Claws That Catch

CHAPTER FIVE

“Ready to go?” Weaver asked.

Along with the rest of the Blade’s mission, Miriam and Weaver were scheduled to meet with the Alliance ambassador and the Cheerick Minister for Stellar Affairs. The Cheerick had been more than willing to be secret partners in the Alliance until the Blade went public. With the sudden change in status, the American government wanted to prepare the Cheerick for the onslaught of curiosity that was about to break out. And ensure that the partnership with the Alliance was solid.

Rather than have a direct portal from Cheerick to Earth, a third planet had a gate installed with another jump to Earth. The planet, which was still unnamed but referred to ubiquitously as Waypoint, also had a portal to Runner’s World, which the Hexosehr were in the process of colonizing and reterraforming, and to Adar.

“Of course,” Miriam said, hitting the hatch to the ramp and stepping out. “It’s not like the queen will notice my hair isn’t rolled.”

“Queen Sicrac?” Weaver said, stepping onto a chee-board. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

The boards, chack-chack to the Cheerick, or “sleds” earlier to the Blade crew, were just part of the strange dichotomy of Cheerick, a planet with a mostly medieval culture and technology mixed with tech so advanced humans sometimes felt like monkeys examining it. The boards simply appeared, scattered across the surface of the planet. A user, human or Cheerick, just stepped on the board and thought about where they wanted to go and how. The board responded perfectly, performing loops and banks that would make a swallow jealous, while generating some sort of “sticky” traction field that kept the user’s feet firmly attached to the top of the board. They worked in deep space just as well as in atmosphere, had a high acceleration and inertial damping and, like the dragonflies, they had an unknown power-source. Although in the case of the boards it appeared to be unlimited; no board collected by the Cheerick had ever failed in recorded history.

The local monarchy maintained the boards as a royal monopoly and used them primarily for their cavalry arm. However, there were more than enough to trade some to their human allies and for transportation of distinguished visitors.

“Place hasn’t changed much,” Weaver commented as the two flew over the city with an escort of Cheerick air-cavalry.

“No, it’s spread a bit,” Miriam argued, pointing to the west where new construction, new homes, was clearly evident. “The big impact hasn’t hit, yet, though. Start electrifying the city, bring in cars… It will be interesting to see how they adjust. This truly is a fifteenth-century culture. The shock of new technology is going to make things interesting.”

“Gunpowder and the printing press are arguably the death of any aristocracy,” Weaver said, sliding closer to the linguist’s board. “I hope we can maintain friendly relations with whatever the successor government will be.”

“That’s the ambassador’s problem,” Miriam pointed out. “Ours is to make sure this government is going to stay on our side.”

“Ik ikki squee tik scrree!” Queen Sicrac squealed.

“We were informed that your government was going to take some more months to release the information,” the translator interpreted loudly.

The audience was taking place in front of the full court and Weaver hoped that the royal “we” form, which the queen had never previously used around him, was a result of the public display. If not, it did not bode well for their mission.

“Events forced my government’s hand,” Ambassador Cookson replied. “Our press had become aware of many details of the missions of the Vorpal Blade. Going public, as we put it, was a necessity rather than a choice.”

“We have discussed with you the subject of your press,” the queen said through the interpreter. “We comprehend the nature of the problem. However, it also forces our hand. We have not yet completed Our negotiations with the Tickreek. Are We to assume that there will soon be competing governments interfering in those negotiations?”

“Probably, Your Majesty,” the Alliance ambassador replied.

“We will not have it,” the queen said. “Until We are sure of their intentions, all embassies must remain under Our control. We will establish a trading community near Our capital and the new Looking Glass. All such emissaries will be relegated to that trading community until We are willing to open up full relations.”

“So Mote It Be,” the major domo boomed, thumping the floor with his pike.

“This audience is concluded,” the queen said, standing up. “We are repairing to quarters.”

“Ick squeak,” a page said, touching Weaver’s arm.

“He wants us to go with him,” Miriam said, frowning.

“Ik ikki squee!” the rodentoid said as sotto voce as possible given the Cheerick squeal.

“Oh,” Miriam said. “We’re to go to a private audience.”

