Excerpted from The Sirens of Space by Jeffrey Caminsky, available directly from the Publisher, or from Amazon
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From Chapter 7
What the Terrans called the Caucus Room had no windows, but was admirably furnished. Six stuffed chairs arrayed next to an artificial fireplace lent the room a coziness otherwise lacking on the barren world they had chosen for the current round of peace talks. On the walls were tapestries, imported from as far west as Earth for the purpose of impressing their visitors with the richness of Terran artistry. Over the mantle was a reprint of a painting by an Old Earth master, depicting a Renaissance lady in all her mysterious beauty. The walls were painted a soft ivory, to accent the fine woodwork crafted to mimic the warmth found on friendlier worlds. As if to atone for their choice of planets, the Terrans had spared no expense to make their guests feel at home.
Unfortunately, most of the touches that the Terrans lavished upon their guests passed unnoticed. Rather than dangling their legs over the end of the “Terran sitting implements,” the diplomats of the Grand Alliance sat on the floor near the fire, taking what warmth they could from its artificial flames. They found it hard enough to tolerate sitting Terran-style through the talks—it did, after all, tend to cut off circulation to their posteriors as well as their legs—without subjecting themselves to such abuse when the courtesies due from guests did not demand it. Though tapestries were a major art form among the Veshnans, the abstract patterns of design that hung from the bland walls were disconcerting, like peering through a distortion lens, and the delegates, each of whom felt disoriented enough already, avoided looking at them whenever they could. What appeared to be a Terran painting looked flat and lifeless, like a poor photograph with faded colors—although Zatar thought he could feel the eyes of the Terran female follow him around the room whenever he moved. But however uncomfortable they felt upon entering the room, they always managed to lose themselves in discussion whenever they retired to caucus, and this time was no exception.
“What do you want of me, Zatar?” asked an exasperated Munshi. “Should I permit you to make a fool of yourself when it is within my power to spare you embarrassment?”
“If I choose to play the fool,” snapped Zatar, “what right have you to interfere? You, who chose to venture alone into their midst and almost to your own death! And do the Terrans really care if I butcher their tongue? Did they take offense? Did my effort to reach beyond ignorance find them laughing like children at another’s clumsiness, or beating their breasts like a waddlewort closing on his prey?”
Several of the other Veshnans began to smile—men took to anger so easily, for all the good it did them—but the ambassador’s glower soon froze their smirks on their faces. It was impolite to bait a brood male during a nest mate’s rutting season, and today’s talks did come at a most inopportune time. It was understandable that Zatar was in no mood for teasing. Besides, none of them wanted to be the new target of the keenest mind and sharpest tongue of the High Council’s Procuracy. Patiently, they waited for Zatar’s anger to pass, and soon he returned to the topic at hand.
The Terran ambassador, the one they called Gr’Raun-te, had offered a dramatic concession, one that rendered obsolete their tepid compromises of the past. For the first time, Terra was willing to cede sovereignty over the disputed space, all the way to the Terran edge of the Great Divide—which the Terrans, with characteristic inscrutability, called ny’Otrl’Zhog’hn, or “The Area of Indifference.” What they asked in return were the twin rights of exploration and exploitation, in nearby portions of the great Crutchtan Cloud. Zatar was certain that they would be willing to restrict their movements even more, accepting limits on their penetration into Crutchtan space. But G’Rishela, the Imperator’s representative, demurred nonetheless, for reasons which remained a mystery.
It was that maddening Crutchtan stoicism, thought Zatar. They never committed themselves to anything, never showed the slightest emotion, until they were certain of their course and confident of their advantage. If that didn’t change quickly, they would lose the momentum this new initiative could give them, perhaps squandering their chance for peace as well.
Zatar looked at the Crutchtan seated by himself near the fireplace, whose face was a study in stolid impenetrability. The Crutchtan’s eyes stared ahead impassively while listening to the others airing their disagreements. All the Crutchtans he had ever met displayed the same expressionless calm, thought Zatar, as if expressing interest or passion would be a show of weakness. In the course of his duties as procurator for the High Council, he had watched the Crutchtan delegates sit motionless, listening to passionate arguments on the most difficult issues facing the Alliance, all the while keeping their own counsel until the very end, when they finally decided on the proper course of action. Then, of course, they were among the most forceful of advocates for their own cause, but their very reluctance to commit themselves often led to misunderstandings with their allies.
Intellectually, Zatar could understand their ways. Mildly telepathic, the Crutchtans instantly sensed the intentions of others of their kind. When faced with a crisis, they never needed to reassure each other by word or conspicuous deed, for each could sense the good will of the others—or their malevolence, if that were the case. It let a Crutchtan think matters through thoroughly before venturing to speak. While an admirable trait sorely lacking in most of the Universe, it often caused consternation in their dealings with other races.
“I suppose none have a thought about this latest impasse?” the ambassador said at last, his voice thick with dignity.
