

TRANG

by Mary Sisson

Published by Mary Sisson at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Mary Sisson

To Beth Trilling

Every writer should have a friend like you.
Chapter 1

August 31, 2113

It was the greatest event in the history of the space program—quite possibly in the history of Earth. It marked the dawn of the Golden Age of Space, a time when space captured the popular imagination like never before. It was a seminal moment, the kind of watershed event that changes everything afterward.

But to Wouter Hoopen, general manager of the Titan station, it was just another fuck-up. Another embarrassing, stupid little fuck-up by his station, which was embarrassing him enough as it was.

As Wouter would later note in his own, very private defense, the timing could not have been worse. He found out about it just as he got back from a weeklong trip to a Space Authority conference on Earth—a conference that was _supposed_ to be a break, a rest from the claustrophobia of the station and the stress of seeing the same damned people every damned day.

And instead of a vacation, all he had gotten had been variations of the question, What, exactly—? What, exactly, was the Titan station _for_ _?_ What, exactly, could scientists do there that would ever justify its cost? What, exactly, was its purpose?

Why were people even asking these questions? For God's sake, there used to be _enthusiasm_ for space exploration, thanks to a charismatic, popular, and now, alas, quite deceased prime minister who spearheaded the construction of the Titan station some 20 years before. And now Wouter was left managing an aging station with a budget set by a gaggle of bean counters in Beijing who didn't have to live on it and certainly weren't going to die on it if they didn't allot quite enough money for maintenance.

Even among the spacers—and this was where Wouter really felt the knife in his back—fervor for the Titan station had waned. His reception at the conference had been positively chilly. The planetary scientists were saying that actually being on Saturn's moon was less helpful than one might imagine. Astronomers interested in deep space saw no advantage to the station whatsoever. Nothing living had been found, so the life-science types weren't even at the conference, having long ago decided that space travel just sucked up their funding.

The only solid support came from the Malthusians and other catastrophiles, who continued to insist that the dwindling growth of Earth's population, along with the ever-decreasing levels of pollution emitted by increasingly environmentally friendly industrial technologies, would someday, somehow render the planet uninhabitable. Needless to say, their opinion was hardly mainstream. And when your most ardent backers were wearing "Accept Suicide" buttons, you had a problem.

Wouter had cashed in every favor and used every connection he had to become manager of Titan Station specifically because he had wanted to stand out from the crowd. Being on Titan, having _actually been in space,_ seemed like the perfect antidote to what he had to admit was an all-too-mediocre resumé as a Space Authority middle manager. But if Titan was mothballed, then what would he do? Given how far the station's star had fallen, he'd likely wind up back on a cubicle farm, laboring in obscurity until his necessarily modest retirement.

Worse yet, if there was some kind of disaster—no, he couldn't even think about _that_. Even if he survived, he would be a pariah, a deathwatch. There would be investigations, and Wouter was certain that those unimaginative bean counters in Beijing would prove surprisingly creative when it came to shifting blame to the station's general manager.

The best-case scenario was this: Things would eke along, with Wouter the head of this marginally useful, greatly resented, shabby little station.

Dear God. There was no escaping it. _He would never be promoted again._

Wouter had reached this conclusion during his trip back to Titan station, so he was in a very black mood indeed when he arrived. The first thing he was told when he stepped off the ship was that someone had lost a research satellite. At that point he was just about ready to take a calming stroll outside without his suit, or—and this was always the advantage of being general manager—to make someone else take one.

Instead, he chewed out everyone on the station and demanded a frantic investigation into the satellite's whereabouts.

Not that it helped. The satellite, which was doing radio mapping—a project one astronomer at the conference called "typical of the make-work the Space Authority cooks up in its pathetic efforts to justify the existence of that boondoggle"—had vanished. There was no trace of wreckage. There was nothing odd about the satellite's transmissions or trajectory before it disappeared. It was just gone.

Wouter's resulting tantrum was sufficiently dramatic that his staff was still diligently looking for the satellite five days later. It was a lucky thing that they were, because when the satellite reappeared in exactly the same place where they lost it, its trajectory was totally off. Given the busyness of space around Saturn, it probably would have smashed into something if they hadn't found it as quickly as they had. Wouter's people tried to fix the satellite's trajectory remotely, but it had apparently been damaged and was transmitting something that made the computer crash, so they cut off communications and sent out a retriever.

Using a retriever satellite was always tricky—you had to match trajectories and deploy the grapplers without damaging the target too much, all via remote control—but Wouter's techs proved up to the job and brought in the research satellite intact.

And after that great save, did Wouter get one iota of appreciation from the Space Authority? Of course not. Instead, he was ordered to ship that satellite right back to Beijing, where people who were so very much smarter than he was could figure out what went wrong.

The station still had its records, though, so Wouter sent the incident data to everyone's file, just to see if his people couldn't show up those smug SA bastards a little.

They didn't disappoint. The next day, when Wouter entered the grubby cafeteria, he saw two of his techs laughing over some of the data.

"What's so funny?" Wouter asked, sitting gingerly in one of the chairs. It had been fashionable, and perhaps even comfortable, when it had been installed 20 years before.

"Oh, see, it's like a joke," said the first tech, Manuel.

"It's a computer joke—a computer-language joke," said Edmary, the other. "See this?"

He pointed at some data on his scroll.

Wouter recognized it. "That's what the satellite was broadcasting when it reappeared," he said.

"Yeah, someone was goofing," said Edmary.

"It explains why the computer went haywire," said Manuel.

"I think it does," Edmary agreed.

"What is it?" asked Wouter, feeling slightly excluded, which made him feel slightly annoyed.

"Oh, well—I mean, don't get mad, we didn't put it in here," said Manuel. "But sometimes programmers will write to each other in computer language. It's kind of like a secret code or something."

"Yeah, like if I need to borrow money, I might send Manuel here a little note that says, 'This unit has insufficient power and requires a temporary influx of power from another unit with a surplus,'" said Edmary.

Manuel made a quick flip of his palm, clearly rejecting the request. Edmary put his hand to his heart in mock-hurt, and then continued.

"You'd write it in code, you know, just like a computer would send out a request on the network. It's a little joke. But you have to be careful where you send that kind of stuff, because if it goes to the computer and not to Manuel, the computer might actually try to follow the orders."

He pointed at the scroll again. "See, this message is in the same language the satellite uses to communicate with the station computer, which is why it caused problems. Somehow it wound up where it didn't belong."

"What does it say?" Wouter asked.

"This is like what you might write somebody new—like a girl or something—somebody who you wanted to meet. Like, this line is, 'This unit requires information from other units.' And that line is, like, an approval code—that means, you know, that the unit is cleared."

"Friendly, basically," said Manuel. "Trustworthy."

"Right, it's like, 'Tell me about yourself, I'm a nice guy,'" Edmary continued. "And then, this is a request for the other unit to transmit the contents of its databases, and that's a priority code."

Manuel smiled. "Someone wanted to meet someone really badly."

Wouter frowned deeply. If Beijing found out about this, would they figure out a way to blame him somehow?

"We are totally not the ones who did this," said Edmary to Wouter.

"Maybe a little green man is looking for love," said Manuel, with a laugh.

Manuel's joke stuck in Wouter's mind as he lay in his lumpy bed later that evening. It was crazy, of course, but what if a—?

No—he couldn't even think it without hearing, "Typical of the make-work the Space Authority cooks up in its pathetic efforts to justify the existence of that boondoggle."

But if he found life, intelligent life, wouldn't that _actually_ justify the existence of his station? In moments of budgetary desperation Wouter had toyed with the idea of passing off some of the Titan's more bizarre crystalline structures as a form of life. Imagine if he found the real thing?

Think of what it would mean for Earth.

Think of what it would mean for Titan station.

Think of what it would mean for his career!

Think of the funding!

The key, Wouter decided, would be to figure out a way to investigate without anyone knowing what he was doing.

He could look at where that satellite had vanished. That would look good to any outsider—maybe there was some odd feature at that point in space that would be of scientific interest. He could send another satellite there—one of the ones that took video images of the rings, maybe. God knows, no one in the SA would care if one of the viewfinder satellites went offline for an hour or twelve: The general public thought the images they sent back were pretty, but scientifically, they weren't worth much.

So the next shift, he asked his staff to send one of the viewfinders to the coordinates where the radio telescope had vanished and reappeared.

They did.

And it disappeared.

Wouter sent his report to Beijing with mixed emotions—they could roast him for losing a second satellite, but on the other hand, it was intriguing, wasn't it? He had his staff look through old satellite trajectories, and other satellites had passed through those coordinates as recently as four months ago without any incident. None of the telescopes picked up anything strange there, and his staff reviewed four months of observational data without finding anything of note. He sent the results of their research on to Beijing, hoping that it would help guide their bean-counting minds toward the "intriguing" and away from the "wasteful" school of thought.

But the viewfinder got back to Wouter before Beijing did, reappearing 46 hours after it vanished. Again, its trajectory had obviously been interrupted. The staff sent a retriever after it, not risking communication this time. The retrieval into the satellite bay went off without a hitch, as did the automated quarantined download of the viewfinder's data. Wouter and several of his staffers gathered around the one working screen in his office to see what the satellite had seen.

The image was clear, but at the moment of disappearance there was what looked like a jump in the star field. A circle of light appeared and vanished at the periphery of the image, which became distorted for a moment as the viewfinder compensated for a sudden change in light levels.

Then, a small, white, oval object appeared. It sped up to the viewfinder quickly, making Wouter wonder if it was an asteroid shooting past.

But then it slowed. The object hovered in the image, only a few meters away from the satellite.

"What's _that?_ " asked a staffer.

_Act skeptical,_ thought Wouter, suppressing a smile. "Let's not get excited—it could be a hoax," he said.

It wasn't a hoax, he knew it, and he clasped his hands in his lap to conceal his excitement. _I'll be able to write my own ticket!_ he thought.

The oval paced the viewfinder for a bit, matching its trajectory. There were no markings on its surface, and no indication of any sort of door or window. There was, however, a little dimple in the center of the oval.

After a few moments, a tail snaked out of it, seeming to feel its way through space toward the viewfinder.

Suddenly the station's breach alarm went off, making one of his staffers scream and nearly scaring Wouter out of his seat.

He would later think it odd that he didn't have the same initial reaction that everyone on Earth seemed to have—he didn't wrongly assume his station was under alien attack. Instead, he foolishly wondered for a moment if the alarm was coming from the soundless video. Then, as he scrambled to seal his environmental suit, the chilling thought occurred to him: _I'm too late._ _My station's fallen apart._

Once everyone was sealed up, he found the frantic staffer who had set off the alarm. There had been no breach, thank God, but the staffer had seen something on the viewfinder satellite, something that had left him gibbering.

Wouter looked through the window at the satellite bay, which had sealed and was now pumping out the toxic Titan atmosphere.

He saw it then, sitting on the outside of the satellite, nestled next to the camera aperture.

Later investigation would reveal that that same camera had prevented Wouter's techs from spotting it during the retrieval. They had instructed the retriever to approach the viewfinder from behind, so as not to damage the camera, and from that angle the camera itself had blocked their view of the thing.

That _thing_ was a large cluster of round purple lumps, a bit like the inside of a pomegranate or a bizarre and fatal tumor.

Wouter ordered the area sealed off completely, sent a missive to Beijing, and ordered a decontamination of the rest of the station before allowing his staff to unseal their suits.

Then he went back to his office and watched the video. He saw in fast-forward what the rest of Earth would watch in detail, over and over and over again, in the months and years to come. He saw the other ovals and their tails as they looped around the satellite and pulled it through space. He saw the appearance on the edge of the screen of a structure that grew larger and larger until it swallowed up the view. He saw the strange things—creatures? robots?—that examined and worked on the satellite in an open bay on the structure's side. He saw the left hand of the image replaced by a white field, while the right half showed the ovals reattaching to the satellite and hauling it away. He saw the ring of light marking the spot where the ovals detached and let the satellite float away, and then the sudden appearance of Saturn, with its familiar rings and moons.

And he saw the equally dramatic change in the white side of the screen as the viewfinder approached the ring. There, in the middle of an unchanging field of white, was a round, growing spot of black.

A hole.
Chapter 2

May 27, 2118

Philippe Trang stood outside the door, frozen.

A sound had caught his attention, riveting him to the floor.

Bzz-bzz. Bzzz-bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzz-mbzz.

It was coming from behind the door.

_It's not flies,_ Philippe thought to himself. _It can't possibly be flies._

He could feel the panic rising all the same. He took a moment to control himself, to suppress all emotion, and then he pushed the button.

The door in front of him opened, and Philippe saw the gently lined face of the evening's host, Chen Ming, head of the DiploCorps' Beijing office.

Ming smiled with obvious warmth, and Philippe instinctively smiled back with what he hoped appeared to be equal warmth.

They greeted each other and shook hands; then Ming held onto Philippe's hand as he escorted him into the apartment. The drone of conversation became punctuated by pleased exclamations. Everyone soon stopped talking, turning their well-coiffed heads to look at Philippe.

"The man of the hour!" announced Ming.

Philippe smiled and bowed slightly, realizing that he was going to be put on display immediately. _Good thing I don't need to go to the bathroom,_ he thought.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to present to you Philippe Trang," Ming continued. His voice was not loud—he seemed far too elegant a man to raise it—but it carried throughout the spacious room.

"As you may have heard," Ming said knowingly, eliciting smiles from the audience, "tomorrow Philippe will leave Earth and travel to the Titan station. From there, he will go through the portal and take up residence on the alien station.

"Philippe will lead the very first human diplomatic mission to an alien culture—or, more accurately, cultures, since there are fully seven alien species living on that station. Philippe will be the DiploCorps' first representative ever— _humanity's_ first representative ever—to the aliens. What he is doing is unbelievably important. Without exaggeration, it is the most historic mission the DiploCorps has ever undertaken."

Philippe gamely continued smiling. He hadn't talked things over with Ming beforehand, so he wasn't sure if he was going to be expected to say a few words.

"It is also something that has never been done before, and as a result, it has generated a great deal of concern," Ming continued. His tone grew greatly concerned as well, and Philippe realized that Ming had, essentially, prepared a speech.

He stopped trying to organize his thoughts: He wouldn't have to say a thing. Today, he was nothing more than a prop.

"Some of that concern is legitimate, and some, in my opinion, is the result of an unfortunate xenophobia. It is true, as some critics never tire of pointing out, that we've been exchanging messages with the aliens for five years, but there is so much that we don't know—that we _can't_ know—just from exchanging video. We need somebody _there_ —someone who can actually interact with the aliens, who can live among them and forge the kind of connections that could never be made from the safety of Beijing or Ottawa.

"I'm not claiming we know exactly what will happen—far from it. But while the road ahead is unmapped and full of pitfalls, given Philippe Trang's remarkable record in the DiploCorps, I am confident that he will be able to navigate it.

"Congratulations, Philippe, and thank you," said Ming, shaking Philippe's hand again. "All of Earth is relying on you."

Someone started applauding, and soon everyone joined in.

Philippe smiled and waved to the crowd, feeling vaguely sick.

It was his going-away party. Perhaps fittingly, it was a generic DiploCorps affair, held far away from any place that had any personal meaning for Philippe, and populated mainly by people he did not know. It was held in an apartment reliably suited to the typical needs of an upper-level DiploCorps officer, who would be required to throw several large parties a month: The living/dining/cocktail-party room was spacious but also featured several semi-private nooks, the better to foster those all-important one-on-one interactions.

The décor was lush without being vulgar—the deep red, almost burgundy walls with tan paper hangings rose up from an impressively immaculate white carpet. The wall hangings reflected what Philippe assumed was Ming's own preference for traditional Chinese calligraphy, but even they obeyed the DiploCorps aesthetic—moderate in size and muted in color, they had been hung perfectly at a discreet distance from each other.

This was a room that, like its owner, whispered and did not shout. The same was true of the soft music in the background and, no doubt, of the expertly blended drinks available. Although Philippe had never met most of the people there, they, too, looked familiar—well-groomed, well-dressed, clearly well-off, yet not garish or ostentatious. Tasteful, tailored, and smooth.

Philippe took a deep breath. He knew this world well; he'd worked in it for years.

_This shouldn't be so tough,_ he told himself.

They were all there to meet him, of course. Well, not really to _meet_ him—not in any genuine getting-to-know-you kind of way. He was a prop, and they were there to shake his hand and look at his face before he left Earth. Then they would be able to tell their friends, _I met Philippe Trang once, the night before he left Earth. I shook his hand and looked him right in the eye. Isn't it a pity?_

Philippe shook his head to stop that train of thought—it would affect his smile, and he needed to smile convincingly now because the flurry of introductions was beginning. The guests were actually lining up, like they would at a wedding or a funeral, to receive the handshake that was due them.

It wasn't hard. As Philippe expected, no one really wanted to talk to him. Some of them asked him how he was, but luckily they didn't want a real answer.

Like any reasonably competent diplomat, Philippe was good with names. Still, under the circumstances, it did seem a little pointless to have to learn dozens of new ones. Here, for example, was the last person in the line of new acquaintances, the assistant undersecretary of technology trade standards for the Hong Kong office of the Commerce Division. Philippe couldn't imagine why he would need to know her, even if she had, as he remarked, certainly traveled a long way.

"Well, I haven't come as far as _you_ have!" burbled the assistant undersecretary.

Her name was Ling Wei. She was plump and short, with a blunt bob that unfortunately emphasized the roundness of her features.

"All the way from Canada!" she exclaimed. "Is this your first time in Beijing? Have you been able to see much of the city?"

Philippe realized that, oddly enough, Wei actually seemed to want to make conversation.

_And why not?_ he wondered. There was no one in line behind her, pushing her along. She was by herself, but she seemed genuinely friendly and sociable—with none of the scary stalker vibe he had occasionally gotten from people who recognized him on the street.

Plus, this was an opportunity to ease the topic of conversation away from himself. He really, really did not want to spend an entire evening dwelling on his own state.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "I saw the Forbidden City, the Summer Palace, and the Temple of Heaven—and of course the Great Wall. It's all been fantastic."

Wei tilted her head. "What do you think of Beijing itself? As a city?"

Philippe thought for a moment. "I guess the main surprise for me has been how big the Space Authority is here—I mean, I knew the headquarters are here, but. . . ."

"You can't go two blocks without seeing the logo," agreed Wei.

Philippe nodded. "I mean, the DiploCorps are headquartered in Ottawa, but that just means the offices are there. You don't see people in the street wearing DiploCorps jackets and shirts—if those things even exist."

Wei nodded. "Beijing is _crazy_ about the Space Authority, especially these days. We're always joking about that in Hong Kong—they should just change the city's name to SA and be done with it."

"That's a good idea. You could pronounce it _Sa,_ " said Philippe. "You know, 'This weekend I'm going to Sa to, um—'"

"'To watch the launch!'" Wei finished.

They laughed. The Space Authority seemed to launch something every few hours—the noise was surprisingly penetrating despite the required muffling. Even when Philippe had gone out of town to see the Great Wall, he had been distracted by a launch—not the noise that time, it couldn't travel that far, but the blazing light trail in the sky that followed it, a reminder hanging in the heavens that his time on Earth was limited.

A waiter passed them with a tray full of some kind of savory pastry, and Wei almost leapt to stop him.

"You have to try one of these," she said, gesturing at the pastries.

Philippe obeyed. The pastry turned out to be an _excellent_ crab puff, with just the right mixture of crab, sauce, and pastry. Wei, Philippe quickly determined, was a fellow foodie, and she had taken a careful and thorough inventory of the appetizers available.

After that crab puff, he was more than willing to mine her knowledge of the other tasty bites available, and her judgment did not disappoint. For the first time, his smile felt natural, and he began to feel like this evening might not turn out to be an excruciating slog after all.

"You know, I guess I'm surprised that you've never been to Beijing before, given how much you must travel," said Wei, after steering them to some delicious chicken feet.

"I've actually never been assigned to East Asia," said Philippe. "I've spent most of my time in much more troubled places—non-Union countries and the like."

"Well, um, excuse me?" said a voice behind Philippe.

He turned, smiling.

His smile promptly felt strained.

The woman standing there obviously was not a diplomat, or even an assistant undersecretary. Everything about her was a little _too._ She was a little too young and a little too thin. Her breasts were a little too large for her body, and her lips were a little too big for her face. She wore a little too much makeup, and her short dress was both a little too short and a little too tight. Her hair was a little too shiny, and her eyes were open a little too wide.

This woman was either a politician or, judging from her skirt length, a spouse. Either was virtually guaranteed to be a bother.

"Um," she began. "Um, I couldn't help but hear you mention the non-Union countries, and, um, I'm just wondering, what do they think about what you're doing? Do they think it's, um, dangerous?"

_Of course they think it's dangerous,_ thought Philippe. _It_ is _dangerous._

"Well," he said, "the non-Union countries have largely decided to let the Union take the lead in Earth's dealings with the aliens. The Union is the closest thing we have to an Earth government, after all."

"But, um, before we were just, um, talking to them," said the woman. "And now, um, we're sending somebody through the Titan portal to, um, actually see them."

"We've been talking to them for _five years_ ," said Philippe. "Presumably if they wanted to attack, they would have done so by now. The aliens have never even come through the portal, and they say they never will without a formal invitation. They've been consistently friendly and, as far as we can determine, truthful in their communications. I think that it's natural at this point that we would explore the possibility of deepening our relationship with them."

She looked at him, wide-eyed. Philippe couldn't quite decide if her expression indicated actual fear or was merely the vestige of some cosmetic procedure. He really wasn't in the mood to spend time justifying his mission at this late date to someone who clearly hadn't bothered to educate herself on the subject, but he decided that a little additional reassurance couldn't hurt.

"I mean, it's not like there's perfect unity among the Union countries, either. Of course, there's a risk to going through the portal. But there's also a risk to staying on opposite sides of the portal forever—if we don't engage the aliens, if we don't build a positive relationship with them now, then maybe there will be negative consequences down the line from _that_ decision. I can speak only for myself, but I'm not afraid to do this."

He smiled at her, in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. But he was thinking, _Whatever happens, I've seen worse right here on Earth._

"Well, I just don't think that it's fair," she replied. "I mean, um, the Union is making these decisions that affect everybody, and, um, what are the non-Union countries supposed to do?"

Philippe looked about for Wei, if only as a reminder of better days, but the assistant undersecretary had cleared off, leaving him to his troubles.

"Who _cares_ about the non-Union countries?" exclaimed a red-faced man who suddenly appeared by the wide-eyed woman's side. "They don't have the money, and they don't have the clout—am I right, Trang?"

Philippe's smile thinned. "Actually, the non-Union countries do have a say, through the United Nations, and two years ago they passed a resolution of support—"

"What's the United Nations?" the woman asked the man, putting her arm around his thick waist. He looked like he was about 30 years older than she was—but Philippe was willing to bet that he had never been as good-looking.

The man waved his hand in the air, dismissively. "A useless relic." He thrust the hand out to Philippe. "Tau Li. Beijing office. DiploCorps."

_Of course,_ thought Philippe as they shook hands, _the suit._ Li was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, a model of understated elegance. It seemed somehow not to fit.

"Philippe Trang. Nice to meet you." Philippe said.

He waited for a moment, but Li didn't offer to introduce his—wife? girlfriend? Hopefully not his daughter, considering where his hand was now. Whoever she was, she didn't seem willing to introduce herself.

"So, you're the wonder kid who gets to go meet the aliens tomorrow," Li said. He waved his free hand in the air as he talked. " _Through_ the portal, and _to_ the alien station."

In that instant, Philippe realized two things about Li: The man was profoundly drunk, and he was profoundly jealous. At this very moment, Li was wondering why, with his big mouth and his trophy girlfriend and his willingness to get sloshed at official functions, he wasn't getting the kind of assignments that put him on the global news feed as the public face of the DiploCorps.

_Schadenfreude_ wasn't a noble emotion, Philippe knew. But it could be a useful one. He used that feeling of superiority to help him glide fully into the diplomatic frame of mind—confident, serene, benevolent.

"I'm very excited," he said blandly, "especially about meeting the Communicator."

Li opened his mouth, but quickly closed it. Philippe realized why when he heard Ming say, "I would be, too. Philippe, I'd like you to meet someone."

_Even Li has the sense not to mouth off in front of his boss,_ Philippe thought.

He turned to Ming, and all thoughts of Li vanished from his mind. Standing by Ming was Shridar Bhattacharjee.

Shridar Bhattacharjee?

Philippe did a double take, but there was no mistaking that friendly, bearded face, that long, slightly crooked nose, those large, chestnut-brown eyes. Shridar Bhattacharjee! Winner of the Nobel Peace Prize!

"This is Shridar Bhattacharjee," said Ming, as though Philippe needed to be told.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Philippe managed to say, eagerly shaking the older man's hand. The hand felt somewhat thin, and Philippe noticed that Shridar did seem somewhat frail—he had retired from the DiploCorps at least a decade before, and of course his remarkable work in Korea had taken place quite some time before that.

Shridar's eyes were still lively, though. "It's an honor to meet _you,_ " he said, generously.

Philippe suddenly felt warm.

"Now, don't you think," brayed Li in Shridar's general direction, "that someone like _you_ should be the first diplomatic contact with the aliens?"

Shridar laughed and waved his hands. "Oh, no. I'm far too old. This is a job for a younger man."

"But really," Li klaxoned.

"The Space Authority was quite specific in their physical requirements," said Ming, cutting Li off without the least visible trace of irritation. "And Philippe's not exactly a child—how old are you?"

"Thirty-six," said Philippe.

"And you've got a lot of experience in, shall we say, non-conventional situations," Ming replied with a smile.

Philippe smiled back. "Well—don't tell anyone I said this—but I think the DiploCorps' attitude is, if somebody has to be eaten by a space monster, it should be somebody junior."

Li exploded with laughter. His companion waited a moment, and then joined in with a nervous giggle.

Ming and Shridar didn't laugh, however. Instead, the two older gentlemen exchanged a look of concern.

"About that: What do you think of your security arrangements?" Shridar asked. "Are you satisfied with your level of personal protection?"

Philippe paused for a moment. It seemed like a bizarre and tragic waste of possibly his only chance ever to speak with Shridar Bhattacharjee to be talking about the minutiae of his own life. Still, one had to be polite.

"I don't—" Philippe almost said _care,_ but that sounded a little too blunt, or perhaps a little too honest. "I don't worry about that—like Ming said, I've been in any number of dangerous missions, and I've always felt like the Union Police had those sorts of matters well in hand."

"But this isn't like any other mission," said Ming.

"Well, of course," Philippe agreed. "But I guess I feel like people who know a lot more about security than I do are taking care of that end of things. There's not much I can do except leave them to do their jobs."

Shridar and Ming exchanged another look.

"Ordinarily, I would agree," said Shridar. "When the Union is, ah—"

"Unambivalent," chimed in Ming.

"Unambivalent," Shridar nodded. "When the mission is clear, then, of course, you would leave security to the Union Police. They're the experts. But when things are like they are now—the mission is utterly open, there is no way to define success—then sometimes you don't really get the support you need."

"You may be pulling in one direction," said Ming. "And there are factions in the Union that may be pulling in another. There is still, as I mentioned, a great deal of xenophobia, even among the upper echelons of the Union. It can complicate things."

Philippe stared at the two older men, the noise of the party washing over him. What was there for him to say?

"It's a bit like what happened to you with General Jesus in Guantánamo," said Shridar. "When the larger direction of a mission is unclear, the staff on the ground tends to suffer."

Philippe heard a gasp.

It was the woman. Her eyes were open even wider than before. Philippe was momentarily surprised that such a thing was possible.

" _You_ were at _Guantánamo?_ " she asked.

Philippe stared at her for a moment.

Li let rip with another braying laugh. "Sweetheart, you are so dumb—it's cute. Trang here was the _hero_ of Guantánamo."

The buzz of the conversation around them seemed to rise and cover Philippe's head. _Bzz-mbzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzz-bzzzzzz._

"There were no heroes at Guantánamo," he said.

Bzzz-bzzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzz-bzz-bzzzzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzzz.
Chapter 3

Philippe left the party as soon as he could—everyone knew he had a big day tomorrow, so aside from a few pitying looks shot his way by Shridar and Ming, no one acted like anything was amiss.

He entered his temporary residence and relished the quiet.

Solitude was what he needed now—solitude and time to prepare. He read farewell messages from his parents and several friends, and he deleted a message from Kathy without opening it. The staff had provided him with a packing box for any items he had brought to Beijing that were not approved for the mission, so he dutifully packed his personal belongings away and ordered them shipped to storage in Alberta with the rest of his things.

The next morning a car was there to pick him up. Space Authority headquarters was located on the outskirts of the city, and Philippe sat in the back and watched the car's controls as it drove itself through the city. Beijing was reasonably quiet at this hour of the morning, although not entirely so. There were still people puttering about the sidewalks, opening up the shops where they wore and sold their Space Authority merchandise.

Looking at them, Philippe felt a pang of guilt. These people would be so happy to be going where he was going—it was every child's dream. And yet he just felt numb.

The car drove him out of the city to the walls of the SA compound. Philippe opened his window and looked out at the facial scanner. Everyone said you didn't have to do that, but he always did anyway, just like he always kept an eye on the car when it drove.

He arrived at the gate, which like always, read his transponder just fine despite the fact that he carried it in his pocket. Likewise the building knew who he was, and text lit up on the wall, directing him to Flight Preparation. He noted with amusement that he now ranked high enough to have personalized directions flash on the wall screens as he walked by, but not high enough to have an actual human being take him where he needed to go.

He entered a booth at Flight Preparation, where his flight suit was waiting. He pulled the baggy jumpsuit off the wall, wondering if he could wear it over his clothing, or if he needed to strip down to his underclothes, or at least take his shoes off.

"Hello! And welcome—" There was a short pause, just long enough for Philippe to recover from the shock of having a booming video of a person suddenly appear on the wall. "—Philippe Trang!" the video person continued, the mouth not matching the words and the voice a suddenly different pitch.

The person was obviously computer-generated: She looked vaguely Asian and vaguely female, but not so much so as to alienate any secret racists or misogynists.

Philippe watched the entire video, examining the jumpsuit's hood as the video explained how to pull it over the head and create an airtight seal, and looking at the nozzle where he would be able to plug himself into an oxygen supply "in the unlikely event" that a meteor smashed into the ship or its engines exploded. There was a brief animation of the passenger and pilot pods ejecting from the ship and falling safely through Earth's atmosphere to land with a gentle splash in the ocean. No animation explained what would happen if the pods fell right back onto Beijing.

There was also no word on whether you could wear your clothes under the suit. Philippe asked the allegedly interactive wall, but it would only replay bits of the video that he had just seen, so he finally walked out of his booth to see if he could find a real person. Luckily there were some guys—construction workers for the Titan station—in the main changing room, who told him that he could just throw the suit on over whatever he was wearing, shoes included. He thanked them and returned to his booth to suit up.

He came out and followed the construction workers to the ship. He lagged behind them because he was a little embarrassed—he'd gotten his own changing booth, and they had not. Worse, the arrows that lit up for them said "Ship this way," while the ones that lit up for him said, "Welcome, Philippe Trang! This way to your ship."

The arrows were easy enough to follow, though, and Philippe walked down a long corridor that ended at the doorway to the ship. He walked onboard and felt a disappointing sense of familiarity—the passenger cabin was small, holding only about 20 people, but if it weren't for the suits people were wearing and the handholds sticking out of the walls and ceiling, he never would have known that he wasn't on an airplane.

At least the seats looked big and comfortable. A light appeared above one of them as he passed by, and the words "Philippe Trang" popped up next to the light, so he stowed his bag in the overhead bin and sat down. Most of the passengers were burly young men, construction workers or maybe military. But in the chair next to him was a slim, middle-aged woman with straight black hair streaked with gray. She was reading, but she looked up from her scroll as he sat and gave him a warm smile.

She started. "Oh, hello, I saw you on the news," she said. "You're the diplomat."

"Philippe Trang," he said, putting out his hand. Hopefully anyone cleared to go to Titan wasn't a stalker.

"Yoli Quintana," she said, shaking it. She had a Spanish accent—she must be just old enough that it hadn't been expurgated in her childhood—but she seemed very comfortable with English, so Philippe didn't switch.

He buckled himself in—the restraints were definitely more substantial than you'd see on an airplane, with straps both over the shoulder and under the arms that attached across the chest and into the seat between his legs.

"Are you with the SA?" he asked Yoli, more as a conversation-starter than anything else. She certainly didn't look like she was military or in construction.

"In a way," she replied. "I am borrowed from Pontificia Universidad Católica in Santiago. I'm an astrophysicist."

"Oh really?" asked Philippe. He tried to turn his body toward her to talk, but his restraints wouldn't let him. He turned his head instead. "So they're finally letting you guys go up?"

"Yes, finally. The SA has its own scientists on Titan, and I'm sure the military has people, too, but not a proper research team that can publish findings and the like. We received permission to send up people and equipment just six months ago—and I don't mean just UC, I mean the whole consortium of astrophysics programs." Yoli gave Philippe a sly look. "Of course, none of us get to go where you're going to go."

He shrugged as much as his restraints would allow. "I think I'm the first person to go through the portal who's not carrying a weapon. But my hope is that once we establish good, open relations with the aliens, and everyone feels safe, then scientists like yourself can come through and look around. Who knows what you might discover?"

Yoli grinned, clearly delighted at the thought. "That would be amazing," she said. "The Titan portal, you could work your whole life on that alone."

"Not to mention all the other portals on the other side," said Philippe. She nodded.

A couple of burly young men went past them and sat in the back of ship. It seemed like people were just being allowed to trickle on, which meant that it might be a while before the ship actually took off.

Philippe decided to take advantage of the time, not to mention the presence of an astrophysicist. "I have a question for you, since you actually know something about science, which I don't. What are those things? Those portals? I keep asking, and people keep trying to explain it, but it just never makes any sense to me."

Yoli's smile became rueful. "It doesn't make any sense to _anybody_ ," she said. "We can't even figure out how that camera works."

Philippe chuckled. "I guess it's not just us. If you ask the aliens what the portals are, they tell you that they're a great mystery of the universe, or an invitation to fulfill destiny."

"I've heard that they're really religious."

"Oh, they are," said Philippe, nodding vigorously. "Do you know their history of the station?"

Yoli shook her head.

"According to the Builders, several hundred years ago there was this prophecy that a portal would open up that would take them someplace far, far away."

Yoli nodded. "You are going really far, you know—outside the Milky Way."

"Yeah, I was told that it's not really in any galaxy." Philippe paused. He hadn't asked when he was briefed because he didn't want to sound like an idiot, but chances were that Yoli worked with students, so she was probably used to stupid questions. And she seemed quite friendly.

He decided to ask. "Is that even possible? To not be in a galaxy?"

"Oh, yes, it is," said Yoli. "There's a lot of space between the galaxies. A galaxy is simply a gathering of stars and planets. You're going into the space between the Milky Way and the Small Magellanic Cloud. It is like traveling to some isolated hotel between two cities—it's not impossible, it's just that there's not much there other than the hotel. And it's a _really_ long way away."

"OK," said Philippe, feeling relieved on two levels—if she thought he was stupid for asking, she hid it well. "Anyway, the prophecy goes on that once they get to that place, they should build this station, and then other aliens would come and they would all be friends."

Yoli looked surprised. "Really? It said all that? That was a good prophecy."

"Well, that's the official story," said Philippe. "I suspect that there's some historical revisionism going on: You know, like maybe what actually happened was this thing opened up, and no one was sure what to do about it, and then some Builder who had strong opinions about the matter came along saying, 'I very conveniently found this prophecy!' And that gave them some direction, and things just grew from there."

The ship gave a lurch, and the same bland face and loud voice that startled Philippe in his changing booth popped up on the back of the chairs in front of them.

"Welcome to the Titan shuttle," the face said. "Please fasten your restraints in preparation for takeoff. Please keep your restraints fastened until the alpha drive is engaged."

"Have you done this before?" Yoli asked Philippe excitedly, stowing her scroll in her armrest.

"No," he said.

"I haven't, either. It's fantastic!"

Philippe tried to mirror her enthusiasm, hoping it would ease the paralyzing nervousness he suddenly felt. "Yeah."

"I know I sound like a little girl, but I can't believe I'm finally going to Titan. It's something I've always wanted to do—always, always. And I'm really excited about getting to meet someone like Wouter Hoopen. What vision he must have to do what he did five years ago! I really admire him."

Philippe smiled tightly as the ship gave another series of shudders. He felt himself being tipped backward.

"We're falling—what's happening?" he yelped.

"They tilt the ship back for a vertical takeoff," said Yoli, patting his arm.

They sat on their backs for several minutes, and then the deep rumbling and vibration started. Hearing it in Beijing was nothing compared to being on top of it. Philippe felt like his teeth were going to shatter to bits in his mouth.

In a moment, they had taken off—the shaking hadn't eased any, and given the pressure Philippe was feeling, his crushed teeth were going to wind up right down his throat. He peeked over Yoli's head out the window, and saw that they were passing through a cloud. After a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, the rumbling ceased, and the sky outside the window gradually got dark.

The ship seemed to stall, and all the pressure on Philippe's body suddenly lifted. He felt his breakfast coming back up, but managed to remember the sick patch on his suit and slapped it in time. He tried not to think about meteors.

"In a minute, we will have alpha drive!" said Yoli. Philippe looked over at her: She was beaming, clearly thrilled by the entire experience.

There was another shudder, and then a high-pitched whine. "Alpha drive engaged," said the bland video person. "Please feel free to move around the cabin and help yourself to the available refreshments or entertainment."

Some of the passengers immediately unbuckled themselves and pulled themselves over to the refreshment center, but Philippe was in no mood to eat and decided to stay put. Yoli was looking out the window.

"So this alpha drive," he said, reaching back in his mind to a long-forgotten science class. "Does it use alpha waves?"

"You mean alpha particles?" she asked, turning away from the window. "I don't think so. The name's just sort of a marketing thing—like the alpha dog, the alpha drive. It's very macho."

"It is an impressive engine, though. Didn't it used to take months to get to Saturn?"

" _Years._ It took the earliest satellites _years_ to get there."

"And now it takes a day," Philippe said.

"We go fairly close to light speed," said Yoli.

Philippe became puzzled, dimly remembering something he had perhaps seen once in a virtual entertainment or heard about in a class. "If we're going at light speed, won't everybody be really old when we finish our journey?"

Yoli smiled—at least she found his ignorance entertaining. "It's not _so_ fast. We will gain only a few minutes on people who haven't made the trip. And if someone on Earth was observing us, we would look a little shorter right now than we did when we left, but we'll get that back once we slow down."

They chatted a bit more, and eventually both went back to their reading. Yoli fell asleep—she was still on Santiago time, apparently—but Philippe got hungry and unfastened his restraints. Moving about in zero gravity was tricky, but he was able to haul himself to the refreshment area without kicking anybody in the face. He ate, discussed soccer with some of the construction guys, puzzled out the toilet, went back to his seat, watched a movie, ate again, and was thoroughly bored by the time the video half-woman reappeared and woke Yoli up by telling everyone to strap back in.

Another sickening lurch and the high whine that Philippe had stopped hearing hours ago ceased, reclaiming his attention by its absence. The ship hit Titan's thick atmosphere and shuddered its way through the orange haze. The pressure wasn't nearly as bad this time, and of course there was nothing to see out the windows except for orange fog, so Philippe didn't realize how close they were to landing until he felt a big thump and the video person told them they could remove their restraints.

_I didn't even have time to get frightened,_ he thought.

The other passengers started taking off their restraints and getting their things, so Philippe got up and got their bags out of the bin, handing Yoli's to her. Then with a sudden _pop!_ the door to the ship opened. Philippe went out, followed by Yoli, and walked down a long corridor that had attached itself to the side of their ship.

It was newer and cleaner, but it looked just like the corridor in Beijing that Philippe had walked down to get on the ship. The air smelled slightly musty, but other than that and the noticeable difference in gravity there was no indication that they were on another planet, a moon of Saturn, hundreds of millions of kilometers from Earth, in an atmosphere of pure poison.