“Ah, you’re here,” Ambassador Cookson said. Sarah Cookson was a long-service diplomat with experience in multiple countries and had previously held the position of Undersecretary for South American Affairs. Being both a senior female in the diplomatic service and with a flair for languages, she had been a natural choice for the position. Up until recently, the job of ambassador to Cheerick had also been both black and not a particularly important position. Weaver wasn’t sure if she’d gotten the job as a booby-prize or because she was an optimal choice. But she had done an excellent job thus far and interacted well with the military, a rare feat among long-service diplomats.

“Where in the hell did she get the idea to estabish a controlled trade zone?” Weaver asked quietly. They were waiting to be presented in an antechamber off a smaller audience chamber. That chamber was, effectively, the queen’s private office. Weaver had been there a couple of times on the first Blade mission and recognized the door.

“Hours and hours of discussions,” Cookson replied, just as quietly. “At this point, I think Queen Sicrac has a better handle on human politics and international relations than most presidents and prime ministers. I’d hoped for something like this but it was her own idea. She got it from the Japanese.”

“That’s what it sounded like,” Miriam said, biting her lip. “But that sort of thing isn’t going to hold as well these days. Other governments are going to be livid about it.”

“As long as the Alliance continues to support it, what are they going to do?” Weaver said. “We’re the only ones with ships, we control the portals… I can think of some complicated ways around it, but they’d be technically hard if not impossible.”

“So have I,” Sarah said. “But as you pointed out, smuggling an LGB would be difficult. One can’t pass through a Looking Glass. As to it holding, the queen is well aware that it’s a stop-gap measure. She’s mostly struggling to control the changes in society that are going to come with the new technology. New tech coming into a society like this is so destabilizing it can be horrible. By establishing an economic zone she can control the rate of change to an extent. Even if it holds for one generation it will help.”

“Ik squee, ik,” the major domo said at a knock on the door.

“She’ll see us, now,” Cookson said. “Here goes.”

“Kottander Beeeel,” the queen said, holding out both hands. “Ik squee, squeek tik.”

“The Queen welcomes her Sister in Battle,” the translator said.

“Thank you for seeing us, Queen Sicrac,” Bill said, taking both hands and placing them together with his.

“What do you think of the trade zone?” the queen asked through the translator.

“Probably the best choice you could make, Your Majesty,” Bill replied. “I don’t know how long it will hold, but it will help your people adjust to the changes.”

“It’s more than that,” the queen said. “Much more. We are in the process of making alliances with most of our long-time enemies. With your technology we are both a preferred partner to our former enemies and militarily unstoppable. They can see the truth clearly and may not like it but they are agreeing to binding treaties. If your many countries flood onto this world, making their own side-alliances, it will make my job much harder. That was the deciding factor. I’m aware that it will not hold forever. But if I can create a unified planetary government, or even something close, then my daughters will be in a much stronger bargaining position when your other countries finally come calling.”

“There is that,” Bill said, nodding. The nice thing about smart monarchies was that they tended to think long-term.

“I am also aware that political change is inevitable,” the queen said, holding up a book. Bill recognized it as a popular book on the development of western civilization. “I cannot speak your language, but I can read it well enough. Ambassador Cookson has been most helpful in obtaining books about your world and its politics. I have read so much my eyes are bleeding but I think I have a handle on what to expect of your competitors. Many of them, frankly, could be a better short-term partner. Those who support dictatorship over democracy, for example, or simply are enamored of ‘realpolitik.’ I expect your government’s more liberal elements to begin pressing for political change in my country very soon. Perhaps in the next change of your administration. Perhaps even earlier. The trade zone, again, will permit me to control that. Having looked at the facts, a representative republic is an excellent system in the long-run. In the short run, while such monumental change is taking place, with a society that is based on duty obligations and has limited understanding of personal choice, it is a potential disaster. We are far more likely to fall into the trap of a personality cult than a true republic. Which is why I’m going to hold it off for as long as possible. The citizenry must first become educated, technology must take hold, we need a stable middle-class. Then we can discuss becoming more democratic by steps. Do you agree?”

“Actually, I do,” Bill admitted, blinking. “But our media is probably going to disagree. Which means they will foment a political crisis out of it, for the ratings if nothing else.”

