, with a fox, in a car, in a tree, on a train, in the dark, with a goat, on a boat…

RaduZ: In accordance with all interstellar treaty agreements. APonti: That rules out Fouchard’s idea, then.

Anonymous: Any way they like, if I get to watch! NKyle: If you ask nicely, they might let you do that anyway. Anon: Or let you join in.

PAdler: From what I understand, the problem is likely to be keeping them from doing it right in front of everybody.

APonti: Unless they’re both male, or both female.

GWeiss: That doesn’t stop some of us.

PAdler: That wouldn’t be a problem for Sholen. Their sex roles are based more on status than on physical gender. And yes, public display is apparently an important element.

GGdG: Six ways to Sunday!

MadameX: With whoever started this stupid stream.

DGraves: That would be me. If you don’t like it, don’t play.

Ilmatar: Having consulted several journal articles on Sholen reproduction, I would like to suggest 1: The “Missionary” position; 2: The “Lotus” position; or 3: The “Screaming Wombat” position.

Anonymous: Your Screaming Wombat Kung Fu is no match for the Drunken Monkey!

VSen: I certainly hope this discussion is closed and completely erased by the time our guests arrive, which by my clock is in only 26 hours from now.

Rob took a break from his work and ate dinner; it was weird but kind of pleasant to be eating with everyone else. He glimpsed Alicia, but she was hurrying off to the dive room for another shift outside and could spare him only a smile and a wave.

By the time the eve ning shift was coming to an end, Rob realized he felt gritty and tired. He had been awake for more than thirty hours without a rest, so he decided to go to bed at 1600 along with everyone else.Alicia was in his room.

“I was wondering if you were going to sleep at all,” she said.

“If there was more coffee, I could probably keep going.”

“I am all sore and tired from moving things outside, and Iexpect you must be stiff from sitting at a table. Would you like to trade massages?”

“Um, sure. Wait. I’m not very good at the subtle social cues thing—”

“I have noticed.”

“—so before we start, I want to know: by massage do you mean actually rubbing each other’s sore muscles, or do you mean having sex?”

There was a long pause, during which Rob wondered if he had just done the equivalent of shoving his head into a wood chipper. But then she smiled. “Muscle rubbing first, then sex.”

Rob’s massage technique was based on brute force and what he could remember from being on the swim team in high school, but evidently that was what Alicia needed because her groans and grunts had a contented sound. He worked his way from her calves to her forearms, kneading and rubbing until his own arms ached. Her bare skin was still slightly chilly to the touch from being out in the cold water, but under his hands she turned pink and warm again. Like just about everyone at Hitode, she was in terrific shape, with muscles as hard as wood and less body fat than the average famine victim.

When he couldn’t make his fingers work anymore, he tapped her shoulder. “My turn.”

She made a disappointed sound, but dutifully perched on the back of his thighs and began working on his stiff neck and shoulders. If they did have sex together, he never noticed it because he promptly fell asleep.

Longpincer’s apprentice shows no surprise when Broadtail arrives at the boundaries of Bitterwater and pings to signal the house. Apparently everyone at Bitterwater is accustomed to half-starved outlaw scholars showing up without warning.

The apprentice takes Broadtail to Longpincer straight away. The master is at work on his pipes, commanding a group of tenants and apprentices who are installing a curious gadget in one of the main channels. It seems like a circulator turbine, but the axle is linked to a bundle of twisted ropevine, which is in turn anchored solidly to a heavy stone.“Broadtail! I don’t remember getting word of your coming.

But you are welcome all the same,” says Longpincer. “I am an outlaw, Longpincer,” says Broadtail. “I am exiled from Continuous Abundance for killing a landowner on common ground.”

Longpincer considers this. “Describe the crime.”

“I remember a dispute in the commonhouse over nets. The leader of the other faction tries to recruit me to his side. We argue. I am tired and hungry. He refuses to leave. I believe myself to be on my own land and fight him. I kill him, and then learn we are on neutral ground.”

“A sad mistake. I am certainly surprised, but I repeat that you are welcome here. At Bitterwater you are under my protection.”

“Thank you,” says Broadtail. Longpincer is a stickler for the old forms, and when he calls someone his guest he means it.