They reached the end of the corridor. Yoli saw some people she knew and went to greet them. Philippe was wondering where he should go when a young man approached him and said, "Philippe Trang? GM Hoopen is waiting. Follow me, sir."

"Sure," Philippe replied. "Is it OK for me to remove the space suit first?"

Philippe had not expected the question to be a stumper, but the man furrowed his brow and pondered it for a minute. "Yeah, OK," he finally said. "I don't think we're going to be passing near any of the areas that are under construction."

There wasn't a changing area, so Philippe stood off to the side and pulled off his protective suit, rolling it up and stuffing it into his bag. He did his best to smooth and straighten his clothing without a mirror, running his hands over his hair. Then he grabbed his bag and followed the man.

The Titan station was white and spare, but crammed with people—despite repeated expansions, overcrowding was a constant problem. Back on Earth, an SA staffer had told Philippe that, while at the station, he would be sleeping in a wall cubby. The staffer, apparently expecting some objection, had made a point of noting that the cubby's regular resident would be sleeping on the floor.

Even these finished sections of the station looked something like a construction zone—directional signs had been scrawled directly onto the walls. But there were also large, brass signs with arrows saying "General Manager's Office," and these they followed. Eventually they came to a door that bore another brass sign, "Wouter Hoopen: General Manager."

Philippe's guide opened the door, and Philippe walked in to what apparently was an outer office, with a well-appointed receptionist's desk and chairs. Standing in the middle of the room was a middle-aged, sandy-haired man in a space suit whom Philippe recognized immediately as Wouter Hoopen. He was facing a considerably larger black-haired man in camouflage and a woman, also in camouflage, who was almost as broad as the larger man and several centimeters taller.

Philippe recognized her and stepped over. "Hi!" he said.

She looked at him, polite but puzzled. "Hello," she replied, as one would to a too-friendly stranger.

_Oh, crap,_ thought Philippe. Of course, her height and mahogany skin were identical. She had the same round nose and prominent cheekbones.

But she wasn't the person he knew. Her black, curly hair was cropped short, and her left earlobe was distorted, as his soon would be. She was leaner, giving her face a more-pronounced heart shape, and her shoulders and arms were more muscular.

"I'm sorry," he said, embarrassed. "I-I think I know one of your sisters."

"Oh!" she said, unfazed. "Well, since you're the ambassador, you probably know Kali—she's a big peace activist, lives in Ottawa."

"I know a human-rights activist in Ottawa named _Kelly_ Pax," said Philippe.

"Yeah, yeah, _Kelly_ now. She was Kali when we were kids. The Pax names always confuse me." She put out her hand. "I'm Shanti Pax. Mission commander."

"Yes, yes, this is MC Pax," said Hoopen. "And you must be Philippe Trang."

Philippe nodded at the man while shaking Shanti's hand.

"Yes, Philippe Trang, DiploCorps," he said, disengaging his hand from Shanti's iron grip.

Hoopen stuck out his hand, but Philippe was distracted by the logo stitched onto the front of Shanti's camouflage shirt—a snarling jungle cat, with fangs bared. The detail of the mouth and teeth suggested blood. The large man next to her had the same logo on his shirt.

A chill ran up Philippe's back, but he remembered himself. He looked at the sandy-haired man, smiled, and shook the proffered hand.

"I'm GM Hoopen," said Hoopen. "I wanted to introduce you to your colleagues. MC Pax obviously will be in charge of your military escort and security. Her second, Pieter Strauss, would be here, but he's overseeing the final outfitting of your living space on the alien station. And this is MO Dimas."

The larger man looked slightly amused. "That means medical officer," he said as he engulfed Philippe's hand in one of his own. The backs of his hands were covered in black hair that ran up his powerfully muscled forearms. "In other words, I'm your doctor. And please call me George."

"Yes, he's your medical officer, a respected emergency-medicine specialist," said Hoopen. "He also has a graduate degree in zoology."

"Well, it was nice meeting you both, and I look forward to working with you," Philippe said, keeping the strain out of his voice, and he hoped, his face. He turned to Hoopen. "Do you mind if we have a brief chat, in there?" He pointed toward the inner office.

"Not at all," Hoopen said, and headed inside. Philippe waved at the other two with a smile, and then shut the door, leaving them in the outer office. He watched as Hoopen walked behind a sizable desk made of dark wood and laden with gadgets, and sat down. Behind him was an entire wall of large, expensive-looking monitors.

"What's going on here?" Philippe asked sharply.

"What?" said Hoopen, raising an eyebrow. "You don't want to work with a clone?"

His blunt use of the term surprised Philippe. "I don't care about that," he replied. "And you shouldn't call them clones. It's offensive. I don't care that she's one of the Pax sisters. I care that she's one of the _Special Forces_."

Hoopen gave him a surprised look and put his hands in the air. "You knew when you agreed to this assignment that you would be accompanied by an entourage of twenty soldiers—"

" _Soldiers._ Not combat specialists. Not killers. I assumed that I would be working with _soldiers. Peacekeepers._ "

Hoopen stared at him for a moment, and then gave a quick laugh. "The UP?" he asked. "You thought you were going through with the UP at your back? So if the aliens attack, you want the Yoopers to put them down with, what, sticky guns and poofballs?"

"The DiploCorps _always_ works with the Union Police—" said Trang.

"Not this time—" said Hoopen.

"We _always_ work with the Union Police because we can trust them to not make a situation worse. If we fail, and the UP fails, then and _only_ then do the Sister You-Know-What-ers get to come in and kill everybody."

"The SF has been on this from the beginning. They've been the ones outfitting your area of the station. They've been doing it for _months._ " Hoopen paused. "They haven't killed anything or blown anything up yet."

"Not _yet._ It's the Special Forces. Give them time," Philippe spat.

He was upset, and it was showing. He took a breath, willing himself to appear calm and logical.

"What's going on here, Hoopen?" he continued, in a more reasonable tone of voice. "I come here thinking that we're going to try to make friends with these people—"

"These _aliens,_ " said Hoopen.

"—and I find that I'm going through with twenty homicidal maniacs and, what, a vivisectionist?"

"The Special Forces are the best-equipped, best-trained military force the Union has. Which means they are the best-equipped, best-trained military force the Earth has."

"If you want somebody dead, they are the best," said Philippe. "They are very good indeed at making people dead. So what are they doing here?"

Hoopen threw up his arms. " _I didn't ask!_ " he exclaimed. "I didn't ask. It's not my place to ask. I don't understand why _you're_ asking."

"You don't—?" Philippe stared disbelievingly at Hoopen for a moment, and then realized that the man was telling the truth.

Hoopen genuinely did not understand why Philippe would object to taking a combat force on a diplomatic mission. Either he didn't get the significance of it—which was possible, since he wasn't DiploCorps, Union Police, or Special Forces—or he didn't understand why Philippe should care.

Maybe if I try a different tack.

"Hoopen," he said, confidentially. "Think about it. The Union knows what standard operating procedure is on a diplomatic mission. If they're going to deviate from that—and trust me, this is a major deviation—they should have told me. Why didn't they tell me? Why wasn't I briefed on this?"

"Why do you ask so many questions? Who do you think you are?" Hoopen snapped back, unmoved. "You're just a junior diplomat, and people far more senior than you or me have made up their minds. I'm not going up against that. It's simple for me—the SF is going through the Titan portal."

Philippe opened his mouth to reply.

"No, no, no," said Hoopen, shaking his head and wagging a finger at Philippe as if he were a child. "The Union decided: It's the SF. Period. They are going to provide protection to whichever diplomat goes through that portal. They didn't tell you because it's none of your business. There is nothing you can do about it; there is nothing I can do about it."

Philippe opened his mouth again.

" _Before_ you make a fuss," Hoopen interrupted, "just remember that there are a thousand others just like you. Maybe they're not as well-connected, but they are just as qualified and just as eager. They are all happy to take your place. So for you, the choice is simple: You can be the diplomat who goes through the portal with the SF and lives on the alien station, or you can be the diplomat who goes back to Ottawa, and somebody else goes through that portal with the SF. It's entirely up to you."

Philippe stared at Hoopen. There would be no help here. Philippe could see right through the station manager: Hoopen was a fraud, fat and happy to be the little king of his little hill, and as long as his station was expanding and his budget was increasing, he would go along with _anything_ the Union brass wanted.

Philippe began to feel the fury rising in him. Hoopen had him over a barrel, he was compromising the mission, and he just didn't care. He _couldn't_ care because all was right in his little corner of the world, and his little bureaucratic mind could encompass nothing beyond that.

_Yoli will be so disappointed,_ Philippe thought _._

He couldn't even look at the little man. He needed to think and think fast, and Hoopen was making him so angry that he couldn't think at all. Philippe looked down at the floor, calming himself.

His eyes followed the elaborate pattern of the wood inlay there.

_Parquet floors?_ he thought for a moment. _Damn, this is a nice office._

He put it all out of his mind. He needed to _think._

Hoopen was right about one thing: Philippe had only two choices, stay or leave.

Frame the problem that way, and Philippe knew immediately what he was going to do. He would be damned if he was going to leave this mission—Earth's first diplomatic mission to the aliens—in the hands of hacks, fools, and maniacs. Shridar and Ming had been right—the Union _was_ ambivalent, and there were probably strong forces who wanted to see the mission fail.

But Philippe wasn't one of them: This mission mattered to him, and it sure as hell wasn't going to succeed without _someone_ on it who gave a damn and who knew what to do.

And he knew what to do. Hoopen was wrong about him: He wasn't well-connected—his parents were farmers, for God's sake. Whoever put him on the mission, it wasn't someone who wanted it to fail. It was someone who knew damned well there weren't a thousand others out there just like him.

Philippe looked up and glared at the little station manager.

"I'll go. But you haven't heard the last of this, Hoopen," he said. He turned and walked out the door.

Shanti was still standing—ramrod straight—in the outer office.

"Hey," she said. "George wants to give you your earplant."

Philippe nodded stiffly, and followed her out the door. They walked in silence down the hall.

"So, 'shanti' means 'peace,' and 'pax' means 'peace.' What's your real name?" he finally asked.

"My _true_ name is _Shanti Pax!_ " she sing-songed, and then laughed. "But my _original_ name is Surpanakha—you haven't heard of her. Minor Hindu demon. Kind of a puss, actually. Not cool like Kali."

They walked along a little bit when Shanti suddenly opened a door and looked in. She waved Philippe in and shut the door behind him. Only then did he realize that she had led him into an empty office.

"I have to tell you something," she said. "Hoopen's a dick. And he forgot to soundproof his door."

Philippe closed his eyes and touched his fingers to his forehead.

"I'm sorry," he said. "How much did the doctor—"

"Oh, George took off the minute you guys went in, don't worry. And you know, I'm OK with it—at least you have an original reason for not wanting to work with me."

"I'm really, I'm so sorry," stammered Philippe. "I just, I—"

"You don't want to be sandbagged, I understand." Shanti paused for a minute, thinking. "I know you think maybe we're not on the same page here, but let me tell you something: The SF has done everything we can possibly do to ensure our safety on this mission. _Everything_.

"Even so, if the aliens turn out to be hostile, if they turn on us? There is no doubt in my mind that we are all dead. We built our area, but they built the station, and God only knows what they've built into it. Hoopen might tell you that your life depends on us, but the truth is, our lives depend on you and you doing your job. So we are not looking to start a fight."

Philippe stared at her.

Shanti smiled and opened the door to the hall. "We're not the _Suicidal_ Fuckers, you know."

They walked out. Philippe felt suddenly ashamed.

"I'm sorry I confused you with Kelly," he said.

"Oh, that's nothing! This training buddy of mine, she spotted Muireartach in Bangalore, and walked right up to her and grabbed her tit, like that—" Shanti made a twisting gesture with her hand. "Luckily she shouted, 'Protect your package!' just before she did it, so Muireartach realized it had to be someone military. Which is good, because they're both pretty tough, and I like them both and would hate to see them fuck each other up. But you know what will bother people? That Sister Fucker bullshit. You'll hear us call ourselves that, but you're not in the SF, and it's not a good idea for you to do it. You can 'you-know-what' around it all you fucking want, but you'll still wake up with a slit throat."

"OK," said Philippe, thinking that there was not a phrase in that monologue that Kelly would have uttered, ever.

"So this earplant you're getting?" Shanti continued. "It's fancier but it goes in just like a regular earplant."

"I've never had an earplant."

"You've never—what?" Shanti stopped and turned to him. "Did you just say that you've never had an earplant?"

"Right."

"You've never had an earplant."

"I prefer not to have things implanted."

"So—I'm sorry, I'm just having trouble processing this—so when you were in Sudan, and Kurdistan, and—. Shit. When you were in _Guantánamo_ —?"

"They always _recommend_ earplants, but this is the first assignment I've had where I've been _required_ to get one," Philippe explained. "I just carry a transponder on me."

Shanti gave a brief, shocked laugh. "You just _carry it on you?_ So when they grab you, they can just _take it off you?_ "

"Sometimes they cut off ears, too," Philippe said quietly.

She grinned mischievously. "Oh, yeah, they do."

Philippe's stomach roiled. They started walking again and finally reached the infirmary. Shanti pushed open the door.

"But so you know? The earplant is just a communications device." She slapped his shoulder as he walked through the doorway. "The transponder goes someplace else."
Chapter 4

The next day, Philippe sat, most uncomfortably, in one of the Titan station's briefing rooms. He was tired—the station was supposed to be on Beijing time, but while the clocks on the station agreed with those in Beijing, the truth was Titan was on its own time, or perhaps on no time at all. People slept in staggered eight-hour shifts to maximize sleeping space and work time, so whatever the hour, there was never any discernible change in the station's level of activity.

Because of the time it had taken for Philippe's earplant and transponder to be implanted, he hadn't gone to sleep until about midnight. At 4 a.m. his cubby had woken him up, turning on lights and sounding an alarm because "his" sleep shift was over. He had sat awake for a while after that, trying without success to figure out how to get the machine to wake him up before noon and wondering if someone on the 4-to-noon sleep shift was going to try to get into the cubby.

Fortunately he had woken up naturally at about 7 a.m. Breakfast had been a ration bar, which would be all he'd be eating for the duration of his mission. While the bars provided the necessary calories and nutrients, plus caffeine if you wanted it, it took a while to get used to the reduced portion size.

Philippe's stomach had been grumbling when he entered the conference room, but the noise had been easily drowned out by the roar of the SFers. There were more than a dozen of them in the room, greeting each other with riotous enthusiasm, bellowing across the room, and occasionally plowing into each other.

It was an excess of high spirits that did not sit well with Philippe, who had quietly slipped into a chair. There was the lack of sleep and real food, plus his ear was itching and felt swollen— _was_ swollen, distended anyway, because of the earplant. And thanks to the transponder—which had indeed been implanted "someplace else," namely his left buttock—he had to sit with his weight shifted far to the right, a position that was already beginning to bother his back.

Philippe was the only person in the room not in a camouflage uniform and the only person not sporting an angry feline embroidered over the heart. He also, to put it bluntly, felt very small. He was not a big man, and right now, he was surrounded by bruisers. Almost everyone was at least a head taller than Philippe, and they were all easily over 70 kilograms, maybe over 80—even the women.

There were only two of those, Shanti and a shorter woman who was extraordinarily pale with white-blue eyes. She had straight black hair that lay flat against her scalp despite her short crop. With the exception of Philippe, Shanti, and the doctor, George, no one in the room looked over 30, or even over 25.

Shanti was chatting in the back of the room with a man who was fully two meters tall. She stopped, checked the clock, looked around, and yelled, "Everybody here?" There was a murmur of agreement, and she said, "So, sit!"

Those who were standing sat, while she remained standing in the back. "OK, I want you all to meet our ambassador, Philippe Trang. Philippe, stand up please." He stood, smiled and waved, wondering if he was expected to give a speech.

"He's what we're here to protect," she continued, so Philippe sat down. "Got it? Introduce yourselves after the briefing. Patch here is back from the other side to tell us about our situation. For those of you who just got here, Patch has been overseeing the outfitting of our living quarters on the alien station. He's my second, so do what he says or we break your fucking legs."

Everyone around Philippe seemed to find the prospect of broken bones simply hilarious. Patch walked up to the front of the room. His sleeves were rolled up, and his bare forearms immediately resolved any questions as to why he had the same name as a popular delivery system for recreational drugs: There was a large cannabis leaf tattooed in bright green on each arm.

He began to speak. "OK, guys, so I guess some of you just got here and don't know this? But we've been outfitting our little human area for a while now." Patch waved his hand, and the wall behind him sprang to life, showing the familiar station.

"So, you've all seen this. You see how it's shaped like a starburst or something, with this big cylinder in the middle and these big, like, prong things sticking out of the cylinder." Patch pointed to the cylinder and "prong things" as he talked.

"So, this big cylinder, it's, like, the common area, where all the aliens can hang out together and talk and shit. And these prongs, see? Those are, like, where each alien species lives. There's, like, a docking bay at the end of each prong, for ships."

He waved his hand again, and one of the prongs turned red.

"This is our prong," he said. He waved his hand again, and it detached from the cylinder, turned, and enlarged. The outer layer stripped away, showing a cross-section of the prong.

"Everything in our prong is, like, ours—atmosphere, power, defense, it was all built here or on Earth, you know, by humans. We can seal our prong off from the common area, and pretty much do whatever we want with it. The only rule the aliens have for our prong is that we can't have any weapons in it that will fire into the common area."

One of the SFers raised his hand.

"Yeah," said Patch, pointing at him.

"Is the common area demilitarized?"

"Sorta," Patch said. "No visible weapons."

That caused an immediate sensation, with the soldiers gasping and gabbling to each other. _Now I know how to shock an SFer,_ thought Philippe.

"We knew that, we knew that," Shanti yelled, quieting the din. "We got extra concealables and uniforms that hold them."

"We've set up the first quarter of the prong as a no man's zone," said Patch, launching into a lengthy explanation of the various autofire weapons and explosives that lay in wait for the unwelcome visitor. The presentation seemed to calm everyone in the room except Philippe, who just tensed up more and more as Patch explained how the explosives in the floor had detectors that enabled them to launch up to the height of the mass moving overhead before blowing up, and how there were heavy airtight doors on either side of the no man's zone, and how the zone had packed around it a ring of explosives that were powerful enough to blow their living area away from the station entirely.

"We installed all that using robots, so yesterday, Gingko and I were, like, the first humans to actually go in and hang out. It all checked out; we turned the air on and were able to open our suits and walk around without, you know, dying," Patch concluded, nodding.

"How's the common area?" asked Shanti.

"The common area was OK—it smells a bit funky, and it's a little weird, but you can deal."

"What's weird about it?" she asked.

"Well, it kinda makes you fly," he said with a laugh. A few of the SFers laughed, too. "I mean, the oxygen's a little less than we're used to, and the gravity's a little less too—it's kinda weird. The lighting is flippy too because too much blue is, like, really bad for some of the aliens' eyes, so things are real orange and look strange. And, of course, there are all the aliens. And I got something to tell you about that, too."

He waved his hands again, and a picture appeared of two of the aliens usually referred to as the Builders or the Founders—the species that first built the station. It was debatable whether they looked more like giant insects or giant crustaceans: They had segmented bodies, were about the size of a cow, and were covered in some sort of hard shell that ranged in color from deep orange to bright red, with dark spots.

They also had six limbs that they used both as arms and legs, each ending with seven long fingers. While they usually walked on all six feet/hands, they had a good sense of balance: Philippe had watched the many videos the Builders had made of themselves and sent through the portal, and he remembered a shot of a Builder standing on only one limb, using the other five to manipulate what he assumed was a piece of machinery. The Builders lacked any visible head; instead, each segment ended in a fringe of "fur." Some people thought the fur was some sort of sense organ, although others argued that their limbs contained whatever sense organs they had.

"So you know these guys, right? They're smiling right there," said Patch, indicating the picture. "They kinda run things, and since I was trying out the translators, too, one of them asked me if I would help out with something. The Union already gave them, you know, all our words, our English, but they still needed the terms we use to describe the different aliens."

Philippe raised his hand, and Patch nodded. "Couldn't we use the names they use for themselves?"

"That's what I told them, you know, that we hadn't really chosen names for the aliens because we thought it would be, like, rude. But they said not to worry about it, that nobody aside from that one guy can even, like, pronounce the words different aliens use for themselves. They said to just come up with something that would be easy for us to remember." Patch looked slightly guilty. "They, like, really wanted to have the names before we all got there. They looked really worried about it, so I figured I'd better do it."

He turned back to the video. "So, here are the names. These guys, since they're hosting us, I called them Hosts. And these two in this picture? They're, like, our guys—they're assigned to us. So I called them Max and Moritz—he's Max and he's Moritz."

He waved his hand, and the video of the two Builders—Hosts now, apparently—was replaced by one of a group of about a dozen aliens of another species. They were about a meter long and half as high, covered in spikes of various thickness, and they reminded Philippe of sea urchins. Some of their spikes ended in multicolored blobs. They were sitting close together, and Philippe could see that the aliens had all linked their spikes together.

"OK, these guys I called Pincushions," said Patch. "Although I was thinking about calling them Cluster Fuck, because that's what they're doing right there when I took that, just right on out in the common area."

"Awesome," said a freckled man sitting to Philippe's right.

"Yeah, I asked Moritz, 'What are they all gathered together for, guy?' And he said, 'They're exchanging genetic material.'" Patch pointed to where the aliens were touching each other and laughed. "And those blobs? Those are like clothes. They're, like, doing it in public with their clothes on."

Everyone around Philippe expressed their appreciation, while he massaged his temples with his forefingers.

Patch waved his hand, and the next image appeared. _Oh, great,_ thought Philippe. _He's named these the Vacuum Cleaners._

It was, after all, what they looked like—small, round, flat, and brown, they whipped silently around on the walls and floor in the background of any video.

In fact, Philippe, realized, that's what he had been told they were—simple maintenance drones. _Why is Patch—?_

"OK, these guys are complicated, because they're basically machines," Patch began. "But they're not just machines. They're the eyes and ears of these other aliens, who like, live in water and can't leave their prong. They're, like, connected remotely to their machines. I called them the Swimmers."

Everyone murmured, and Philippe started in surprise. There had been nothing about any of that in his briefings—no suspicion that the drones were anything but drones, and certainly no mention of an aquatic species of alien. _God, if this idiot can make a discovery like that in one day. . . ._

"So I didn't see them, but I'm told that there are actually two Swimmer species that live on the same planet and came to the station together. One's big and one's small, so I called them Big Swimmers and Little Swimmers."

The freckled man snorted with laughter.

Patch waved his hand, revealing a picture of an alien with an elongated body that stood on four legs and had four arms. "These I called the Cyclopes."

Philippe raised his hand, and Patch pointed at him. "Why did you call them the Cyclopes?" he asked.

Patch turned and looked at the picture. "Oh, you know, they kind of look like a Cyclopes because of the way they're built—you know, half-guy, half-horse?"

Philippe tried to keep his voice calm. "You mean a _centaur?_ "

Patch stared at him a minute. "Is that what they're called? No, like a Cyclopes, you know, like in mythology?"

"A _centaur_ is half-man, half-horse," said Philippe. "A _Cyclops_ has only one eye."

"Oh," said Patch, looking at the picture. The alien, Philippe knew, had four visible eyes—or eye spots, anyway—one on each side of each shoulder. "Oh, I totally fucked my sister on that one. Sorry about that, guys—just try to remember Cyclopes, OK?

"So this one I didn't fuck up," Patch continued, changing the image. "This is the Magic Man."

_The Magic Man?_ thought Philippe, as he saw the familiar image of the Communicator—the only alien who could speak English, as well as every other alien language. But of course Patch would call him the Magic Man: That was the name for the Communicator that was popular among the sorts of people who had psychotropic plant parts tattooed on their bodies.

He raised his hand again. Patch looked apprehensive as he called on him.

But Philippe didn't intend to ream him out. "Did you get to meet the—the Magic Man?" he asked, with genuine curiosity.

"Aw, no, I didn't—I was bummed about that, too," Patch replied. "He was off doing something else. I didn't get to see him at all—this isn't even my picture."

Patch continued with his list of names, making Philippe suddenly grateful that he hadn't met the Communicator—hopefully the alien's first contact with a human would be with someone a little less likely to offend.

Patch named off the White Spiders, the Blobbos ("They, like, drive little cars around the station, 'cuz they're small, and they steer with their foot."), and the Snake Boys, and then thank the Lord he ran out of species before Philippe's blood pressure made his head explode.

_I can fix this,_ he thought. _When we get there, I'll just ask them to change the names._

"So obviously you spoke quite a bit with the aliens," said Shanti.

"Just with Max and Moritz," said Patch. "Nice guys."

"How did the translators work?"

"Pretty well, yeah. Just, like, watch the slang, you know? Like, I asked them, 'What's up?' and they, like, totally couldn't understand that."

"OK, thanks. Vip, you're up."

Patch waved his hand, the wall went blank behind him, and he sat down.

A somewhat less gigantic and considerably tenser-looking South Asian man took his place. He began speaking in a rapid-fire cadence, with no pauses for questions, nor, apparently, for breath.

"You're all outfitted with modified earplants, and your uniforms will have two patch mikes—one on the left that's your normal com, one on the right that enables your translator mike. I know this is important to some of you—you are wearing no alien technology, it's all built on Earth.

"The translator doesn't work that differently from the one you use with non-Union-English-speaking populations: Every word you speak is translated into a universal code, and that code is translated into an alien language by a receiver the alien wears. When an alien wearing a translator speaks, it's put into code, and the code is picked up by a receiver and translated into Union English by your earplant. Everyone uses the same code, so you only need the one translator.

"The earplant's wired directly into the auditory nerve like always, so no one else hears what you hear. One thing to remember: If you or the alien aren't wearing your equipment, or it's not on, the doctor tells me that there's a good chance that you probably cannot even hear each other, because a lot of what they say isn't within the range of human hearing. Also, the aliens know only Union English—any other Earth language will not translate and possibly cannot even be heard. So keep that in mind. Got it?"

"Are there questions? No? Thanks, Vip," said Shanti. "Doc?"

George walked up to the front.

"Obviously, if Patch and Gingko survived," he said, "it can't be that hard."

Everyone laughed.

"So what are my concerns?" George continued. "My concerns are allergens and disease. From what the aliens tell us, no pathogen—no germ—has been able to make the jump from one alien species to another, but there's always a first time. You could also develop allergies to anything—alien dander, alien bad breath, anything—and they could be severe. So: You wear lonjons all the time. These have been modified so that if you start to have an allergic reaction, you get pumped full of drugs and I get alerted so that maybe we can save your life and keep your mom happy. The aliens say they keep the atmosphere and the surfaces in the common area very clean, but don't be stupid—don't touch what you don't need to touch, and don't eat anything that's not a ration bar.

"You _must_ wear the lonjons at all times, even in quarters, that's an order from your MO. There's also biohazard gloves, which you should probably wear in the common area. But I'm not going to make that an order."

"I am," Shanti interjected. "If you don't have your biohazard gloves on and your hood ready, you don't leave quarters."

George looked annoyed. "You're hampering the progress of science, you know."

"I'm not having my people make medical history just to keep you happy, you sick fuck," she said. "Get out of here."

George sat down with a grin on his face.

Shanti walked up to the front of the room. "OK, I want to focus everyone's attention on the first part of Patch's presentation." She waved her arm and Patch's first slide appeared, then she flicked her hand until she reached the cross-section of the prong.

"You see here our worst-case scenario. We shut this airlock, we blow ourselves off from the station. We're not going to have a ship sitting at the alien station, because the Union considers that a security threat to Earth, so that means we fucking float in space until the Union decides to come find us. Of course, the aliens have ships, so in the worst-case scenario, either they'll be attacking us, or they'll be attacking the ship that comes to rescue us, or they'll just be heading on through the portal to attack Titan and Earth."

She stopped and looked at the soldiers.

"Anybody here want to be in that position? Because trust me, if we wind up in the shit, and it's the fault of _anybody here_ —someone was stupid, someone started a fight, someone fucked up—it won't matter to you if we get rescued. You, personally, will be dead. I will fucking kill you myself. Do you hear that? I will kill you myself. And I'll fucking take my time about it, too."

She looked across the room, and she caught Philippe's eye, she winked. _Oh, my God,_ thought Philippe. _This is supposed to reassure me._

"Everybody got that? Now, let's prep. Lonjons and new unis are in the back."

She clapped, and everyone stood up and began to introduce themselves to Philippe. He caught a few names—Ofay, Mo, Vijay, Cut—and exchanged a few pleasantries, then realized with a start that the large, burly man shaking his hand was not wearing a shirt. He looked around and realized that all the soldiers were pulling their clothes off, picking up new clothes from the back of the room, and changing, right out in the open. He held back an exclamation: They were not wearing undergarments, not at all, not of any sort. And at least four of them had the SF cranky kitty logo _seared into their flesh,_ right above the heart.

"Hey, doc!" Shanti's voice boomed out again.

"Yeah!" came George's voice.

"You wanna take Philippe's lonjons and take him to your office? I don't think he's worn them before, and we're just gonna be talking weapons. The medics can make sure everything's working."

"Sure," said George, who handed a small device to a large, pantless Asian man standing next to him and grabbed two suits from Shanti. "Let's go," he said to Philippe.

"Glad to," said Philippe, and eagerly escaped.

Philippe lay in the cubby, trying to fall asleep. He had gone to bed early, right at the start of the 8 p.m. sleep shift, in hopes of both getting a good rest and reducing the number of people he was forcing to sleep on the floor.

But his mind kept going back over what had happened that day. The Union Police he had worked with in the past had a certain hard-bitten quality to them, and at times they could be blunt. But they were always aware that they were representing the Union—its authority, its historic role in binding countries together and improving people's lives. They were, in a sense, diplomats themselves, so they bore themselves with a certain gravitas.

The SFers—oh, God. Philippe had never heard such casual threats tossed around: _I'll break your arm, I'll snap your neck, I'll shove this [random object] into your [specific orifice]._ Not to mention the constant and casual references to sibling incest to mean that someone had made, might make, or was going to make a mistake. He could only pray that such obscenities wouldn't translate very well where they were going.

He shifted and touched his chest, feeling the lonjons' slightly clammy exterior. It was supposed to be his second skin while he was on the alien station.

It was an impressive piece of technology, albeit one whose wonders had been described in rather too much detail by George. Even though the suit could handle it "without even giving you a rash," Philippe fervently hoped that he would never have to empty his full bladder into the lonjons. And the fact that the female SFers were on menstrual suppressors so that their monthly bleeding wouldn't "trigger" the suit was something that he simply had not wanted to know.

But the suit itself? He was certainly falling prey to what his parents called Nifty Toy Syndrome. It was like a bodysuit, with short sleeves, a turtleneck, and stocking feet. It was made out of God-only-knows-what—it certainly wasn't ordinary fabric. Whatever it was made of was so stretchy that the lonjons had no fasteners: You could literally stretch out the turtleneck far enough to step into the suit.

This stretch helped make the lonjons such an effective form of protection. If you got stabbed or shot. and the weapon got through the tough outer layer, the super-stretchy underlayer of the lonjons' fabric would get pulled into the wound by the force of whatever was going into you. Then it would operate as a bandage, releasing coagulants and antibiotics. You could put the outer layer into "hard" mode (or it would do so itself if you were injured), which made every part of the lonjons that wasn't covering a joint nearly impenetrable. You could put on a hood that would filter out any poisons in the air, and if the suit was in hard mode, you could put on the hood and it would get hard, too, becoming a helmet. There were also medical sensors and medical patches embedded into the suit, powered by your own body's heat, so if you accidentally came across something that turned out to be toxic, your lonjons could perform immediate triage. And if anything at all bad happened, the lonjons would instantly send out a distress call.

Definitely nifty.

Of course, at dinner the SFers had a long debate over the best ways to kill people who were wearing lonjons. Philippe had gone to pick up his ration bar after he had had a second meeting with the still-obdurate Wouter Hoopen and had sent a memo to Beijing _strongly_ recommending that the SFers be replaced by Union Police personnel as soon as possible. About a dozen thankfully fully clothed SFers, including Shanti, had been sitting near the bar dispenser, munching on their ration bars together just like they were eating a proper meal. They had hailed Philippe as he walked in.

It wasn't like a trained diplomat like Philippe was going to refuse to sit and have a meal with someone, even if that meal consisted of a 100-gram rectangle. But the experience didn't exactly put his mind at ease concerning the impression the SFers were going to make on the alien station.

Patch had thought that Philippe's last name was Thai and mentioned wanting to go to Bangkok. Philippe had told him that his father was actually ethnically Vietnamese, but said that he would love to go Bangkok and see the many temples and historical sites. It was obvious from Patch's replies, however, that if the SFer ever made it to Bangkok, he'd never leave the koffie shops. Philippe had toyed briefly with the idea of breaking the news to Patch that there was no such thing as Thai cannabis anymore, since all the legal THC was synthesized at a laboratory outside Calgary, but he had decided that he'd rather not.

Philippe had tried to learn everyone's name, but the use of nicknames was a bit confusing. The woman who was not Shanti was always referred to as "Baby," which Philippe thought was probably a nickname. Patch's real name was Pieter, but Philippe got the feeling that most of the unit didn't know that. Raoul Kim was one of the medics. Like Philippe, he had a Western first name and Eastern last name—in his case because he was a full-blooded Korean from Peru.

Philippe also met a Bi Zui, a Paco, a Rojy, a Bubba, a T.R., a Thorpe, a Feo, and a Cheep, who along with someone named Pinky would be piloting their ship to the alien station and (hopefully) back again. The freckled man even had a nickname for his nickname—he was called Five-Eighths, or Five, for short.

Five-Eighths had asked Philippe where he was from, and upon hearing Alberta immediately said, "So you're Amish?"

Philippe had sighed. "Amish" was a slang term that people sometimes used for individuals like his parents—back-to-the-land types who had come to Alberta from various cities (Paris, in his parents' case) in the 70s. Apparently no one bothered to fact-check news reports these days, because several of the profiles published about Philippe had reported that he was an actual, bearded, horse-and-buggy-driving Amish person. Such reports frequently included laughably somber speculation on what it meant for the Amish that one of their own was going into space.

"I know people use that term, but the Amish are actually a religious group—" he began.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, I know what the real Amish are," said Five-Eighths. "I'm from fucking Pennsylvania."

That sparked a discussion of the real Amish versus the faux Amish, which then spun off into a discussion of high-tech ways to kill people versus low-tech ways to kill people, and how the use of lonjons affected that calculation. Patch's contribution to the discussion was a tale, told with evident nostalgia, of how as a child he had blown up an abandoned warehouse using humble explosives he had devised entirely on his own out of common household materials.

This defense of the old apparently inflamed Baby, who suddenly turned to Philippe and said, "Do you know about these lonjons? Look here."

She pulled open her uniform shirt—they all, like Philippe, were now wearing the lonjons under their clothes—whipped out a knife from God knows where, and sliced the blade along her collarbone.

"See, no cut, no nothing—that didn't even hurt none," she said, pulling at the lonjons to better display their wholeness. "That ain't even hard mode. And this blade is sharp, too, see." Holding the knife in her right hand, Baby suddenly put out her bare left palm, ready to slice it open in order to demonstrate the knife's keenness.

"I believe you! You don't have to show me!" yelped Philippe.

Baby looked up at him, puzzled by his agitation, and then pulled up the collar of her unfastened uniform toward her mouth.

"No, no, no, I'm fine," she said, looking guilty. "No, there ain't no emergency, it ain't nothing—I was just showing the diplomat guy how the lonjons work. I'm sorry. OK, I'm sorry about that, doc, I didn't mean to set off nothing. Next time I'll be sure to tell you first. OK, OK, I am sorry."

"So," said Five-Eighths to Philippe. "Did you live in a tepee and grow crops and shit?"

"A yurt," said Philippe. "It's warmer."

"What the fuck's a yurt?" asked Five-Eighths.

"Did you raise livestock?" asked Baby, before Philippe could answer.

He nodded. "My parents still have the farm, although they have a regular house now. They grow some crops and have some animals."

"But since you're, you know, not about technology, you breed the livestock yourself, right?" asked Baby.

"Yes, we did, and they still do," said Philippe, wondering where this was going.

Everyone at the table went "Ooooh!" except for Shanti, who rolled her eyes.

Patch pointed playfully at him with a bit of a ration bar. "You know, when you don't buy the cloned animals, you take food out of our MC's mouth."

"I'm eating fine, asshole," said Shanti. "Shut up."

That night as he lay in his borrowed cubby, Philippe pondered those words. The Pax sisters had been discovered years ago when he was an undergraduate at McGill, and although it had been one of those unavoidable media sensations, Philippe had been a little too preoccupied by his coursework to follow the story closely.

He remembered that the man who cloned them was very wealthy, a brilliant scientist, and completely mad—they were part of some nonsensical plot to take over the world, but eventually the girls got old enough to realize that their "father" was utterly insane and poisoned him. There was much hysterical debate in the media about what to do with "the clones" and whether or not they could be rehabilitated, and it was all very tiresome to a young man more interested in passing his finals.

But Philippe did remember the video. There was a white sand beach—they were found on some private island in the South Pacific or maybe the Caribbean—and the girls, who had signaled their unconditional surrender to a completely unaware Union Police, were standing ramrod-straight and in formation. They were big, Philippe remembered being surprised to hear that they were just 14, and they were trying to be disciplined, but their faces were those of frightened children.

So were they connected to the livestock cloners? Philippe supposed it was possible. There were something like 50 Paxes, which certainly suggested the use of mass-cloning techniques like those used on cattle and pigs. It would make sense that the man who mass-cloned 50 apparently functional and healthy human beings would have a lot of experience doing it, since even mass-producing cloned livestock was tricky—they tended to have neurological disorders and a shorter life span, not that the average farmer cared.

If the Paxes' "father" had been the man who had perfected livestock cloning, he would have been very wealthy indeed. Everyone used cloned livestock these days: It was cheaper for a farmer to buy cloned livestock than to pay the stud fees and vet bills to get cows and sheep the old-fashioned way. Only hobbyists and people with certain political convictions, like Philippe's parents, still did their own breeding.

_Funny,_ thought Philippe, as he drifted off to sleep. _I've known Kelly for three years, and I've learned more about the Paxes from her sister in two days._
Chapter 5

Philippe woke with a start at 4 a.m., instantly alert despite the early hour.

Today was the day.

A little morning hygiene, and he went to get a ration bar, deciding in advance not to have a social meal—he had too much to check up on. He spotted a couple of SFers as he grabbed and wolfed down the bar, but they all seemed distracted, too. He asked one of them, Bi Zui, where he could find Shanti, and the soldier took him to her. She introduced him to Sucre and Doug, both regular SFers, and the second medic, Gingko, who had accompanied Patch on his earlier visit to the station.

"Are you in the twenty?" Philippe asked Shanti.

"What do you mean?" she replied.

"Well, I've met the doctor, one of the two pilots, you, your second, and 18 soldiers, two of whom are medics. I had agreed to an entourage of 20 soldiers, and I guess they don't count the pilots or George, but I was wondering if they count you and Patch and the medics, or if there's more."

"Are you sure you met eighteen?" Shanti asked.

Philippe counted on his fingers. "Baby, Bi Zui, Bubba, Cut, Doug, Feo, Five-Eighths, Gingko, Mo, Ofay, Paco, Raoul, Rojy, Sucre, Thorpe, T.R., Vijay, Vip. Eighteen."

"Shit," Shanti said. "What are the pilots' names?"

"Cheep, who I've met, and Pinky, who I haven't."

She grinned. "No fucking way!"

"Is that everybody?" asked Philippe.

Shanti nodded. "Yeah, yeah, throw in George, me, Patch, and you, and that's the whole unit."

"Good," said Philippe, thinking, _I'm glad there aren't more._ "Do you mind if I address everyone before we go? I'd like to give them some pointers on diplomacy."

"Sounds good," said Shanti. "Hey, here's your suits."

Vip walked up with Philippe's dress suits, which he had taken off to mike up the day before. "Do you need a tutorial?" he asked, brusquely.

"They just slap on and off, right?" replied Philippe.