“Which is why they are going to be carefully controlled,” Queen Sicrac said. When she’d said it there was a squeal Bill had come to recognize as humor. “But subtly. Your media is lazy; they tend to stay near the best restaurants. Given the traveling conditions on this world, I do not see many of them straying much beyond the capitol even if I permit it. And your liberals are enamored of the ‘noble savage’ concept. We will show them the kindly agrarian society of Cheerick, the happy harvesters in the fields. The clean skies, the happy workers, the wonderful environment. We will provide them with… stringers, I believe the term is. They will gather the ‘real’ news and it will be news that we carefully feed them, just as insurgents and dictators did on your world. We are, of course, establishing manufacturing centers. But We are requiring them to be well away from the Looking Glass. And We have started a program to move the unemployed of the capital to Chakree, which is our primary factory center, to become the workers in the factories. I intend that by the time your press comes to this planet, they are going to find nothing but fuzzy little rodents that look cute and are having a lovely time under their benevolent queen.”

“Ouch,” Bill muttered. “How long do you think that will hold?”

“About five years,” Queen Sicrac replied, adding a nose wrinkle that was the equivalent of a shrug. “But that’s long enough for some of the technology to take hold and it gets us past the initial crisis. And, as I said, your press is most remarkably lazy. There is only one gate on this planet and for the time being I intend for that to be the only gate. Give them a good story, and I intend to give them many good stories, and they will remain near the Looking Glass and their supply of… scotch and vodka, yes? In the meantime, the stringers I provide will bring them the videos of battles to overthrow vicious dictators, crying Cheerick children liberated from the lands of my enemies, kindly Cheerick liberators. Oh, I will throw in the occasional negative story about my own country, but with luck I’ll come off smelling like a rose.”

“And the Alliance?” Bill asked.

“I have also studied the reports you brought in about the Dreen,” the queen said. “And studies of the effect of the war on your planet. As I said, much much much reading. I will support the Alliance as sturdily as possible, because although we are not in the direct path of the Dreen to your world, we are high on the list after you fall. One of the requirements that I’m building into the alliances is supplying fighters for the dragonflies. Since we control the methods of production for them, and for the Demons — although I try to downplay that to my new friends — it is simply a matter of getting trained fighters to control them. We receive enormous payment for each dragonfly and rider. I don’t intend to cut off my source of funding for the many programs I have going.”

“You’ve got a lot on your plate, Your Majesty,” Bill admitted.

“I had able advisors when you first arrived,” the queen said. “I admit that they are getting stretched. I’m always looking for good material. Care for a job?”

“No, but thank you,” Bill said.

“Pay’s good,” the queen pressed. “Living conditions are excellent. I regret I cannot offer you concubines, however. Interspecies and all that. The offer is extended to Miss Moon as well, of course.”

“I enjoy what I’m doing at the moment, Your Majesty,” Miriam said, dimpling. “I, too, must respectfully pass.”

“Captain Weaver? You’re sure? I can see about arranging concubines.”

“Again, I too must respectfully pass,” Bill said.

“Oh, well, offer is open,” the queen said. “You can send the message to your President and thus to the Alliance that as long as I can hold this lash-up together, the queen of Cheerick is your ally and all that. So anything that they can do on their end to try to give me some breathing space would be heartily appreciated. Because if I have to deal with labor organizers and the Communist Party, not to mention transnational progressives, the Earth media and the French, then I’m going to be hard put to supply space fighters.”

“I’ll ensure that they get that message loud and clear, Your Majesty,” Ambassador Cookson said. “In fact, I will include those words, precisely, in my report.”

“Very good,” the queen said. “You have things to do, I have things to do, and things to read, so I’m afraid this audience must end. Good luck on your next voyage. What is the mission?”

“Looking for an extinct race that had advanced technology,” Bill said. “Some of it is still around; the drive in our ship for example. We’re hoping we can pick up some more bits in a particular region of space.”

“Hopefully Lady Che-chee will be of use,” the queen said, waving at the door. “Now I really have to get back to paperwork.”

“Thank you for your time, Your Majesty,” Ambassador Cookson said, backing to the door.

