The Spheres of Heaven

22: NEGOTIATIONS

Friday was not scared. Certainly not. He was Friday Indigo, and bad things didn’t happen to members of the Indigo family.

He told himself that the queasy feeling inside him was not fear, but he had to admit that he did feel a certain uneasiness. Until he caught sight of those desiccated and dissected bubble-creatures, he’d imagined nothing worse for himself than another shot from a black paralyzing cane.

“I am not from here.” He didn’t like the wobbly sound of his own voice, and he took a breath and started over. “I am not from here — not a native of this planet. I came from a star named Sol, through a device that we call a Link. But something went wrong with the Link transfer, and instead of arriving in open space my ship finished up in the sea not far from here.”

“Aha!” The little eyestalks twitched. “Then it is verified. Soon after arrival, I reassured the Level Threes and the Level Four untouchables that this world possessed no intelligence of use or danger to Malacostracans. When they brought word of an alien ship, washed into the river by the storm, and told of an alien air-breather on the shore, I was surprised. But I was right.”

At last, the translation unit seemed halfway to justifying its price. It was time to get down to business before it went wonky on him again. Friday said, “You’re not from here, I’m not from here. This planet probably isn’t worth peanuts to either of us. But both our races must have technology that the other one doesn’t possess.” Friday thought, not without a quiver of unpleasant memory, of the paralyzing black cane. “I’d like to propose a swap.”

The double pairs of pincers waved, and the Malacostracan inched forward on the flat table. The translation unit said, “Swap?”

So the machine wasn’t perfect yet. “A swap means a trading agreement. You tell me what I’ve got that you don’t have, and I tell you what I don’t have. If we agree that they seem equal, we make an exchange.”

Credit for making First Contact was wonderful, but alien technology had the potential to jump Friday financially far ahead of the whole Indigo clan. That would show his bastard cousins, always boasting about their money!

The eyestalks began to wiggle, but no sound came from the translator. Friday was ready to try again using other words when the machine finally said, “There is misunderstanding. You are a prisoner. Everything that you know and everything that you possess belongs to us. That includes your life.”

It was a bad start, but Indigo family tradition taught that every threat could be regarded as a step in negotiation.

Friday leaned forward. “It’s not just a matter of what I know, and what I own. Members of my species and others, together with their ships and their weapons, have also come to this planet. Even if you believe that you can capture and subdue every one of them, it won’t be easy. Now, I’m known and trusted by them. You’d be a lot better off with me as a go-between than as a prisoner.”

A simple enough statement, you’d think. But again there was that long pause. Eventually: “An interesting proposal. However, it is not one that I am able to accept or reject. It is necessary that we consult one of a higher level.”

“How many levels are there?” Friday had a mental image of a series of Malacostracans, decreasing in body size as they increased in authority, until he found himself addressing a Supreme Potentate the size of a flea.

“We have five levels.” The four front pincers turned to point inward. “I am a Level Two. What you suggest is a Level One decision.”

“How many Level Ones and Level Twos are there?”

“There are five Level Twos. I am Two-Four, in order of spawning. There is one Level One, and she is The One.” The little legs propelled Two-Four off the table and into water that rose to cover the carapace. Eyestalks poked up above the surface, and the translator gurgled, “Come.”

The Malacostracan headed toward the far end of the building. It seemed to Friday, following, that there was no exit that way. The alien pointed the black cane at the wall. It became transparent, and Two-Four sidled through. Friday followed, eyeing the cane. His respect for it was rising. It didn’t just zap people, it zapped whole buildings. And when you walked through the wall, you weren’t where you would expect to be, outside in the gusty night air of Limbo where the patrol guards were waiting. You were in another interior chamber, too big to fit inside any of the buildings that he had seen. This one was also well-lit, throwing gleaming iridescent reflections of green and purple and black off the carapace of the little Malacostracan. Also, a pleasant change, the floor wasn’t sloshing with water.

How could that be, when this was on the same level as the other room? Friday looked back, and found the wall opaque again. He turned, to see Two-Four inching forward, its body touching the floor and its multiple legs splayed wide. The translator said urgently, “Abase, abase!”