"Sort of," said Vip. "You hit it, you start talking, and it transmits to everyone. But if you want to talk to a specific person, then you hit it and say the name, like this."

He hit his own mike and said "Trang. Got it?" The question echoed in Philippe's earplant.

"Yes," said Philippe.

Vip slapped his mike off. "You can also transmit to groups. 'Medic' will get you all the medical personnel, 'outer guards' will get you the perimeter guards, 'soldiers' will get you—well, it will get you everyone except you, so I guess you won't need that one very often. There are some advanced features as well, but you probably won't need to use them—if you do, Thorpe or I can show you how."

"Thank you," said Philippe, gently feeling the fabric for any unexpected stiffness that could indicate additional gear. "I'm not carrying surveillance equipment, am I? Diplomats aren't allowed to."

Vip shook his head. "Only the soldiers do—you and the doctor are camera-free."

Eventually the unit, outfitted in space suits, gathered in a room near the docking area. Shanti instructed them to "shut the fuck up and listen good" because "the illustrious Philippe Trang is hoping to teach you assholes some manners."

"Thank you," said Philippe, walking up to the front of the room. "Of course, no one knows for certain what we should do when we get to the alien station, because with the exception of Patch and Gingko, we'll be the first human beings to actually set foot there and deal with the aliens face-to-face. We're pioneers, both from a security and a diplomatic standpoint, and we're working without a blueprint. So we're going to be winging it, at least to a degree, and it's quite likely that we will make mistakes or have some kind of disagreement with the aliens at some point. I'm hoping we can minimize any conflicts, and I have some experience doing so on Earth—"

"Such as?" Shanti interrupted. She made an encouraging gesture with her hand.

Philippe took the opportunity to recite his resumé for any SFer who hadn't bothered to look it up—which, to be honest, was probably most of them. "I've been involved in conflict-resolution negotiations in a number of Union and non-Union countries, including the Sudan, Kurdistan, Indonesia, Palestine, and Macedonia. In most of these cases, there were multiple parties involved who either had not engaged in negotiations previously or had a history of bad-faith agreements, so there was a strong atmosphere of suspicion."

The SFers stared at him blankly—Philippe had no idea if they were impressed and simply being stoic, or if they were too nervous to care, or if the notion of _minimizing_ conflict was so far out of their professional experience that they simply couldn't process it.

He decided to return to his main thrust. "I'm glad to say that in the five years since our presence became known to the aliens, they have never behaved in a hostile or threatening manner—indeed, we would not be on this mission had they done so. But we are, nonetheless, a new and strange species for them—an unknown quantity, if you will. Likewise, we know very little about them. For example, I have been receiving briefings about the various alien species for the past six months, and I can assure you that until Patch made his visit two days ago, no one had the least idea that there was one aquatic species on that station, much less two. No one even knew that there were nine species on that station—everyone thought there were only seven."

Patch grinned and pumped his fists in the air.

"I'd like us to do all we can to keep relations positive," Philippe continued, smiling at the large soldier. "If there are problems, I want the aliens to feel like they can come to us and have a chance at a fair resolution. I want them to view us, if not as friends, at least as unthreatening.

"To that end, I'd like you to do a little more than make sure your weapons are concealed when you're in the common areas—although I'd like you to do that, too." They chuckled. "I'd like you to be aware of your language, be aware of how it sounds to someone who doesn't understand the context and doesn't know you. When you say, 'I'm going to gouge your eyes out, dog-fucker,' that's something that will probably translate fairly accurately and could be easily misconstrued either as a sincere threat or a terrible insult."

They were all looking a little uneasy now, in part, Philippe knew, because his example was a direct quote of something Shanti had said at dinner. It was a bit risky, but often the best way to change a culture was to take on the leader who set the tone.

"Another thing to bear in mind is that there are nine species here, and we don't know how they relate to each other—they could all be very close allies, they could have already split into distinct alliances that compete with each other, they could all have a history of conflict. We have no idea. So please don't talk about the aliens in front of the aliens. Any questions?"

Thorpe raised his hand. "What's your position on surveillance?"

"As you know, all the relevant agencies agree that covert surveillance at this time is inappropriate," Philippe replied. "We don't know who to spy on; we don't know what to look for. We also don't know what they could detect. It's entirely possible that some of the aliens can hear our broadcast frequencies, for example.

" _Overt_ surveillance, on the other hand, is something I would strongly encourage—look around and ask questions; put what you find into your reports. So far, they've accepted our requests to take video, so keep your cameras on unless you are specifically asked to turn them off. We'll be sending regular packages back to Union Intelligence, and everybody should be contributing footage and reporting anything they discover through conversation. Any other questions?"

No one had any, so Shanti gave the order and they loaded on to the ship. It was different from the one Philippe rode to Titan: The pilots weren't walled off from the main cabin, and Philippe was seated directly behind Pinky, who true to his name had red hair and a pink complexion.

The only windows were those in front of the pilots. There were no overhead compartments to store baggage: Instead, the luggage was thrown, none too gently, into a cargo area in the back. The seats were considerably narrower and had a bare-bones quality to them—they had thin padding and didn't recline. A quick inquiry revealed that they could fold into the floor so that the ship could be converted into a cargo hauler.

Philippe buckled in and looked forward out the window to see the orange Titan fog again. Shanti sat next to him. "That was a good presentation," she said. "Food for thought."

"Thank you," he replied.

"OK!" Cheep said, his voice amplified by the ship's speakers. "We're ready to take off."

"Strap the fuck in, dog-fuckers!" shouted Shanti, her voice requiring no amplification.

Half a minute later the ship slammed back—none of the gradual tilting that had so unnerved Philippe in Beijing. Half a minute after that, they had taken off. Things went almost too quickly for Philippe to get nervous, but he managed to hit his sick patch the minute the fog cleared out into the blackness of space.

"Do we use an alpha drive?" he asked Shanti.

She shook her head as Pinky, who had obviously overheard the question, snorted with laughter. "We no got no alpha drive. Is no big enough for," he said.

"We're not going that far," Shanti said. "Plus, we gotta get through the mines and hit the portal, and you can't be going fast and do that."

"Mines?" Philippe asked.

"Yeah, you know, the portal defenses," she said.

"Hey, did you hear?" said Cheep. "Some of those university types who just showed up were asking if the SF would clear out all the mines so that they could do a study."

"Oh, you shit me," said Pinky.

"No shit, no shit whatsoever," Cheep replied, warming to the topic. "Like, sure, we'll just clear out all those pesky mines for you, so you can be right there when the invasion comes."

"University fuckers. Supposed to be smart. They no got no brains," said Pinky.

Chip was grinning "Sure, sure, we'll just drop all our defenses, so you can get your _studying_ done. No problem!"

"They can look, say, 'We still no know what that!'"

The pilots had a good laugh, while Philippe squirmed, thinking of Yoli. He was about to say something in defense of the researchers when a beeping began.

"Here we go!" said Cheep.

The two pilots' fingers began flying, and they began uttering codes into their coms. As near as Philippe could tell from their chattering, they were asking someone on Titan station to send clearance codes to the mines, while also transmitting codes themselves—and, Philippe assumed, not flying too close to any of them.

He leaned forward to look out the window and see the mines—a sprawl of small satellites, their lights glinting in the darkness. The ship was soon surrounded by them.

"Are those nuclear?" he asked Shanti.

"Yup," she replied, also leaning forward to look at the satellites, filled with the terror of a bygone age. She suddenly snapped up. "How did you know about that?"

"Oh, it was a huge headache for the DiploCorps, changing all those non-proliferation agreements. I mean, that technology's been completely banned for over 20 years," Philippe replied.

"Yeah," Pinky chipped in, his fingers moving without interruption. "I remember, when they went up, they no was legal."

Philippe blinked, and then decided that he must have misheard what Pinky said—the man's English was hardly Union standard, after all. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"That's right—32 clear, 32 clear. It was a big relief when those laws got changed, thanks for that." Cheep, still looking ahead, waved back in Philippe's general direction.

"Could you two focus on flying, _please?_ " said Shanti, her voice suddenly strained. She turned to Philippe, who was trying to digest what had just been said. "I didn't have anything to do with that."

A _pfft_ escaped from Pinky, while Cheep let out a brief bark of laughter.

"I _didn't,_ " she said, more forcefully. "OK, it was kind of hard to miss when it was happening, but it's not like it was my decision or anything."

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Philippe. "I-I-I mean, I know the defenses went up right after the treaties were modified, and there were rumors that the warheads had perhaps been _manufactured_ a little early. But I didn't, I had no idea—there were _riots_ in Japan over those mines!"

"And, they all still alive to riot again," said Pinky. "We through!"

Philippe peered at the satellite-studded space before them. "How can you tell?"

Pinky tapped a monitor. "Saturn, Titan, is gone," he said.

Philippe looked through the window again. They weren't facing Saturn and its moons, so the difference in scenery was subtle—far fewer stars, but equally as many satellites.

But shouldn't he have noticed? There were no weird feelings, or bizarre lights. Indeed, there were no lights at all, except those flashing on the satellites.

"Didn't there used to be a ring of lights around the portal?" he asked.

"The aliens put lights there to mark it when it first opened up," Shanti replied. "But we had them take them away—there was a concern that it kind of made for an inviting target. Plus, it was alien technology, and we didn't want any of that near our portal," said Shanti.

"So we just have our banned, illegal, deadly nuclear technology?"

"It's not illegal _now,_ " said Shanti. "Besides, we've got no mines on this side, they don't like that. From a security standpoint—and this may be useful to you as well, I don't know—they've really got this idea that there's _your_ space, and then there's _our_ space. And by _our_ space I don't mean _ours_ like _theirs,_ but _ours_ like _everybody's_.

" _Your_ space is totally yours—you can arm it like you want, and no one can enter it without your permission, and if they do, you can blow them away, no problem. _Our_ space is share-and-share-alike—it's open, people can do as they please, you don't have big weapons sitting around because that makes people feel unwelcome. As far as I can tell, the living areas on the station and what's on the other side of each portal is, like, private space, _your_ space. Everything else is _our_ space."

"Interesting," said Philippe, looking at the blinking devices around them. "What are these satellites, then?"

"Surveillance," Shanti replied. "They send probes back through the portal every few minutes. If you look, you might see one shoot."

Philippe watched, but nothing shot while he was looking. It was funny to think that with all the advances in communications technology, the military and the Space Authority had to rely on sending physical messages, just like the old postal systems or the Pony Express. But that was the portal—nothing from one side went through to the other, except for people, ships, satellites. . . . It was so bizarre.

The Titan portal, you could work your whole life on that alone.

Philippe wondered how Yoli was doing. He fervently hoped that no one had called her a university fucker to her face.

"You see there?" asked Pinky, interrupting his musings.

"Oh, wow!" said Philippe. "The station's just right in front of us, isn't it?"

The station—the massive, alien station—was looming up before them, and Philippe had hardly noticed it. It wasn't lit well from the outside, and he stared at it, trying to connect the lights sprinkled across his field of view into the sunburst shape made familiar from videos and diagrams.

"It's not that easy to see, is it?" Philippe said.

"It's fucking dark," said Shanti.

"Yeah," said Cheep. "Surprisingly so, right? But we're really far from any natural light source—they built this place in the middle of fucking nowhere. What you're used to seeing is footage from satellites, and those cameras are made to work in low light, and then the images get enhanced. It's a hell of a lot harder with the naked eye, even if you're augmented."

The pilot's fingers went to work again, and the ship eased up next to one of the docking bays—Philippe hoped it was the right one, otherwise some alien was going to have a few unexpected guests. The ship shuddered as they docked.

"Welcome home!" trilled Patch from the back.

"Time to see if Patch did his job right," Shanti yelled back. She reached up and touched Pinky's shoulder. "Don't you guys leave until we say so."

"Got it," Pinky replied.

Philippe was ready to go, but Shanti stopped him—apparently the SFers had to go in first with their biggest guns in hand. He heard them shout "Clear!" at each other for what seemed like an hour. While he was waiting, Philippe went into the cargo area and found his bag. Eventually Patch stepped back into the ship and told him that, yes, things were clear, would Philippe like a quick tour of the place? Philippe enthusiastically agreed, quickly slinging his bag over his shoulder and following Patch out into the space station.

Stepping through the doorway, Philippe looked around excitedly, and then rolled his eyes. The living area was Union-built all right—here he was, nowhere near the Earth's solar system, out of his own galaxy, even, and the hallway he stepped into looked clean and white, exactly like the hallways of Titan, exactly like the hallways of Beijing.

And it felt exactly like Beijing too....

"Hey Patch," Philippe asked, interrupting Patch as he pointed out an armory. "Why is there gravity?"

"Uh, yeah," Patch said, looking slightly guilty. "The gravity. OK. You know how this area is all supposed to be outfitted on Earth, with Earth technology, right? So the aliens would say, like, 'Do you want to do the atmosphere, or do you want us to do the atmosphere?' And we'd say, ' _We're_ doing the atmosphere.'"

"Uh-huh," said Philippe.

"Well, then one day they said, 'Do you want to do the gravity, or do you want us to do the gravity?' And we asked Titan, and they asked Beijing, and the SA was like, 'What do you mean, do the gravity? We can't fucking _make_ gravity.' And the SF was like, 'Well, we can't fucking fight without it,' right, 'cuz you train mostly in gravity. And they were arguing about it, because you know, maybe the gravity could be some kind of weapon or a trap or something.

"So we didn't get back to the aliens with an answer, and I was here—I mean on the shuttle, overseeing stuff, you know—and they asked again. So I, um, I sort of said to them, 'Why don't _you_ do the gravity?' Like we were doing them a favor."

"As though it were goodwill gesture," said Philippe.

"Yeah," said Patch. "And I still haven't heard back from Beijing about it, so I guess it must be OK. Except for _that,_ and you know, the station itself, there's no alien technology in our living area. At least not that we know about."

Patch resumed the tour: Armory, enough sleeping cubicles to house a much larger group of soldiers, armory, entertainment area, training area, armory, armory, gym, communications center, cafeteria, armory, infirmary, armory.

"And this is your area," Patch said, opening a door and revealing a surprisingly large office. He walked through the office and opened another door, which led to an honest-to-God bedroom.

"I get all this space?" Philippe asked, walking into the bedroom and dropping his bag on the floor. There was a door in the bedroom as well; he opened it to see a small but complete bathroom.

"Yeah," said Patch, going back out into the hallway and opening another door. "This conference room is for you, too."

Philippe looked in at the conference room; it was larger even than his office.

"You know, I'm not complaining, but I feel weird about getting three rooms and my own bathroom when everyone else just gets a sleep cubicle and a gang shower."

Patch gave him a genuinely perplexed look, and then shrugged his shoulders. "It's a diplomatic mission, you know. Besides, by SF standards, those cubicles are fucking _nice—_ you can fit two people in one of those, easy—and we don't always have showers. This door is—oh, sorry, that's another armory— _this_ door is another office, which I think the MC wants to use for now, but she could always give it up if you wind up, like, needing a real staff. Is that all right with you?"

"Not a problem," said Philippe. "Even if I need an assistant, my office looks big enough for two."

"Well, it's up to you," said Patch. "More weapons stations, and then this—" he slapped his hand onto the blast doors that sealed off the end of the corridor "—leads to the no man's zone, and through that is where the aliens are. Which is kind of a flight."

"And we're going to visit them today, right?" Philippe asked.

"Yeah, if that's what you want. I think the MC wants to get everyone situated, and then we can go say hi. I'll tell her."

"Thanks," said Philippe. "I'm going to get situated myself, OK?"

He walked into his room and began to unpack his bag. There wasn't much. The SA wouldn't even let him bring a razor or clippers, so he'd been forced to get his head, hands, and feet flashed in Ottawa—the hair follicles on his face and scalp would be inactive for a full year, and his nails would not grow. Of course, God only knew what flashing your head did to the brain, and if he caught his finger in something or stubbed his toe, he'd have to wear a bandage for months and months. This, it seemed, was progress.

Philippe put away his gear, walked into his office to make sure everything there was in working order, and went back into the bedroom. He pulled off his casual clothes and put on his suit.

Looking into the mirror he saw a reasonably dapper man with dark hair and eyes—he had his father's coloring, although his eyes were round like his mothers. He looked more tired than either of them, though. He had looked tired for the past year, and by this point, he was beginning to wonder if it just meant he was old.

He was also nervous. As always before a big meeting, he began to obsess over his grooming, brushing his hair, smoothing his eyebrows, straightening his suit again and again. He folded down the turtleneck of the lonjons so that it didn't stick out over the suit jacket's band collar.

He kept smiling in the mirror— _We are friendly. We are not your enemy. Trust us._

He felt like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

The banging on his bedroom door came as a relief. Shanti opened it without waiting for a response and charged into the room. "Hey, Trang—holy shit! You look _nice!_ Damn, I wish the SFers got uniforms like that!"

Philippe couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, the DiploCorps is famed for its tailoring. And this is just a traveling suit—you should see what they wear in Ottawa."

"Well, hey, I got some accessories for you," said Shanti, shoving some pieces of cool fabric into Philippe's hands. "We've cleared our area—looks like they didn't fuck with anything—and we've unloaded, so as soon as you're ready, we can go meet the freaks."

"You mean, fulfill our delicate and historic mission?" asked Philippe, holding up what looked like two arm-length gloves and a hood with a transparent face panel.

"Yeah, that," said Shanti. "You know how to use those?"

Philippe shrugged his shoulders. "No idea," he replied.

She took the gloves and hood out of his hand. "Take off your jacket," she said.

He did, and watched as Shanti folded up the sleeves of his lonjons. Philippe pulled on the gloves, which practically went up to his armpits, and Shanti folded the left sleeve down over the top of the glove and pressed her hands around his arms. "Bango, motherfucker's airtight," she said.

Philippe did the same on the right side. The process was quite straightforward, so his mind wandered to the trip they had just taken.

"I was surprised by Pinky," he said. "I mean, I guess it's not that important considering what you do, but I didn't think anybody that young still spoke English like that, given how long they've been pushing Union English in the educational system."

"If your earplant tells you to put your hood on? Do it. Just pull it up over the top of your head, down across your face, and seal it to the front of your neck," said Shanti, as she unfolded his turtleneck and attached said hood where his neck met his shoulders. "My understanding is Pinky didn't speak any English when he joined the SF."

"Really!" said Philippe. "I thought you had to speak Union English fluently to take any Union job."

Shanti pulled her own hood down over her face to show Philippe how it was done. As with the gloves, it was quite straightforward, and he nodded at her.

She pulled her hood up. "Normally, you do, but with Pinky, I think it was one of those amnesty deals because he was in some militia that got pacified. He's a hell of an extractor, anyway. I wish he was still here."

"The ship left?" asked Philippe, surprised.

"Oh, yeah," Shanti said, blandly. "They're coming back, of course, but Beijing wants them to spend as little time as possible on this side of the portal. I don't see how that makes a difference, but they're paranoid."

"And we're expendable," Philippe said.

"Nice to know where you stand, isn't it?" she replied with a smile.

Philippe pulled on his suit jacket, checking the back to see if the empty hood left a lump. There was a slight one, but it didn't ruin the lines of the suit. _Not_ , _that the aliens would know,_ he thought, as he tucked the neck of his lonjons into his jacket collar again _._

"Oh, you can't do that," Shanti said. She reached into the neck of his jacket and pulled the lonjons' neck back up.

"It looks weird up," Philippe protested.

"No, it doesn't, it coordinates—blue suit, gray shirt. You look fabulous," she said, giving his hair a quick brush and turning him so that he faced the mirror. "And your gloves show anyway. Besides, you have to wear it _up_. It protects your _neck._ "

"You know," Philippe said, "technically speaking, I don't think I have to take orders from you."

"Hey, easy there," said Shanti, as she steered him to the door. "Technically speaking, I'm bigger than you are, and I have the guns."

They stepped out of his office into the corridor, where a dozen soldiers were waiting. Apprehension gripped Philippe as he smiled. "Now's the time," he said.

Vip and Shanti walked down the line, making sure everyone's com, cameras, and translator mikes were on and functioning, and that everyone had their gloves on and hood attached. Everyone except Philippe also went through a lengthy check of their concealed weaponry. The soldiers were to go through first, with Philippe at the rear, so he stood at the end of the line as the doors to the no man's zone slowly opened.

They went into the zone and had to wait for the inner doors to close before the doors to the rest of the station would open. Philippe was not normally claustrophobic, but he was standing with a dozen bruisers in what was essentially a narrow tunnel, waiting to meet aliens. The knowledge that he was surrounded on all sides by powerful explosives did nothing to reduce his anxiety.

They stood for what seemed like an eternity, but what must have been only a few moments. Philippe could feel his heart suddenly going _thump thump thump,_ pulsing throughout his whole body and filling his ears. Then, despite the mass of soldiers in front of him, he noticed a change in the light. They began to move forward, and so did he.

First came the smell, and then came the noise.
Chapter 6

Philippe stepped out into the orange light, the strange air burning in his nose and making him wrinkle it. _Don't look disgusted,_ he thought to himself, forcing his face to relax.

Smile.

He smiled and raised his hand. That didn't seem to trigger any change in the noise level, so he put his hand down again. He couldn't see much apart from the backs of the soldiers, who were standing taut with alertness, their hands touching the bulges in their uniforms, doubtless ready to whip out their weapons and mow the mob down at a moment's notice.

But he could hear, and there was a lot to hear. The translation mikes didn't broadcast far enough for him to know what the noises meant, but he could hear pings and warbles and blatting and squeaks, low chirpings and high chitterings. Underneath it all was a low, rhythmic thrumming, which Philippe found oddly soothing

"Excuse me," he said to the soldier in front of him. It was Bi Zui, who gave him a perplexed look. "I should go up and be diplomatic."

Bi Zui stepped aside, and Philippe walked forward between the soldiers.

He heard Patch's voice. "Wow, guys, what a reception! Have you, like, been waiting all day?"

_Better see what that's about,_ thought Philippe, stepping around Shanti.

Patch was standing with a big, doofy grin on his face. In front of him were—Max and Moritz. Philippe shook his head and blinked. It was definitely them—he recognized them right away. Behind them were at least 50 more, a host of Hosts.

Philippe had seen the Hosts in videos a million times. He'd been watching them for _years,_ replaying the videos obsessively like everyone else when the portal was first discovered, and then doing so again, even more purposefully, when he was assigned this mission.

But standing before them, he felt like he was _seeing_ them for the very first time.

The difference between seeing them in real life and seeing them on video was astounding. Back on Earth, Philippe had participated in or wisely avoided thousands of unresolved debates over whether or not the Hosts had faces. And now, seeing them in the flesh for just a moment, Philippe could see that they clearly did—not a stand-alone face on a head like a human, but a definite face nonetheless.

Their faces were on one end of their bodies, and different body parts combined and worked together to create unquestionable expressions. Part of the Host face was in the fringe between the foremost segment and the one behind it, and part of it was the way they held their forelimbs, and part of it was what he had thought were just markings. Philippe had watched hours upon hours of footage and had never really been able to grasp it, but now, he could see their faces as plain as day.

The Hosts had faces—and they were happy to see him!

"Hello!" said Philippe, stretching out his hand.

"Oh, guys, I gotta introduce you to Philippe, our diplomatic guy," said Patch. "This is Max"—he gestured to the longer and darker of the two Hosts—"and this is Moritz."

"We are extremely pleased to meet you, human diplomat," said Moritz. "This is an extremely auspicious day for us."

"For us as well," said Philippe, bowing after the aliens did not respond to his outstretched hand. "I look forward to establishing friendly relations between our peoples."

"Nothing would please us more," said Max. "On a personal level, both Moritz and I are delighted to be your liaisons. It is a tremendous honor to us and to our family."

As always with translations, their voices were tinny and devoid of emotion. But Philippe could also hear their actual speech, which was a chittering noise that started and stopped at odd intervals. He realized that the pleasant thrumming was also coming from the Hosts, although it didn't seem to bear any relationship to what they were saying.

Something moved on the floor, and Philippe realized that the Swimmers had sent several of their drones. "Hello!" he said to one of the devices, waving.

"Greetings," replied the drone. It made no audible noise—the Swimmer drones apparently broadcast directly in translator code—but a light went on in the front of the device. Philippe supposed that was to indicate which one of the drones was talking—at least, he was going to act as if it did and hope he was doing the right thing.

"We are happy to greet you," said the drone, "and we hope that our relationship will be one of cooperation and mutual benefit."

"I, too, look forward to our friendship," said Philippe.

The Pincushions and the Centaurs/Cyclopes also had large contingents to greet them, and Philippe exchanged pleasantries with them both. He had just finished greeting a representative from the Snake Boys and was noticing that a number of Pincushions had gathered around Shanti when he heard Patch ask Max, "Hey, is the Magic Man here?"

Max's face fell. "I am extremely sorry his absence disappoints you. I realize that you are likely most accustomed to speaking to him, and I apologize for the discomfort you must feel in speaking to people who are less familiar to you."

"No, no!" Philippe jumped in, glaring at Patch. "How could we possibly be disappointed when all of you wonderful people turned out to greet us? We are deeply, deeply honored."

"Yeah," said Patch in a small voice, his blue eyes aimed at his feet. "I was just curious."

"Mere curiosity—we're a curious people," said Philippe. "So, please introduce me to the representative of the Blobbos."

_God, they really are just blobs, aren't they?_ he thought, exchanging greetings with the small, pink creature sitting in what looked like a motorized incense burner. _I'll change that name tomorrow._

"You wished for me to greet you?" said a voice behind him. The English was oddly flat, with pauses of identical length between each word. The enunciation was extremely precise.

It did not come from his earplant.

Philippe turned around, tingling with excitement.

Standing not a meter away was the Magic Man—better known, among the DiploCorps anyway, as the Communicator.

As far as anyone on Earth could tell, there was only one Magic Man. He was the ultimate diplomat, able to speak any language. For the five years between the discovery of the Titan portal and Philippe's mission to the station, the Magic Man had been the voice and face of the aliens.

He was assuredly a shape shifter, there was no other explanation. Back when communications were first being established with the aliens, the SA had sent a video of a respected elder statesman, who assured the aliens that Earth was happy to learn of them and wanted only friendship. Several months later, the aliens had sent back a video that looked like a prank—the form of that same elder statesman, speaking in his voice. Only the flow and emotion of the statesman's voice was gone, and his body was semi-transparent. Colors flowed through him in waves, the polite smile on his face never changed, and his movement was strange and fluid.

That was the Magic Man. Unlike the other aliens, he spoke English. Perfect Union English.

"Greetings, Magic Man," said Philippe, putting out his hand. "I am so pleased to finally meet you."

The Magic Man also ignored Philippe's hand, so Philippe bowed.

"Welcome to the station," said the Magic Man, the smile fixed on his face. "I hope in the future you become fully incorporated into the body."

And with that, he walked away.

Shanti and Patch had heard it. The daffy smile on Patch's face was gone, replaced by a look of puzzlement with vague shadings of something more chilling. Shanti looked like someone had just spat in her face.

It was definitely going to wind up in their reports.

_The important thing,_ Philippe thought, _is to make sure they don't say anything about it in front of the aliens._

"This is a wonderful event," said Philippe to Max and Moritz. "I was wondering if you had anything special planned, or if we could possibly take the opportunity for a tour of your station."

Max and Moritz looked like they were about to explode with delight, which was good—and the comment had drawn Shanti and Patch's attention as well, which was even better.

"We would consider it a fantastic honor," said Moritz. "We shall tour the common area with you."

Shanti hurriedly gestured to the SFers, and Philippe soon had an entourage of soldiers that included her and Patch. Max and Moritz told the crowd that the humans were going to go for a tour, and the other aliens quickly made way. A loose group followed them.

Max and Moritz plodded ahead on their six feet as Philippe tried to follow them and gawk about at the same time.

The alien station looked _nothing_ like Beijing, thank God. Everything was quite brown, although the orange light made it hard to determine exact colors. The area was large and open, with no dividing walls and only the occasional narrow column. The floor seemed to give a little underfoot, although Philippe wondered if that was an illusion created by the difference in gravity and oxygen content. When he had the chance, he discreetly touched one of the walls. It gave a little under his gloved fingers, tempting him to peel off the protection to get a better feel.

"As you may have already determined, we are currently occupying a common area," said Max. "If you were to look at the station from the outside, we are on a floor located in the large cylinder that comprises the main body of the station."

Moritz looked slightly apologetic. "You will notice that the common areas are very open," he said. "That is to accommodate the wide variety of body types present. I realize that some people prefer more-enclosed spaces, and I apologize if our arrangement makes you feel uncomfortable."

"Not at all," Philippe assured him. "Humans don't mind open spaces in the least."

"Yeah, they're great," said Shanti, in an unenthused tone. "What are those things?"

She pointed at an arrangement of low walls that emerged from the floor to their left. They looked oddly like office cubicles, or perhaps stables.

"Those are more-enclosed spaces," Moritz replied.

"As part of our divine mission, we have created spaces in our common areas where different people may meet and communicate," said Max. "Since some prefer more-enclosed spaces at times, we have those. We also have many areas with tables."

They approached one of the narrow columns, which lay at the back of a large oval hole in the floor. The hole was marked off by a low railing with a large gap in it.

"It's an elevator," said Patch. "They just go up and down all the time, so you gotta wait and hop on when you can."

They stopped in front of the gap in the railing to wait.

"Have you seen the White Spiders?" asked Max. "There are several on the ceiling at this location."

Philippe looked up where Max was indicating. The White Spiders had not had a representative at the reception, but there were at least a dozen of them here, clinging to the high ceiling overhead. Patch's name for them had been typically descriptive—they had ten long, feathery legs sticking out from an oval body.

Philippe waved and said hello, but they did not acknowledge him.

"They are a quiet people," Max said.

"They live on the ceilings?" Shanti asked.

"We provided them with a living area, as we do everyone," said Max. "But for the most part, they prefer to inhabit the high parts of the common areas."

Shanti made a noise in her throat, communicating to the humans at least her opinion of that particular lifestyle.

The elevator arrived, so the humans and Hosts got on. As they waited for it to start moving, a White Spider let go of the ceiling and started to drift down, parachute-like. A cross-draft caught it, and it suddenly flipped inside-out, like an umbrella in a windstorm, presumably to avoid being blown off course.

_Weird,_ thought Philippe, but of course, they were aliens, and not half as weird as the Magic Man.

An idea occurred to Philippe, and he turned to the Hosts. "Have the White Spiders been incorporated into the body?" he asked.

"I do not understand that statement," Max said.

"The Magic Man told us he hoped that we would be incorporated into the body," Philippe said. "I was wondering what that meant."

Max and Moritz looked at each other, puzzled.

"The conversation of the Magic Man is at times mysterious," said Moritz.

"I personally believe that he uses the body as a metaphor for friendship or alliance," said Max. "He has told me that the Hosts are part of the body. But he can be difficult to understand."

"Oh," said Philippe, still puzzled. "He always seemed very easy to understand in the videos."

"He was speaking other's phrases," said Max.

_That can't be right,_ thought Philippe. _The translator must not be working very well._

"I'm sorry?" he asked, and then realized he would have to be more explicit. "I don't understand."

"He was repeating phrases that others had created," Max said. "We or the Swimmers typically handle communication with new people. We and they both lack the vocal range of the Magic Man, however, so we create the phrases, and he speaks them."

They reached their floor, and Philippe stumbled off the elevator, stunned.

Five years— _five years!—_ of talking to the Magic Man, and Earth hadn't been talking to him at all! There were actual Magic Man _fan clubs_ on Earth, and he had just been parroting lines penned by someone else.

Worse yet, with all the resources and analysis the Union had thrown at these communications over the years, they hadn't been able to figure out who they actually _had_ been talking to. The lengthy conversation humanity had been having with the Magic Man had actually been with the Swimmers, a species—no, _two_ species—Earth didn't know existed until yesterday!

The only hint the humans had had of the Swimmers' existence was seeing the small, oval shapes that roamed around in the background of the videos the aliens sent them.

_All_ of the videos.

_My God,_ Philippe thought, _we know absolutely nothing._ He had known that he would be breaking new ground on this mission, but _this. . . ._

Philippe shuddered, and then quickly suppressed it, mindful of his companions. He suddenly realized that Moritz had been talking rather at length, and he forced himself to tune back in.

Mortiz was apparently pointing out the various living areas—fortunately Shanti had been paying attention, and by asking questions basically got Moritz to repeat everything he had just said. Philippe was polite and noncommittal, hoping to avoid any major blunders as Moritz and Shanti pointed out to him that many of the prongs were unoccupied and that all the occupied quarters were clustered on the middle floors. The Hosts, Moritz explained in response to Shanti's leading questions, were optimistic that someday enough species would join the station so that it would be fully occupied.

_I'm too distracted for this,_ Philippe realized. He needed time to process the discovery that some of Earth's most basic assumptions about the station and the aliens on it were utterly wrong. Only then would he be able to absorb the new information the Hosts were throwing his way.

"Maybe we should head back now?" he asked Shanti, casually but with a clear undertone of command.

"Absolutely," she replied, with a knowing look. Whatever else she was, she was clearly perceptive and quick on the uptake. Philippe was grateful for that.

"Shall we meet again tomorrow?" he asked the Hosts.

"It would be our pleasure," said Max. "What time would be convenient for you?"

That turned out to be a surprisingly complicated question. The station operated on its own clock, which was based on certain regular fluctuations in the portal that led to the Hosts' planet. Someone had apparently decided to translate English terms for time directly into the Host's terms, which created even more confusion because everyone started out assuming they were talking about the same units of time, only to discover that they were not.

Patch was the most familiar with the station's method of keeping time, but he was alarmingly unsure and chose this particular delicate moment in the history of diplomacy to start making jokes about short-term memory loss.

They did the best they could to select a time, but even with a remote assist from Thorpe back in the living area, no one was entirely confident. Max and Moritz decided to eliminate the possibility of missing Philippe by maintaining a constant vigil outside the door leading to the human's living area for however long it took for him to emerge again.

Philippe, of course, insisted that some other solution be found. Eventually a passing Swimmer drone was hailed, and it was arranged that, if Philippe were to come out and find that Max and Moritz were not there, he would notify the nearest Swimmer drone, and the drones would find and notify the Hosts.

Philippe returned to his office, where he sat and tried to think of how to best explain to the DiploCorps that the beloved Communicator, the ultimate diplomat, was nothing more than a talking head who may or may not have threatened to eat them.

There was a knock on the door to Philippe's office. "Come in!" he said, eager for the distraction.

It was Baby, the pale young woman who had pulled out a knife to demonstrate the effectiveness of her lonjons. "Hey, Trang," she said. "The doctor can adjust everyone's eyes, if you want, so that it's less orange out there."

It was just too much bafflement for one man to take. "What?" Philippe asked.

"You know, an eye adjustment, where he puts an adjustment on there." She pointed to her eyes.

"How does he do that?"

Baby shrugged. "I don't know—I ain't no doctor. He just hooks you up to that thing like they always do."

"They've never done that to me," Philippe said.

She gave him a perplexed look, and then comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh, you know, I was thinking you was like an SFer—I forgot about the whole Amish thing. Your eyes are natural?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, that's it—we're augmented. We all have the implants. That way, we can get adjustment for night fighting or whatever. But if you're natural, then never mind it."

"Oh, OK," said Philippe.

She started to leave, but before she could he asked, "Um, do you know who we're supposed to give our reports to?"

"Thorpe. Or Vip. They're the com officers."

"Do you know where either of them would be?"

"Probably the com center," said Baby. "I'm headed that way—do you want me to take your report to 'em?"

"I'm not done yet, but thanks for offering." Philippe looked at her for a moment, unsure. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Go ahead," she said, stepping in and closing the door.

"Everyone seems to call you Baby—is that what I should call you?"

"It's my name," she said.

"Your real name?" he asked. She nodded. "Oh, all right, I thought it was a nickname. And I felt a little funny calling a big tough SFer who I'd just met Baby."

She laughed. "It's OK because it's my name—but I don't think I'd let nobody just _call_ me Baby. There's some crazy nicknames, though. Five-Eighths? That's just disgusting. And I know if I was a man, I wouldn't want nobody calling me Pinky or Cut. I mean, really. There were some people in one of my other units who wanted to call me Baby Killer, but I said, 'Oh no.'"

"I can see why," said Philippe, who had figured out Pinky and Cut but was still stumped by her objection to Five-Eighths.

"Yeah, I don't kill babies. I ain't no Yooper."

The casualness of the jab irritated Philippe and interrupted his mental recitation of all the vulgarities he knew that contained numbers. "I don't know where you heard that, but I've worked a great deal with the Union Police on many, many missions, and they don't kill babies either."

Baby's eyes widened "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, clearly embarrassed. "It's just that, you know, they don't kill nobody, so everyone thinks it's OK, but it's still force, right? But everyone thinks it's not, so they fight folks who are angry that their guy didn't get elected or potato farmers who can't sell no potatoes. I mean, we at least get to fight _bad_ guys, like General Jesus at Guantánamo."

She caught Philippe's expression, which given the way his stomach had involuntarily twisted, was probably pretty grim.

"Yeah, I really shouldn't run them Yoopers down—they do their job," she said. "I gotta go see George."

She left before Philippe could say anything.

The next day—or whatever they called it on the station—Philippe stepped out of the no man's zone with Shanti, Vip, Mo, and the medic Gingko as an entourage to find Max and Moritz standing there, thrumming. They exchanged hearty greetings.

"Are we on time?" Philippe asked.

"Almost exactly," said Moritz.

"Oh good, we _did_ have the correct time," said Philippe, pleased. "And you didn't have to keep a vigil after all."

"Our vigil was entirely unnecessary as a practical matter because your time-keeping was accurate," replied Moritz. "But it was a spiritually fulfilling experience nonetheless."

_Oh, crap,_ thought Philippe. They had spent the entire night outside the door after all.

"I was hoping that you would avoid the inconvenience of such a vigil," he said, weakly.

"The vigil was a welcome opportunity," said Max. "Any priest in either one of our orders would be delighted to hold such a vigil. It is always worthwhile to spend focused time with a family member and fellow, contemplating one's purpose."

The two Hosts gave each other a satisfied look, and Philippe decided he'd better move on. "In that case, it is an opportune time for us to talk, because I would like to discuss our purpose in coming to this station with you."

"That is a very good idea," said Moritz. "There are many convenient locations on this floor where we could talk."

Philippe had given a good deal of thought to how he was going to frame his next question.

"I have a request, but I do not know if this request might be considered troubling," he began. "I hope that it is not and I apologize if I offend or frighten you. But I would appreciate the honor of visiting your living area, if it would not be considered inappropriate for me to do so. If it is problematic, even to the smallest degree, I would be delighted to restrict our interactions to the common areas."

"Everyone on this station has complete authority over the area in which they live," replied Max. "In the case of the Hosts, we welcome and desire visitation by others. It would please us immensely if you would please come with us to our living area."

Relieved, Philippe followed Max and Moritz to one of the elevators, followed in turn by his soldiers. They waited for an elevator to arrive, and rode three levels up, getting off and following the Hosts to an open doorway.

"This is our living area," said Max, gesturing to the passage.

"You have no doors," said Shanti, almost to herself.

"No," said Moritz, as they entered the living area, which was less expansive but otherwise indistinguishable from the common area. "It is imperative to us that we not close ourselves off from the other people who inhabit this station. Our purpose is to be at one with your people and the other people, so we do not close off our living area, and we do not modify the environment in our area."

"You don't modify the atmosphere?" asked Gingko with surprise.

Philippe watched the Hosts, ready to cut the SFer off at any sign of irritation.

"No, the environment in our living area is exactly the same as the environment in the common area."

The medic wrinkled his brow. "Uh, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you have to modify the atmosphere in the common area in preparation for our arrival?" asked Gingko. "I thought the environment there is just a big compromise—all of the species here can tolerate it, but it's not exactly optimal for anybody's health, especially if you're exposed to it all the time."

The Hosts' expressions remained serene. "The more important goal for us is to bring together different kinds of people and create a bond between them and us," said Moritz. "Living in a sub-optimal environment merely creates a constant reminder of our true purpose."