Broadtail can relax for the first time since the trial. He is no longer an outlaw, he is the guest of a sovereign landowner.

Within Longpincer’s boundary stones he is safe.

Longpincer pings at Broadtail. “Enough chatting—get to the house and eat something at once. You sound all hollow! I expect us to speak a great deal after this task is done.” Longpincer turns his attention to one of the hired workers. “You wild child! Feel that pipe joint! Half the flow is going out through the seam. Put it together properly.”

Rob slept nine hours, ate a huge meal, and worked another shift packing up Henri Kerlerec’s belongings so that Una Karlssen could switch into Henri’s old room. That way the two aliens could have adjacent quarters.

Alicia volunteered to help him pack up Henri’s stuff, but Rob told her he could do it himself. “It’s easier for one person in these tiny cabins,” he said. “And I promise I won’t slit my wrists in some outburst of delayed grief.”

Nevertheless, it was weird going through Henri’s things. All the items that had seemed so affected and annoying were sad and kind of pathetic now. The ankh pendant that Henri claimed he’d found in the harbor of Alexandria. The French navy diver’s shirt he wore when he wanted to look macho. The flight suit with mission patches for Titan, Europa, and Ilmatar. Rob tried to be reverent, folding things up and packing them neatly into the Betacloth bags. He found himself wondering: if someone had to pack up Robert Freeman’s gear, what would they find? Some faded T-shirts with the names of bands or brands of beer on them. Some imaging software manuals.

A Caltech class ring. Two crew shirts from feature films he’d worked on.

Henri had been an egotistical pain in the ass, but people would at least remember him after he died. If Rob got lost in Ilmatar’s ocean and never went home to Earth, who would notice? Five relatives, maybe a dozen acquaintances, and whoever was in charge of cutting names into the astronaut memorial at Kennedy Space Center.

When Henri’s room was empty, Rob spent another couple of hours doing general clean-up, getting rid of the mildew in the bathroom nearest the aliens’ rooms.

The sad truth, as Rob looked about the station with a critical visitor’s eye, was that space explorers were terrible slobs. They might be fanatics about putting things away properly, but nobody had the time or inclination to do the boring daily chores like scrubbing walls or sweeping corners. The Japanese Space Agency designers had done their best, packing Hitode with self-cleaning toilets and smart plastic walls laced with antifungal chemicals, but ultimately one simply tuned out the stains and smells, lumping them together with the low gravity and constant chill as just another feature of life on Ilmatar. With only four hours to go, he made the mistake of lying down for just a few minutes of rest, and didn’t wake up until ten minutes before the aliens were due to arrive.

He dressed in his one clean set of coveralls and hurried through the connecting tunnel to Hab 4, where most of the twenty-eight inhabitants of Hitode Station were packed into the common room. Dr. Sen was waiting by the airlock door, dressed in an immaculate white silk outfit that was certainly the most comfortable and elegant-looking thing on the planet. Not a very handsome group otherwise, Rob thought as he looked around the room. Most of the crew were all pale and pasty-looking after so long without sunlight, and even the naturally dark-skinned ones had acquired a weird grayish tint.

The only ones who looked at all healthy were the Ishikawas, who spent all their time in the farm section under the grow lamps. All of them were squeezed into their astronaut flight suits, many of which were getting quite tight across the shoulders and chests as the crew bulked up with swimming muscles.

They had insignia from half-a-dozen space agencies, but all had the United Nations Interstellar Cooperation Agency patch prominently displayed on the right shoulder. One big, happy space-going family.

“I can see the elevator,” Una Karlssen called from the docking module. “It’s just at the last safety stop now. Three minutes!”

It was odd how excited they all were. The elevator had been making its way down the cable from the surface for thirty-six hours, but everyone was counting down the seconds until it docked. To fill the anxious silence, Dr. Sen cleared his throat and spoke. “Let us all try to make sure this visit goes smoothly.

If the Sholen do not find anything to complain about, there is less chance of their trying this kind of surprise inspection again.”

“I still think we should file some complaints of our own,” said Maria Husquavara. “They’ve got no right to keep coming in here and interfering with our work.”

Sen smiled tolerantly. “I have already prepared a message to UNICA addressing that subject at length, but we can hardly turn them away now.”

“Besides, the designers forgot to put a lock on the front door,” said Pierre Adler in a stage whisper.