He couldn’t imitate that walk, even if he wanted to. Friday stayed at his full height and stared. This room was stranger and yet more familiar than anything he had seen so far. The display screens and holo-volumes suggested a command center, but they sat far up toward the three-meter-high ceiling, where he could view them only by craning his neck backward. On the other hand, the banks of dials and switches that presumably controlled the displays formed part of the floor. He couldn’t even read or reach most of the dials and switches without stepping on some of them.

Other than himself and Two-Four he saw no sign of any living thing, Malacostracan or other, in the room. But the floor controls were arranged in concentric circles, and at the center of them stood a large black rock. It was bulky, half as tall again as Friday, and the lower part was riddled with holes big enough to put your hand in.

Two-Four said to Friday, “Stay. And abase, abase.” It advanced cautiously to the outer perimeter of the control area. There it produced a long series of squeaks and whistles, totally unlike the clicks and clatters of its previous speech. Friday’s translator unit remained silent. He guessed that it was using a different language from any that his unit had met before. Worse than that, his translator didn’t even seem to be trying. It wasn’t providing even the preliminary hoots and whistles that preceded intelligible words.

The black rock offered its own set of squeaks. The Level Two Malacostracan squeaked and whistled again, presumably in reply. Then it was another long sequence from the rock. The talk, assuming that’s what it was, went on and on. Friday’s translator remained silent, and finally he stopped listening to nothing and began to take a closer look at the half-dozen ceiling displays.

He might be deep underground at the moment, but the screens provided a view from above the surface. Two of them showed the cloudless night sky of Limbo, with its baffling collection of faint and diffuse spheres. The hints of color were not as he remembered them, but that was probably a function of sensors matched to suit alien eyes.

Other screens showed land views. He recognized one of them, or at least he could guess what it showed. It was the view to the west, seen from the rocky ridge above the inlet where the Mood Indigo had been driven by the storm. The image had been photo-intensified to make use of faint levels of light. It showed shades of gray and negligible color, but he fancied he could discern the outline of a ship’s hull, jutting above the waters of the inlet. The storm had passed, and the waves that met the Mood Indigo were slow and steady. He wondered how well his ship had survived. Would it still be able to make a Link transition, assuming he could somehow find a Link entry point?

He turned his attention to the remaining three screens. Two of them provided nothing of special interest. They were land views, bare jagged rocks and ridges and graveled slopes. The final screen, though, made him forget the ache in his neck.

It was another land view, but in this one the hills and valleys were not bare. They were clothed with vegetation — odd-looking forms, all twists and spikes, but no stranger than many of the plants found on Earth or other worlds of the Stellar Group.

Friday snorted aloud. So much for that fat idiot Rombelle, and what he “knew” as scientific fact! No plants on the land surface of Limbo, because on a planet orbiting a blue-giant star they didn’t have enough time to emerge from the sea? Sure. Facts my ass. Those were plants on the display, and he, Friday Indigo, was willing to bet on it.

“Alien air-breather!” The sudden words from the translation unit brought Friday’s attention back to ground level. The black rock sat immobile as ever. The words were being translated from sounds emitted by Two-Four. “Pay attention.”

“I’m listening.” At least it had stopped all the “Abase, abase,” nonsense. “I told you my name, you know. It’s not alien air-breather, it’s Friday Indigo.”

“Air-breather.” The eyestalks waved, and the Malacostracan continued as though Friday had not spoken. “The One has been made aware of your proposal for cooperation. The One desires to know more, and is willing to discuss it with you. However, there are three problems. First, Level One speech is too advanced for your primitive device.” A black pincer reached forward and touched the translation unit. “Communication through this would be as unproductive as an attempt at reasoned speech with a Level Four. Something better is needed.

“Second, The One requires additional evidence that you and your kind have something to offer. We have observed your feeble attempts to spy on our surface activities, and are in the process of neutralizing those orbiters. We anticipate no difficulty in doing so. The One declares the orbiters to be undefended and therefore primitive. If that represents your best level of technology, it is of little or no value. Do you wish to comment?”

“No.” Orbiters? That was news to Friday. But it was good news. Somebody or something on one of the ships had found a way off the surface of Limbo and into space. All the riches in the universe were no good if you had no way of taking them home. On the other hand, “undefended” in the eyes of the Malacostracans apparently equated to “primitive.” That was a clue to their outlook on life, and not an encouraging one.