"We can discuss it at length in this room," said Max, sliding a door open.

They entered a room with a low, raised platform in the center. Max and Moritz walked to the far side of the platform and turned to face the humans, standing comfortably. Philippe stood in silence for a moment, and then realized he was waiting for a chair to materialize. Since this was not likely to happen, he decided that he would sit on the ground, cross-legged, a move that was greeted with suppressed surprise by the two Hosts.

"We'll stand," said Shanti.

"As will we," Moritz replied.

"Unless standing is viewed as inappropriate among your people," said Max, looking hesitant.

"Please do what is most comfortable for you," said Philippe. "Rest assured that we will not take offense."

That seemed to restore their confidence. "Is everything on this station to your liking?" asked Max.

"Yes, very much. You have been wonderfully hospitable," said Philippe. "We only have one or two very minor questions."

"Feel free to make any request at any time," said Max.

"These are very small things—nothing that genuinely matters," said Philippe. "It is only that we were curious: Are we allowed to install cameras and listening devices in the common area?"

"You certainly may install monitoring equipment anywhere in the common area," said Max. "Other people do, and most activity in the common area is monitored."

"In addition," Moritz chimed in, "you should meet with the Swimmers. They are, as it was sung, 'the ones who will know how to listen and who will see.' They provided us with the translation technology, and their drones act as the station's security and maintenance system. They habitually allow others to access their security footage."

"They are truly invaluable," said Max.

"A blessing to all people, provided by benevolent providence," said Moritz, looking rapturous.

"Thank you—they sound great," said Philippe, feeling somewhat less rapturous. He definitely planned to meet with the Swimmers—humanity should at least be able to see who it was they'd been speaking to this entire time.

"The other matter," he continued, "is also insignificant, and I hesitate to bring it up. But as you know, the names for other species were provided by one of our security experts. He did his best, but I am concerned that some of the names he chose are not appropriate and will lead to confusion. For example, he chose to call one species 'Pincushions.' A pincushion is a common household object on Earth, and I fear that in the future people will not be able to have conversations about pincushions with other species without causing confusion."

Philippe mentally crossed his fingers. He had spent the night trying to hit on a way to make the request without revealing how flippant some of Patch's names were.

Max and Moritz looked at each other, hesitating. Philippe could tell what the answer was going to be.

"Unfortunately," Max began, "yours is not an uncommon request. People often want to change the names they have chosen for other people, for a range of reasons."

"In some cases, they have named people after figures in their own culture who then fall out of favor. Or, as your expert did, a person names a people because they physically resemble an object or creature, and then another person disagrees about the resemblance. Or new leadership comes to the station, and wants to create new names as a way of establishing authority," said Moritz

Both looked uneasy—it was clearly unpleasant for them to say no.

"When names change frequently, it creates additional work for the Swimmers. In addition, frequent changes of names for other peoples often confuse individuals of the same people, who forget which name is now in use," said Max. "So we have become very conservative regarding such name changes.

"You mention the Pincushions as an unacceptable name. I ask, did you bring many pincushions with you to this station? Are conversations about pincushions likely to occur with great frequency? If not, then we would request that you not change the name."

"I understand. It's perfectly OK—it was not an important request," Philippe replied _._ "I have one last question for you, which is not a request but instead an attempt to learn. You have built this large station. What is it used for? What was your purpose in building it?"

"Those are two very separate topics," said Moritz.

"I assume, however, that you are wondering what the various people who live here do, and what your people can do here on this station," said Max.

"To a degree, yes," said Philippe. "Our goal in coming here is to hopefully establish friendly relations with the various alien races, so that we can learn from each other."

"Our purpose is similar," said Moritz. "To create friendship and fulfill our destiny as being friends to other people."

"Other people have somewhat different purposes in being here," said Max. "Some trade goods on this station, while others seem content merely to observe. Some, such as the Swimmers, feel they have an obligation to help different people interact in a cooperative way."

It seemed like an opportune time to shoehorn in his most important request, so Philippe went for it. "Do you think that—with your assistance—it would be possible for me to meet with the various alien races? I would like to visit them in their living areas, like I am doing with you right now."

The Hosts looked delighted.

"We would be very pleased to help you as much as we can in that endeavor," said Max.

"What we shall do," said Moritz, "is contact each people in the order that they arrived here and attempt to arrange a meeting with each of them."

Philippe smiled. _At least this much is going to plan,_ he thought.

"Thank you so much for your help," he said. "I believe that concludes my business here. Do you have any questions or requests for us?"

"Not at this time," said Max. "We will contact you when we have arranged one or more of the aforementioned meetings, which we will do as soon as possible."

Philippe stood up. "I thank you again for your time, your help, and your wonderful hospitality." He bowed to each of them.

"I will show you the way," said Max.

"Thank you," said Philippe.

Max took them to the doorway to the common area. "Do you require an escort back to your living area?"

Philippe looked at Shanti, who shook her head. "I believe we can find the way, but thank you again for all your assistance."

"We deeply appreciate your friendship, human diplomat, and that of the humans," said Max.

The humans walked in silence to the elevator, waited for it as it came down, and stepped on, the only passengers. They traveled down a floor.

"What the fuck was that?" Vip spat the words out.

"Hey!" said Mo, punching Vip in the arm. "Language!"

"Sorry, but come on. What the freck was that?" Vip looked at Philippe. "When did those cameras become unimportant? They're not unimportant."

"Shut it," snapped Shanti. "Remember what they said about the common area."

Vip glared at Philippe all during the walk back to their living area. Cut and Doug were standing guard at either side of the closed door, which opened to let them into the no man's land.

"What—" Vip began.

"Door's not shut, Vip," Shanti cut in.

The outer door closed and the inner door opened. Sucre was standing guard on the inner door.

"Vip, Trang, my office," said Shanti.

Philippe walked into her office, wondering when he became her soldier. They sat in two chairs, while Shanti sat behind a desk.

"Now, Vip, I understand you have a problem with what just happened. Air it," she pointed at him.

It was like she opened the floodgates. "Why did you tell those bastards that we didn't have to have the cameras?" Vip yelled. "We told you last night—we gotta have those cameras."

"And we have them," said Philippe.

"Hey, Trang?" said Shanti. "Let him say his piece."

"We're extending our perimeter," said Vip. "And we can't fucking do that if we can't fucking see. So don't say shit like that isn't important, unless you want to spend your whole fucking time here holed up behind the no man's zone."

Shanti pointed at Philippe. _I guess it's my turn,_ he thought, making a face.

"I think you're missing the larger point here, which is that we have the cameras," said Philippe. "We now have explicit permission to put whatever surveillance wherever we like in the common area."

Vip made a noise, but Shanti waggled her finger at him and pointed it back at Philippe.

"I'm sorry if you feel that I slighted what you do," said Philippe. "I know that surveillance is crucially important. But you have to understand my job here, which is not only to get us what we need, but also to do it without getting anyone upset. If I had stormed in their and pounded my fist on their table, what good would that have done?

"I know you're thinking, since it is really important to us, I should have told them it was really important." Vip raised his eyebrows and nodded. "That's because you guys do things straightforwardly—if you need something badly, you say, 'I need that badly' so that you're sure to get it. But in diplomacy, you have to be a little more devious, because everything's a favor. If I say to you, 'I need that badly,' and you say, 'OK,' then you've done me a _huge_ favor and I'm going to owe you a big favor back. But if I'm a little sneaky and say, 'This isn't very important, but if you don't mind'—even though it is important, very important—then you've done me only a small favor, so I owe you only a small favor back. As far as you know, anyway."

"You duplicitous bastard!" said Shanti admiringly. She pointed at Vip. "You happy?"

Philippe doubted if Vip had ever been happy, and he certainly did not look happy at the moment. But the SFer nodded.

"Good," said Shanti. "Now go get those fucking cameras up."

Vip stood and left the room.

Philippe started to stand, too, when Shanti said, "Hang on a sec, Trang." He sat back down.

"So, you didn't like Patch's names?" Her face showed no emotion.

"I—uh—no."

She smiled. "At least he didn't go with Cluster Fuck. I have a question for you. You noticed what the Hosts did with their living quarters, with keeping the atmosphere and the gravity the same as the common area."

"Yes," said Philippe.

"I was wondering, do you think we should do that here, where we live? I mean, if we're used to functioning with different oxygen and different gravity, maybe that puts us at a disadvantage in the common area if something bad should happen."

Philippe wondered for a moment why she was bringing this up to him. Perhaps after treating him like some soldier who should just follow orders, she now felt compelled to acknowledge his status by consulting him on something that he knew absolutely nothing about.

"Did you think it made a big difference?" he asked. "After a few minutes, I didn't even notice it."

"But we weren't really exerting ourselves," said Shanti. "What I'm worried about is what will happen in a combat situation."

"I really don't know anything about combat, but wouldn't it all even out?" She shrugged. "Well, the atmosphere is under our control, and I can talk to the Hosts about lessening the gravity—I'm sure if I say that we too are trying to relate better to the other aliens, they'll be happy to do it. But maybe you should talk to George first—isn't it supposed to be bad for people to be in low gravity all the time? Of course, that's how they live on Titan. I wonder what they do there?"

"I'll see what George says, and if he thinks it's OK to change the gravity, I'll get back to you. But you know what I _can_ do," said Shanti, snapping her fingers. "I can alter the training simulations so that the gravity matches the common area. I was planning to feed in some of the visuals from our cameras anyway—give them a more realistic sense of the battleground."

"Training simulations?" Philippe asked, surprised. "Aren't they already trained?"

Shanti gave him a withering look. "It's _combat_ training," she explained, the words _you idiot_ hanging unspoken in the air. "With combat training, you have to keep doing it, or you'll lose your skills. You won't have that killer edge."

Philippe smiled weakly. "So, in these simulations," he asked. "Do the soldiers fight the aliens?"

"Who else would they fight?" she asked.

Philippe excused himself and went into his office. There was a memory widget on his desk—the mail had apparently arrived.

He opened it on his workstation. There were more than 80 messages in his office file. In his personal file were seven messages. Five were from Kathy.

He deleted those and started on his next report.

It wasn't long before a Swimmer drone wheeled up to one of the outside guards and extended a hearty invitation for Philippe to come visit. Philippe—accompanied at Shanti's insistence by four soldiers, even to take three steps outside and talk to a friendly vacuum cleaner—arranged to meet the Swimmers the next day in their living area.

Which was apparently a massive tank filled with water.

"It's not a problem," said George, sitting on a bed in the infirmary. "If you put on the gloves and the hood and seal it all up, your suit can keep you alive for two hours under water, assuming the pressure's not too high."

"Raoul, grab a pal, go outside, and find a Swimmer. Find out what the pressure's like in that tank. If the Swimmers don't give you an answer that you can understand, ask the Hosts," said Shanti. Raoul took off from the infirmary like a shot.

She slapped her mike. "Patch, Rojy, get over to the infirmary." Two minutes later, Patch and Rojy walked in, and she asked them. "What do we have that works under water?"

"Under water? The guns will work with the right ammo, which I'm pretty sure we have," said Patch. "I'll check that. But the range is going to be a lot shorter, only about a third of the usual, and the ammo will be slower and less lethal."

Shanti looked at Philippe, questioningly.

"I am _not_ carrying a gun," he said.

"What might be better is some of the stuff that burns," Rojy volunteered. "Even if it doesn't burn them, you could heat up the water pretty quick and boil them. And some of the really powerful explosives do just fine underwater."

"I don't need to be a part of this conversation," said Philippe, and took his leave.

He passed Five-Eighths and Thorpe in the hallway.

"His full-body massage is _amazing,_ " Thorpe was telling Five-Eighths. "Everything they say about older men is so true."

"They can't get it up?" Five-Eighths replied.

"No, asshole. It's just a much better experience. Sensual, you know? You should totally check him out."

Philippe walked into his office and shut the door, manners winning out over curiosity. He went to work on his mail, but a few minutes later someone knocked on his door and opened it without waiting for a reply.

Shanti stuck her head in.

"Would you consider carrying an explosive?" she asked.

"No," said Philippe curtly.

"They're really easy to use," she continued.

"I am not carrying any sort of weapon."

"Not even a knife?"

"Not even a knife."

She sucked her teeth. "Is that, like, an Amish thing?"

That did it.

"Were I actually Amish, it might be," Philippe snapped. "As things are, it's standard DiploCorps policy—diplomats do not carry weapons of any kind. If you were Union Police, you would know that."

Shanti left, and he returned to his work—several SA and DiploCorps officers had read his report on their reception and had sent in additional queries, some of them laughably naive. He was in the midst of explaining that he lacked the expertise, equipment, and time to have made a detailed chemical analysis of the alien construction materials—nor had he permission to take samples in the first place—when someone banged on his door again.

"Raoul and Bubba are back!" yelled Shanti, not bothering to open the door.

Philippe jumped out of the office and followed the pack into the infirmary.

"You gotta see this," said Raoul, tapping the camera on his suit.

It turned out that Raoul's question about water pressure had proven difficult to answer because, of course, the aliens did not use the same measurements for pressure that humans did. After talking around it with a Swimmer drone for several minutes, the drone led Raoul and Bubba to the Swimmers' living area in hope that they could satisfy their concerns that way.

An open scroll in the infirmary displayed what Raoul's camera had recorded: The Swimmer living area was a massive fish tank. There was a large window at the end of the living area that faced the doors to the common area. A wide ramp cut diagonally across the window. That section was lit, but the rest of the living area was not. Large, dark, tube-like shapes were moving in the dark water, barely visible.

"But," said Raoul, "it's open on top. You see right there—" he pointed to the top of the scroll, which was displaying a shot taken with the camera right up against the glass, pointing upward "—that's air there. You go up the ramp and there's a place where you can just drop right into the water."

"It's like a swimming pool," said Shanti.

"Yeah, it ain't sealed, so it ain't under pressure," said Bubba. "Their place has the same atmosphere and gravity as the common area, it's just filled with water."

"That's good, that's good, that means there's oxygen," said the doctor, patting Philippe on the shoulder. "I was wondering about that—you know, the suit keeps you alive underwater by pulling in dissolved oxygen from the water."

"And you weren't sure there'd be oxygen?" Philippe asked.

"Hell, I'm not sure that's _water_ ," said George. He drew his thick eyebrows into a frown, and then shrugged. "If you feel like you're drowning, get out of there."

"This is excellent," said Shanti. "This is good. Bubba, you gotta download what you have too. Patch and I are going to look this shit over. Men, you've outdone yourself."

"Damn straight," said Bubba. "Ain't nobody better than us at playing dumb."

"You sure you're playing?" Raoul asked. Bubba responded with an obscene gesture.

"Hey, Trang," said Shanti, watching the screen. "I realize that if I were a good Yooper instead of a dumb Sister Fucker, I would know this, but: Would you object to a tether?"

"Not at all," Philippe replied.

As the hour to meet the Swimmers approached, the hallway outside of Philippe's office became ominously silent. Philippe's nervousness had caused him to get ready far in advance, and now he was just sitting around in his lonjons and his dress suit, too distracted to concentrate on anything. Because he was going underwater, Vip had given him translator and com mikes that stuck directly to his skin, and they felt like a persistent worry on his collarbone.

The waiting was killing him, so he went out. He found Shanti, Patch, Bubba, and Raoul in one of the armories; they were sealing up the pockets in their uniforms, which were bulging with particularly ill-concealed weaponry.

"Hey, there's Trang," said Shanti. "Bubba, you got the harness?"

Bubba held up a mass of webbing.

"OK. Should we put it on now? You're not wearing that suit into the water, are you?"

"I thought I'd wear it on the way over and take it off when we get there," said Philippe.

"OK. We'll put the harness on you then."

Shanti started. "What? Oh, OK. Tell him we'll be there in a few minu—as soon as we can. Say 'as soon as we can,' OK? 'Minutes' doesn't translate."

She slapped her mike. "Max is here," she said to Philippe.

"Oh, is he going to take us to the Swimmers?"

"Apparently," Shanti replied. "Is everybody ready? You got your hood?"

"Yes," said Philippe.

"Then let's go."

They walked through the no man's land, pausing as the outer door opened. Max was standing next to the two guards. As they came out, he began to thrum.

"Greetings, Max," said Philippe. "I am so happy to see you."

"I apologize profusely," said Max. "We did not agree that I would escort you to the Swimmers, but I became concerned that you might be expecting an escort and might not know the way, so I took it upon myself to escort you. I hope my presence here is not unwelcome."

"Your presence is always welcome, and I thank you for your consideration," Philippe replied.

Max still looked worried. "I know you are probably wondering why Moritz is not here as well. Unfortunately, his religious order requires his participation in a ceremony at this time."

"I hope that you are not missing a religious ceremony on our account," Philippe said.

"I belong to a religious order that has fewer ceremonies," Max replied. "Despite his not being here, I wish to assure you that your people and their happiness are very important to Moritz."

"I have no doubt of that," said Philippe.

"Hey there, fellas." It was Shanti, who was speaking to three Pincushions that had made their way slowly up to her.

"Greetings, scaled human," replied one of the Pincushions.

"Hello. I am afraid that we must leave you now to meet with the Swimmers," said Philippe to the Pincushions. He noticed that the blobs stuck on the backs of the Pincushions were blue and gray. "But we look forward to meeting with your people as well."

"Bring the scaled one," said another Pincushion.

"Cannot translate. Please excuse that remark, I ask you in a truthful manner," said the first Pincushion. Philippe was confused for a moment, but then he realized that the first remark was the translator speaking for itself. "It is extremely accurate to say that we would be happy to meet with any representatives you choose."

"I look forward to it," Philippe said.

They walked over to one of the elevators. "What was that about?" Philippe asked Shanti.

"The Pincushions are very interested in the armored human's scales," said Max.

"I beg your pardon?" Shanti said to him.

"I apologize. I do not understand your remark," said Max.

"That makes two of us," said Shanti.

"She doesn't understand what you said about her scales," said Philippe.

"The scales on her main body," said Max. "The Pincushions are fascinated by them; they consider them both very beautiful and quite intimidating. They also say that the other humans in your party do not have such armor."

" _Oh,_ " said Shanti. "I get it."

Philippe didn't. "You have scales on your body?" he asked.

"It's a long story," she replied. "So, Max, the Pincushions can see through clothing?"

"Yes, the Pincushions have unusually good vision. They can see a very broad range of light, and their brains incorporate the reflection of the sound waves that their bodies give off into their vision, so they also have excellent depth of vision. The Swimmers have attempted to adapt some of those processes into their drones, but even with their best technology they cannot see as well as the Pincushions do. We and the Swimmers know of your scales only because the Pincushions have told us."

Shanti looked impressed. "Shit," she said. "Oh, sorry—shoot."

"Here is the Swimmers' living area," said Max.

The doors opened as they approached, courtesy surely of one of the nearby drones, and the small party walked in. There was not much room—roughly two meters separated the doors, which were now closing, and the glass. The ramp, which began at the lower right corner of the window and sloped up to the left, was itself less than a meter wide.

Philippe took off his suit jacket and pants as Bubba pulled out the harness. He stepped into it, and Bubba tightened it up. The tether attached to the harness was coiled, but it looked long enough to give Philippe freedom of movement. Bubba pulled on Philippe's hood and sealed it, checking his gloves as well.

"Who else is going in?" Philippe asked.

"Just you," said Shanti. "Stick near the window."

"I'm sorry?" said Philippe, glancing at Max. "What if there's a p-r-o-b-l-e-m?"

"Unless you've turned on your body mike? Your only working translation mike is in there," said Shanti, who stopped fiddling with her own mike to point at his suit jacket on the floor. "Anyway, if it's small, we've got the tether. If it's big, we'll have an incident. Don't you trust us?"

Philippe chose not to answer that question, instead walking up the ramp with Bubba and Patch behind him. Behind the glass was the water, dwindling away to darkness, and the massive figures moving vaguely in that dark. Suddenly, something white drifted into the light.

"Hey, hey look!" said Philippe, pointing at it. "It's a White Spider!"

It pulsated like a jellyfish and moved back into the dark.

"Wow," said Patch. "Those things are everywhere, aren't they?"

"They're a damned nui—" Bubba began, before a look from Philippe stopped him. "OK, they're a _darned_ — Hey!" Patch, blessedly insightful, had smacked him.

Philippe walked to the top of the ramp, which turned out over the water to make a platform. He got on all fours and crawled out onto the edge of the platform. He could see the roof of the living area over the water for a few meters before all was lost in the darkness.

"You guys ready?" said Philippe to Bubba and Patch, who was uncoiling the tether.

"Hey Shanti," Patch said, in a quiet voice that echoed weirdly in Philippe's ear. "We ready?"

"Yeah, coms are set. Mikes on, everybody. Trang? That means you," Shanti's voice came into his ear. He turned on his com mike.

"Unless something comes up, we'll just let you have your lead," said Bubba, his voice echoing. "But stick near the glass and stay in the light."

"OK," Philippe sat down, his feet in the water, then slid the rest of the way in.

He quickly sank down to the bottom of the tank. _I guess it's not salt water,_ he thought, as his feet hit the bottom of the chamber.

"Can you hear me in there?" Shanti's voice broke in.

"Yeah, clear as a bell," said Philippe. He turned toward the glass and waved at the three figures standing there. "The suit seems to be working fine; I don't feel like I'm suffocating."

"Good. Max says they should be along any minute," said Shanti.

Philippe turned the other way, facing the darkness.
Chapter 7

As Philippe peered into the murk, he thought he saw a dark shape approaching.

"Two o'clock, Trang." Raoul's voice sounded into his ear.

"I see it," said Philippe. Underwater, his voice sounded distorted and unsteady.

It looked like a torpedo coming straight at him, big and gray, with stripes of darker gray radiating out from its pointed front. The torpedo slowed as it came near him, and Philippe noticed that it had long, vibrating fins on either side of its body. It stopped and gradually sank down until the point of its front end was about level with Philippe's chin and what Philippe assumed was its belly was resting on the floor.

The front of the creature suddenly opened up. What had seemed to be a striped head was actually a mass of feathery tentacles that the alien had been holding together as it swam. It moved closer to Philippe and began touching him with its tendrils.

Its touch was incredible. The feathery tentacles were each covered with little finger-like nubs—Philippe could feel them through his lonjons. Each nub was vibrating, relaxing the muscles under Philippe's skin.

He closed his eyes as the creature's tentacles surrounded him, embraced him. He barely noticed as they tipped him forward.

_I should probably open my eyes,_ he thought.

The tentacles were still around him, but he realized that he had been drawn in and was facing the creature's—face? Closed eyelid? Some sort of fissure in the creature's main body. It began to open, and Philippe had just enough time to feel a surge of panic before the tentacles gave a mighty shove and he was inside.

" _Hey!_ " a voice screamed in his ear.

"Trang! Trang! _Trang!_ "

"Holy fuck!"

" _Trang!_ Oh, shit, Trang!"

"I'm OK," Philippe said.

"Fuck!"

"Trang! _Trang!_ "

"I'm OK! I'm OK!" Philippe yelled. " _For fuck's sake, don't DO anything!!_ "

His outburst quieted the SFers. A phrase favored by one of Philippe's mentors floated into his head: _Talk to people in their own language._

He hit his translation mike, turning it on.

"You say you're OK?" Shanti's voice.

"I'm absolutely fine," said Philippe. "I've got my translation mike on, and I am really happy to be here and meeting what I assume to be the Little Swimmers."

"You are correct in your assumption," said his earplant, as the creature emitted a whistling sound.

Philippe was in what he hoped was not the belly of the whale. But he was definitely inside _something,_ presumably one of the Big Swimmers, who was still holding on to him with its vibrating tentacles.

Around him, everything was glowing. The walls were giving off a faint and even light interrupted by gnarls of brightness.

The brightness was enough to illuminate the Little Swimmers, who were positively gaudy. Some were striped, some were spotted, some were splotched, but all were a riot of intense color: yellow, red, green, blue, and purple. They had tentacles too, surrounding round, fat bodies. They crawled along the walls like octopi, pushing and pulling themselves with their tentacles, but when they sat still, they rested with their tentacles in the air, making them look more like sea anemones.

The one that had spoken to Philippe was sitting directly in front of his face, but it turned over and crawled away. Another, with orange splotches on a vivid violet background, took its place. Philippe noticed that both had black, wiry growths on their bodies, which he didn't see on any of the other Little Swimmers—with the exception of one, with green-and-yellow stripes and a prominent black growth, who promptly crawled over to where Philippe was as well.

Was the growth some kind of badge? A weapon? A fungus? Just a coincidence?

"Greetings, human diplomat," said the one with the orange splotches. "We thank you for agreeing to come here in order to speak with us. We hope that this conversation will help the people of our planet learn more about you."

"On behalf of the humans, I thank you for wanting to speak with me," said Philippe.

"Let us begin. Please tell us about yourself, and the position you occupy within human society."

He was being held sideway, in water, inside an alien, outside the Milky Way, but still it wasn't hard for Philippe to fall into the familiar routine. "I am, as you mentioned, a diplomat. I have spent a long time traveling around my planet, trying to settle disputes among different people so that they do not have to resort to warfare and violence."

The questions continued. He was asked if by "different" people he meant different species or different groups within the same species; he explained that, alas, war had not been eliminated on Earth, although he hoped one day it would be; he mentioned that there were marine animals on Earth as well and that some of them were fairly intelligent, although they did not build space ships.

The style of the questions felt familiar, and Philippe realized that this chat was an interview—quite possibly a media interview. One apparently aimed at people who knew literally nothing about Earth.

Were the black growths _cameras?_

Whatever was going on, Philippe became even more careful in his answers. The splotched Little Swimmer asked several questions regarding humanity's relationship to other species on Earth, so Philippe answered them in the most positive way possible—he might annoy animal-rights activists on his own planet, but he didn't want the Swimmers to think that humans were dedicated to the extermination of other species.

"Were your people expecting to find this station?" the Little Swimmer asked.

Philippe was momentarily distracted—he had noticed that there was also a White Spider sitting in the chamber—but he quickly answered in the negative. "For a long time, people had wondered what it might be like to meet aliens, but the reality of it was quite different."

"That is surprising," said the Little Swimmer. "Although your people did not know what it would be like to meet aliens, they did know that someday they would meet aliens."

"I don't want you to misunderstand," said Philippe. "My people imagined that one day they might meet aliens—they thought that it _could_ happen—but they had no sure knowledge that it _would_ happen. It was purely a subject for fiction."

"There were no prophecies," said the alien.

"No, no prophecies, nothing like that," said Philippe. "Just imagination."

"Since your people had no idea other than ideas created in fiction regarding what to expect, how did they react to discovering the aliens?"

"People were split," Philippe replied. "On the one hand, some people thought that the aliens would be hostile and would attack us. There was another group who thought that the aliens would solve all of humanity's problems and answer all of humanity's questions. And there were a lot of people who didn't know quite what to think."

"There was no agreement regarding what the aliens might do, and there were people who were very puzzled," said the alien.

"Yes, I would say that's a fair description—most people were very puzzled," said Philippe.

"And yet you came to the station anyway."

"Well, we wanted to know," said Philippe. "There were very few people who were so fearful that they would rather not know. We're curious people."

The alien asked Philippe about his reception on the station, which gave him an opportunity to praise the Swimmers and the role they played.

It was also, he decided, an opportunity to ask some questions of his own. "If you don't mind my asking, what was _your_ purpose in coming aboard this station? What did you or do you hope to accomplish?"

The walls of the chamber began to vibrate, and a very deep rumbling began. _I guess the studio is answering that question,_ thought Philippe, as his earplant began to speak.

"For an extremely long time, our people fought each other," rumbled the Big Swimmer. "The Big Swimmers and the Little Swimmers were engaged in a competitive relationship. Each people wanted more room in which to live, and each encroached on the other's territory. Each developed technology to drive the other out, and in the most shameful period of our history, each attempted to enslave the other for the sole benefit of one people.

"There was one positive aspect of this disgraceful time—it was the time of the development of our translation technology. Initially developed to help one people command the other, it became the means for us to truly communicate, and through communication, to develop understanding and eventually respect for one another.

"This ushered in a new period in our history, a period of symbiosis. We realized that by working in cooperation each people could flourish beyond what was hoped for before. Our technology improved dramatically, so much so that we were able to greatly expand our joint territory, assuring plentiful resources for each of our people, and to travel into space.

"When we were contacted by the Hosts, we were delighted to join them in their station. We hope to draw many more people into symbiotic relationships, enabling them to communicate and live securely. By doing so, we believe that we will better their lives and our own."

The rumbling stopped, and everything was quiet for a few moments.

Philippe hated to break the silence—there was something reverential about it—but felt he must say something.

"Thank you so much for sharing your history with me. I feel your goal is a noble one, and I also hope to see it fulfilled."

"Thank you," said the splotched alien. "While we have had success in assisting auditory communication, non-auditory communication remains technologically unassisted, which is a source of concern for us."

"What do you mean?" asked Philippe.

"Watch me, and tell me what you think I am communicating," said the splotched one. It suddenly thrust all its tentacles outward as its orange spots turned red and its violet background turned indigo.

"You're startled," said Philippe.

"You are incorrect, I am sorry to inform you," said the splotched one, returning to its normal color and shape. "That is a greeting that one might use with a friend. Do you have a non-auditory way of greeting a friend?"

"We might smile, like this," said Philippe, grinning broadly.

"So you display an orifice," said the alien. "Is that a reproductive orifice?"

"No," said Philippe.

He could hear the SFers sniggering into his earplant. "It _can_ be one," Shanti muttered.

"Shh!" he said, hoping that wouldn't translate. "It's mostly used for food intake. And speech. And breathing."

"So an important orifice," said the alien.

"Yes."

"Hmmm," came Shanti's voice, sexily.

"Shh!" he said again.

They wound up the interview with more thank-yous and flattery, and the Big Swimmer extracted Philippe from its maw, gently putting him down exactly where it had picked him up. It swam away slowly, disappearing into the black.

Philippe paddled up to the surface of the water and hauled himself onto the platform. No one was there, and his tether was trailing over the edge of the ramp. He followed it, walking over to the ramp and pulling off his hood.

The four SFers and Max were standing on the floor, cramped around a small device Max was holding. When Philippe stepped onto the ramp, the soldiers began applauding, Shanti slowly and with a wry smile, the men enthusiastically.

The noise startled Max, so Philippe asked them to stop.

"Guy, you're a star!" said Patch.

It turned out that Max had whatever the Host equivalent of a scroll was, and that the interview had been broadcast all over the station as it was conducted—an experience the SFers all agreed was "weird" because the interview was broadcast in universal translator code, so they were getting Philippe's actual words over the com mike and his translated words at the same time.

"Anything that didn't translate?" Philippe asked.

"Shhh!" they all said, and burst into laughter. Max looked very confused.

"Oh, yeah, one other thing," said Bubba. "The marine animals—that didn't farking work. You'd say like, 'A dolphin, which is a kind of marine animal,' and it would come through, 'a dolphin,' I mean, 'a marine animal'—"

"It would come through, 'a marine animal, which is a kind of marine animal,'" said Raoul.

"Yeah, like that," said Bubba. "It didn't make any gosh-darned sense."

"OK," said Philippe. "Did anybody bring a towel?"

Nobody had, so he wound up shaking himself dry as best he could and putting his suit on over his wet lonjons. Max had understood enough of his question to realize that there was a problem involving the lack of a certain piece of cloth, and Philippe had to repeatedly assure him that it was nothing of any great import.

"You have really done so much for us, I don't see how we could possibly repay you," he said as they walked back.

"Repay?" said Max. "There is no need for repayment. Your presence on this station is a tremendous gift to us. I merely am attempting with no expectation of success to repay you for such a significant gift."

"That is an extremely kind thing to say," Philippe said. "Nonetheless, I insist that you refrain from escorting us to every meeting. This one was quite long, and it makes me feel bad to think that you might spend this much time at every meeting."

"I wish only to assist you," said Max.

"And you are a tremendous help to us," Philippe assured him. "You help us with so many things, and we are so grateful for it. I fear we will exhaust you, and I would feel terrible were that to happen."

"I accept your request," said Max. "I will no longer escort you to and from meetings."

They stood for a minute, slightly uncomfortably. Philippe had simply been trying to be considerate, but he was beginning to wonder if he had pushed too hard and had caused the alien offense.

Max suddenly looked excited. "We shall repay you in another form," he said. "I heard you say to the Swimmers that your people are curious and came to this station seeking knowledge."

"That is true," said Philippe.

"We could help provide you with some of our knowledge. I will go consult with my people and find out what knowledge might be best for you to have and most easily transmitted to you. I shall contact you again soon."

And with that, Max peeled off from the group, surrendering his role of escort a bit sooner than Philippe had expected. Fortunately they had already returned to their floor, so they were able to find their living area with no problem.

Philippe went into his office and saw two widgets on his desk. He ignored them and went into his bedroom, where he changed out of his wet dress suit and lonjons into dry lonjons and casual clothing, in the process pulling off his translation and com mikes and putting them onto his desk.

He hung the lonjons and suit. The lonjons would dry without any problem, of course, but Philippe was not so sure about the suit. It was a travel suit and not very wet, so it might be all right, but eventually he would have to get it cleaned, and he doubted that whatever process the SF used on their uniforms would be kind to his clothing. The travel suits always took a beating, of course—the Sudan was hardly the place to keep a wardrobe pristine—but Philippe liked to keep the creases crisp for as long as possible.

He went back out to his desk and picked up one of the widgets, which was about two centimeters across and fit nicely in the curve of his index finger. He pointed it at the memory base and pushed the widget's button with his thumb. He had set the station to ping once the memory was transferred; it did so, and Philippe repeated the process with the second widget. He sat down and opened his office folder.

"Oh, dear," he said.

He had over a thousand messages. A quick glace showed messages from Space Authority, DiploCorps, Union Intelligence, Special Forces, Union Police, and a half-dozen other branches of the Union government, plus queries from several national governments as well.

It was ridiculous—scanning the subject headings, he could see that many of the queries were repetitious or impossible to answer, and others seemed to be about things mentioned in the soldiers' reports.

He closed his office folder and opened his personal folder. There were twelve messages, all of them from Kathy.

The volume of messages made him hesitate about deleting them. Even Kathy wouldn't send him a dozen messages for no good reason, right?

But it was hard to tell. He had met Kathy several months before in Ottawa, where he had been sent after the Guantánamo fiasco. The cushy assignment to DiploCorps headquarters was supposed to be a combination of a break and a reward, but after what he had been through, Ottawa, with its endless lavish receptions and trivial trade disputes between wealthy partners, revolted Philippe. Diplomatic work there struck him as inherently self-indulgent and meaningless, and the DiploCorps staff seemed to gleefully embrace the decadence: Most of them were unapologetically more interested in scoring free champagne at parties than in making the world a better place.

Perhaps he would have seen things differently under different circumstances, but Ottawa disgusted Philippe, and his feelings were shared fully by Kathy. She was support staff—a highly intelligent, highly educated woman who spent her time as a glorified receptionist in an era when a receptionist was an anachronistic affectation, like a handlebar mustache or a tie. She was a striking brunet, whippet-thin, with a face like a fox. She had a biting wit, especially when it came to the pretension and hypocrisy of the DiploCorps.

It took a while before he realized how utterly consumed she was by bitterness and rage; how she held on to a job she genuinely hated because she so desperately needed to hate everyone and everything, every moment of every day. For a brief while, he was content to be her whipping boy, but eventually whatever underlying need he had had for punishment had been fulfilled, and he broke it off. Her fury had been epic.

But twelve messages in one day seemed excessive even for Kathy, and it raised the possibility that something had happened—a family emergency, something he could help with.

Philippe shut his personal folder without deleting them. He would look at them later.

He decided to write a report on his meeting with the Swimmers. It occurred to him that he'd probably get another thousand messages asking for the interview broadcast if he didn't include it, so he decided to ask Shanti how much the SFers had been able to film.

He stepped out of his office. Shanti's door was open, but he could hear voices. Philippe looked in. Five-Eighths was standing in front of Shanti's desk, while she was standing on the other side of her desk, in front of her chair.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt," Philippe said.

"Come on in. This will just take a minute," said Shanti, in a pleasant voice.

She turned to Five-Eighths and her eyes hardened. She snapped, "I can't believe you're asking this. If I asked you, I would never be MC again."

"I'm not trying to command anyone; I just think that we need to add to the diversity of the roster," Five-Eighths replied. "And it's not like you're a Moe anymore."

"Thanks so much for bringing that up, asshole. What's the roster usually like, anyway? You've got seven guys and half the women in the unit—that's pretty fucking good."

"Half the women is one fucking woman. _Usually_ the locals can pick up the slack. But these—" Five-Eighths put his hands in the air, at a loss for words.

"You expected better?" asked Shanti. They looked at each other for a moment, and she let out a small bark of incredulous laughter. "You honestly expected better! Holy shit, Five, you're like a casualty of SF VPE."

Philippe found himself wondering when his translator would kick in.

"It's not fucking funny," said Five-Eighths.

"No, it's fucking _hysterical._ God, I knew you were a pervert, but I never knew you were stupid. Look, motherfucker, you've got eight people, a huge library of VPE, and two perfectly good hands—"

"Eight people _including me,_ " Five-Eighths cut in.

" _And_ it's not like you've never gone outside your species before, _farm boy_. Don't come to me because you lack imagination."

Shanti stepped around her desk, putting her face right into Five-Eighths' face. Her voice, which had had a slight note of amusement to it, was now hard and icy, like a diamond.

"Do you think I owe you something?" she asked. "Do you think I'm obligated to be on the roster? You bring this up again, I'll tear your balls off. And then? I will report your sorry ass. Now get the fuck out of here."

Five-Eighths gave her a dirty look and stormed out.

"Hey, Trang, can you shut the door?" Shanti asked, calmly.

Philippe did.

"Wha-wha-what was that about?" he stammered.

"Horizontal duty," she said, sitting down and checking something on a scroll.

Philippe drew a blank. "What?" he asked.

Shanti looked at him quizzically. "The Yoopers don't—? Oh, OK, I guess this is something we do different from them. When an SF unit goes out on a long-term mission like this one, we draw up a roster—it's basically a sex thing. If you're on it, then you're available for, you know, sex-type action. Five wants more people on it, so he was asking me to sign on—which people are totally not supposed to do, just so you know. Anyway—not that _I_ am asking—but you should know that if you _want_ to be on it, it's totally available to you. It's OK that you're not SF, we're all kind of stuck out here."

"You're very generous, but I don't think so," said Philippe, trying to keep any sarcastic or judgmental tones out of his voice.

Judging from her expression, he wasn't very successful. "Hey," she said. "I may just be a dumb Sister Fucker, but the roster? It works. It's life-affirming, it builds morale, and it helps members of a unit bond."

"You're not on it," Philippe said, flatly.

"The _only_ reason I'm not on it is that I just got divorced, and I really don't feel like dealing with it," said Shanti, irritably. "Everyone's been on the roster or will be on the roster at some point—even the Moes."

"And . . . what's a Moe?" asked Philippe. "Aside from Mo in the unit."

Shanti smiled. "Yeah, Mo's not a Moe," she said. "Moe means married or otherwise . . . exclusive, I think."

Philippe stifled a quick laugh. "I don't think you'd stay married long if you signed on to this roster."

Shanti's smile vanished. "It's more complicated than you think, OK? It can be a problem: One of the reasons— _one—_ I got a divorce was that my husband was putting himself on the roster. But it really depends—after something traumatic, like a big firefight or something, lots of people who wouldn't normally go on the roster do, and nobody says shit about it. With my husband the problem was that he was on the roster _the first fucking day._ And he did it in a unit where he _knew_ I had friends and he _knew_ it would get back to me. Nothing says 'Fuck this marriage' quite like that."

Philippe sighed and shook his head. "You know, no one else does things this way."

"That's why we're the _Special_ Forces," she said, dryly. "Regardless of what you think, the roster does work. It makes things easier on the locals, and it cuts down on the Eve-teasing. I mean, the SF is almost entirely guys, and the average age is something like 22. So you're better off just telling them how to handle their sexuality instead of having them try to figure it out themselves. Unless you're Five, and then there's pretty much no hope."