There was another nervous pause, and then Una called out “One minute!”

From outside came the sound of scraping metal as the elevator caught the guide rails and began to slide down to mate snugly with the docking hatch. It landed on the support brackets with a heavy thump, and then the docking latches clanged shut one after another. There was a pause while the pumps forced air into the space between the two hatches. Una swung the inner door open and checked the pressure gauge on the elevator hatch. The difference was minor, so she turned the equalizing valve set in the hatch. When it stopped hissing she opened the door to let the aliens out of the elevator. There were two of them. The Sholen were bigger than humans, covered with sleek dark-gray skin, and wore no clothes other than belts with storage pouches. In the cramped station they walked on their four rear legs, peering about nearsightedly and flicking out their purple tongues to taste the air. The horizontal posture and curiously mammalian faces made them look like giant hairless otters.

“Welcome to Hitode Station. I am Vikram Sen, the director of the facility.”

“I call myself Gishora; I present Tizhos,” said the leader, indicating his companion. Gishora was a male, with wicked-looking claws on his forelimbs and brightly colored genitalia.

The female, Tizhos, was bigger and had a pouch barely visible on her chest.

Among themselves the Sholen gesture of greeting was an embrace that verged on foreplay; with humans they contented themselves with a hug and a few tongue flicks to pick up the scent. Dr. Sen submitted to the process with tolerant grace, like a man who doesn’t really like dogs putting up with having his face licked.

Rob hadn’t seen any Sholen in the flesh before, and he found himself studying the way they moved. The body could never be mistaken for a Terran vertebrate’s, even if you ignored the extra pair of limbs. When the aliens turned, Rob got a glimpse of their segmented spines, a series of jointed bones like femurs. Dr. Sen was still playing host. “Why don’t I show you to the rooms I have selected for your use? We can make sure that all of your belongings are stowed away properly and then perhaps discuss your plans for how to proceed with this investigation.”

“I agree,” said Gishora.

“Then please follow me this way,” said Dr. Sen. He motioned to Rob, who helped carry the Sholen luggage—mostly food and dive equipment, since they didn’t wear clothes. Sen put them in Hab One, right next to his own room.

A small group of Hitode staffers followed along. Rob could see some unhappy looks. Simeon Fouchard was the one who broke the silence as they reached the aliens’ quarters. “We would like to know the purpose of your visit,” he said. “This is a serious interruption of our work and we want to know why you are here.”

Gishora turned and looked at Fouchard, then at Sen. “We came because of the incident involving the death of a human.

He violated the contact rules.”

“I know that! Kerlerec was foolish and died for it. It is sad and a nuisance, but it is done. Why are you here? What can you do that we cannot?”

“We must investigate how the violation came to happen, and what effect it had on the inhabitants of this world.”

“That is intolerable! Dr. Sen is preparing a full report, and you will get a copy. Do you think we will not tell the truth about the Kerlerec incident?”

“Please, Dr. Fouchard,” said Sen. “This is not at all a good time to be having this sort of argument. I am sure our guests are quite tired from their journey and would like some time to rest and unpack their belongings.”

“No! I will not be silent! They say they are here to investigate, as if they are the police and we are criminals. I say they have no authority here and no crime has been committed.”

“Simeon!” said Dr. Sen, tugging the bigger man’s arm. He bent close to Fouchard and spoke quietly, but Rob could hear what he said. “I do not like this situation any more than you do, but getting angry and starting confrontations like this will not make things any better.”

“Pah! You are too accomodating, Vikram. Remember what planet you come from.” He stomped away, muttering in French. Sen turned back to the aliens. “I do hope you will pardon Dr. Fouchard’s outburst just now. He is understandably upset about what is going on.”

“I do not understand what angers him,” said Gishora. “Well, I think it is simply that he objects to being investigated. I am preparing a report on Dr. Kerlerec’s death and the events leading up to it, and let me assure you that it will be entirely truthful and accurate. This desire of yours to conduct your own inquiry implies that you don’t believe we will tell the truth. Among humans that is an insult.”

“I understand,” said Gishora. “And I apologize if we give offense. But I fear I must continue with my assignment. I must speak privately with Tizhos now, and then we would like to question the witness of the event.”