“Just go ahead and walk out,” the queen said. “All this backing and scraping gets tiresome.”

“How do we know if this is edible?” Machinist Mate Second Class Kulpa asked, looking at the fruit.

“It is,” Gants replied, sucking his teeth. “When the Blade was refitting here we practically lived on that stuff. It’s not bad, but you can have it.”

The two machinists had been given a three-hour shore leave and had barely made it past the market that had sprung up by the ship. When the Cheerick heard that the humans were being permitted to visit, they had swarmed out in huge numbers for a glance at the aliens and to make money off of them.

“We don’t have any of the local money,” Kulpa pointed out.

“They mostly barter,” Gants said, shrugging and holding up a necklace. “You think Vonn would like this?”

“It’s pretty,” Kulpa admitted. “What the hell do I offer?”

“Got any idea how much nickel content there is in a nickel?” Gants said. “Like, none. But it’s still worth more than that fruit to that vendor. Copper’s like hard currency to them. Show them something with actual silver or gold in it and they’ll freak out; they won’t be able to change it. These people are poor, man.”

Kulpa fished in his pockets and came up with a handful of change. He handed over a few pennies and after considering them carefully the Cheerick handed over the fruit. It looked a bit like an orange but when Kulpa pulled off the rind he found the interior to be more similar to a pear. The taste wasn’t like anything he could describe, sort of vaguely pineapply.

“Weird,” he said as Gants completed his negotiations. He’d traded a butane lighter for the necklace of some sort of purple shells with the luminousness of pearl.

“True tale,” Gants said, picking up one of the fruit and tossing the vendor a dime. “Back in the days when Africa was just starting to get explored, the traders would park their ship and set out some stuff on the shore. Steel hatchets, knives, stuff like that. The natives would come down, put some of their stuff out and move the piles around. A whole elephant tusk of pure ivory by ten knives or so. The traders would go out the next day and move stuff around again. Three knives by the tusk, say. That would go on until the piles didn’t move, then everybody would collect their stuff and leave.”

“Slow way to get stuff,” Kulpa said. “I’d rather just swipe my ATM card.”

“Sure,” Gants said. “But then the traders would take back the tusk of ivory to London or Antwerp or wherever and get several thousand knives for it. Or the money equivalent, anyway. They made money hand over fist. That was worth waiting around in the tropical heat for.”

“Why didn’t the natives just steal the stuff?” Kulpa asked as they stopped by a troop of Cheerick acrobats. Admittedly, the rotund rodentoids weren’t a patch on the Cirque du Soleil, but they seemed really happy over the few quarters in their bucket.

“Oh, the guys on the ship would point a cannon at the clearing,” Gants said. “Just to keep everything honest. And if they went on shore and tried to steal all the native stuff, well, a spear from the jungle is a permanent souvenir. Trade’s about contracts, in that case maintained by spears and cannons. Hasn’t really changed, much. Just gotten faster and more complicated.”

“So, what do you think it’s going to be like having these guys on the ship?” Kulpa asked as the Cheerick pyramid collapsed in a pile of squeals.

“Probably hardly see them,” Sub Dude replied. “Time’s about up. Time to get back to work.”

Red looked up from the motor he was working on at a series of high-pitched squeals from down the corridor.

One of the Cheerick dragonfly pilots had turned the corner and come face to face with Tiny. The cat was in a play-pounce position and the Cheerick, even though he outweighed the cat by at least a factor of nine, clearly wasn’t sure he wasn’t the intended prey.

“Throw him a ball,” Red said, tossing same down the hall.

At the skittering sound behind him, the cat turned on his tail and launched through the air, overshooting the ball and spinning again. With another pounce he had the ball and ran it back to Red.

“Go ahead,” Red said, holding out the ball to the Cheerick.

The rodentoid came down the corridor and took the ball, sending it bounding down the corridor to bounce off a coaming. Tiny loved that since he had to turn in mid-run, leap off a bulkhead and catch the thing in the air. He ran it back to the giant rodentoid and dropped the ball, wiggling his butt in anticipation.

“Feel free,” Red said, turning back to his pump. “I’m kinda busy right now.”