"You mean Five-Eighths?" said Philippe. "Yeah, he's—well, he's got an interesting nickname."

"If it bothers you, just call him Five, that's what I do," Shanti said. "Anyway, at least he's been busy—he's been mapping the station for us."

"Really! That's useful."

"Yeah. He's a good soldier, despite the whole pervert thing."

Philippe suddenly remembered that he had not come into Shanti's office to discuss the sexual mores of her soldiers. "Anyway, I came by because I was wondering if you managed to film the broadcast the Swimmers made."

"Oh, yeah, I got the whole thing, I think," Shanti pulled the camera off her uniform and pointed at her memory station. An open scroll on her desk sprang to life, showing a close-up shot of a Host hand holding a screen. "Here it is—here you are!"

Philippe looked at it.

"Great," he said. "But where's the sound?"

"Oh, shit," Shanti said. "Did it not work right?"

"I don't think it's broken—you can hear background noise."

"Oh, fuck. You know what, the mike didn't pick up the universal code."

"Right, right," said Philippe. "Your mike was recording sound, but the Swimmers broadcast the thing in code—I mean, what good is a station-wide broadcast in English, right?"

"Fuck!" exclaimed Shanti, slamming her hand on the desk. "I've got to talk to Vip and Thorpe about this and make sure all our fucking surveillance isn't this way. This is so fucking stupid."

"Hey, hey, it's not all horrible. Sound could be useful," said Philippe.

"Fucking chirps and rattles? I mean, yeah, you're right, we might need sound, too, but we need to be picking up the universal code on _everything_." She stood up, and then picked up the scroll again. "Oh, wait, let me give you—OK, there's the video of your fucking mime interview, I'm sorry about that. And this is some of the stuff from Baby's report that I though you might like. It's all in your folder now."

"Thanks," said Philippe.

She bolted down the hall, and Philippe went back to his office. He opened the office folder again, which now contained one more message.

_At least this one will be helpful_ , Philippe thought.

The message contained both the video and Baby's report. Out of curiosity, Philippe looked at the report first. It was pretty a-grammatical—Baby had obviously recorded it and then converted it into text.

But the content was quite worthwhile. Baby had been on guard duty outside the front door with another soldier when a Host—who was neither Max nor Moritz—approached her. He was accompanied by a second Host who was not outfitted with translation equipment.

"The Host guy heard Doug call me Baby," the report read, "so he wanted to know if I really was some baby. I told him that I weren't no baby but a grown-up woman, and he got real excited and wanted to know if we had two sexes. I told him we did and that Doug was a man.

"So then he asked me if we stayed men and women all our life, so I told him we did. He told me that the Hosts also stayed men or women all their life, and that them and us are the only two people on the station who have two sexes and that don't change. I said, 'How do you change sex?'—I thought maybe he meant an operation—but he said that some of the other species will change sex depending on their age or other things without no kind of medical procedure. I told him that sounded weird, and he said that aliens are mysterious and that mysteries are good things.

"We then tried to figure out if we really are the same that way, it sounds like we pretty much are. Women Hosts get pregnant and have babies, although when I tried to ask him about nursing he didn't seem to understand me. He was really excited that I was a woman, and then he said he was surprised at my size, because he thinks I'm real small—that's why he thought I might actually be a baby. It turns out that women Hosts are really enormous and don't get out much, so they don't go into space. I asked what they do then, and he said they do different stuff but basically it all sounds like desk work. I told him I wouldn't make a good Host woman because I can't stand to just sit.

"What else? Oh, yeah, I asked him why his buddy didn't have translation gear, and he said it was because the guy weren't no priest like he were. But then he had said that he was married, so I said that most Earth priests don't get married. He said that on the Host planet, being a priest is really a big help to finding a wife, which is pretty hard to do, because there aren't a lot of women. He said that most women have five or six husbands, so they like priests because they are always here and not underfoot. He also said that Max and Moritz are brothers-in-law and priests, but they ain't in the same order, and he's in a different order from either of them two."

_Good Lord,_ thought Philippe, _she really missed her calling. Union Intelligence should recruit her._

There was a banging on his door. "Trang, we need you," Shanti yelled.

Philippe opened the door. "What's up?" he asked.

"The aliens have come," said Shanti. "And they brought presents!"

He started to head for the no man's zone, but Ofay, who was standing by the door, made him go back for his gloves and his hood. Back in his room, he remembered to grab the translation mike off his desk, sticking it onto his shirt and hoping the adhesive still had holding power. He joined the soldiers waiting to go outside.

Cut and Feo were standing outside with a Host, who was thrumming heartily and holding out what looked like saddlebags.

"He can't speak," said Cut.

"He probably doesn't have translation gear; some of them don't," said Philippe. He reached out for the bags and took them, bowing deeply. The Host seemed satisfied and turned to go.

"What's in there?" asked Feo.

"Knowledge, I guess," said Philippe.

"What are we supposed to do with it?" asked Shanti.

"With knowledge?"

"No, with alien _things._ Like, weird _things_ from aliens."

Philippe was genuinely shocked. "A diplomat is _never_ supposed to turn down a gift," he said.

Shanti rolled her eyes. "That may be, but it's kind of a security issue," she said. "I mean, we're really not supposed to have alien stuff in our living area."

"It's really _very_ insulting to reject a gift, in every culture," Philippe replied. "I cannot risk insulting these people like that, especially not this early."

"Look—" she began.

"Hey, guys." Cut interrupted. "More aliens coming."

Philippe handed the bags to Shanti as two Centaurs— _better start thinking of them as Cyclopes,_ Philippe thought—walked up. They were grayish-brown and covered in fur, with no obvious head. He wondered again if those eye spots were actual eyes, and if the Cyclopes could really see behind them. They were both shorter than Philippe, but quite broad, and had a rolling walk.

"Are you the human diplomat?" asked one.

"Yes, I am. I am very pleased to meet you."

"We met once before. I am pleased to meet you a second time."

"We saw the broadcast of your formal meeting with the Swimmers," said the second Cyclops. "We were wondering if you intended to hold a formal meeting with us as well."

"I would be delighted to meet with you formally," Philippe replied. "I hope to meet with all the people on this station formally."

"When are you planning to hold a formal meeting with us?" said the first. "We have received no communication about a formal meeting."

"I'm sure you will be contacted soon. I certainly wish to meet with you, um, formally, and I hope your people and my people become friends."

"When are you planning to hold a formal meeting with us?" said the first. "Is it soon?"

"Unfortunately, I am not certain," said Philippe. "Our liaisons with the Hosts are scheduling the formal meetings on our behalf."

"If the Hosts are handling that task, then you will hold a formal meeting with us last," the Cyclops said. "As you will discover, if you allow the Hosts to handle your affairs, they will not always place your interests first."

He turned and walked away.

"Again, we are emphatically happy to meet you now, and we anticipate with pleasure the time when you will hold a formal meeting with us. Good-bye," said the second Cyclops, who then followed the first.

"What the—" said Feo.

"Shhh," said Philippe. "Not here."

"Whaddya think?" said Shanti.

Philippe turned around, ready to shush her, too. But Shanti was talking to the doctor, who had come out of the living area and was examining the Hosts' gifts.

"Well, we've got an isolation unit in the infirmary, so we could keep them there. Of course, if anyone comes down with space Ebola, we'll have to figure out another place for them," George said.

"For now, let's put them in that unit," said Shanti.

They headed back into the no man's zone, with Shanti carrying the bags. As they waited for the door to open, Philippe gave George a quick rundown of what Max had told him to expect—knowledge that would be both useful and easy to grasp.

"So it sounds like they're giving us something that is exotic, yet familiar," George said, thoughtfully. "Hmm."

"We could just ask Max what it is," said Philippe.

"Don't do that yet," said the doctor. "Let me take a crack at it."

The door opened, and George snatched the bags out of Shanti's hands and took off down the hall to the infirmary.

"I note a certain spring to his step," said Philippe.

"The man loves his science," replied Shanti. "Hey, did you read Baby's report?"

"Oh, yeah, interesting," said Philippe, gesturing for her to join him in his office. "It sounds like the Hosts have a real theocracy going—the priests are the ones who get to travel into space and have the translation gear."

"And get married. What did you think of the whole women-stay-at-home thing?"

They speculated for a bit until Philippe decided to pull up the report to re-read part of it, and Shanti noticed the mass of messages.

"Man, you really need to clear out your office folder."

Philippe sighed. "And that's all from _today._ I mean, look at this—I swear I have a message from every person on Earth who has the security clearance to read our reports."

Shanti glanced over the folder. "Oh, fuck," she said. "I know what's happening. They can't talk to us, see, so everyone's doing an end run around our people and putting it all on you. What you gotta do is do what we do—we got people on Earth whose job it is to handle this shit. Our messages go to them, and we only get messages if there's a question they really can't answer that isn't totally stupid. It really cuts down on this kind of bullshit. I mean, look at this—even if you made sure everything was in text mode and just scanned it over, it would take you all day. You don't have time for this kind of shit."

"I really don't," said Philippe.

"Yeah," said Shanti, in a completely different tone of voice. "Oh, OK—another alien, we'll come out. What? Really? Fuck! Com Trang in."

There was a brief pause. "Hey, Trang?" Cut's voice was in his ear. "Um, we got a White Spider out here at the outer doorway, and I think he wants to see you."

"I'll—" Philippe realized that his com mike was in his suit jacket, which he wasn't wearing. He started looking around for the mike he left on his desk, but Shanti pulled her collar toward him so he could speak into hers. "I'll be right out."

"I don't know if you can do that," said Cut. "He's standing right on the door, and he's kind of pawing at it. He's not saying anything, but I think he's trying to get in."
Chapter 8

"He wants to get in?" asked Philippe.

"I think so, yeah," said Cut. "I can't say for sure, but he's sure acting like he wants in."

"So, let's let him in," said Philippe.

" _No,_ we can't just let him in," said Shanti. "Don't let him in."

"OK," said Cut. "But right now, if we open the door, we're letting him in."

" _Don't_ open the door," said Shanti, starting to leave.

"Why can't we let him in?" asked Philippe. "He could be a diplomat. He could be the White Spider diplomat."

She stopped and stared at him. "He could be that. He could be an assassin. He could be a tourist. It doesn't fucking matter—if he crawls onto the ceiling of the no man's zone right now, he's going to have the shit blown out of him."

"Oh," said Philippe. He hadn't thought of that.

"Were you expecting a visit?" Shanti asked.

"No, I haven't been able to communicate with the White Spiders at all, which is why I want to meet this one," he replied.

She hit her com mike. "Escort, report to the no man's zone," she said.

Philippe followed her out into the hallway. Shanti walked over to Ofay, who handed her a small electronic device he pulled out of a niche in the wall.

"MC Shanti Pax. Disable defenses," she said, and stuck the device back into the wall. A red light under the device went green. Bubba, Patch, and Raoul appeared, Raoul still chewing what was presumably a ration bar.

"OK," she said. "We're letting him in."

"Shouldn't we be there to greet him?" asked Philippe.

"In the no man's zone?"

"I want to make a good impression," Philippe said. "It's kind of a creepy place."

Shanti sighed. "OK. Outer guards, it's going to take a minute. We're going to go into the no man's zone first, and then you can open the outer door."

Philippe checked: The translation mike was still stuck to his shirt. He ran his hands through his hair.

"Bubba, you come in with us. Patch, Raoul, and Ofay, you stay here," Shanti said.

Philippe wondered for a moment if Bubba was the best choice for what could be a delicate interaction, but a glance at the three remaining SFers quickly reminded him that the options were, at best, limited. The door opened and the three of them stepped in.

"Who are we meeting?" asked Bubba.

"A White Spider!" said Philippe.

"Ugh, I hate those things," said Bubba.

Philippe opened his mouth to suggest that perhaps Patch would be a better choice for this mission, but the door behind him clicked shut, and the outer door began to open. An exploratory white foot immediately appeared in the widening crack, followed shortly by the creature's entire body.

"Hello!" said Philippe. "We humans welcome you to our living area!"

The White Spider said nothing in reply, merely walking slowly across the ceiling of the tunnel as the outer door closed behind it.

"We are very happy to meet you, and we wish most ardently that the humans and the White Spiders can become friends," Philippe continued.

"It can't even understand you," said Bubba.

"Shhh!" said both Shanti and Philippe.

"You don't know that—maybe it's just not talkative," Shanti whispered.

"I do know that whispering don't help none when you're wearing a mike. Which it's not," said Bubba.

"Do you mind?" asked Philippe.

"Look, it wants to go on in," said Bubba.

Indeed, the White Spider had crawled over to the door leading to the living area, and was now reaching out with its legs and stroking the door.

"So, now what?" said Shanti.

"Let's let him in," said Philippe.

"Let's not," said Bubba. "We'll have a damned infestation like they do in the common areas."

Philippe slapped off his translation mike and turned to the soldier.

"You know, just because he doesn't look like he's wearing translation gear doesn't mean he isn't," he said in exasperation. "Do you know what their gear looks like? Do you?"

He waited for an answer. Bubba looked at him, then to Shanti, and then shook his head.

Philippe continued. "Could you then perhaps refrain yourself from insulting them because you think they don't understand you?"

"I'm just saying what I think," said Bubba.

"Well, here's what I think," said Philippe. "I think this could be the White Spiders' way of reaching out, and I think it would be foolish to spurn them. Perhaps they aren't intelligent, in which case he'll just hang around on the ceiling, harmlessly, like they do in the common area. But considering they had _to build_ _a space ship_ and _fly it_ to get here, I think they are intelligent enough that we should at least not turn them away at the door."

"Maybe they just _infested_ a space ship," muttered Bubba.

"Bubba," said Shanti mildly, "shut the fuck up before I stab you. Ofay, open the inner door, please."

The door to the living quarters opened up, and the White Spider made its leisurely way out into the hallway as Ofay, Patch, and Raoul watched. They were soon joined by the other SFers, who watched as the creature crawled across the ceiling unhurriedly from room to room, never reacting to anything they said or did.

"Remember, be polite" said Shanti. "Anybody try to touch it or throw something at it, and I'll break your fingers off and shove them up your ass."

"I thought you weren't on the roster," said Five-Eighths.

"Don't talk like that!" said Baby, pointing up at the ceiling. "And Shanti, you don't talk like that neither!"

"Sorry!" said Shanti in the direction of the White Spider. "I didn't mean you."

Time passed, and watching the White Spider began to lose its novelty for the SFers, who gradually dispersed. Philippe felt an obligation to stay with the alien and act as its guide, but after an hour of talking and receiving no reply, he thought that perhaps his presence was unwelcome. Bi Zui had been assigned the job of monitoring the visitor, so Philippe returned to his desk, his unwritten report, and his thousand messages.

He was in the midst of it all when someone knocked at the door. _I am never, ever going to get anything done,_ Philippe thought _._

"Come in!" he called.

The door was opened by Bi Zui, but it was obvious who had requested entry. The White Spider crawled in, still on the ceiling.

"Hello!" said Philippe, feigning cheerfulness. "Welcome to my office! Please feel free to look around."

The White Spider crawled over to one corner, utterly unresponsive.

Philippe looked at Bi Zui, who shrugged his shoulders.

"You can sit there if you want," he told the soldier, gesturing to a chair. "I've got a ton of paperwork to catch up on, so I'm just going to get on with it."

He was putting the finishing touches on his report when Vip walked in. "Shit," he said. "How long has that thing been sitting there?"

"About half an hour," said Bi Zui. "Hasn't moved."

Philippe looked up. The White Spider was still in the same corner.

"Do you think he's sick?" Vip asked.

They stared at the White Spider for a moment. It hung on the ceiling, perfectly still, giving no indication of health, illness, or awareness of their presence.

"Maybe he's dead," said Bi Zui.

"You know what I think," said Vip. "I think he's a little drone thing, like what the Swimmers use. Think about it—it'd be great for surveillance, and it's parked right here in Trang's office."

"You think he's a spy?" asked Bi Zui, suddenly interested.

"It doesn't matter," said Philippe. "If someone wants to spy on me, they can go ahead. What are they going to find out, anyway?"

Vip looked at Philippe with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, if he's just going to hang out here, then what?" asked Bi Zui. "I can't stay here forever."

Vip went to get Shanti and Patch, and then Patch went to get George, and Philippe decided that he would gladly risk getting spied on or attacked or eaten by aliens if he could only get all these gabbling people out of his office. They finally settled on having Vip install a camera and motion sensors on the ceiling to monitor the creature.

The surveillance equipment was promptly dubbed BugCam, because at this point none of the SFers was willing to even entertain the notion that the White Spider could understand a thing they were saying.

The White Spider was still in the same spot on the ceiling the next day, when Philippe received a message from the Hosts that the Snake Boys were willing to meet in a few hours. When he left for the meeting, he was escorted by Patch, Gingko, Ofay, and Sucre. Five-Eighths' maps proved accurate, and they found their way to the Snake Boys' living area easily enough.

Once they got there, however, things got difficult. The Snake Boy who was supposed to meet them was waiting for them outside and seemed friendly enough, but when the door to his living area opened, all the humans reeled. The common area was warm, but the Snake Boys' living area was hot—very hot—and the air wafting out of it smelled acrid and bitter enough that Gingko discreetly took a reading and gave them a quick thumb's up before they entered.

The Snake Boys' name was appropriately descriptive—their bodies were thin, sinuous, and longer than the SFers were tall. Unlike a real snake, the Snake Boys had many legs, more like a centipede. They also had what at first appeared to be eight pronounced ridges across their backs, although Philippe had seen enough of the Snake Boys to know that these were actually arms, each ending in a three-fingered hand, which folded across the tops of their bodies when not in use.

Even with their legs and ridges, when standing, the Snake Boys only came up to about Philippe's knee. When the door opened, it had revealed a wall of reddish material, with a small tunnel in the base. The Snake Boy passed through the tunnel easily, but Philippe and especially the larger SFers had a rough time of it, squirming through on their bellies.

_This is the level of hell reserved for evil claustrophobics,_ Philippe thought.

Fortunately they didn't have to go far before they reached a chamber, which had several tunnels leading into it. Before they could enter, the Snake Boy asked them to wait, explaining that he had to "remove the livestock." For security reasons, Philippe was not in front, so he had to lie in the tunnel and listen to Patch's excited description of how the Snake Boy was chasing out some "hopping maggoty grub things!"

The chamber itself was not big either—Philippe could just sit upright by clasping his knees to his chest. Patch and Gingko had to lie down to fit, while Ofay and Sucre couldn't come in at all and were eventually sent back out into the common area. Periodically during their discussion some of the livestock would try to hop back into the chamber. The Snake Boy would chase them out with his tail end while carrying on an uninterrupted conversation with his head. Eventually Philippe realized that the creature had clusters of eyes on each end of its body.

"I'm sorry there is not more room here," said the Snake Boy. "We have increased in numbers since we first came to this station and are experiencing overcrowding."

"Being able to meet you in your home more than makes up for any physical discomfort," Philippe replied.

The Snake Boy looked at the three humans crouched and crowded into the room. "I am afraid that your people are not built like our people. I am curious—do your people climb?"

"Climb what?" asked Gingko.

"Vegetation, or geological formations. I have not heard of you climbing since you came here, and I was curious to know if you typically climbed at home."

"We are physically capable of climbing, and some climb as a sport," said Philippe. "But usually we just walk on the ground."

"I was told that the bipeds on my planet are arboreal," said the Snake Boy. "You are the first bipeds I have encountered in my own experience, so I thought you might be arboreal, like the White Spiders. But that is what I was told bipeds are like on my planet; I am not surprised that things are different on your planet."

"Not that different," said Gingko, trying to nod. "We evolved from an arboreal species."

"I'm a little confused, and I'm afraid your comment may not have translated correctly" said Philippe. "Why would you need to be told what things are like on your planet?"

The Snake Boy's answer turned out to be a quick history of their arrival at the station—which had been undertaken in rather a different spirit than the arrival of the Swimmers or the construction of the station by the Hosts.

Like the Swimmers, the Snake Boys had been contacted by the Hosts immediately after a portal opened up near their planet. Unlike the Swimmers, however, the Snake Boys had reacted to the communication with such intense panic that the Hosts had resolved never to make the first move again.

The Hosts had told the Snake Boys that they wanted visitors, so the Snake Boys sent them sacrifices—a shipload of convicts and troublemakers, sent on a one-way journey to what every last Snake Boy, both on and off the ship, believed would be their certain destruction.

Of course, the visitors hadn't been slaughtered, but rather greeted with much rejoicing. The celebration became somewhat muted, however, when the home planet stopped responding to messages sent through the portal. It became obvious that the Snake Boys' home world had no intention of taking the visitors back—and had made no plans to provision them, either.

Fortunately, the family of one of the condemned, fearing that death, while certain, might come slowly for their beloved, had arranged for a small herd of livestock to be on board the ship. Eventually the Hosts were able to process food from their planet so that it did not make the Snake Boys violently ill, and between that and the livestock the Snake Boys were able to make a life for themselves on the station.

"We have done well here, and we have been quite successful in our reproduction," the Snake Boy told the humans. "This is why our living space has become overcrowded."

"Why can't you move into an unoccupied living area?" asked Philippe. "Is it too complicated to outfit another one so that it is comfortable for you?"

The Snake Boy paused for a moment. "The problem is not a technical problem. The problem is that the Hosts will not permit it, because they worry that they will run out of space for new species that may arrive later."

"But I thought there were only nine species here, and the two Swimmer species share quarters, so that's only eight living quarters being used. There's a lot of empty space." Philippe thought a moment, and an explanation occurred to him. "Are there more aliens here that I don't know about?"

"There are currently only nine different people on the station, and only seven living areas are occupied, because both Swimmer species live in a single area, and the White Spiders typically avoid their own living area," the Snake Boy said. "More than 20 portals have opened, however, so the Hosts fear that suddenly many different people will agree to come to the station, and there will be no place for them.

"I do not personally believe that is a realistic concern, however. With some of the portals, the Hosts have been in contact with the species on the other side for a long time. Therefore, I think if they were going to agree to come to the station, they would have done so before now. In other cases, the Hosts have not managed to establish communication at all. But as the Hosts say, other people are inscrutable, and it is not always easy to predict what they will do."

Philippe was not eager to discuss Host policies with a Snake Boy—that seemed politically injudicious at best. Quite a bit of time had passed already, and he certainly knew more about the Snake Boys than he had when he arrived, so he politely took his leave.

Philippe crawled out with Gingko and Patch, coming outside to the fresh-smelling air to see Ofay entertaining a group of Snake Boys by walking on his hands.

"Let's see if you can do it!" exclaimed Sucre, stepping up to a Snake Boy, but Philippe stopped him before the soldier was able to put his suggestion into action.

In the process of averting that incident, Philippe discovered something more troubling—Ofay had felt obligated to entertain the Snake Boys because he and Sucre had told them that they couldn't enter while Philippe was there.

"You kept them out of their own living area?" Philippe asked, stunned.

"They seemed OK with it," said Sucre.

Philippe stared at him. "Could you tell if they weren't?"

"They didn't complain."

"They know the human diplomat's a VIP—I think they understand the security issues," said Ofay. "And they really thought I couldn't walk on my hands."

The humans returned to their living area, and Philippe went into his office, where the White Spider sat, unmoving. There were three memory widgets on his desk. He sighed and turned on his workstation. Checking his office folder first, he saw that Shanti had forwarded another excerpt from Baby's report. "I'm thinking of assigning her to wander the common area and yak at people full-time," Shanti wrote.

Philippe intended to talk to Shanti about the SFers' gaffe, but Baby's last report had been interesting, and he figured it would only take a moment to read this one.

It said:

"I was in the common area two floors up from our floor, and this Pincushion said hello to me. And I noticed that he was wearing blue-and-gray clothing. And a lot of the Pincushions are wearing those colors now, so I complimented him on his outfit. He told me that the Pincushions wore those colors because of Trang, because he wears a blue suit and gray lonjons together. So we talked about clothing a bit. He wanted to know what color Shanti's scales are, and I told him, so we may see that soon.

"He also told me something really interesting—their clothing is stuck on the ends of poisonous spines! He said that the Pincushions lived in a really dangerous environment, so they have spines that contain a really super-deadly poison. But then they became civilized, so they didn't need no poisonous spines, so they started to wear clothes. He said that now most people get their poison taken out when they're kids, but they still wear the clothes. And they have an expression, 'uncover your spines,' and that means to be, you know, just rude.

"I asked him how he put on his clothing, since he ain't got no arms or hands, and he said that he did too, they just don't put them out none when they're walking. So I asked to see them. The big, fat spikes they have are really tubes with arms in them. You know how a snail has eye stalks, and if you touch one, the snail pulls it back in? The Pincushions do the same sort of thing. And the arms split off into a bunch of fingers that can grab. He grabbed my foot to show me. He ain't got no bones in there, but he can still grab pretty good."

Philippe smiled. Baby definitely could join the UI. Speaking of which. . . . His eyes traveled over to the widgets. He picked them up and loaded them.

His office folder was just ridiculous, so he looked into his personal folder. There were ten new messages, seven of which were from Kathy.

Philippe took a deep breath.

He selected all 19 of Kathy's messages, and set the display so that they would be text-only, with one tiled on top of the other. He could scan the first lines and see if maybe there was some kind of emergency happening, some reason why Kathy was sending so many messages.

They read:

"I saw your picture on the news feed today; it made me want to vomit."

"You think you're so wonderful, don't you? So great, so famous."

"If only people knew what a fucking fraud you are."

"God, I wish everyone knew the truth about you; they wouldn't be talking about you like you're a hero."

"You're a piece of shit."

"Fuck you! Just fuck you, Philippe. Fuck you!"

"You know, you really are contemptible."

"ASSHOLE. FRAUD. CHARLATAN."

"Everyone thinks you're so great, it makes me sick, literally sick."

"You're just a worthless fake, do you understand that?"

"They showed an interview with you on the feed last night, so I threw that scroll out the window."

"If I have to hear your name one more time, I'm going to kill somebody."

"FUCK YOU."

"Smug bastard. Some day, you're going to get what you deserve."

"You and I both know what you really are."

"God it makes me sick to hear about you."

"I hope that station fucking blows up with you on it."

"FUCK YOU!!!!! FUCK YOU!!!!"

"Everyone needs to know what a worthless, lying little prick you are."

He sat there for a moment. His hand, seemingly of its own accord, deleted the messages.

He was stunned. He had _known_ she was crazy. He had broken up with her _because_ she was crazy. But seeing her rage in all its lunatic glory was still a shock. The vividness of it, the living insanity, had been dulled in his memory.

He had wanted to punish himself, and he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ he wondered.

There was a knock at the door, and Shanti opened it without waiting for him to reply.

"Hey, Trang, you're back!" she said. "Didn't get eaten, right? Did you see Baby's report?"

"Yes I saw it," he said, somewhat vacantly. He blinked. "It was great—she gets great material from these people."

"Yeah, she's got the gift of gab—" Shanti began.

"Do you know why?" Philippe suddenly interrupted. "Do you know _why_ she is able to get the aliens to open up to her? Because _she_ doesn't have to cope with an armed entourage that won't let people enter their own home because their diplomat is such a very important person."

Guilt flashed across her face. "Yeah, Ofay and Sucre told me—it sounds like they got a little heavy-handed."

"Heavy-handed!? Heavy—oh, that's just the understatement of the year," said Philippe, working just the right amount of mockery into his tone. "Considering the policies and attitudes toward territory here—what you so memorably described as the concept of _your_ space and _our_ space—I think one alien species actually barring entry of another species to _their own home_ might be considered a tad, oh, disrespectful, maybe? Hostile, perhaps?"

He felt good. He felt like pent-up steam was just blasting out of him. He went on.

"Look, I think you and I can both agree that none of the aliens are actually hostile, right? So why do I need this massive, intimidating entourage every time I stick my head out the door? You know, having the thug brigade about makes it so that I can't do my job. And in case you missed the memo, _my job_ is _our mission!_ "

"Well, we can discuss—" Shanti began.

"Discuss?" Philippe interrupted. "Oh, no. I don't think you're really clear on this: _I don't have to take orders from you._ _My job_ is paramount here— _we_ are a diplomatic mission, and _I_ am the diplomat. We're not discussing anything; we're not going to have a debate; we're not going to call in all your little goons and have a town meeting, chock full of threats and swearing. What is going to happen is that I am not going to _have_ an entourage any more. I am going to go out on my own so that _I can do my job_. _That_ is what is going to _happen._ "

Shanti stared at him for a moment, her dark eyes hard, narrow, and unblinking. Her jaw twitched, and without a word, she shut the door to his office.

Two days later, Shanti had still not said a word to Philippe. He had not heard from the Hosts regarding another meeting. And the White Spider was still sitting there, motionless on his office ceiling.

He had messaged the DiploCorps, telling them that the volume of mail he was getting was completely unacceptable and that someone in the Beijing office needed to screen his messages and handle the easier questions. He also asked that Kathy be blocked from sending him personal messages, and that any messages sent by her to his official address be scrutinized for appropriateness of content. He knew that such a request would probably damage her career, but he was through taking crap.

The day before, Philippe had gone out into the common area, all by himself, like the fully-grown adult he was. He had run into Baby, who had wanted to show him something. She took him to the common area near the Hosts' living quarters. There were dozens of low platforms, and a number of Hosts were eating and chatting there.

"Quite the café culture," Philippe had said.

"What?" Baby had replied.

It turned out that she had arranged a lunch date with the Host she had mentioned in her report. He was waiting for them by one of the platforms. After greeting them, he went over to a machine with two basins in the top, somewhat like a kitchen sink. The Host stuck his front hands in the first basin, waited a few moments, then pulled them out. His hands were covered in a thin layer of gel. Then he stuck them in the second basin. A bright light shone, and billows of steam came off of his hands. He pulled them out, checking them carefully. The gel was gone.

"This is a hand-sanitizing machine," said the Host. "I do not think you should use it, however, because I am not certain that it is safe for you."

"It certainly looks powerful," Philippe said, not at all eager to put any part of his anatomy in it.

"It is. We usually walk with all six hands on the floor, so a complete and thorough cleaning of the front hands before eating is essential. But since you do not touch the floor with your hands, I assume that it is not essential for you."

Philippe looked at Baby. "We'll be sure not to touch the floor with out hands when we sit," he said, more for her benefit than the Host's.

They sat on the floor at a dining platform, carefully keeping their hands on the table. Baby pulled a ration bar out of a pocket, broke it in half, and gave half to Philippe. The Host ate something with a crumbly texture that looked like sand. First, he moistened his hand in a bowl full of colored liquid. Then he used the wet hand to press the sandy food into a wad, which he shoved into a gap between the segments of his deep-red shell.

They tried to discuss what he was eating, but the translators would only tell them that the grainy material was "foodstuff" made of "organic matter," that the liquid was "foodstuff processed into a liquid," and that together, they constituted a light meal. The Host asked them about their food, and Philippe realized that he had no idea what was actually in ration bars, aside from a gazillion nutritional supplements and years of scientific research. He said that the bars were a compact food designed for travelers.

"I think," said Baby to the Host, "that I want to learn your name."

The Host, Philippe could tell, was completely tickled by the suggestion—and by Baby herself. "I do not think that you can say it," he replied, teasingly.

"You know my name," she said.

"But your name translates: Infant. I like such names, and I feel it is unfortunate that more of your people do not have such names. The Cyclopes have such names, although none as charming as yours."

"Come on, teach me!"

"Listen. It is this: Cannot translate," said the Host.

It took them several tries—they tried to tune out the translator but eventually made him turn off his mike when he said it, and they turned off their mikes when they attempted to repeat it. They finally came close with "Ptuk-Ptik," although the Host told them that they were missing several syllables in what was apparently the ultrasonic register.

"You know, maybe these translators aren't the best thing to be using," said Philippe. "If we had the right kinds of mikes and earplants, then we could speak and hear in the register you speak in as well. And in that case, we could just learn your language rather than having to rely on translators."

"Sounds complicated," said Baby.

"I'm not saying that this would replace the translators, but any translation is imperfect. I think if people who were willing to learn an alien language actually could, that would improve communication. I mean, during the past five years, you guys essentially learned English in order to communicate with us."

"That was a group effort, and in truth, only the Magic Man could be said to have sufficient familiarity with your language to communicate spontaneously," said Ptuk-Ptik. "You are an innovative thinker, but my people would never support that idea. They are attached to tradition. I am in a very flexible order, but even my order would not be willing to see the translators replaced as a means of communication among species. It would mean a loss of status and purpose for the Swimmers, so I predict that they would oppose it as well."

"It's odd that so many of you here are priests," said Baby. "We ain't got no priests with us."

"Did that translate?" Philippe asked, curious. "What she just said?"

Ptuk-Ptik looked at him thoughtfully. "Her most recent remark translated as: She considers it unusual that many of the Hosts on this station are priests because none of the humans on this station are priests," he said.

"That's what I said," said Baby.

"I asked because she uses an unconventional grammar," Philippe explained.

"It is evidently sufficiently conventional for those who provided us with code for your language to include it," replied Ptuk-Ptik.

"Ha!" said Baby to Philippe.

"To answer your question, Infant," the alien continued. "We have priests here because the portals represent that part of the universe that is beyond reason, that part that offers a deeper purpose, a divine destiny. What bigger mystery is there than the portals and the aliens who come through those portals? And who better trained to examine that mystery than the priests?"

After their meal, Philippe and Baby took their leave of Ptuk-Ptik and walked around the common area. They chatted with a few other aliens who recognized Philippe as the human diplomat, among them a Snake Boy. The Snake Boy was not among those kept out of their living area by Ofay and Sucre, but Philippe made a point of expressing his regret about that incident nonetheless.

He came back feeling pretty good, and even the sight of another three widgets on his desk did not dismay him—the DiploCorps would start screening his messages soon enough. Aside from the immobile White Spider, he was alone in his office and could get his work done, which was a nice change, although at several points he thought he could hear someone shouting who sounded a lot like Shanti. When he went to get dinner that evening the SFers around him were pretty quiet, and the same was true when he got breakfast the following morning.

It wasn't until the next day that someone knocked on his office door. "Come in!" Philippe said.

Patch opened the door, stepped in, and shut it. He looked tense. "Guy," he said, "I don't know what exactly you said to Shanti, but you have _got_ to make up with her."

"What do you mean?" asked Philippe.

"I know you had a fight, OK? And she's really, really, really, really mad at you, all right? And if you really want the truth, everyone else is kind of pissed at you, too."

Philippe looked at his desk, feeling a touch defensive. "Well, I don't see why."

"Guy, when the MC wants to spank, everybody's ass is red." Patch stared at Philippe in silence for a moment, looking uncomfortable, and then decided to push on. "She says you pulled rank on her. That you didn't want to talk about stuff, that you just wanted her to do what you told her to do."

Philippe thought for a moment. "Well, perhaps I was a bit harsh—"

"Harsh!" Patch yelped. "Guy, have you listened to Shanti talk? Harsh she can handle. She _is_ harsh. Harsh is _fine._ It's when she starts getting quiet that you have to worry. I mean, I don't want to freak you out, but I don't think she ever yelled much at her old man."

Philippe sighed. Sometimes Patch made no sense. "If she doesn't care if I'm rude, then why is she so upset?"

Patch stared at Philippe incredulously. "Guy, you _pulled rank._ " As he said it, he looked at Philippe as though he, too, should be horrified to hear his aberrant behavior described in such blunt terms.

When Philippe only continued to look confused, Patch continued with his explanation. "You told her that you were in charge of this mission."

"Well, I sort of am," said Philippe.

Patch looked defeated and sat down. "OK, I'm trying to think of how to put this," he said.

The effort of cognition kept him silent for several moments, and Philippe was just about to start talking when Patch opened his mouth. "In some of the national armies and I guess maybe in the Union Police and other places that are kind of stuck in the twentieth century, there's like this big rank structure, right? And in those types of places, I guess it's, like, OK to order people around just because their rank is lower than yours. But guy, we're the Special Forces, and the SF is all about respect for the individual soldier. Nobody has any fucking _rank_ , you've got a _job_ —I'm second, Shanti is MC, the doctor is MO, Cheep and Pinky are pilots. You've got the thing that you're good at, like munitions or communications—you don't have _rank_. Other people do not order you around when it comes to you doing your job. It's fucking insulting."

"OK," said Philippe, "but _my_ job was being impaired by having this entourage—"

"So you go to Shanti, whose job it is to manage your security, and you say that there is a problem, and you _ask_ her to fix it."

Philippe stared at Patch in amazement.

"Look," he said, "Shanti is called the mission _commander._ She orders people around all the time. She _threatens_ them. Don't tell me she can't handle it."

"There's a difference between that and what you did," said Patch. Philippe rolled his eyes in response. "No, there is, it's like a dignity thing. And you know, if she feels strongly enough about something that she wants to kick my ass over it, she's more than welcome to try."

Patch flexed his massive arms unconsciously, causing Philippe to silently resolve to never, ever offer to kick his ass.

"She can tell me what to do as her second, because that's the second's job—to back up the mission commander. But she can't _order_ me to do jack shit when it comes to my other job, which is munitions. I know a lot more about it than she does, and I could get her into a hell of a lot of trouble if she was a pain in the ass about it. That's like, why people join the SF and not some other military—respect for the individual soldier."

Philippe sighed. That line was clearly a mantra for Patch—for all the SFers, probably.

It would be easier, Philippe reflected, if they were just _normal._ He knew he had been snappish, _very_ snappish, and that his quarrel with Shanti probably had had a lot more to do with the letters from Kathy than anything else.

But his snappishness had also had something to do with the fact that Philippe was surrounded by people who didn't appear to follow _any_ rules of etiquette. If everyone around him could threaten to cut each other's throats without consequences, why couldn't he snap?

But now Patch was telling him that there _were_ rules—deep-seated, treasured rules that represented everything the Special Forces stood for as a culture. And Philippe had violated those rules.

Philippe sighed again. _You can't fight culture,_ he thought.

"So, basically, everyone hates me now," he said.

"Not really, not yet," Patch replied. "But you know, we're a small group here. When two of the, like, authority-type people stop getting along, it can cause a lot of problems with, like, morale and people feeling like they have to take sides. It's not just you two, it affects us all. And, uh, I'm talking to you because, um, you gotta get the ball rolling. I mean, I've worked with Shanti a long time, I was around when she and Royal got divorced, and I know that when she's this pissed off, she's not going to be the one who reaches out. She just, like, stews—and she makes life fucking hell for the rest of us."

"All right, all right," said Philippe. "I'll talk to her."

"Thanks so much, guy," said Patch, standing up with a relieved smile on his face. "Just, you know, get her yelling. As long as she's yelling, you're OK."

Patch walked out. Philippe gave him a moment to get clear of the upcoming conflagration and went out to find Shanti. She wasn't in her office, but he found her in the mess hall. He asked her if they could speak. They silently went back to where both their office doors were. Philippe followed her into her office, thinking that he might as well let this happen on her turf. She sat behind her desk, and he sat in the chair in front of it.

"Patch spoke to me, and he told me that you were very upset by the way I ordered you around the other day," Philippe began. "I didn't realize that what I said was considered offensive by people in the SF, so I wanted to apologize for any offense I might have caused you by pulling rank. I realize your job is important, and I value the work you do, and I am sorry that I made you feel like I did not value you."

Shanti stared at him for a moment.

"You are so full of shit," she said flatly.

It was not the reaction Philippe had been hoping for. "I'm apologizing to you," he said.

"Right, right, right. You're apologizing," Shanti said, her voice bitter. "Well, I guess that makes everything fine and dandy, then! Because _you_ certainly would never be _insincere_. _You_ would never apologize just to hide your agenda. Not _you._ "

Philippe was flabbergasted. "What agenda? Wanting to talk to the aliens isn't my _agenda,_ it's my _job._ "

"Oh, and that's what this is about, right?" The volume of her voice was rising. "That's why you chewed Ofay and Sucre out, right on the spot!"

"We were in the common area!"