Two-Four was continuing, “Third, The One believes that you and your kind are in a poor position for negotiation of any kind. We created and we control the sea-sky portal that you refer to as the Link. Without the Link, you will remain here on this world until you and all your spawn are dead. Do you understand?”

Friday nodded, then realized that was no use to the translation unit and said, “Yes, I understand.” He wasn’t much worried about his spawn at the moment. More on his mind was his own immediate future and the split and dried bodies of the bubble people. “I think you’re wrong about our technology, though. It’s just not represented in the equipment we brought with us. There’s a tremendous amount of information in our ships’ data bases, about all sorts of things. Everything from astrophysics to zoology. It’s not possible that you already know all of it, and without our help you’d never be able to figure out how to get into the data bases.”

That led to another two-way stream of high-pitched whistles and grunts between The One and its Level Two subordinate. It went on for a while. Something in Friday’s last speech seemed to be producing excitement, and he wondered what it might be.

“It is possible that you are correct,” Two-Four said at last. “Although we could assuredly learn everything that you and your kind know, time is important to us. The One is willing to consider acceptance of your assistance. You will become the intermediary between us and your kind. In return, you will not be harmed. However, there is one additional condition. The One is not satisfied with this slow and possibly inaccurate method of communication, first through me and then through your machine. You must agree to receive Level One compressed speech directly, and be able to speak for the Malacostracans to your own kind. How do you answer?”

Friday thought about it. The deal sounded pretty clean and simple, but he had to be sure that his lousy translator wasn’t crapping out on some vital point.

“Let me make sure I understand you. I’m going to play back what I heard you say, and you can tell me if I have it right. I learn to understand The One’s speech, right?”

“That is correct.”

“How long does that take?”

“Very little time, with our technology. A small fraction of a day. At the same time, The One will learn your speech.”

“All right. After that, I become the interface between your people and my own and any other visitors from outside this world?”

“Again, that is correct.”

“The only interface?”

“Certainly. Only one is needed.”

“Ah, but what about your technology?” Friday thought he saw the catch. “Will you be willing to tell me about that?”

There was a pause, followed by another two-way transfer between the Malacostracans. Friday again wondered what he had said. It had sounded pretty straightforward to him. But Two-Four was finally replying, and the tones that came from the translator sounded puzzled: “Of course, all knowledge of our technology will be available to you. That, together with all other facts regarding our origins and our plans.”

“And I will not be harmed.”

“Why would we harm someone who is serving as our intermediary? We repeat, you will not be harmed. You will be our valuable interface.”

“Then — I accept.” Friday wondered what would have happened had he declined, and decided he preferred not to speculate.

There was a brief squeak from The One, and the translator said, “Excellent. We will begin at once.”

“Wait a minute!”

A pause, and a polite, “Yes? Do you have more questions?”

Did he? Friday couldn’t think of any, but things seemed to be going awful fast and easy. He reviewed everything he had been told, and finally shrugged. “I guess I don’t.”

“Very good. Then we will proceed.” Two-Four scuttled suddenly and sharply backward. At the same moment, six black hoses, each as thick as a human thumb, emerged from the holes as the base of The One and snaked in Friday’s direction. At their ends they divided into fine bundles of thin filaments.

He tried to jump backwards, the same as Two-Four had done, but he was too slow. Two of the flexible arms curled around his thighs, two around his waist, and they pulled him closer to the black rock. The other two moved to attach to the sides of his head, just above his ears.

Friday cried out, “Hey, you told me I wouldn’t be harmed.” Before he could complete the sentence, something much worse was happening. He felt the divided ends of the cables sliding down his skull. They were entering his ears. They were inside him. He opened his mouth to scream in pain and terror, but he was too late. And suddenly it wasn’t necessary. Instead of pain he felt the most intense ecstasy of his life. Nothing else — food, drugs, sex — nothing came even close. It was as much as he could stand.

Then it became more intense. Stronger, better. More than he could stand. Friday, safe in the protective embrace of The One, swooned into an ecstasy of unutterable pleasure.