G’ela cleared her throat. “I cannot understand the Terrans’ dismissal of our exchange program. It can only foster understanding between all the races, by giving science the chance to study new life forms.”
Zatar cut her short. “We are not talking about your cadaver proposals, G’ela,” he snapped. “We are still talking about the border dispute. And that idea may take a long time, in any event. The Terrans are still primitives in many ways. According to the anthropology texts our friend Khu’ukh has provided, they still bury their dead.... ”
Suddenly the Crutchtan’s head snapped up, as if stirring himself from lethargy; Zatar suddenly remembered that their allies also buried their dead, but continued undaunted.
“And they and have a rather mystical attachment to the bodies of their loved ones. I’m afraid it will be hard for them to adopt a more practical approach to the needs of science.
“Now, does anyone else— ”
The Crutchtan learned forward, toward the rest of the group. The light from the fire illuminated one side of his face, giving a reddish glow to his leathery brown skin. The slits of his pupils, which had contracted to almost nothing while he was deep in thought, now dilated to full circles, and on either side of his neck his gill slits, vestiges of an earlier stage of evolution, flushed with the green of churning Crutchtan blood.
“You have been curious as children,” he said, in the hissing, image-rich tones of his native language. “You have been wondering why we of the g’Khruushtani so quickly reject the ideas of the longnoses; why we do not jump with child-like glee at the prospect of agreement with the strange ones from the West; why thoughts of peace with these newcomers....”
Zatar sighed wearily. Crutchtans kept their own counsel longer than he found comfortable, but when they finally did speak they tended to ramble a bit, and often took a while to come to the point.
“…and why we approach the ten-fingered simians with the caution of songbirds, and not the boldness of raptors.”
The Veshnans leaned forward, listening intently. Although only Munshi could speak the Crutchtan language—and with difficulty at that—all but G’ela could understand it.
“Friends of the g’Khruushtani, this is the reason.” Still seated on the floor, the Crutchtan seemed to rise until he towered above the smaller Veshnans nearby. But he had merely straightened his back, as Crutchtans often did before beginning a lecture, or one of their epic ballads. He placed his hands together in his lap. The lights in the room flickered briefly, as the dust storm raging outside toyed with the city’s power system. The Crutchtan continued without a sideward glance, as if the fury of the Terran weather were of trifling significance compared to imparting understanding to his friends, now that he knew his own mind.
“When the Sheregal roamed only the hills of home, the g’Khruushtani were like the children of Spring. We knew but of hope and gladness, with the ocean of dreams nourishing our spirit as the river of life nourished our fields.
“But the Sheregal would not remain in the hills, though game was plentiful and flavorful fruits abundant. Their wandering spirit watched birds soar beyond the horizon, and they heard the call of distant hills and fertile valleys. So they left their own river behind them, and trailed a river of death flowing thick with blood, following the setting sun to the land of our fathers.
“And I tell you, friends of the g’Khruushtani, and I tell you Truth: the Sheregal were not done until the sea itself flowed with the blood of innocents, and the heavens cried with the screams of murdered children.”
“But surely,” said Munshi, in her finest Crutchtan, “the Terrans are of a different world. And as wise a race as the g’Khruushtani cannot let prejudice cloud their eyes. The resemblance is strong, that I will grant. When the longnose males let the fur pour from their bodies, a Terran mother could not pick the Sheregal from among her own offspring without difficulty. But the enemies of our friends were savages, without the spark of humanity. And the last Sheregal vanished into the jungles of time in the long-ago past. The Terrans are not the same, and the g’Khruushtani cannot treat them the same. They seek peace, not war, and they worry over children of their own.”
The Crutchtan leaned forward and gazed intently at Munshi, then at each member of the party in turn until his eyes came to rest upon Zatar. His eyes bulged wildly, and his head nodded slowly, in the Crutchtan manner of showing amusement.
“My friends mistake parable for prejudice,” he said at last, “for we know that the longnoses are not the enemies of legend. But they are simians nonetheless, with the same driving curiosity and burning passions. Perhaps in time we can live as neighbors, sharing friendship as friends share food. But even now the Terrans cannot keep their word—for as we speak, Terran ships continue straying beyond the Great Divide.”
“Though against the wishes of their government,” Zatar interjected, speaking in his own tongue.
G’Rishela bowed in the Veshnan manner. “And what does this tell us, Zatar? That any agreement we reach will bind their leaders, but not their people? And where will this lead us? If we accept their proposal, my grandchildren will live to see the Terrans scattering throughout g’Khruushte, pounding at our doors and demanding more, ever more. If they pass the Divide today with our blessing, they will be with us forever. And they will never leave of their own accord.”
Zatar turned his eyes to the fire. Silently, he watched the flames dance playfully along the heat-resistant plastic that the Terrans had fashioned to look like a piece of a dead tree. He searched his mind for a response to the Crutchtan but the words wouldn’t come. None could tell whether G’Rishela was right or wrong, and Zatar could not bring himself to disagree.
© 2009 by Jeffrey Caminsky
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