"The moment you got back then, right? You chewed them right out and told them in no uncertain terms that that was the _wrong_ way to handle that situation, and then you told them what the _right_ way to handle that situation would be, right? Because that's what you would have done if you had wanted _to fix what was wrong_." Shanti punctuated her words by slamming her palm repeatedly into the desktop. "You would have done that if you wanted them to _do better the next time_. But that's not what you want."

"It's not?"

"No, it's not, you motherfucker, and you know it." She had stopped pounding the desk in favor of pointing a finger at Philippe. "You don't want there to _be_ a next time—not with these soldiers. _You don't want us here._ You didn't want us here to begin with—you think I wouldn't find out about your memos?—and you're not willing to get the fuck over it and work with us. You want to be able to say to Beijing, I couldn't use these damned Sister Fuckers. They are so awful—so _fucking awful_ —that I would rather _go without protection_ than have them around. That's what you want. And now you're smiling in our faces about it because you're a fucking weasel."

"A weasel?"

"A weasel! A rat! A liar!" She was certainly yelling now. "Oh, please, oh, _please,_ like I haven't heard you talking to these aliens. 'Oh, we people of Earth, we never ever are mean and cruel to animals. Extinction? What's that? No we love them and pet them.' You _manipulate_ people. You _lie_ to them. You do it _for a living!_ "

Philippe sprang out of his chair. He was shaking with anger.

"You _kill_ people for a living," he hissed. "How _dare_ you judge what I do!"

They stared at each other for minute.

Philippe closed his eyes and sat back down.

He had lost it, just then, completely lost it. He covered his eyes with his hands.

_There is no coming back from this,_ he thought. _There is no way._

But he had to try.

"Listen," he said, his eyes still covered, "we're more alike than you might realize. I mean, I doubt very much that you enjoy killing people, right? But sometimes, it has to happen. You don't like it, but you have to do it. You have to protect the good people from the bad people, and sometimes the bad people can't be stopped any other way."

He dropped his hands and opened his eyes. He still couldn't look at her, so he kept his gaze down.

"It's the same with what I do. Yeah, sometimes I'm not terribly honest. I don't want other species to know about the dodo, because then they're going to wonder what we're going to do to them. The truth does not always serve, because the truth—the unvarnished truth—is that all too often people aren't really trustworthy and don't have good histories and sometimes only one side is going to win, and if I can gloss over those truths and manipulate people so that they don't really care about them, then that's what I do. Because that's better than having people fight and fight and fight. I do what I have to do so that you won't have to do what you don't like to do.

"I don't _like_ to do it. I don't do it if I don't have to. And I'm not trying some bureaucratic jujitsu to get you and your people off this assignment. There have been problems, but this is a very new situation for everyone, and I know that. And I think in general you guys have done well—I mean, Baby has done really well. And I want to do really well, too, and I honestly believe that having a four-person armed guard around me all the time makes it so I can't do really well. But I understand that I was too dismissive about your concerns before, and I realize that they are valid concerns, so I'm willing to talk this out with you."

"What's your report going to say?" Shanti asked.

Philippe looked up, looking her in the face. This was an opportunity, however small. An opportunity for negotiation.

"I don't even have to put this in," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Or I can say, 'In a meeting with the MC, we decided that since the security threat to me did not appear to be severe, we would scale back my protection—'"

"We would make your protection less conspicuous," Shanti interjected. "'Scale back' sounds bad."

"We would make my protection less conspicuous," Philippe continued with a nod. "Instead of four guards around me at all times, we decided on one guard—"

"One guard by your side, and two trailing. That's what we had yesterday."

Philippe stared at her for a moment, and then laughed. "And _I'm_ the sneaky one! Look, they're not all like Baby—you know that pretty much anyone else will come across like a bodyguard. How about just the two trailing?"

Shanti looked like she was about to object, then relented. "They can trail close, right? You're not going to try to ditch them?"

"Absolutely. I will fully cooperate. And when I go into alien living quarters, I'll always take one with me."

Shanti thought on that for a minute. "If you've visited them before with no incident, in that case? I think it's OK to take just one. But if you haven't visited before? I think you should take both."

"That's your considered opinion as the person in charge of my security?"

"Yes, it is."

"Then that's what I'll do," said Philippe, extending his hand.

They shook on it. Shanti started laughing.

"Oh, thank God," she said. "I thought you were really a two-faced rat! All of a sudden you were like, 'Do this' and 'I don't want to discuss that.' You sounded like the old man."

"The old man?"

"Yeah, _my_ old man. And trust me, when you sound like someone who wants to take over the world with a grand total of 52 people, you've got problems."

"Great. Just don't—" Philippe stopped himself and winced at his own stupidity. They had just patched things up and now. . . .

"Don't put poison in your nightcap?" she asked, sounding slightly amused. "Don't worry. I wouldn't poison you. You should know that I didn't poison _him_. I was against it."

"Oh?" said Philippe, not sure how to respond.

"I wanted to shoot him in the head," she continued, pointing her finger to the back of her head and cocking her thumb as a visual aid. "Quick and certain. But I got outvoted."

Philippe looked at her. Shanti did not seem the least bit upset or embarrassed or ashamed. _She's been dealing with this all her life,_ he realized. _Everyone knows what they did._

"Well," he said, "I'd like to put in my vote now _against_ your shooting me in the head."

She laughed again. It was good to see. "OK. We'll stick to the yelling."

They shook hands again, and Philippe walked out the door, feeling like a tight band across his shoulders had suddenly been cut free.
Chapter 9

When Philippe walked out into the hallway, he saw George's stocky form in the doorway of his office. The doctor turned around, spotted Philippe, and grabbed his arm.

"Come with me," he said, his voice alive with excitement.

He steered Philippe down to the infirmary. The isolation suite was glassed-in, and in it, on a table, lay the Hosts' bag and seven small identical items. They were gnarled and pale blue—like bits of blue driftwood.

"I think I know what they are," said George. "Actually, I checked with Max, so I _know_ I know what they are. But I figured it out first."

"Don't keep me in suspense," said Philippe.

George launched into a long explanation, most of which Philippe couldn't follow. He got eventually got George to perform his own translation, and the gist of it was that these were the translation devices used by the Hosts. What really excited George was that their workings indicated certain things about the aliens' physiognomy that he found extremely interesting and that Philippe found completely incomprehensible.

Philippe kept trying to reflect George's excitement, since the doctor had obviously worked quite hard and had very likely made some major scientific discoveries. But apparently his acting skills were not up to the job, because the doctor suddenly brought himself up short. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," said Philippe. "It's not like I don't value science, but I was never very good at it, and I'm just completely lost here."

"You look kind of distracted, too," said George.

"Oh, I just patched things up with Shanti," said Philippe.

"That can be stressful," the doctor replied with a smile. Philippe laughed, but George put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a more somber look. "Seriously, it can be—living in close quarters like we do, conflicts are bound to happen. If you need some help with stress management, that's a big part of what I do as MO."

Philippe was puzzled. "I thought your specialty was emergency medicine."

"Sure, that's my formal training," said George. "But really—when you're in the Special Forces, you're dealing with a healthy, young population outfitted with the best armor and weaponry on the planet. So the actual emergencies are few and far between. Even in combat situations I usually spend more time patching up the other side.

"The issues our soldiers face tend to be more psychological—the emotional impact of combat, coping with these types of open-ended small-group missions where you're stuck with the same people day after day, that sort of thing."

"Oh, OK," said Philippe.

"So I can help with a lot of things: visualization, meditation, breathing exercises. Plus," he said with a sly smile, "I'm told I give an excellent massage."

Philippe could feel the blood rushing to his face. "I, um, I, uh, you know that I'm not on the roster, right?"

George cocked a black, bushy eyebrow. "I can read, Trang," he said.

Philippe apologized and left.

He did not hear from the Hosts over the next couple of days, so Philippe spent his time roaming the common area, two soldiers always within sight. He talked to a number of aliens, including the two Cyclopes he had met before.

Since Ptuk-Ptik had mentioned that Cyclopes names were translatable, Philippe asked those two their names, which were Endless Courage and Brave Loyalty. They were slightly different in color and build, so it was possible for Philippe to tell them apart—once he knew who he was talking to. The problem was that the Cyclopes in general looked very similar to Philippe, and he wasn't at all sure he would be able to identify either Endless Courage or Brave Loyalty if he came across one of them alone or with some other Cyclopes. Indeed, when Philippe ran into Endless Courage and Brave Loyalty for the third time since his arrival on the station, he had no idea who they were. Fortunately, they mentioned their earlier talk before Philippe made a potentially offensive gaffe.

Their body language was impossible to read, but their words conveyed annoyance—Endless Courage in particular nagged Philippe to have a formal meeting with the Cyclopes as soon as possible. The situation was not improved when Philippe said that he was reluctant to pressure the Hosts; Endless Courage once again suggested that the humans not rely on the Hosts for help and dismissed Philippe's concerns that he might offend them.

Philippe also spent time observing the limited trade that went through the station. None of the planets traded directly with each other; they all used the station as a trading post. This was largely a practical matter: No species had developed ships fast enough to travel from one solar system to another in any reasonable amount of time, so they had to use the portals to the station.

In addition, while it was not entirely unheard of for an alien to visit another's planet, concerns about disease and security made such direct visits rarities. The trade through the station tended to be restricted to things like minerals and chemical compounds—items that were both valuable and compact—rather than agricultural products or technology, which presumably carried a higher risk of contamination.

During that time, Philippe saw the Magic Man only twice, in quick succession. The first time occurred just as Philippe was stepping on an elevator platform. He spotted the alien, said "Hello!" and waved. And when he stepped off the elevator, three floors up, the second sighting occurred, because the Magic Man was standing right there.

"Did you wish to speak with me?" said the Magic Man.

"Wow, that was fast!" said Philippe, surprised. "How did you do that?"

"I moved," said the Magic Man. "Did you wish to speak with me?"

"I wanted to say hello and see how you were doing," said Philippe.

"I understand," said the Magic Man, and walked away.

When Philippe was just about to pester the Hosts about his next meeting, he got a message that Max was waiting at the door. Max, with much elaborate phrasing and a detectable air of irritation, asked Philippe to come visit him and Moritz the next day. Philippe expressed his utmost gratitude for the invitation and his profound pleasure in accepting it.

The next day, Philippe, Mo, and Sucre went to the Hosts' living area. Sucre, who had promised not to prevent people from entering, stood just outside the door, while Mo went in with Philippe to meet the Hosts.

"We feel very sad, because we believe we have failed you," said Moritz, after they exchanged greetings.

"Don't say that," said Philippe. "You have done so much for us."

"But there is a problem with scheduling the meetings," said Moritz.

"A small problem," said Max.

"A significant problem," said Moritz.

"Please, tell me what this problem is," said Philippe. "I'm sure that together, we can resolve it."

"We had hoped that we could have you meet with the species in the order in which they came to the station," said Moritz. "But we fear that this is not possible."

"The White Spiders and the Magic Man will not respond to our requests, which is typical of their manner," said Max. "The Blobbos wish to meet with you, but again as is typical of their manner, they do not wish to meet with you in their living area because of security concerns."

"We are terribly sorry, but unless you wish to wait for the White Spiders or the Magic Man to respond, or for the Blobbos to agree to meet with you in their living area—" began Moritz.

"Which would involve a very long wait, reflecting upon their historic patterns of behavior," Max interjected.

"—then we must alter the order and begin contacting the Pincushions or the Cyclopes," Moritz finished.

"That would be acceptable," said Philippe. "I am happy to meet the Blobbos wherever they are comfortable meeting with me. I wish to meet as many species as possible, and if I fail to meet with one species, I do not think that should prevent me from meeting with the others. In addition, the Cyclopes have been asking me to meet with them, so I would like to do so as soon as possible."

"I do not think that would be wise," said Moritz. "The Cyclopes arrived at the station after the Pincushions and the Blobbos, so I think the proper order would be: Blobbos, Pincushions, and Cyclopes."

"I respectfully disagree," said Max. "If the Cyclopes wish to meet the human diplomat quickly, then I think it is our duty as friends to the Cyclopes and as friends to the humans to arrange for such a meeting first."

"I do not think we should further act in opposition to the natural order," said Moritz.

Max looked exasperated. "I think it is more important for us to behave in a manner consistent with our fundamental purpose, and not to damage that purpose in order to uphold this order, which is not natural but is instead an artificial creation, as is demonstrated by the fact that it is never possible to maintain this order."

"How can you possibly believe—" Moritz's translated voice, as always, was bland in Philippe's ear, but he could see the aggravation of both Hosts growing into anger.

"Gentlemen," he interrupted. "If I may express my desires in this matter? Am I correct in assuming that you have already contacted the Blobbos?"

"You are," said Moritz.

"So try to arrange a meeting with them first, so that they don't form the opinion that I am offended by their refusal to meet with me in their living quarters. As soon as you can, contact both the Cyclopes and the Pincushions, and I will meet first with whichever species is available to meet first. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes," said Max.

"Is that acceptable to you, Moritz?" Philippe asked Moritz.

"Yes," said Moritz.

"I thank you again for your invaluable assistance. The entire human race appreciates your help," said Philippe.

He went back into the common area and was promptly waylaid by a Pincushion who had a very complicated question regarding human locomotion that was apparently inspired by a somewhat garbled account of their visit to the Snake Boys. Whatever the Pincushion was asking, the translators were not quite up to the task, so Philippe wound up explaining all the possible modes of human transport, from walking to crawling to climbing to acrobatics.

There were several other Pincushions nearby. Philippe noticed that they were exchanging genetic material, and he didn't know whether he should be embarrassed about that or not.

The first Pincushion, apparently satisfied, took his leave and joined the orgy. Philippe realized that he had forgotten to tell him about swimming when Max hurried up to him.

"I apologize for the fact of that meeting," said Max. "I am afraid that Moritz can be overly rigid."

"I am always happy to meet with you," Philippe replied.

"It was not necessary. We could have served you more efficiently by contacting people that historically have been responsive and eager to meet new people, rather than following this irrational order." Max looked perturbed.

"I get the feeling that you two have had many disagreements about this," said Philippe.

"We have indeed, our wife is always complaining about it," he said. "I believe that if something is not mentioned in the sacred texts, then we should not behave as though it is sacred. But Moritz believes that one can extrapolate and extend sacredness to sanctify all elements of life."

He gave a weird dip of his legs that Philippe somehow recognized as a sign of exasperation.

"That is how Moritz historically behaves. He wishes to be sacred in all his actions, which is a laudable goal. But we also have a saying—I do not know if this will translate—that if you try to use all six hands, your belly will touch the ground."

"Which is a bad thing?" Philippe asked.

"It is neither comfortable nor hygienic. It means that if you try to be perfect, you will cause your own imperfection."

Philippe nodded. "We have a similar saying, although it applies more to the need to be practical. The saying is: 'Keep both feet on the ground.'"

"That must be a significant problem for bipeds," said Max, his irritation about Moritz suddenly eclipsed by curiosity. "I hope this comment does not offend you, but I am surprised that you do not fall more, to the front or to the back. You must have exceptional balance. It is said that at least one human can walk upside down."

"On his hands," said Philippe, putting out his hands and making hand-walking gestures for clarity. "But he is a very special individual."

"On his hands—I see," said Max, looking bemused. "That is not what I thought was meant by what was said."

"Walking on your hands would not be difficult for you," said Philippe.

"No, that is what I am doing now. But it is more difficult to walk on only the two front hands—" Max did so for a short while, lifting his back end up into the air.

"Be careful—don't hurt yourself," said Philippe.

"Such an action is unlikely to cause pain, although I appreciate your concern," Max replied, lowering himself back down to the ground. "Thank you for conversing with me. I now must leave to attend to other business."

"It was a pleasure to talk to you, as always," Philippe said.

Max followed a visiting Cyclops into the Hosts' living area, the doorway of which was only a couple of meters from where Philippe was standing. Philippe looked around, wondering whether he should find a few other aliens to chat with. There were a quite a number of Pincushions about, as well as the ubiquitous Swimmer drones. Then he saw a multicolored, semi-transparent shape that was formed like a Host but didn't move like one.

He walked over. It was facing the other way—Philippe wondered if that really mattered, but he decided to go with appearances, and he walked around so that he was standing in front of its face. "The Magic Man, I presume?" he said.

The "Host" blurred and reformed into the smiling face and body of a respected elder statesman. "I am the Magic Man," he said, in that affectless voice.

"We met earlier. I am the human diplomat, Philippe Trang."

"I am aware of your identity," said the Magic Man.

_Just keep trying,_ Philippe thought.

"I am hoping to meet with representatives of all the species on this ship in order to become better acquainted with them," said Philippe. "I was hoping that you and I could arrange a meeting, perhaps in your living quarters, if that is acceptable to you?"

"If you do that, you will die," the Magic Man said. The smile on his face was unchanged.

"If I meet with you, I will die?" asked Philippe.

"If you meet with me in my living quarters, you will die."

Philippe decided against interpreting that as a threat, but he cast an eye out for Sucre and Mo. Luckily they were several meters away; even more luckily, they were out of earshot, engaged in a lively conversation with a Snake Boy.

"What in your living quarters will kill me?" asked Philippe.

"The living quarters will kill you," said the Magic Man. His smile was beginning to creep Philippe out.

"I have protective gear that will enable me to survive in a wide variety of atmospheres," said Philippe, hoping that would resolve the matter.

"There is no atmosphere," said the alien.

"No atmosphere? In your living quarters?" Philippe echoed.

"There is no atmosphere in my living quarters. It is open."

"Open to _space?_ " Philippe asked, suddenly comprehending.

"Yes, open to space."

Philippe took a deep breath. He wondered briefly if the SFers could arrange for him to meet in the vacuum of space, but quickly decided that he should suggest an alternative meeting place.

"Would you consider—" he began.

Just then, the shrieking began.

It was a high-pitched ululation that seemed to come from everywhere. It was loud, shutting out all other sounds and all thought.

The noise exploded into Philippe's brain, but he also _felt_ the shrieking like a seizure going through his body. It was panic, cold panic, rising from his feet through his gut into his fingers.

It meant death, certain destruction. It screamed _Run! Hide!_

Without thinking Philippe ran to the nearest wall as the Pincushions around him fled. Philippe ducked down next to the wall, crouching on his knees and covering his head with both hands.

He felt his torso straighten out and his legs shift as his suit went into hard mode. _Sucre and Mo must have—_ he didn't finish the thought but looked up for a brief moment, hoping to see them, hoping against hope that they were all right.

What he saw appalled him. The Magic Man was standing there— _just standing there—_ in the virtually empty common area, that daft smile upon his face. There was a noise from the Hosts' living area, and like a child in the middle of a busy street who has no idea of the danger, the Magic Man twisted the top half of his body around, keeping his feet where they were, to see what it was.

_I can't let him die,_ the thought flashed through Philippe's brain.

Staying low, keeping his hands over his head, he ran over to where the Magic Man was standing. He heard Sucre and Mo screaming his name, screaming for him to get back. He tried to grab the hem of the Magic Man's coat to drag him back to the wall, but it wasn't really a coat and his fingers couldn't get a grip, they just slid off the alien's yielding body.

The Magic Man twisted further to face him, the same damned smile on his face. And then a burst of light came at him from behind. He exploded into a million tiny fragments.

The golden light slammed into Philippe, throwing him onto his back.

Everything went black.

He could feel, hear nothing—but the burst was still there. Philippe watched, perplexed, as the golden light slowly coalesced into a shape against the overwhelming darkness.

It was a Host. He was there, looking down at Philippe. He was gold and glowing and gazed reassuringly at Philippe.

"Don't worry," the Host said to Philippe. "You will live."

And that was all he knew.
Chapter 10

Philippe realized something.

He felt _terrible._

Something was hurting. Something was definitely causing him pain.

Ow.

Philippe wanted it to stop.

_What hurts?_ he wondered.

He thought about his feet, and there they were. So he thought about his legs, and then his torso, and they, too, seemed to ease into focus, taking shape but giving no hint of the location of the pain. His arms, maybe? His head?

But he couldn't pinpoint what hurt. He thought about opening his eyes. It was nice with the eyes closed, he thought, it was pleasant in the dark. But if he opened his eyes, maybe he could see what had been hurt.

That made a lot of sense. Philippe contemplated the sense that made with satisfaction for a spell. It was nice when things made sense—it was gratifying.

He realized that nothing in particular hurt. He was just sore. Everywhere.

_I should probably open my eyes now,_ he thought.

Now _that_ hurt—a sharp, sudden pain. The light was really, really, really, really bright. _Bad, bad bright light_ , he thought. _Bright so bright it hurt, like knives. Sucked._

Who made the lights so bright? Stupid person. Don't they know it's too bright?

Philippe rested a little and tried again. The light didn't seem quite so bad this time. _They're adjusting,_ he thought, and left his eyes half open. His lashes helped filter the light, so it wasn't so bright. Eventually he saw the ceiling. It was very bright, very white.

_This looks like Beijing,_ he thought. _I'm back in Beijing._

"Hello, Philippe Trang," said a voice.

_That voice is weird,_ thought Philippe. He peered through his half-open eyes, and saw a small green man in the chair next to his bed!

"I didn't know there were leprechauns in China," he croaked. His throat was dry.

"I do not understand you," said the leprechaun, in his weird, precise, leprechaun voice.

Philippe smiled. _Those leprechauns! They are tricky!_

"Don't try to fool me," he said, looking back up at the ceiling. He noticed there were panels in it. "Tricky bastard."

"I am afraid that my Union English is not sufficiently fluent for me to understand what you are saying," said the leprechaun.

_Right._ "Well, that's too damned bad, because I don't speak Chinese."

"I still do not understand you."

"Mandarin! Or Cantonese! But I think it's Mandarin—I don't speak it anyway, even if it is Cantonese. Never stationed there. Not enough trouble." Philippe tried to wave his hand in the air, dismissively. His hand moved just a little bit, so he looked at it. There was a sheet over it, holding it down.

He looked back, blurrily, at the leprechaun. "Show me your gold," he said. "You have to show me your gold."

The leprechaun, who had really grown since the last time Philippe had looked at it, turned gold.

"Is this color more soothing to a human suffering from injury?" asked the leprechaun.

"How the hell—?" said Philippe, as the leprechaun came into focus. He bore a striking resemblance to a beloved elder statesman who, Philippe had been told on good authority, you had to contact before three in the afternoon if you wanted to catch him sober. The statesman was mostly gold, although other colors were visible swirling around in his body, which was semi-transparent.

"Magic Man!" said Philippe. "I apologize for my comments. I believe I am ill. Where am I?"

"In a room," said the Magic Man. "I was told that you were injured by your attackers and wish to express my dismay to you that I did not defend you against attack as you attempted to defend me. As you are not of the body I did not defend you against one who is of the body although that one was not behaving as those of the body should to those not of the body who might someday become of the body and that one was punished by your defenders for this failure an action that was just because your defenders are not of the body. Your defenders did not include those of the body particularly and regretfully myself because that one was of the body despite that behavior and the body must not attack itself although when one of the body behaves in an unjust manner toward one not of the body another of the body may allow those not of the body to punish the one of the body. Regardless your behavior toward me was exactly the behavior that is required by those of the body toward others of the body despite your not being of the body if you had not realized that that one was not attacking one of the body but instead attacking one not of the body particularly you. Therefore I encourage your people to become of the body in the future for then I may reciprocate such defensive behavior regardless of your attacker whereas now I am constrained if your attacker is of the body for I am of the body and you are not of the body."

_When I wake up a little more, all that is going to make sense,_ thought Philippe. He looked at the Magic Man again.

"Aren't you dead?" he asked.

"A little sensor tells me that someone's awake," George said merrily as he opened the door to Philippe's room.

He froze when he saw the Magic Man, then said in the same cheerful tone, but at a much louder volume, "Oh, _look,_ a _guest!_ "

The doctor stepped nimbly to one side, holding open the door. In a flurry, Shanti, Patch, Feo, Gingko, Five-Eighths, and Mo bolted through the doorway, hands to their pockets.

"I'm fine!" said Philippe, sitting up with a sudden rush of energy. "I'm fine! I'm OK! The Magic Man was just dropping by to see how I was doing! It's a friendly gesture, isn't it? Visiting a sick friend in the infirmary, in a friendly sort of way. And I'm fine!"

The six SFers stood looking at the Magic Man, their bodies tense.

"How did he—" Shanti began.

"I'm sure that's a conversation for another day," said Philippe. "Right now, I'm just so happy to be feeling better, and I'm glad that the Magic Man is alive and well after that horrible attack we both suffered! I sure hope he stays that way! Alive and uninjured!"

"I, too, am pleased that you are well," said the Magic Man. "I hope you reflect on what I said."

"I certainly will," said Philippe, who was beginning to think that sitting upright had been a bad idea. "Thank you for visiting and talking to me. It was a big relief to see that you were not hurt."

"I repeat my desire that the situation would have allowed me to prevent your injury," said the alien.

"Can we escort you back into the common area?" said Shanti through gritted teeth.

The Magic Man agreed, and Feo, Shanti, and Five-Eighths followed him out.

"How're you feeling, Trang?" asked George.

Philippe slumped back on the bed. "Exhausted. Fine. He didn't do anything to me," he said as George and Gingko began looking him over.

Patch and Mo were still standing in the doorway, propping the door open with their bodies, so Philippe could hear it once the Magic Man was on his way and Shanti felt at liberty to inquire as to how he had accessed the infirmary. Of course, he probably would have heard her inquiry if the door had been closed. Or if he had been back on Titan. Or Earth.

"Mo," he said. "How's Sucre?"

"Good, good," said Mo, with a smile. "You were the only one to take a hit."

Philippe laughed weakly. "You can tell who the amateur is, right?"

"No, you did the right thing," said Mo. "I mean, OK—first you did the smart thing, and _then_ you did the right thing, but you acted like a real SFer out there. I was really proud of you."

Philippe blinked back the tears. "Thank you," he croaked. "Thank you for everything."

Mo beamed at him.

Philippe smiled back, and then looked around him. "What happened?" he asked.

"You got electrocuted," said George.

Philippe tried to fit the word "electrocuted" into his memory of the attack, but he was too tired and quickly gave up.

"What?" he asked.

"Oh, guy, yeah, you got zapped by a Cyclops. He went _krach!_ with his hand," said Patch, throwing his left arm out dramatically and nearly hitting Mo in the process. "And then this bolt of, like, lightning hit the Magic Man, and he blew up—"

"But not really," said Mo.

"But not really, 'cuz he's still here," said Patch, suddenly distracted from his story.

"Unless there's two of him, but I think he would have said something," said Mo.

"Yeah, weird, huh?" Patch replied. He noticed Philippe again and launched back into his tale. "And after he blew up, the lightning hit you!"

"And you _flew_ all the way across the room, and we thought you might be dead," said Mo. "But the doc here saved you."

Philippe looked up quizzically at George, who was shaking his head. "You were never dead," he said. "Just knocked around and a little scorched."

"Hey, Trang!" It was Sucre, coming in, followed by Baby and Bubba and everyone else.

There was a brief, impromptu party in the infirmary before George and Shanti broke it up, George because he wanted Philippe to rest, and Shanti because she wanted to find out how "that fucking dead-eye smiling rainbow-colored fucking freak show got the fuck in here."

It was good that everyone left because Philippe was suddenly overcome by an urge to pass out. He slept for a few hours more. The moment he woke up, Shanti knocked on the open door and came in, carrying a scroll.

"You sleep well?" she asked.

"Like the dead," he replied.

"Fun _ny_ ," she said. "You didn't hear the ruckus?"

Apparently while he was sleeping the White Spider had decided to decamp from his office and head back out to the common area. Everyone had forgotten that it was there, so when it set off Vip's motion detectors there was a great deal of confusion, and Shanti noted that she "damned near" forgot to disarm the no man's land before letting the White Spider go through it.

"I didn't even know," Philippe said, smiling. "Seems kind of minor, now."

"I guess it does," said Shanti, looking uncomfortable. "Uh, speaking of what happened, there's something you've gotta know, and I think you might get upset about it, and it might create problems for you."

"We killed the Cyclops," Philippe said.

"We did. Or that is what the Cyclopes say. He ran off to their living area, so we didn't see it, but they say he died soon afterward." Shanti twisted her mouth, as if tasting the story for authenticity. "Probably that's the truth. He didn't get that far; their area is on the same floor as the Hosts'. And he took two scramblers to the chest, one high and one low. A fucking elephant can't survive that, you know, that's like a blender to your insides."

Philippe had no idea what a scrambler was, but he nodded. "How are the Cyclopes reacting?"

"They're saying he's a crook, a thief, good riddance," Shanti waved her hand dismissively. "He apparently was someplace in the Hosts' living area where he wasn't supposed to be—I guess it's not _all_ open to the public in there—and he got caught. He made a run for it, but the alarm went off."

"That was—that shrieking noise was an alarm?"

Shanti smiled at him. "It was the Swimmer drones. Effective, huh?"

Philippe shuddered. "It was _horrible._ I've never heard anything like that."

She held up the scroll.

"Do you want to see it?" she asked. "We can watch it without the sound."

Philippe nodded and sat up in bed. Shanti unrolled the scroll and put it on his lap.

The scene had been shot from an overhead camera, which covered the entrance to the Hosts' living area, as well as the area in front of it. Philippe could see himself talking to the Magic Man, only a few meters from the door.

"Now, Mo and Sucre? They're over here," said Shanti, gesturing off the screen with her finger. Between them and the doorway was one of the Hosts' café platforms.

Suddenly, the Philippe on the screen began running toward the wall. The Pincushions dashed out of the scene before he even reached it. ("Look at those fuckers go," muttered Shanti. "You never would have thought they could move like that.")

Sucre and Mo appeared behind the platform, lying on their bellies and using it as cover. Philippe noticed that they had their hoods on, and realized with sudden embarrassment that he should have put his on, too. He shot a quick, shamed glance at Shanti, but she was watching the screen, so he returned his attention to it.

The Magic Man did not move.

"So, first they're yelling at the Magic Man, because he's not moving," she said. "Then they're yelling at you, because you are moving."

"I tried to grab his jacket, you know?" said Philippe, feeling a sudden compulsion to explain. "But it was attached to him, it was all one piece, and slippery, so I couldn't get a hold of it."

"Here's the bad guy," said Shanti.

A Cyclops came out from the entryway, running. It spotted the Magic Man and Philippe, and almost offhandedly flung out its top left hand. A bolt of what certainly looked like lightning came out from the hand, passing through the cloud that had formerly been the Magic Man and striking Philippe, throwing him out of the scene. There were two small flashes from the hands of Sucre and Mo. The Cyclops' body began to shudder as the scramblers went to work inside him. He ran out of the frame.

"Now, I want to show you something, in slow-mo," said Shanti. "Watch the Magic Man."

She adjusted the screen controls so that the scene froze as the bolt was emerging from the hand of the Cyclops, then centered it on the Magic Man. The scene went forward in slow motion.

Philippe watched, perplexed.

"He blew up first," he said.

"Yeah, he saw it and went, _ptew_. I think that's how he gets out of the way. Now watch this."

She touched scroll's control panel, and the infirmary Philippe was sitting in now appeared. Philippe was lying in bed, eyes closed. His body was limp. "Watch the chair," Shanti said, expanding that part of the shot.

A speck appeared in the chair, slowly turning into tiny, multicolored body. Philippe watched as it grew, its color swirling.

There was a rustling from the direction of the bed.

"Hello, Philippe Trang," said the small, mostly green body, unmistakable in shape and voice as the Magic Man.

It was a marvelous party.

The great hall shone beneath its massive chandeliers. Waiters poured wine and whisked about plates featuring scrumptious food—puff pastries bursting with real butter, sweet pieces of sashimi, tender and rich slices of steak, bits of duck that positively melted away in the mouth.

There was an orchestra playing and some were dancing, but most people were too caught up in lively conversation to be enticed onto the parquet floor. Everyone looked fabulous, well-dressed and rested, groomed and young. Everyone was laughing.

Philippe stopped a waiter and got a piece of cheese. It didn't look like much, but when he bit into it—oh, my God. Cheddar, really excellent cheddar, had such an amazing flavor, rich and deep. It was one of his favorites.

He looked up. Standing before him, looking elegant in an eggplant dress suit, was George. He was talking to an attractive woman in a dark red halter dress. Her dark hair was streaked with gray.

" _Hi, George!" said Philippe._

" _Philippe!" said the doctor. "I thought I might find you here."_

" _Hi, Philippe," said the woman._

" _Yoli!" said Philippe, recognizing her. "I'm so happy to see you guys! When did you get into Ottawa?"_

" _Just now," said George. "We came for the party."_

" _I need to speak to you." A voice came from behind Philippe._

He turned around. There was a Host, glowing with golden light.

" _Hello there!" said Philippe. He turned back to George, delighted. "You brought an alien!"_

" _Of course!" said George._

" _I've never met an alien before," said Yoli._

" _He's a little unusual—most of his kind are red, not gold," said Philippe. "And they usually don't glow like this."_

" _I think he put it on for the occasion," George replied._

They all admired the Host's beautiful glow.

" _Philippe, it's really important that we talk," the Host said. "What do you know about physics?"_

" _Nothing!" exclaimed Philippe, as the doctor and Yoli laughed._

" _That's her department," said George, pointing at Yoli, who playfully grabbed his hand._

" _Speak with her," said Philippe._

" _She's gone," said the Host._

And sure enough, Yoli and George had vanished.

" _Oh, this is a party!" said Philippe. "She probably doesn't want to talk physics now—it would be a busman's holiday."_

" _What do you know about energy?" the alien asked._

" _I wish I had more of it!" Philippe exclaimed._

" _I am talking about physical energy. The energy that powers these lights, for example."_

" _Not much," said Philippe. "It can shock you. And there's the right-hand rule."_

" _What is the right-hand rule?"_

" _If you are in a predominantly Muslim country, always use your right hand—using the left is insulting." Philippe laughed, but the Host was clearly not amused. "Diplomatic humor. I'm sorry."_

A waiter came up with a tray of ice wine, and Philippe took a glass. "Would you like some?" he asked the Host. "It's strong, but delicious."

" _I'm not here to eat," said the Host._

" _You must eat—this food is excellent! Look!" said Philippe, pointing to his left. "There's a hand sanitizer."_

" _What is that?" said the Host, looking at the double-basined machine._

Philippe gaped at him.

" _He's not really a Host," said George, again at Philippe's side._

" _No, he's not," said Philippe._

" _I never said I was the host," said the Host._

" _You're having a dream," said George._

" _It's a nice dream," Philippe replied._

" _Absolutely—I'm having a great time, and so is everybody else," said George. "I'd keep on dreaming it if I were you."_

" _Oooh, look, an alien!" A very tall, somewhat overweight black woman with long hair pinned up in an elaborate bun flounced up in a ruffled aqua dress._

" _Kali!" said Philippe. "I mean, Kelly!"_

" _Hi, Philippe," she said, with just a hint of brittleness in her smile. "Is this your alien friend?"_

" _Yes, isn't he excellent?" said Philippe. "They're so cute. And they can purr like cats!"_

" _Oh, will you purr for me?" Kelly asked._

The Host stared at them for a moment. "If you want," he said, and began making the thrumming noise.

" _That's so cute!" said Kelly, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. "You purr when you're happy—just like a cat."_

" _We don't purr when we're happy," said the irritated Host. "We purr when we want others to be happy. Fathers do it to soothe their children. It's inherently manipulative."_

" _He's so adorable!" said Kelly._

" _Could you please get rid of this woman?" asked the Host._

" _Shhh!" said Philippe, afraid that Kelly would be offended. But she was already gone, and Philippe spotted her waltzing out of earshot with an Australian diplomat he had worked with almost a decade ago._

" _I don't like her, either," said George. "She looks like a liar. You could tell she didn't like being called Kali."_

" _It's not that I don't like her," said the Host. "It's that we need to talk. Philippe, I am real."_

" _Of course you're real!" said Philippe. "Aliens are real! Everyone knows that!"_

" _I, in particular, am real," said the Host._

Philippe and George looked at each other and smiled.

" _If you're so real, why do you speak English?" asked the doctor._

"You _are not real," said the Host to the doctor. "Philippe, I speak English because I am in your mind, and I am limited to what is in your mind."_

" _Exactly," said the doctor._

" _Wait, wait, shhh. Stop for a minute." Philippe hushed them as the music stopped. A ripple of anticipation went through the crowd._

" _It's time," George said, excited._

The music began again as the ceiling dissolved into the night sky. Everyone started to talk and laugh again, the gaiety growing and growing. They turned to Philippe. "Start it!" someone exclaimed. Someone else shouted, "We can't do it without you!"

Philippe threw his head back and started to laugh. His body rose up off the ground, slowly moving higher. Everyone else laughed, too, and they too floated up into the air. They laughed and flew, they soared and rolled, all because Philippe let them. He had the power, and they were all so, so happy.

" _Philippe!"_

Philippe looked down, and the Host was still standing on the floor. "You have to laugh," said Philippe. "I can make it happen, but you can't fly if you don't laugh."

" _I don't want to fly. I need to talk to you."_

" _You have to laugh," said Philippe, reaching out and making a tickling motion with his right hand._

The alien began to laugh. It was not a natural noise. It sounded more like a barking cough.

" _Hek, hek, hek," the alien said, and his body began to rise into the air._

Philippe was still in the infirmary the next day, but he had slept well and was feeling relatively good. He wasn't feeling quite as good as the SFers, though—they were feeling fine to the point of giddiness. Philippe didn't know if they were in such high spirits because he had survived the attack, because they finally seen some action, or because the worst had happened and they had not been forced to seal themselves off from the station and blast themselves into space after all.

In any case, people kept sticking their heads in to say hello, and Five-Eighths, bored while on guard duty at the no man's zone, sang Philippe a merry song over his earplant extolling the joys of sibling incest. Whether the song was of Five-Eighths' own invention or traditional among the SF was unclear because he had apparently not taken into account his proximity to Shanti's office, so the song ended abruptly and with some violence.

Philippe spoke with Shanti and George about how the aliens were responding to the attack. They were apparently quite concerned—the soldiers were practically mobbed whenever they went outside by aliens who wanted to express their sympathy and to know how the human diplomat was doing. Many of the aliens said they had also spoken to the Magic Man, "but apparently they can't understand the freaky fucker either, so that's not helping much," said Shanti.

"All right," said Philippe. "Are you OK with letting some of the aliens in to visit me here?"

Shanti thought for a minute. "Small groups, like one or two? That would be OK. But we can't let everyone in."

They discussed it and agreed on three visits—Max and Moritz, a Swimmer drone that could broadcast Philippe's comments to the rest of the station, and a small delegation from the Cyclopes. That last group caused Shanti the most concern, but Philippe argued that since the Cyclopes had officially condemned the attack, it was crucial to demonstrate that there were no hard feelings.

"I have to meet them, and I have to meet them first," he said.

Shanti thought for a moment. "I'm gonna need some time to get ready for the party, but I'll send out the invites as soon as I can," she said, and left.

"What does that mean?" Philippe asked the doctor.

"Oh, you know, she's going to put up streamers, bake a cake. Maybe some balloons," he replied with a smile.

Philippe was not reassured. "I mean, she's not going to, you know, _do_ anything—"

"Anything stupid? No, no, if she said, 'I'm going to _throw_ a party,' then you might have to talk her out of it." George patted Philippe's shoulder. "Aren't alien cultures fun?"

At Philippe's request, George, who was in the infirmary because he wanted to make another go at the Host translation devices, left and brought him a camera and his comb. Philippe neatened up and recorded a quick video report for the DiploCorps detailing what was going on—normally he preferred text, but in this case he felt like the people on Earth needed to see that he was fine.

"At the moment," he said to the cameras, "the position of the Cyclopes is that this was a rogue act and that it does not indicate any hostile policy on their part. It is difficult to determine the truth of that statement—the Cyclopes have been impatient to meet with us, and they have expressed criticism of both the Hosts and our dependence upon the Hosts. The attack may have stemmed from those dissatisfactions. In addition, their history with the Magic Man is unknown to me, leaving open the possibility that the attack was aimed at him.

"On the other hand, such attacks on the station appear to be quite uncommon. I have never heard anyone refer to one, and the attack on me has caused a great deal of concern among the aliens. Surveillance footage suggests that the attack was random. As a result, I feel that on an official level at least, we should accept the apologies of the Cyclopes and maintain friendly relations."

The door opened, and Raoul came in, his hands filled with small devices. "George?" he said.

"Yeah?" George replied.

"Here you go," said Raoul, handing the devices to the doctor. "They should be here in about a half hour."

George put the devices on a table and began to look them over, pocketing each one once the inspection was complete.

"You carry weapons?" asked Philippe.

"Not usually, no," said the doctor. "But everyone in the SF is combat able, no matter what their job."

Raoul laughed. "Combat able. You've scrambled more eggs than any us!"

George smiled. "Well, I'm older."

The two of them folded the infirmary beds that were not currently supporting Philippe or inside the isolation unit into the floor to make space for the aliens, and then Philippe sent Raoul to get his translation mike. When he returned, Feo and Patch entered the room with him. Philippe started—they were carrying some very large, very intimidating-looking weaponry.

"Hey, you're ready for the party!" said George.

"We went with a festive look," said Raoul.

Patch must have noticed Philippe's concern, because he asked, "You OK, Trang?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Philippe replied. "I just wasn't really expecting you to be carrying all that stuff where everyone can see it."

"We're not in the common area," said Feo.

"I understand that," said Philippe. "Just keep in mind that the Cyclopes visiting me today are not the Cyclops who attacked me."

Patch asked the doctor about the Hosts' translation devices, which were visible through the clear walls of the isolation unit. George launched into an explanation that, Philippe could see, was making about as much sense to Patch as it had to him a few days before.

Feo took a position next to Philippe's side. "They're not gonna talk, are they?" he asked.

"Who, the Cyclopes?" asked Philippe. "I hope they do."

"What kind of dumb question is that?" asked Raoul.

"Hey, fuck you," Feo snapped. "They're fucking boring, man, when they talk. They're always, like, 'extremely' this or 'extremely' that. I hate it."

"'Emphatically,'" corrected Philippe.

"Whatever," said Feo. "They need to, like, learn other words or something."

George and Patch had stopped talking and were both trying to keep from sniggering, without much success.

"You are so fucking _stupid,_ " said Raoul.

"Keep talking, dick—" Feo began.

"Fellows, please," said Philippe. He glared at George and Patch, who composed themselves. "Feo, anything weird or repetitive that you hear like that is probably because the translation technology really isn't that great. I mean, for all we know, we could be talking to the Winston Churchills of the Cyclopes—"

"You don't honestly think he knows who—" Raoul interrupted.

" _Please,_ Raoul, you're not helping" Philippe interrupted back. "You just have to keep in mind, Feo, that you're not hearing what they're really saying, you're just hearing the translation, and frankly, I think the translations here could use some work. You probably sound just as stilted to them."

"I don't sound _stupid,_ " said Feo, heatedly.

"Fuck, you sound stupid just in English, what do you think you sound like in some alien language?" Raoul asked.

" _You're_ stupid!"

"Everyone in the infirmary," Shanti's voice sounded in Philippe's ear, "stop the circle jerk. Our visitors are about to come through the front door."

Philippe turned to Feo. "Make sure she remembers to turn off the no man's zone!"

Feo looked at him, horrified. "Man, I am not going to tell her that!"

"Please! I don't have my com mike. Please, please tell her."

Feo made a face and hit his com. "Philippe wants me to tell you not to forget to turn off the no man's zone." He paused for a moment, and then he, Patch, George, and Raoul burst out laughing.

"You don't want to know," George told Philippe.

"They're in the no man's zone, and holy shit! They're not dead!" Shanti's sarcastic voice came through his earplant. "The outer door is closed, and the inner door is opening."

Her voice cut off. Philippe heard footprints.

The door opened and two Cyclopes entered the room. Philippe crossed his fingers under the covers.

"Greetings, human diplomat," one of them said.

"I take it this is Endless Courage and Brave Loyalty?" he asked.

"It is," said Brave Loyalty.

"I am so happy to see you," said Philippe. "It is very kind of you to visit."

"We must visit," said Endless Courage. "We must assure you that your attacker was not representing the Cyclopes in any official capacity when he attacked you."

"What he did was a very emphatically criminal action," said Brave Loyalty. "Deception, attempted theft, attacking an unarmed alien: These actions are very emphatically shameful. I feel immense shame that a Cyclops would believe that engaging in such actions is within the structure of the fields. It was shameful, emphatically shameful, and very emphatically shameful."

"He was not representing the Cyclopes in any official capacity," said Endless Courage.

"I would feel very emphatically shameful were he acting as a representative of my people," said Brave Loyalty. "I have always thought that as a people, we should do better things than such emphatically shameful actions."

"I am certain that you are an honorable people, and that this individual is not representative of the Cyclopes. We have criminals, too, humans whom I hope you never meet," said Philippe. "Surely I would not want to have humanity judged by the actions of such people, and I see no reason why the actions of a single criminal should damage the budding friendship between the humans and the Cyclopes."

He looked again at Brave Loyalty.

"Did you say that my attacker was a thief?" he asked.

"He was apprehended in the personal living quarters of a Host merchant," said Endless Courage. "The Host merchant had not invited him, and when the Host merchant saw him, the Cyclops escaped and made that regrettable attack."

"It was an emphatically shameful attack and an emphatically shameful series of actions, outside the fields," said Brave Loyalty. "I am profoundly shamed by the entire series of events."

"That is as it is," said Endless Courage. "This individual was not in the Host quarters as a representative of our people. As a result, we do not know why he was there, although his deception and his subsequent action indicate thievery."

"And I understand he was killed by my security experts," said Philippe. If they had lied about that, they would doubtless keep lying, but he wanted at least to eliminate the possibility of accidental miscommunication.

"Yes, he was," said Endless Courage. "Your projectile weapons are very advanced."

"But he was able to run," said Feo.

"He was dead by the time he entered our living area," replied Endless Courage. "Our people can continue running after death. We are not bipeds, so our balance does not require as much active thought."

"When he attacked me," asked Philippe, "did he use a weapon?"

"Not even a small amount," said Brave Loyalty. "Our people can produce electrical discharges as a natural defense mechanism, as the Pincushions can produce poison."

"But it is very emphatically not poison, it is an electrical discharge," said Endless Courage.

"That is interesting," said Philippe. "We have fish on our planet that can produce electrical charges."

"They can't direct the charge, though," George interjected. "They just produce an electrical field."

"It takes practice to direct electrical discharges with accuracy," said Brave Loyalty. "Your attacker was adept."

"Are you immune to the charges?" asked George, clearly intrigued. "Or can they hurt you?"

"Cyclopes can be hurt or killed by such an electrical discharge," replied Brave Loyalty.

George was obviously fascinated and was about to ask another question, but Philippe didn't want the conversation to turn into a forum on comparative anatomy, so he jumped in.

"Who was the Cyclops who attacked me?" he asked. "What was his name?"

"His name was Limitless Sacrifice," Brave Loyalty said.

"That is as it is. He was not an important person," said Endless Courage. "His family is not an important family, but even they will be happy that he ran as he died and that he died from a projectile."

"Even so, please pass my regrets on to his family," said Philippe.

"Death creates life," said Endless Courage.

"Shame creates nothing," said Brave Loyalty, hastily.

"That is as it is," replied Endless Courage, equally hastily.

The two lapsed into silence.

"In any case," Philippe resumed, "while Limitless Sacrifice's death may have been somewhat more acceptable in your culture, I'm sure his family is still saddened by their loss. I would appreciate it if you would be sure to let them know that I am sorry for what happened."

"Shit, I don't believe this," said Feo quietly, in Spanish.

"Is there a problem?" Philippe asked him, also in Spanish.

"What are you apologizing for?" said Feo. "We killed that sorcerer because he attacked you, and you can't be a weakling about it. Tell them that if it happens again, we'll kill them again."

"What do you know about it?" said Raoul, in Spanish.

"He has turned off his translation device," said Endless Courage to Brave Loyalty.

"No, I haven't turned it off—" said Philippe in Spanish. He stopped himself and switched to Union English. "No, I have not turned off my translation device—communicating with you is far too important for me to do something like that. It is simply that this security expert is more comfortable expressing himself in a language that is too obscure to be programmed into the translation devices."

"Spanish isn't obscure!" said Feo.

"For the love of God, will you shut your mouth!" said Raoul.

"Fuck your mother!"

"What my security expert is saying," Philippe interrupted, "is that while we all regret the death of Limitless Sacrifice, from a security point of view, the situation was handled very well. Were the situation to reoccur in the future, our response would be the same. We were attacked without provocation, and the attacker was neutralized, which was appropriate and desirable. I agree with that evaluation, as I am sure all humans do."

"We agree with that evaluation," said Endless Courage. "We would respond in the same manner if such an attack were conducted against a Cyclops."

"Let me explain your comment to our security expert, since he is so limited," said Raoul. "You stupid pussy, the next time I get you in this room, I'm going to shove an enema up your ass with such force that your eyes will fall out of their sockets."

"You're making me horny! What a big train!" sneered Feo.

"Not another word, either of you! You are idiots, the two of you, and I am going to have you shot by your boss if you don't shut your mouths!" snapped Philippe. He turned to the Cyclopes and smiled. "I am so pleased that we have reached an understanding on this issue. I wish to assure you that since the attacker was killed, my people consider this unfortunate matter settled and look forward to having a friendly relationship with your people."

"We do not consider this incident settled," said Endless Courage. "I wish to give you a gift as a gesture of our regret and as a testimony to the capability of your security experts. I did not bring it here because I was concerned that you might view it as a security threat, but since you wish to have a friendship with us now, I wish to retrieve it and to bring it to you."

"Please do," said Philippe.

Endless Courage moved to leave, and Patch opened the door.

"I will remain and converse with the human diplomat," said Brave Loyalty.

"That is as it is," said the departing Cyclops.

He left, and Brave Loyalty turned to Philippe. "May I ask you two questions?"

"May I ask you a question first?" replied Philippe.

"That is a permissible course of action," replied the Cyclops.

"Why would someone's family be glad that they were killed by a projectile?"

"That is an easy question. We have a hierarchy of ways of dying. Active ways of dying are desirable—the expression is that they allow you to die while running. Methods that render you passive, such as poison or illness, are not desirable but are instead shameful."

"What about dying of old age?"

"That is necessary for life."

"Thank you. With our people, there is an objection to people dying young, and dying of old age is considered preferable. Please ask your questions."

"My first question is: Do you ever function as a security expert?"

"No," said Philippe. "I never function as a security expert; I am always a diplomat. I was a diplomat on Earth before I came here, and when I finish my service on this station, I will return to Earth and be a diplomat there."

"That is different," said Brave Loyalty. "On my planet, when we finish our service here, we are expected to provide security to the Cyclopes in order to demonstrate our continued loyalty."

Philippe smiled. He had answered his own question in hopes that the Cyclops would follow his example, and Brave Loyalty had.

"My second question is, how many languages are there on Earth?" the Cyclops asked

Philippe thought for a moment. "You are going to be disappointed in me, because I do not know an exact answer. A few thousand, I would estimate."

"That is remarkable. We once had multiple languages, but that was long ago," said the Cyclops. "Now we all only speak one language, the language."

"There are fewer languages on Earth now than there once were," said Philippe. "Most people on Earth speak two well: The language on our translators, and another language. But as more people speak the language on our translators well, the fewer choose to learn another language."

"You speak at least two," Brave Loyalty noted.

"I speak eight well."

"Is learning languages a pleasurable activity for you?" Brave Loyalty asked.

"Very much so," Philippe replied.

"You should learn another people's language."

Philippe jumped at the opening.

"I want to very much," he said. "The Cyclopes seem to speak within the range of my hearing. Perhaps you should try to teach me your language, if that is not too much of an imposition."

Brave Loyalty stared at him for a minute.

"Of course I understand if you do not have the time," Philippe continued, wondering if he had said something offensive. "I would not wish to inconvenience you in any way."

"I would be emphatically pleased to help you," said the Cyclops. "It would help ease the sense of shame I feel as a result of your attack."

"I thank you," said Philippe.

"I feel your attack was a very emphatically shameful event," said Brave Loyalty. "It was very troubling to me in a personal way."

"Did you know the attacker?" Philippe asked.

"Not even a small amount." The Cyclops paused again. "I have a third question, if I may be permitted to ask it."

"Please do."

"With your people, when you see a competitive event, must you participate? Must you try to win it? Are you capable of choosing to not participate?"

Philippe thought for a moment. "I think all humans are competitive, or can be competitive. But I think it would depend on the event—whether it looked enjoyable—or what the prize was."

"I understand," said Brave Loyalty. "Our people would participate and try to win, in all cases. That is the only permissible course of action for a Cyclops, it is said. One never decides not to participate. One always competes. To compete is what one wants to do during the entire time one is alive."

"I think that there is a competitive instinct innate in all beings, certainly in all humans," said Philippe. "But there is also culture and civilization. The competitive urge can be reined in, turned away from destructive channels and into productive and peaceful ones. I realize that I am new to this station and know little of the people who live here, but when I see the Hosts and the Swimmers, I think that these are people who have controlled their competitive urges and embraced cooperation."

"I cannot agree with that evaluation," said Brave Loyalty. "The Hosts and the Swimmers do not believe that they do not have to compete. They believe that they have won the competition."

"Is that why Limitless Sacrifice was in the Hosts'—" A noise outside the door interrupted Philippe's question.

Shanti opened it. "Your friend is back," she said, letting in Endless Courage, who was carrying a gold tube a little less than a meter long. She stepped in after him, alert.

"I am sorry to have taken so long," he said.

"It was no trouble at all," said Philippe, silently wishing that the alien had taken even longer. "How generous of you to give me a gift."

"This is a traditional gift among the Cyclopes to one who has been wrongfully attacked," said Endless Courage.

Raoul stepped over to Philippe's bed. Glaring at Feo, he swung down a tray from the ceiling. Endless Courage placed the gift on the tray.

"He would not know how to open it," remarked Brave Loyalty.

"I will do it," said Endless Courage, pinching and pulling the package until the gold covering lost its stiffness and fell open.

Inside was a long, thin, gray-brown object. The end of it branched into six curling fingers. It had a shiny but textured surface, like someone had lacquered a short-hair dog.

"It is the offending appendage of the attacker," said Endless Courage.

"Ohhh, let's not pay any attention to those biosafety protocols," said George, quickly stepping forward.

"It has been sealed," said Endless Courage.

Philippe waved off the doctor and smiled up at the Cyclopes. "It is a wonderful gift," he said. "Thank you so much."

The meetings with the Hosts and the Swimmer drone went roughly as expected, with Philippe delivering the message of continued friendliness and the Hosts and Swimmers delivering apologies aplenty.

"Has this happened before?" asked Philippe, during his meeting with the Hosts.

"On occasion there are disagreements that result in violence," said Max. "They are not common, especially not between members of different people."

"They are great failures on our part," said a visibly agitated Moritz. "Once we finish this conversation, I will immediately go to the portal in hopes that contemplating it will assist me in discerning how our people failed both the humans and the Cyclopes at this time."

Philippe didn't quite know what to say to that, so he changed the subject. "Do you know what Limitless Sacrifice was trying to steal?"

"The merchant who discovered him in his living quarters says that nothing was taken," said Moritz. "I do not know if I consider his account reliable, however."

"Moritz," said Max, suddenly looking exasperated.

"You think that something _was_ taken?" asked Philippe.

"That part of the account I have no reason to not believe," said Moritz. "But I think the merchant might have done something or said something that made the Cyclops violent."

"What could a merchant say that a Cyclops could understand?" said Max. "He did not have translation gear."

"There is a possibility that it was his physical manner," said Moritz.

"He has provided goods here for years without incident," said Max.

Philippe was bracing for another argument between the two when Max's attention was suddenly caught by something. He walked over to the isolation unit, where the doctor had place the Cyclopes gift, covered by its erstwhile packaging.

"I see they gave you the offending hand," Max said.

"Yes, they did," said Philippe.

Max and Moritz looked at each other, amused.

"Do you find that an impressive gift?" asked Moritz. "This hand?"

"It is not a traditional gift on Earth," Philippe replied. "I'm sure they meant well."

"Among the Cyclopes, they are often speaking of hands that were cut off either the living or the dead and handed to the wronged party after an offense," said Max. "It is comical."

"Why?" asked Philippe.

"It is simply ridiculous," said Moritz. "It is a tale that no one believes."

"No people are that barbaric," said Max. "No people would cut off hands in such a cavalier manner."

A picture flashed into Philippe's mind of a buzzing basement room in Guantánamo.

"That hand is a fake," said Moritz. "It shines, and the Cyclopes are dull."

"Either they are invented tales, or the Cyclopes can re-grow their hands and the removal of their hands is not a traumatic operation," said Moritz. "I have never seen a Cyclops on the station without hands, and they rotate their staff through here at a rapid rate."

"I am so pleased that you are willing to share your insights with me, especially considering how new I am to this station," Philippe said.

And what he thought was: _Naive children. You have no idea._
Chapter 11

Philippe was soon out of the infirmary, and the next several weeks went by in a blur.

First, he had official meetings with the Cyclopes and the Pincushions in their living areas, as well as a meeting with the Blobbos in the common area.

The meetings were about what he expected: the Cyclopes and Blobbos were painfully polite, and both species held the type of meeting where no one could possibly be offended because nothing of substance was said. While Philippe wasn't allowed to see the Blobbos' living area, that of the Cyclopes was quite warm and incredibly humid—Philippe couldn't help but wonder whether the walls had been painted their dark brown color or had grown it.

The meeting with the Pincushions was a much more casual, even chaotic, affair, held in a living area that was the temperature of the inside of a meat locker. A large group of Pincushions attended, and there was no one Pincushion who appeared to be in charge. Philippe got the impression that only long experience with the limitations of translation technology kept them from all speaking at once. During the meeting the Pincushions expressed surprise that the mighty Scaled One did not kill Philippe's attacker, explained that they were lured to the station by curiosity and the promise of lucrative trade in rare alien products, and casually held an orgy.

In addition, Philippe had an emergency meeting with the Snake Boys, thanks to an utterly stupid incident. A Snake Boy, inspired by tales of Ofay, had decided that he wanted to try walking on his hands. Some of the SFers were reckless enough to help, flipping the alien over only for all to discover that the Snake Boys' arms were never meant to bear the weight of their bodies. Fortunately the Snake Boy was expected to recover from his injuries, and his people readily agreed that the folly was equal on both sides. Indeed, Philippe's meeting with the Snake Boys was far more genial than the one Shanti had with the offending SFers.

The Hosts were never able to set up formal meetings with the White Spiders or the Magic Man, but Philippe ran into the latter several times after the attack. The Magic Man was almost always in human shape or would take human shape as soon as he saw Philippe, and he seemed much more willing to talk than before. Conversation was still extremely difficult, but it was gratifying that the Magic Man at least seemed to want it.

The Magic Man's ability to dematerialize fascinated the Union brass, and Shanti was amused to no end by a suggestion by someone fairly high up in Union Intelligence that her soldiers capture the Magic Man for study. She sent back an obscenity- and insult-laden message (composed in front of Philippe, who fruitlessly pointed out that people in the UI were probably not accustomed to the direct casualness of the SF) explaining that kidnapping was contrary to their mission and requesting suggestions for how best to capture a creature that could vanish and reappear at will.

For his part, Philippe tried to talk the Magic Man into allowing George to give him a physical examination. The Magic Man didn't seem to even understand the suggestion, however, and introducing him to the doctor didn't help.

Other than the unrealistic suggestion that they capture the Magic Man, the Union responded to the attack on Philippe in a measured way, appearing to accept his contention that a counterattack or significantly heightened security was unnecessary. Like the SFers, the Union brass seemed almost relieved—something bad had happened, to be sure, but it wasn't the catastrophe all had feared.

The only real change was that the Titan station sent the manned supply ship more often after the attack, whereas before they had relied almost entirely on unmanned drones to ship supplies and mail. Now the SFers saw Cheep and Pinky a couple of times a week, which was a welcome diversion. Everyone was allowed to go on the ship while it was docked, but much to George's amusement, the pilots had what he called "medically illiterate" orders not to set foot on the station. As a result, the SFers brought their ration bars onto the ship and took their meals there in order to get the latest gossip from Titan.

Along with mail, supplies, and tittle-tattle, the ship carried Sucre and Mo back and forth to Titan for their counseling sessions. Apparently, three counseling sessions were mandatory for an SF soldier after a fatal incident. Someone on Titan suggested that, since Sucre and Mo did not kill a human, they did not require the sessions—a suggestion that infuriated the SFers, who apparently viewed three counseling sessions as a right granted by God to all members of the Special Forces that was not to be abrogated under any circumstances. Sucre and Mo did not appear at least to Philippe to be particularly traumatized, and they had to stay in quarantine while on Titan (Cheep and Pink were never quarantined, however, which amused George to no end), but they were more than willing to suffer the inconvenience in order to receive their rightful due.

Shanti asked Philippe if he wanted counseling, too, but he declined—he had too much to do. Among his other duties, he was trying to decipher what the Magic Man had said to him in the infirmary. The alien's strange speaking style, with its absence of inflection, frustrated Philippe's attempts to understand. He listened to the speech over and over to no avail.

Finally, he converted the speech to text and ran various styles of auto-punctuation on it. That helped somewhat. In his brief initial conversation with Philippe, the Magic Man had suggested that humans "join the body," and as well as Philippe could figure, it seemed like the humans hadn't yet joined it—but that the Cyclopes had, which was interesting.

With that little understanding, Philippe went to Max and asked if the Hosts had ever explicitly entered into a formal alliance with the Magic Man. Max said no, and in response to Philippe's other questions, said that there was no formal ceremony that aliens underwent once they came to the station and no formal alliance that any of the species had formed.

"We have the rules that you already know, and we ask only that people abide by them," said Max.

"Maybe it's a time thing?" said Shanti, when Philippe brought up the puzzle to her. "Like, if he's known you for a certain amount of time, then he considers you part of this alliance, this 'body.' In any case, it sounds like he's got some kind of mutual-protection society going on in his head. If you're in it, he'll protect you. If you're not, he won't, even if he wants to."

Philippe sat for a moment, looking at his scroll, which displayed the text of the Magic Man's remarks. "So, if the protection is mutual, then you can't attack him either, right? Maybe that's why he seems to be saying that I was the target, not him."

"He thinks that?" asked Shanti. "It looked like that Cyclops was shooting at whatever was out in the open."

"Here," said Philippe, "'—if you had not realized that that one was not attacking one of the body, but instead attacking one not of the body, particularly you.' Why would he think he wasn't the target?"

"Maybe because he knew it couldn't hurt him?" Shanti said. "If it's a time thing—do you know how long everyone's been on the station? When did they all come?"

Philippe didn't know. They tried to look it up, but it was not contained in the information the Union had provided before they arrived at the station.

"I mean, they were only talking to the aliens for five fucking years," said Shanti. "You can't expect them to get some pretty fucking basic information in that short amount of time."

"They weren't actually talking for most of that time," Philippe replied. "They were teaching the aliens English."

She glared at him.

"OK, they probably should have asked _that,_ " he acceded.

They talked it over and decided to ask Baby to find out when the various species came to the station. "I want to keep this unofficial," said Philippe.

"It shouldn't be a problem for her," Shanti laughed. "I think the aliens are going to elect her Miss Congeniality."

Baby's transponder put her in the infirmary, so Philippe said that he would talk to her later. Shanti, however, was not one to allow considerations of medical privacy get in the way, so she commed Baby and determined that the younger woman was, as suspected, "yapping with George again."

Philippe joined her and George in the infirmary. After he filled in Baby on what he wanted, the conversation moved on to other topics, and Baby and George wound up inviting Philippe to join them in their daily workout. The two of them were practicing aikido, which to Philippe's understanding was a style of fighting. But Baby insisted that it was "a totally nonviolent martial _art,_ not fighting really," and George went on a long ramble about how practicing aikido might prove really meaningful to Philippe because it was simply "a physical means of resolving conflict."

Philippe liked both Baby and George and wanted to be social, so he refrained from pointing out that fighting was _also_ a physical means of resolving conflict. In any case, it didn't sound like they would be beating each other up, so he agreed to join them.

He met Baby and George in the gym the next day. It was one of the few places where the soldiers did not wear lonjons—not that they couldn't, George pointed out, since lonjons absorbed sweat and contributed only minimally to overheating.

But the idea of sweating into one was not very appealing, even to George, so the three of them were just in regular workout gear. George was wearing a low tank, and Philippe noticed to his shock that the doctor had the SF cat logo burned onto his chest.

"Did you—is that a brand?" he asked.

"Oh, no," George replied. "It's tattooing. It just looks like a brand. They can do all kinds of crazy things with tattoos nowadays, keloids and the like. But you know, when I joined the SF, a lot of people actually got brands—if you can believe it. They had a big crackdown on it a few years ago, though, so now everyone just tattoos."

_Because tattooing your employer's logo on your body is totally normal,_ Philippe thought to himself. _Especially when you make the tattoo look like a brand._

"Have you seen Shanti's?" asked Baby. Philippe shook his head.

"Oh, you have to—you ain't never seen nothing like it," she said, her eyes widening with enthusiasm. She started to slap her chest, but then realized that she wasn't wearing her com mike. "Just give me a sec. I think I know where she is."

She scampered out and ran back in a few minutes later, pulling Shanti by the hand. "Philippe wants to see your body art!" she exclaimed.

"You know, I've got shit to do," said Shanti, as she unceremoniously unbuttoned her uniform shirt. As she took it off, she caught a glimpse of Philippe's doubtless alarmed expression, gave him a look of annoyance, and turned her back to him. She grabbed the neck of her lonjons with both hands, and with one firm motion, pulled the suit down almost to her waist.

Philippe gasped.

All across her back and shoulders were sparkling studs: some were silver, but most were faceted gems of amethyst, crystal, and jet.

She had a pattern of suns and stars encircling each upper arm, but her back was the main canvas: A glittering bird, its wings outstretched and beak pointing upward, spread across her back on a field of stars. It emerged from a line of silver flames that curved up out from the lonjons still covering her lower back.

"It's beautiful!" Philippe exclaimed. He looked a moment longer, and then a realization dawned on him. "Those are your scales, right? The ones the Pincushions were talking about."

She turned her head over her shoulder and smiled. Her body turned a little, too, and Philippe could see that the sun-and-stars pattern continued across her collarbone. "I think so, yeah," she said. "But it's not scales. It's a phoenix."

Philippe was swimming slowly in the warm, blue Mediterranean waters. The sun was shining, hot against his skin, and the warm ocean enveloped his body.

He turned on his back to float and looked around him. There were vacationers frolicking on the beach. In the water, some kids were bodysurfing, while the more leisure-oriented adults lazily bobbed about on inflatable rafts.

" _Good day, Philippe!" several voices piped up from the water._

Philippe looked down, and there were a dozen colorful Little Swimmers frolicking in the water around him.

" _Good day, my little cauliflowers! How is it going?" he said, delighted to see them._

" _It goes well!" said one with zigzagging blue-and-yellow stripes. "Hey!"_

Another one, with red-and-white splotches, had squirted water on him.

" _Oh, the cow!" said Philippe, making them all giggle._

" _Philippe," said a serious voice._

He turned around. There was a Host, the color of gold, bobbing on a blue inflatable raft behind him.

" _Hello, Host!" said Philippe, treading water and putting his hand over his eyes to shade them from the Host's glare._

" _Oh, shit," said the Host, looking at the Little Swimmers around Philippe. "You know these things?"_

" _Yes, I do—they're called Little Swimmers. I'm not sure where the big ones are."_

" _God, I was hoping they wouldn't do things this way. Fucking bastards! They don't understand anything! Shit!"_

Philippe was shocked that the Host would curse in front of the Little Swimmers. But then he realized that the Host was speaking English, so with any luck, the French-speaking Little Swimmers couldn't understand him.

" _Excuse me, my friends?" he asked the little guys. "Can you tell me where your big cousin is?"_

" _He is . . . there. And now he's coming over here!" said one. "Who is your friend who is full of light?"_

" _He is a friend from far away."_

" _Are you and your friend speaking English?"_

" _Yes, we are."_

" _I speak English!" exclaimed another Little Swimmer. He paused for a moment to think. "Hello! Good-bye! Candy!"_

" _Very good!" said Philippe. "You speak English very well!"_

The Little Swimmers went back to squirting water on each other.

" _There's the Big Swimmer," said Philippe, pointing to the dark shape coming up underneath him in the water. "He's tickling my feet."_

" _Look, this is all very nice," said the Host. "But there's going to be a lot of trouble soon, and you're the only person I can communicate with. Hey. Hey! Are you listening?"_

Philippe's eyes had begun to close as the vibrating tentacles traveled slowly up his legs.

" _Look, damn it, you have to focus, OK?" snapped the Host. "You have to pay attention. This is your mind, it's not mine, and you need to take me seriously. You can't be flying around and forcing me to laugh—that really hurt, by the way. This is important, and you can't treat me like I'm some figment of your imagination. I'm_ real. _"_

The water suddenly went cold, and Philippe opened his eyes. There were dark clouds over the sun, and the wind was blowing. The Big Swimmer withdrew, and the Little Swimmers—sniffling and weeping—suddenly dived under.

Run, _thought Philippe._ Run away.

" _I'm sorry," he said. "You deserve better than what happened to you."_

" _All right then," said the Host._

" _I'm sorry I let you down," said Philippe, beginning to cry._

" _It's fine, you know, as long as we can talk."_

" _I'm sorry. I failed you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

Philippe and Brave Loyalty agreed to have regular meetings in a quiet floor of the common area where Philippe could record the Cyclops' speech.

At first, he tried to imitate it, much to the Cyclops' amusement. "I do not think you are physically built to speak the language," said Brave Loyalty. "The sense is emphatically affected by the speed of the quaver, and I do not know if you can control the quaver to the degree that is necessary to achieve the specificity of meaning you need to be understood."

"More practice may help," Philippe said. "If it does not, I could program a speech synthesizer and speak that way."

"Is that an improvement over the translation technology?" asked the Cyclops. "Were you to record my speech and use the speech units to speak yourself, you would speak no better than the Magic Man does, and he is barely comprehensible."

"I will continue to try," Philippe replied. "Do you want me to teach you some of our speech?"

"No," said Brave Loyalty. "I sufficiently risk having my loyalty to my people questioned without learning an alien language."

Philippe was taken aback. It hadn't occurred to him the Brave Loyalty might get in trouble for meeting a diplomat.

"I do not wish to put you at any risk with these meetings," he said. "Do you think we should stop?"

"I accept this risk, but my people do not trust other people." The Cyclops' expression, as always, was inscrutable, and any emotional nuance in his speech was obliterated by the translator.

"Do you want to hear of how we first came to this station?"

"I am most interested," Philippe replied

"It was assumed when the portal was discovered that the people on the other side of it would be emphatically hostile," said Brave Loyalty. "So my people took warriors of extreme loyalty and asked them to go through the portal in a certain ship. The ship was loaded with emphatically powerful weaponry. The expectation was emphatically that the warriors would discover the hostile people and destroy them. It was also expected that they themselves would perish in this effort."

Philippe quickly suppressed any expression of shock.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We had been in contact with the Hosts before the ship went through," Brave Loyalty continued. "During that time, the Hosts had discovered how to patch into our video communications system. When the ship went through the portal, the Hosts sent the warriors a friendly video communication. The warriors believed that the Hosts were truthfully friendly, and they did not use their weaponry."

"That must have been a big relief for you," said Philippe. _A big relief for everyone,_ he thought.

"It was considered a shameful thing," said Brave Loyalty. "The expected heirs of the warriors considered it a very emphatically shameful thing. There are Cyclopes who have never forgiven the Hosts for that historical incident."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"We did a similar thing," Philippe said, feeling as though one confidence deserved another.

Brave Loyalty looked at him; Philippe did not know if it was with surprise or relief or terror. "You did?"

"Yes. The first few times we sent ships through, they carried explosives, so that they could be blown up if they were attacked," Philippe said. He did not add that, to the best of his knowledge, the ship Cheep and Pinky piloted still had the suicide rigging.

"That is as it is," said Brave Loyalty. "We must continue with your lessons."

In addition to trying to learn the Cyclopes language, Philippe spoke to the Swimmers about devising an alternative to the current translation technology. Given the response of Ptuk-Ptik to his idea, Philippe had assumed that the Swimmers would be highly reluctant to use translation technology that was developed by anyone else. But he was surprised to learn that the Swimmers had proposed alternative technologies in the past, only to have them rejected by the Hosts.

"Our technology was designed to be used by two peoples from the same planet, whose experiences are more similar than those of peoples from different planets," the drone of a language-oriented Swimmer told him. "But the Hosts are extremely reluctant to accept changes to the translation technology, even when the changes are improvements. The Swimmers' translation technology is explicitly mentioned in the sacred texts of the Hosts, and therefore any change is resisted."

It was, as Philippe was discovering, typical of the way the station was run. The Hosts had their sacred texts, and everyone who was on the station was expected to live in accordance with them. There was no group decision-making—if you wanted something that you couldn't do for yourself, you went to the Hosts and you asked for it. They usually were agreeable, but if they weren't, which could happen if they considered your request to be somehow in conflict with their sacred texts, you were just out of luck. So the Swimmers' improvements to their own translation technology were ignored, and the Snake Boys coped with overcrowding while dozens of living areas went empty.

Philippe had to admit that as theocracies went, this one was far less pernicious than some he had had the misfortune to experience—Max and Moritz were a far cry from General Jesus. But it annoyed Philippe nonetheless, especially once he learned that these sacred texts were nothing more than the prophecy that allegedly had predicted the opening of the portal and the building of the station. This "prophecy" had obviously been revised at some point to reflect historical events, and Philippe didn't understand why it couldn't be revised again—although he was not so stupid in matters of religion as to make this suggestion to the Hosts.

In any case, Philippe was well-versed enough in the ways of the station that when he decided (and Shanti agreed) a few weeks after his attack that things were peaceful enough to allow some scientists to visit, he knew he should run the idea past the Hosts early on.

He decided first to talk it over with George, coming into the infirmary to find the doctor in the isolation ward examining the Cyclops arm.

"Is it real?" asked Philippe.

"Well, you'd have to chop one off a Cyclops yourself to know for sure," said the doctor. "But it looks like a working arm, and there's what looks very much like a scrambler fragment in it. The sealant—that lacquer stuff over it—is actually a monofilament. I'm trying to figure out if it's synthetic or derived from some natural source."

Philippe explained that he wanted to invite some scientists on board. George's reaction was more subdued than Philippe had expected: The doctor pointed out that, at the moment, the Union forbade the transport of alien materials back through the portal, so whoever came would have to do all their work on the station—and the living area wasn't exactly set up for a high-tech lab.

"There are astrophysicists on Titan already," said Philippe. "I know that they haven't been allowed to get very close to the portal on the Titan side because of all the defenses."

George nodded. "That might be the way to go—let them study the portal on this side. They wouldn't even have to come onto the station, which is probably a plus as far as the Union is concerned. You know they still won't let Cheep or Pinky get off the ship when they come here? And they've been kicking up a stink about me keeping this." He waved the Cyclops arm at Philippe with a flourish.

Philippe went to find Max, and asked him if it would be OK if some humans came to study the Titan portal.

"We always encourage people to contemplate the portals," said Max. "They embody the mystery of the universe."

Philippe felt a need to be fully honest—better to be told no by Max now than to have him find out the whole truth later and feel betrayed. "I realize that the portals have great religious significance for your people, and they are indeed a wonder," he said. "But these people would not be priests. They would be scientists who would be conducting studies."

"That is a crucial first step," said Max. "You will attempt scientific study, and then when those studies reveal no truths, you will be forced to contemplate the more profound levels of meaning embodied by your portal. My people would be very happy if your scientists began their studies at this moment."

So Philippe was feeling like he was really accomplishing something when he sent off a proposal to the DiploCorps telling them that the scientists on Titan had an open invitation to come examine the portal from the station side. He felt like he was fulfilling a promise—a promise to humanity that engaging with the aliens and coming to the station would advance knowledge and make life better, and a promise to Yoli that he would open doors to exciting new scientific discoveries. It made it all the sweeter that he knew, however casually, someone who would benefit directly from his work.

When he got their reply, his disappointment was profound. _In light of the attack on you . . . security situation unstable . . . not advisable to expose more people,_ etc., etc. There was a troubling vagueness to the message, as though the Union was not planning to send anyone else through the portal, ever.

Since the DiploCorps was rejecting a proposal that Philippe had put time and effort into arranging, they included copies of feedback on the proposal from other sources. Philippe paged through the feedback with a sinking heart—not a single positive response from any quarter, not even from the Space Authority, merely neutrality or negativity.

The last response Philippe read before giving up the effort stood out for its many layers of cowardice. The author not only held up and shook the bugaboo of an alien invasion (triggered by visiting scientists? who had permission to be there?), but managed in the process to warmly massage every Union department and official responsible for defending Earth against this nonexistent plague of warriors.

Philippe was unsurprised to see a familiar name attached to that response—Wouter Hoopen, general manager of the Titan Station.

"Toady," Philippe muttered to himself.

He sighed and put down his scroll. Of course these responses were all from spineless bureaucrats like Hoopen—the actual scientists weren't even allowed to know that this opportunity existed.

He went to Shanti's office to vent. "I know for a fact that there are scientists on Titan who would gladly take the risk, if there actually was one. If we're not here to find out about the aliens and the portals, then why?"

Shanti shrugged. "You did get attacked, you know. Maybe they want to wait a little longer and see what happens next. Maybe we're bait."

Philippe rubbed his forehead. "You seem awfully philosophical about that."

She laughed. "I have no illusions about my standing in the SF. We're disposable—if they're planning something really desperate, we're gonna be the last to know."

"What are you talking about?" said Philippe. "You're the commander of a unit of highly trained combat specialists."

Shanti gave him a puzzled look. "I'm a freak. Did you forget? I'm a _clone._ "

Philippe was incredulous. "Oh, at this point surely nobody cares about that."

Shanti returned his disbelieving look. "You don't know the half, Trang. I had to take the Special Forces to court to get in, and two of my sisters had to do the same with the Union Police. Trust me, if we get eaten by aliens there are people on Earth, in the SF even, who will sleep better knowing they've got one less Pax kid to worry about."

Philippe took her point. "I suppose you would know more about being a Pax than I would—but you're not the only soldier here. There's the doctor, and your second—"

"George is a freak, too," said Shanti. "He keeps running off to school. I mean, medicine they could work with, but zoology? He almost got kicked out over that one. I know he had to accept some pretty significant cuts to his package, and the only reason they didn't boot him was because the portal opened up, and they decided he might be useful after all. And Patch spends every off-duty minute in the koffie shops. He's careful to keep it legal, but do you really think anyone is OK with that?"

Philippe shrugged. Patch's off-duty activities on Earth hadn't exactly been a factor on the station. "You seem to be."

"The fuck I am," Shanti replied with vigor. "My mother died in a koffie shop. If it was up to me they'd all be closed down. I don't think Patch is a bad soldier, but I wish he'd pick up some other hobbies. No, I think the only one they'd really mind losing is you."

"Me?" Philippe laughed. "Why? I'm just junior staff."

Shanti gave him a quizzical look. "You're an up-and-comer, everyone knows it. You've been in a lot of tough places. And you were the only one who knew what was going on at Guantánamo."

"I didn't _know,_ " said Philippe.

"But you _suspected,_ and no one else did."

"I suspected, and I wrote a memo—big deal," said Philippe. "It didn't do the least bit of good."

"You were _right._ You have good instincts, and the DiploCorps has got to value that." She nodded. "If they don't fuck us over, it'll be because of you. Only because of you."

He was walking down the hallway to the door. Behind the door was something awful.

The hallway itself looked normal. Cheery and normal, like a regular hallway in a regular home. There was pleasant chatting coming from the other rooms. But Philippe knew there was horror here. Behind that silent door, in that room, was the place where it happened.

It was important to stay quiet, or they would come and get him. If he could make it, if he could find out what was behind that door and get out alive, then he would have the evidence. Everyone would know, and he could stop it, stop it all. Stop it in time.

" _Hello, Philippe," said a voice behind him._

He whirled around. "Get out!" he hissed at the Host, who was not only talking loudly but glowing like a neon sign. "Get out now before—"

The guards ran into the hallway.

" _Hello," said Philippe, making a desperate bluff. "I'm Philippe Trang from the DiploCorps, and I have a meeting with General Jesus. Hello! Hello!"_

But they didn't even look at him.

They quickly surrounded the glowing Host. "What the fuck are you?" one snapped.

" _Philippe," said the Host. "Cut this out."_

" _What the_ fuck _are_ you!? _" the soldier screamed._

" _I'm an alien," said the Host._

Oh no, _thought Philippe._

" _Do you believe in Jesus?" asked another guard._

" _Who?" asked the Host._

" _He glows," said the first guard. "Like an angel. He thinks he's an angel."_

" _No, I don't," said the Host, offended._

"Shut up! _"_

They were forcing him back into one of the rooms.

" _Look, Philippe," said the Host. "This is ridiculous, OK? This is all in your mind, and you need to get rid of these guys so that you and I—_ eiiiiiiiigh! _"_

One of the guard had whipped the Host with a flail. It had sharp metal pieces attached to a half-dozen leather thongs. The guard whipped him again.

The Host made that horrible shrieking noise, the noise that made the hair on Philippe's arms stand on end and tied his guts into knots. Red blood dripped from the Host's wounds onto the carpeted floor.

" _Philippe, that really hurt! And what is this red stuff? What are you doing_ _to me?"_

" _I'm sorry," said Philippe, tears running down his face. The guards gathered around the Host, whooping with joy as they brought their flails down again and again against the Host's back, his legs, his face. The men, the carpet, the walls became spattered with blood and small chunks of flesh._

Philippe's knees gave out from under him, and he sank to the floor. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the carpet. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Philippe felt like crap. He'd had another nightmare, another bizarre and upsetting combination of everyday life on the station and the horror of Guantánamo. That Host was there again, making the horrible shrieking noise the Swimmer drones used for an alarm, insisting that he needed Philippe and that Philippe was hurting him. And Philippe could only watch, utterly helpless.

This time they had used electrified needles to burn out the heresy. The Host had been unable to move—his legs were mysteriously paralyzed—and he blamed Philippe for that, too, insisting that the diplomat had the power to intervene.

The alien had been so persistent that Philippe actually believed him for a moment, but then one of the guards turned to him and said, "You didn't stop it," and just like that, he was helpless again. At that, the Host had gotten angry, telling Philippe he would "get to" him some other way.

The whole thing was disturbing on every level, one of those toxic nightmares that poison a whole morning with dread.

Philippe went to the mess hall, picked up a ration bar with extra caffeine, and sat by himself to eat it. As always, he wasn't alone long—George and Baby came in, got their bars, and sat next to him.

"I got some dates," said Baby. "You know, when the aliens came here. Did you know that this place is like 700 years old? I didn't think it was no 700 years old."

"They must renovate a lot," said the doctor.

"Are those people years?" Philippe asked.

"As opposed to dog years?" George replied.

"As opposed to _station_ years," Philippe snapped.

"Earth years, yeah, I did the math," said Baby. "Ptuk-Ptik was saying that it took about 50 years to build, so I guess it's actually 650 years old. And the Swimmers came about 70 years after they finished building it, so 520 years there. The Cyclopes are the most recent except for us, and they've been here 30 years. And the Pincushions got here less than 120 years before they did, so that's 150 years for them. The parts in between I don't know nothing about yet."

"Did you put all that in your report?" asked Philippe.

"Yeah."

Philippe chewed in silence for a little bit, until something on the ceiling caught his eye.

"There's a White Spider in here," he said, pointing up.

"Why, so there is," said George, looking at the silent, still alien.

"When did it arrive?" Philippe asked, irritated. The two shrugged. "Why didn't anyone tell me? People should tell me things like that. There's a motion detector and a camera right there on the ceiling next to it, and someone must have disarmed the no man's zone, so it obviously didn't sneak in without anyone noticing."

"Maybe the night shift let it in," said Baby.

A slightly hurt edge had crept into her voice, and Philippe suddenly realized how rude he was being.

"I'm sorry," he said to Baby. "I'm a bit of a barbarian this morning. Thank you for finding all that out about when everyone came to the station. You did a really good job, as always. I always appreciate it, even when I'm being horrid."

"That's all right," said Baby. "A lot of people ain't morning people."

"Are you not sleeping well?" asked the doctor.

"I had a bad dream," said Philippe. "I think I'm a little stressed by the way the Union is acting."

"What'd they do?" asked Baby.

"They won't let scientists through the portal to conduct studies," said George.

"That's stupid," said Baby.

Philippe nodded in silent agreement.

"They're paranoid," said the doctor.

"Well, hey, you're a science guy," said Baby, giving George a nudge with her shoulder. "Maybe you can do something. Like, examine the aliens. It'd be a little science, right? It's better than not doing nothing."

"We tried to get the Magic Man to agree to an examination, and he didn't even seem to understand what we were asking him to do," said Philippe.

"Well, that's the Magic Man for you," said Baby. "I bet I could get Ptuk-Ptik to do it, though."

Baby and George both looked at Philippe—she raising her left eyebrow, he raising his right. Philippe thought for a moment.

"We should try to do it through official channels, I think," he replied. "I just have no idea how asking to perform something like a medical examination might be received."

"It'd be totally non-invasive, I promise," said George.

"I know," Philippe said. "I just don't want to step on any toes. Maybe I could offer myself up as a trade—you examine an alien volunteer, and their doctors can examine me. Anyway, I'll float it past the Hosts first. Baby's right: If anyone will agree to do it, they will."

So later that day, Philippe (with Bubba and Doug in tow) headed for the Hosts' living area. Philippe got off the elevator platform and was walking through the cafés when he saw a light out of the corner of his eye.

He turned. And there, walking and talking to two other Hosts, was the glowing, golden Host of his dreams.
Chapter 12

Philippe gestured frantically to the soldiers, who ran up. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" Bubba asked.

"See that, that—" The Host's glow was rapidly diminishing.

"Never mind," he said, and he went after the Host.

The Host was now not glowing at all, although he still looked a little more golden than the others. He stopped at one of the hand sanitizers, and he and his two companions were cleaning their hands when Philippe caught up to them.

"Hello!" he said. "I'm the human diplomat."

They seemed to ignore him, so he greeted them again. One of them noticed him and pointed him out to the others with a chirrup. Philippe realized with a start that, in all likelihood, none of them had translation devices.

He smiled anyway and waved, which sparked a brief but animated discussion among them. He followed them to their table, where a serving Host brought their food. They all seemed rather baffled about what to do next—one of them spoke to the serving Host, but another appeared to interrupt him. The third began thrumming, and the other two quickly joined in. The serving Host left, and they all stood there, the Hosts not touching their food. They had another conversation, this one even more animated than the last.

"Greetings, human diplomat," said a translated voice.

Philippe turned. It was Ptuk-Ptik.

"Oh, thank goodness," said Philippe. "I want to speak to these Hosts, but it seems that they don't have translation devices. Do you think you could translate?"

"Of course," said Ptuk-Ptik. He walked up to the Hosts. "This is the human diplomat, and he would like to make your acquaintance."

The no-longer-glowing, now-dark-orange Host spoke. "He says he is honored to greet you and wishes you all good things," Ptuk-Ptik said. "He would be happy to answer your questions and to share a meal—he does not eat our food, it is most likely toxic to him."

The last phrase was apparently for the benefit of the other Hosts.

"Who are these people? I take it they are not priests," said Philippe.

"No, they are not—he thought you might be priests. No, this Host—" Ptuk-Ptik indicated the Host who had been glowing "—is a merchant who provides the food from our planet that the Snake Boys eat. He is not a priest, but his job furthers our divine mission as much as any priesthood. This Host—" he indicated the Host to the left, who was redder "—is his son, for he has the enviable fortune to have a wife. This Host—" indicating the one to the right "—is his nephew, for he has the enviable fortune to have a sister."

As Ptuk-Ptik made the introductions, Philippe looked the merchant over. No trace of a glow remained—in fact, the merchant really didn't look at all like the Host in his dreams now. He was thinner and longer, he wasn't gold anymore, and he had spots in the wrong places.

"Is he the merchant who was robbed by that Cyclops?" Philippe asked.

"No," said Ptuk-Ptik. "He is a different merchant."

"OK." Philippe sat in puzzlement for a moment. "May I ask you kind of an odd question?"

"Please satisfy your people's natural curiosity," said Ptuk-Ptik. "I am accustomed to such questions because of my many conversations with Infant."

_This will seem normal then,_ Philippe reassured himself.

"Can Hosts change color, or glow?"

"As the Magic Man does? No, we cannot."

Philippe bit his lip. _I hope this doesn't sound crazy,_ he thought.

"Are you—are you telepathic?"

Ptuk-Ptik looked at him, puzzled. "I do not think that translated correctly. Do we know thoughts? We know our thoughts."

"No, I mean—" _How to put this,_ Philippe wondered.

Then an idea occurred to him. "You know that we have a lot of fiction among our people about aliens. And often in our fiction, the aliens have mental abilities. And I don't mean the ability to reason or to build, which of course you have, but very special abilities that my people do not have, such as the ability to know the thoughts in another person's mind or the ability to put thoughts into another person's mind. Not by speaking or anything, but just by projecting those thoughts there."

Ptuk-Ptik looked surprised. "That is a novel concept. We may discover other people's thoughts through conversation and observation, and may influence them by our words and actions, but I do not believe that is your meaning."

"You are correct," said Philippe. "I am speaking of a simple action of will, a special power or ability to—we say to read minds, but to know the thoughts of others or to control the thoughts of others directly with the mind."

"I cannot think of any person who can do that," said the Host. "Except—but this is not exactly similar to that of which you speak."

"What is it?"

"The Magic Man, when he is in pieces, and his pieces are in different places, he appears to know what happens to all his pieces. But you are suggesting that one person could know the thoughts of another person, while the Magic Man is all one person."

"How does he do _that?_ " asked Philippe.

"He is very mysterious," replied Ptuk-Ptik.

Just then, the merchant began speaking with some irritation to Ptuk-Ptik.

"I apologize, that was very rude of me," the Host said to him. "I know this must frustrate you."

The three Hosts immediately began speaking energetically, talking over each other, while Ptuk-Ptik occasionally said things like, "It is very unfortunate" and "I am aware that your position is unenviable."

Finally the talked died down. "Why are they upset?" asked Philippe.

"He wants to know why you are upset," Ptuk-Ptik told the merchant. "I neglected to repeat your comments to them, and since they lack translation gear, they could not understand you."

The merchant piped in.

"He wants me to point out that it is not only that they cannot understand you, they cannot understand any of the aliens, and since they work with the Snake Boys, this is a considerable handicap for them," said the Host.

"Why don't they have translation gear?" asked Philippe.

"He wants to know why you do not have translation gear," said Ptuk-Ptik, eliciting yet another flurry of unintelligible and heated comments from the three Hosts before he turned back to Philippe. "There is a shortage of translation gear, and as a result, such gear is limited to the members of priesthoods. These are not priests, although I agree that since they provide necessary provisions to another people, they perform priest-like work."

"Well," said Philippe, "if there's a shortage, I believe that we have some extra Host translation gear."

Ptuk-Ptik looked shocked, and then excited. "If it would not offend you to answer this question: How did you come to posses such gear?"

"It was a present from your people," said Philippe. "We were given several, and I think the doctor could probably part with three."

The merchant said something to Ptuk-Ptik, who replied, "He is offering you the use of some translation gear his people were given as a gift from the Hosts."

The statement seemed to stun the table. All three Hosts were silent, until finally the merchant said something.

"He offers his great thanks," Ptuk-Ptik translated. "Such gear would be of extremely high value to him."

"I just hope it works," said Philippe.

"Can we go try it now?" asked Ptuk-Ptik.

So Philippe, the four Hosts, and the two soldiers headed back to the human living area. Ptuk-Ptik said that, if the translation gear was operable, he could just put it on the other three Hosts himself, so Philippe left them all outside and went to see George.

"Am I at least getting an examination out of this?" asked the doctor, as he sealed the gear into a bag with some reluctance.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I got sidetracked," Philippe said. "I'll check on that."

He carried the gear out into the common area. Ptuk-Ptik looked at the devices and said they should be useable. Philippe broke the seal and Ptuk-Ptik took one of the devices and carefully tucked it into the joint of the merchant's left forelimb.

"Does it work?" asked Philippe.

"Yes, by the sacred song of cannot translate, it does," said the merchant.

The cafeteria was transformed.

There were streamers everywhere, and everyone was wearing colorful paper hats and cheering.

" _What's going on?" Philippe asked Baby._

" _Don't you remember? It's Patch's birthday!"_

" _That's right," said Philippe, laughing at his lapse in memory. After all, he was wearing a hat, too, and carrying a paper horn. "Happy birthday, Patch!" he whooped._

" _Philippe! Guy!" exclaimed Patch. "Have a seat! Dinner's almost ready!"_

Philippe sat—there was a china plate and silver before him. Somebody put down a mug of beer by his plate, then someone else handed him some sausages.

The sausages were excellent—warm and spicy, they had a slightly tough skin so that they burst into your mouth when you bit into them.

Philippe took a drink of the beer. It was rich and flavorful, hearty and complex.

" _This is so good," he said._

" _Look at the cake," said Bubba, pointing over his shoulder._

Philippe looked. There was a massive black forest cake, with white glossy frosting and big red cherries heaped on top.

" _Do you want some potatoes?" asked Bubba._

" _Absolutely," Philippe replied, piling them onto his plate._

" _Uh. Hi, Philippe," said a voice behind him._

There was that glowing Host again.

" _Do you see that?" Philippe asked Bubba._

" _See what?" Bubba replied._

" _That glowing Host," Philippe said._

" _He's not real," said Bubba. "Hosts can't glow. And he's not the right color. They can't change color, either."_

" _Philippe, I am real," said the Host. "I need your help. I need to you talk to me."_

" _Maybe it's the Magic Man playing a joke," said Sucre, sitting across the table with a beer in his hand._

" _I'm not the Magic Man. I don't even know who the Magic Man is," said the Host._

" _He's kind of irritable," said Bubba._

" _That's because you're not listening to me!" said the Host. "Half the time, you won't even let me speak!"_

Philippe stood up. "Let's talk outside."

" _I want to talk here."_

" _No, this is a party. I think we should talk outside."_

" _We're not leaving this room," said the Host. "Every time we leave a room we wind up—oh, hell."_

" _I'm sorry," said Philippe, as the room became silent._

The guards arrived.

" _I can't move, Philippe," said the Host. "You've got to make it so that I can move."_

" _I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Philippe. The SFers were gone, all gone, he knew it without even looking around. There was no one to help, no help at all._

" _I'm sorry," he said._

One of the guards picked up a steak knife from the table and plunged it suddenly into the Host's side. He twisted it as the Host shrieked.

" _Wait," said another guard, obviously some kind of commander. He had a half-dozen steak knives in his hand. He passed them out to the guards. "Shallow cuts," he said._

They smiled and formed a circle around the Host. They began singing a hymn and slicing the Host. They sang about the love of Jesus and made long sinuous cuts on the alien's sides and back.

" _Please, stop this Philippe," said the Host. He was covered in a glaze of blood_

" _I'm sorry," said Philippe, shivering with his arms wrapped around himself. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

" _Stop!" shouted the commander. The guards stopped and backed away from the Host. The commander walked up. He had two bottles in each hand._

Philippe gasped. They were filled with brandy, four bottles of plum brandy.

" _I'm sorry," Philippe said, as the commander poured the brandy over the Host's cuts. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

The shrieking went on for a long time. Finally it stopped.

" _You will burn in hell, unbeliever," said the commander. His men began to stomp rhythmically on the floor._

The commander lit a match.

Someone was pounding on Philippe's office door, waking him up. _God, I need more sleep,_ he thought, and then shivered. Sleep brought dreams. . . .

The pounding.

"Come—" he said, and Baby burst in.

She looked frantic. "Trang, you've gotta do something! They got Ptuk-Ptik!"

It took a moment to calm her down enough to get the whole story. Philippe had gotten permission from the Hosts to have the doctor examine a volunteer, and Baby had insisted on asking Ptuk-Ptik first.

"I didn't see none of him yesterday or the day before, so I thought that maybe he was on one of them retreats," she said. "But today I ran into that merchant we gave the translator to, and he said Ptuk-Ptik got into trouble because of it. He's back on their planet, and they're gonna put him on trial! We gotta help him!"

"Absolutely," said Philippe. He pulled a jacket from his closet and slapped the mike. "Entourage. This is Trang. I need to go out _right now_."

"I'm going with you," said Baby. She had a slightly desperate gleam in her eye.

"Let me check it out first," said Philippe, putting on his gloves. He stopped for a moment and grabbed a stimulant patch out of his desk, sticking it to his right forearm. He was going to need the energy. "You stay here for now, and let me see if it's as bad as it sounds."

"Trang! You coming?" It was Ofay at the door. Five-Eighths stood beside him.

"I'll let you know what I find out as soon as I find out, OK?" he said, patting Baby's shoulder.

He and the soldiers went up to the level where the Hosts lived and started scanning the café area—half the time, whoever you wanted to meet was hanging out there. "I see Max," Five-Eighths' voice spoke in Philippe's ear. "He's alone."

"Entourage, I see him," said Philippe, as he walked over to where Five-Eighths was standing. "This is probably pretty sensitive, so I'd like you two to hang back. I don't want him to feel threatened."

He slapped off the com mike and tried to look casual as he walked over to Max's table. "Hello, Max," he said.

"Greetings, human diplomat," said Max. "I am so delighted to see you here."

"Are you waiting to meet someone?" asked Philippe.

"No," said Max. "I just wanted to be in the common area, where I would more likely be of service to other people."

"Well, that's just perfect," said Philippe, sitting down on the floor while keeping his hands on the platform. "For I have heard something very disturbing, and I wanted to speak to you about it."

"How terrible," said the Host, looking concerned. "If there is the least thing that I can do to make you less disturbed, I will most assuredly do it."

"I am pleased to hear that. You see, I heard that a Host is being punished for being of service to me, and it is greatly distressing to me to think of someone being made to suffer as a result of being a friend to my people."

Max looked uncomfortable. "I believe I know of which individual Host you speak, but in order for me to be certain, please tell me more details."

"A few days ago," Philippe said, "I ran into a Host priest who has been very open to us—many of my people consider him a genuine friend. He was with three merchants who were unhappy because they did not have translation gear. They said there was a shortage of such gear, so because of the friendship that exists between our people, I offered to give them some of the devices you gave us earlier as gifts. I now hear that this Host has been recalled to your planet and may be punished because of what I did. Naturally, this news grieves me, and I am greatly concerned about his well-being."

Max hesitated, obviously thinking hard about what he was going to say.

"This individual has been recalled to our planet by his priestly order, and they are conducting an inquiry into his actions," he said. "Your friend's well-being would not be compromised, however. Even if such an inquiry were to find that his actions were not appropriate, the worst that would happen to him is that he would not be allowed to return to this station."

"But why not?" asked Philippe. "Why did our friend's actions trigger an inquiry at all?"

"It is complicated, but I will try to explain it," Max said. "There is a limited quantity of translation gear available, and as a result it is reserved for priests—that is true. But the shortage is not accidental, and the priest involved in this incident knew that. It is not typical for a merchant to have translation gear because merchants do not undergo the training priests undergo. As a result of this training a priest will understand the limitations of the translation technology and will be accepting of the mysterious behavior of other people. A merchant who has not had such training cannot be expected to behave in a manner toward other people that will benefit our divine mission.

"Some merchants are accepting of this logic, but some are not. The merchant involved in this incident is not—he believes that it would benefit his business to have the translation gear. His business is not our mission, so he has been frustrated."

"So Ptuk-Ptik is in trouble because he helped out a merchant?" asked Philippe.

Max looked puzzled. "I apologize," he said. "That did not all translate correctly."

"Our friend," said Philippe, realizing that the name would not have translated. "Our friend the Host priest is in trouble because he helped a merchant."

"There is not trouble at this point; there is an inquiry," said Max. "This individual is a priest in an order that has taken the position that Hosts who are not priests should be given the opportunity to interact with other people. As a result, the issue is not that he helped someone who happens not to be a priest."

Max paused. _He doesn't think I'm going to like this,_ Philippe realized.

"The issue," the Host continued, "is that he performed an action of significant service to this particular merchant. The merchant who along with his son and nephew received the translators is part of a very wealthy family. His wife and four brothers-in-law run a very successful business that manufactures foodstuffs."

"Just to clarify, because this has been confusing me," Philippe interrupted. "When you say, brothers-in-law, what does that mean?"

"Brothers in a legal sense rather than a biological sense," said Max.

That didn't help.

"You and Moritz are brothers-in-law," observed Philippe.

"Yes."

"How did you become brothers-in-law?"

"We married the same woman," said Max.

"I understand," said Philippe. _It's different, but I understand._

"This merchant," Max continued, "is married to a woman who is a very successful business owner. As a result, he is sufficiently influential that his family received the duty to provide the Snake Boys with provisions, which is a duty that contains an extremely high status. It is obvious that he is very successful, for his nephew works and lives with his uncle's family and not his mother's family, which is very unusual among our people.

"The priest who obtained the translation devices for this merchant, his son, and his nephew is also married, and his wife is a maker of policy. She has many ties with the merchant's family. The concern of this priest's order is that there is a possibility that this priest arranged for this incident to take place in the hopes that it would benefit his wife."

"So, um, I just want to make sure I understand this correctly," said Philippe. "You're saying that the merchant is married to a businesswoman."

"Yes."

"And our friend the priest is married to a politician."

"To a maker of policy, yes," said Max.

"To a maker of policy," said Philippe, wondering briefly what the difference was. "So the concern is that the priest did a favor for the merchant in hopes that the merchant's wife would somehow repay the favor to _his_ wife."

"Which would be a betrayal of his sacred responsibilities," said Max.

"A conflict of interests—one hand washes the other," said Philippe to himself. There was certainly a lot more going on here than he had suspected.

Max started. "What did you say?"

Philippe was pulled out of his reverie. "Um, it's an expression on my planet, one hand washes the other. It means an illicit exchange of favors," he said, miming hand-washing.

Max was looking at him like this was the most brilliant piece of wit he had ever heard, but Philippe did not want the conversation to get sidetracked into a discussion of human clichés. He dropped his hands, almost touching them to the floor before he realized what he was doing and stopped himself.

"That's what the expression means. But that's not what happened here," Philippe said. "This friend of ours never asked me to provide translation gear to the merchant and his family."

"He may not have asked you explicitly," said Max. "But his order is disturbed that you were attempting to hold a conversation with a merchant who badly wanted translators and whose family is in a position to benefit the priest's family."

"Our friend the priest did not introduce me to the merchant," said Philippe. "I initiated that conversation on my own."

Max looked surprised and a little skeptical

"You initiated a conversation with people who you could not understand and who could not understand you, without any direction from anyone else," he said. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"It's true—I'm not just saying this to protect my friend," said Philippe. "My reason for doing it is actually pretty silly. I had a dream about a Host who looked like that merchant, so I when I saw him, I wanted to speak to him."

Max looked shocked. "Cannot translate," he said, then collected himself. "I apologize for that remark, but I am utterly amazed. You had a vision?"

"I had a _dream,_ " said Philippe. "Everybody dreams."

The stunned expression on Max's face indicated otherwise. "Your people, you all have visions when you sleep. Cannot translate. You see the future?"

"No, no, no, no, no," said Philippe. "No. They're not visions or prophecies. They're _dreams._ We see stuff when we're asleep, but it doesn't mean anything. They aren't visions of the future or anything like that."

"But when you sleep," said Max, "you see things."

"And you don't, apparently," said Philippe. "But among humans, dreaming is a normal part of life."

"This is mysterious," Max said. "When you sleep, you see things that are not what is there."

"Yeah, that's a pretty good description of it," said Philippe. "For example, I had a dream that we were having a party in our living quarters, and a Host was there. That doesn't mean that we will have a party or have had a party or are having a party—it doesn't mean anything. It's just a dream. Everyone has them on my planet—I think even animals have them. You can't see the future in a dream or anything like that. They're usually about things that are worrying you or things that you wish were true. It's how the brain takes out the garbage."

"But you had a dream where you saw a Host, and then you met that Host," said Max. "Is that not a vision of the future?"

"Not really," said Philippe. He thought for a moment about how best to explain it. "The merchant just sort of reminded me of the Host I saw in my dream—he didn't really look like him. The Host in my dream looked quite different from any Host I've seen here, actually. He glowed, you know, which is pretty funny, and he wasn't the same color as you guys, he was more yellow."

Max looked, if possible, even more dumbfounded.

"Come with me," he suddenly said, taking off toward his living area.

Philippe trotted after him. The Hosts could really move when they wanted to, and he and Max had already reached the doorway of the Hosts' living quarters when Five-Eighths caught up with them. The soldier and Philippe jogged along for a little bit after Max until he reached a door. The Host turned around and noticed Five-Eighths.

"This is a very delicate matter," he said. "I would prefer if the human diplomat came alone."

Five-Eighths looked quizzically at Philippe, who shrugged.

"I apologize, but I must insist that the security expert not enter this room," said Max. "I swear by the sacred song of cannot translate that I intend no harm to the human diplomat."

"One minute," Five-Eighths said to Max. He pulled Philippe back down the hall, away from the Host. He hit his own translation mike and Philippe's, turning them off, and began scratching his chest where his suit's camera was—something the SFers did when they didn't want their surveillance equipment to record very well.

"What should we do?" asked Philippe, in a whisper.

"We can do this," Five-Eighths whispered back. "Here."

He slipped something heavy out of one of his own pockets into Philippe's jacket pocket.

"What is it?" asked Philippe.

"It's a knife." Five-Eighths was fiddling with his communications mike.

Philippe's eyes flew open. "I can't knife anybody!"

"Relax," said Five-Eighths, finishing with his mike. "I'm in monitor mode. Anything goes wrong, you take that knife, and you stab yourself."

"What?" asked Philippe, incredulous but still whispering.

"You stick yourself, or cut yourself, whatever. The lonjons will protect you, and it will set off their alarm." Five-Eighths looked out toward the common area. "I'll get Ofay in here. If your alarm goes off, we'll bust in and blow the shit out of these motherfuckers. All right?"

Philippe stared at him for a moment. It was, of course, totally against the rules for a member of the DiploCorps to carry a weapon of any kind. On the other hand, Five-Eighths was certainly bending a few rules to accommodate Philippe. . . .

"OK," he said, turning toward Max. He turned back to Five-Eighths. "Maybe it would be best if we didn't let Shanti know we did this."

"No shit," said Five-Eighths, slapping his com mike. "Ofay, get your ass in here."

Philippe turned his translation mike back on and walked over to Max. "My security experts have agreed to remain outside the door," he said.

"I very much appreciate their cooperation," said Max.

He slid open the door, and they went in, with Max closing the door behind them. Philippe realized with a start that the room was an office, much like his own. Moritz was working at a platform that bore a strong resemblance to Philippe's desk, and there was another platform, which Philippe thought was probably Max's desk.

"Greetings, human diplomat and Max," said Moritz. "This is most unexpected. Of course it is a pleasure always to see you, human diplomat, regardless of the time or the lack of warning."

Max ignored him, and walked across the room to a panel on the wall. It was made of a different, lighter material than the rest of the wall, and Max purposefully pushed on one side of the panel.

"Max, what is the purpose of this action? You are not supposed to do that," said Moritz, clearly upset.

The panel turned on a pivot to reveal a portrait. It was of a familiar-looking Host, who was a particular golden color. He had a glow about him.

"That's him!" said Philippe. "That's the guy!"

"What did he say?" asked Moritz.

"What you heard. He said, 'It is him. It is that person,'" said Max. He turned to Philippe. "You recognize him."

Philippe was examining the image. At first he thought it was a video still, but looking closely at it, it looked more like an extremely detailed, very life-like painting. The glow came from some luminescent quality in the paint—or, Philippe thought, maybe it was painted on glass and there was a light behind it.

However it was made, the likeness was excellent, and the face was quite familiar.

"Yes, I do know him, how funny," said Philippe. "It's not just the glow—that's exactly the Host I saw in my dream! The markings are the same and everything. It's him, for certain! Who is that?"

He looked at Moritz, who was utterly flabbergasted. Max, in contrast, looked very grave.

"That is our messiah," he said.
Chapter 13

"Your messiah," said Philippe. "I see."

"This is not possible," said Moritz.

"The opposite is true. This is entirely logical," said Max.

"Your words are like an unmarried old man," Moritz replied.

"Well, obviously, I must have seen a picture of this messiah of yours before," said Philippe. "And I simply incorporated that image into my dreams."

"He has visions?" said Moritz.

"When he sleeps. All creatures on his planet do. But these visions do not foretell the future," Max replied.

"How can you be certain of that?" asked Moritz.

"He says he is certain of that," replied Max. "He says that such visions are how their brains eliminate toxins."

"This is exceedingly mysterious," said Moritz.

"It's really not," said Philippe. "We see things at night that aren't there, but often they include memories of things that we _have_ seen. So I must have seen this image before."

"Exceedingly mysterious," repeated Moritz.

"I know," said Max. He turned to Philippe. "You have not seen this image before."

"You don't know that," Philippe replied. "He's a major religious figure, right? So you must have pictures of him all over the place."

"Cannot translate," said Moritz. "Cannot translate."

"Do you see any others?" asked Max. "There are none. There is, on this station, only this image, and it is kept hidden at all times. There are, including this portrait, only 15 such portraits in existence, and they are kept hidden as well."

"They are supposed to be kept hidden at all times," Moritz exclaimed, walking over to the panel. "It was irreligious to expose this portrait."

"You realize that I was required to expose it," said Max, as Moritz dispiritedly turned the panel back around. "He saw him. He described him."

"I refuse to accept this," Moritz said.

"Do you know his song?" Max asked Philippe.

"His what?" Philippe replied.

"I refuse to accept this," Moritz repeated.

Max turned to him. "Your refusal is irrelevant," he said. "You know the song as well as I."

Max began thrumming—an odd thrumming, because instead of being a constant throb it started and stopped, and started and stopped.

"No," said Moritz.

"You must," said Max.

They began to speak together. Their speech was rhythmic, a counterpoint to the beat of the thrumming. The translator, dead to all sense of rhythm, spoke in its mechanical voice.

"Listen closely, people of cannot translate. At the end of the age that I have described to you, one will be chosen. He will not know my name or my song. But he will stop our certain destruction. He will stop a disaster that not only will destroy our people but other people and the universe in which they live as well. It will be a time of great peril, but if you have fulfilled your destiny the chosen person will arrive, your new friends will aid you, and life will be preserved throughout the universe."

They stopped. Max and especially Moritz looked drained.

Philippe looked from one to the other. "You don't actually believe all that, do you?" he asked.

Max looked wearily at Philippe. "That is the end of the prophecy. Everything else in the prophecy has come true as foretold."

Philippe closed his eyes.

"He cannot be the chosen one," said Moritz. "It is not just."

"He does not know the song, Moritz," said Max.

"That does not have significant meaning," said Moritz.

"It does not say that the one who knows the song best will be chosen, Moritz," said Max, heatedly. "It does not say that the one who lives a life of perfection will be chosen. It does not say that the worthiest will be chosen. It says that the ignorant will be chosen."

"They are all ignorant," said Moritz. "All of the other people, and as well almost all of our people. They are ignorant of the image, and they are ignorant of the exact song. We join the priesthood and learn these things, and we sacrifice the possibility that we will be chosen."

"Do you genuinely make that sacrifice, Moritz?" asked Max. "Do you know that you do not choose who is chosen?"

"He has visions while he sleeps. His people created fictional stories of meeting other people before it happened," said Moritz. "Cannot translate informed me that he was asking if we could think the thoughts in the minds of other people. His people are mysterious. They may know things of the future, or know things from other people's minds."

"You are creating fictional stories," said Max.

"Look," said Philippe. "This is insane, OK? I had a dream. It was just a dream, and it doesn't mean anything. I thank you, very much, for showing me your secret religious icon and taking me into your confidence regarding your religion. I appreciate that you trust me that much. I intend to guard your confidence, and I have no intention of telling anyone what just happened here."

He paused, looking each Host in the face. "I trust you will do the same—don't tell anyone what happened here. I won't, and you shouldn't. With that said, I have many things to do, and I need to leave and go do them."

He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the heavy thing here.

"You should go," said Moritz. "Go now and be gone."

"Cannot translate," said Max.

Philippe opened the door and walked out.

Baby was not satisfied with Philippe's explanation regarding Ptuk-Ptik. That was hardly unexpected—if things hadn't taken such a weird turn with Max, Philippe would have demanded more assurances himself. Baby wanted to at least be able to exchange messages with her friend, if not head a small but heavily armed force to break him out of the dreadful prison in which she was convinced he languished.

Philippe tracked down the merchant and got him to confirm the broad outlines of what Max had told him—Ptuk-Ptik faced an inquiry, not a trial, and the worst thing that could happen is that his religious order would not allow him to re-enter the station. While that would be a significant loss of status for the priest, he was not in any real peril.

That calmed Baby down somewhat, but it was obvious that Philippe was going to have to talk to Max or Moritz again—she still wanted to get a message to Ptuk-Ptik, and Philippe himself wanted to know if he could testify at the inquiry. He wouldn't be able to avoid them forever in any case, so he went to the Host's living area, guards in tow, and asked to see one or the other.

Max received him. "Moritz has gone to the portal to contemplate recent events," he said. "I wish to do the same, but not while he is there, because I do not wish to interact with him in his current mental state."

"I am sorry about your conflict," said Philippe, quickly moving on to what, for him, was the more important issue. "Have you told the other Hosts the reason behind it?"

"I have not and will not. In that one thing I agree with Moritz," said Max. "In the past the chosen one has been identified, and those identifications have been mistakes. Although false, those identifications caused great panic, because a disaster was anticipated."

"I appreciate that," said Philippe. "Discretion is key."

Max agreed to record a message from Baby and a statement from Philippe noting that he had chosen to speak to the merchant without guidance or pressure from Ptuk-Ptik. He also agreed to pass along Bubba's surveillance footage, which showed Philippe going over and talking to the merchant before Ptuk-Ptik showed up.

Their interactions were polite, if strained. It reminded Philippe of some negotiations he had witnessed in Ottawa, where everyone in the room knew that the participants had engaged in champagne-fueled indiscretions the night before, but everyone was just going to pretend that nothing had happened.

The main impact of that brouhaha seemed to be on Philippe's dreams—the nightmares, already troubling and violent, ratcheted up a notch as General Jesus' men accused the dream Host of falsely claiming to be the messiah, a charge he denied for as long as he was able to talk.

Philippe sat in his office, wondering what to think.

He had gone earlier that day to meet Brave Loyalty and record more of the Cyclopes' language. At the end of the session, out of the blue, the alien had said, "Tell me how you humans rule yourself."

"You are curious about that?" said Philippe, a little surprised. "Historically, we organized geographically, into nations. Each nation followed its own interests and organized its government differently, and nations often fought over resources. More recently, the various nations have formed voluntary alliances with each other. The main alliance is called the Union."

"If each nation had its own interests and government, why did they ally?" asked the Cyclops.

"Humans are not that different from each other, and they realized that oftentime, they are more likely to get what they want if they work together, rather than fighting and destroying resources and lives."

"How does such an alliance work?"

"That has changed over time," Philippe said. "In its early form, each country had a vote, and certain powerful countries had more authority than the other countries. But as people have become more accustomed to the alliance, it has become more representational. Now each nation has ultimate authority over some issues, but with other issues that the Union has authority over, representation is based solely on population, and national divisions are irrelevant."

As he was talking, he began scratching the inside of his left arm. He stopped himself, hoping that Brave Loyalty hadn't noticed. Because he hadn't been sleeping well, Philippe had been using stimulant patches pretty regularly, and the skin where he usually placed the patches was developing an itchy rash.

"That is emphatically different," said Brave Loyalty. "My people have a unitary government. Once we were scattered and weak, but for a very long time now we have been one people, with one language and one government."

Philippe thought for a minute. "I am surprised that geographical divisions did not have the same impact on your people as on my people. Even the discovery of people on other planets has not served to unify my people as much as your people appear to be unified."

"To live, my people had to be unified," said the Cyclops. "Our continent was once emphatically dangerous, with many dangerous carnivores. We became intelligent, and through intelligence, courage, and unity, we were able to eliminate these dangerous creatures, despite their superior strength and voltage.

"We have accomplished a great deal through unity, and I believe our future relies on unity, in the consistent focus of our people on our people. I do not agree that we should focus on this station and on other people."

"I see," said Philippe, a little taken aback.

"I wanted to communicate that to you because I will not be seeing you again after today," Brave Loyalty continued. "The time I was assigned to remain on this station has ended. I am returning home."

"I am sorry that we will not be meeting again, and I thank you very much for your help in teaching me your language," said Philippe. "I hope you have a safe journey home."

"I appreciate your concern for my safety," the Cyclops replied. "I want you to know that as much as I can, I intend to encourage my people to become more focused on themselves."

Thinking back on that conversation, Philippe wasn't sure what to make of it. While it had always been somewhat difficult to communicate with Brave Loyalty, Philippe had nonetheless felt like they had a real connection. It seemed a bit out of character for Brave Loyalty to have said something quite so rude, and it made Philippe wonder if he had offended the Cyclops in some way.

But then again, it wasn't uncommon for diplomats to get suddenly disgusted with a place when they knew they were about to leave it—although they usually were better at keeping such feelings to themselves.

Philippe rubbed his temples. His head was aching despite the analgesic patch, and his jaw was clenched. In addition to the stimulant patches, he'd eaten ration bars with extra caffeine at both breakfast and lunch, and he could feel the tightness of his muscles. He kept seeing quick movements out of the corners of his eyes—he knew they were nothing but the products of fatigue and too many stimulants, but he kept looking around edgily anyway because he kept thinking that another White Spider had crawled into his office.

He should cut back, but the simple fact was, he needed the stimulants if he was going to do his job. He hadn't gotten a decent night of sleep in what seemed like weeks. Just the night before, he had woken up from a nightmare as General Jesus' men had chopped off the Host's forelimb, right below the joint. He finally managed to fall asleep again, and the dream picked up right where it left off, with the men lopping off the joint itself and handing it over to be nailed up on the wall, while the Host lay, limp and bleeding, on the floor.

His memory of the nightmare was interrupted by a ruckus outside his door. Eager for a distraction, Philippe went out. All the SFers were running to the mess hall and whooping happily, so he followed them in.

Shanti was standing on a chair. "Shut up!" she yelled.

The noise died down.

"OK, as you bums know, we've been due leave for a long fucking while now. It took some ass-kicking, but they finally decided to give us what's fucking owed us." The soldiers cheered, and she continued. "Two weeks! That's two weeks total, so travel and quarantine time is just your tough shit, don't come crying to me about it."

"How long is quarantine?" yelled one of the soldiers.

"Two days on Titan—they'll do whatever debriefing they gotta do then, so at least you don't gotta waste more time on that. We're going to do a random draw—whoever gets picked leaves with Cheep and Pinky, who are coming in about an hour."

She held up an open scroll. "Random Draw!" appeared on it in colorful letters, with "start" in smaller letters below.

"Here goes!" she yelled, and hit start.

A colorful icon bounced around the scroll, as the soldiers whooped and clapped. The word "Done!" appeared with a little musical flourish.

Shanti looked at it. "And the winner is—Baby! Get your shit packed, Baby—you're going to—where are you going?"

"Owens Valley! My mom's place!" shouted Baby, who was bouncing up and down with excitement. Five-Eighths was standing next to her, and Philippe could see that he was far less thrilled.

She headed toward the door, stopping when she saw Philippe. "Can you be sure to let me know if you hear about Ptuk-Ptik?" she asked. "I'll give you my address."

"Absolutely," said Philippe.

"Hey, Baby?" It was Five-Eighths. "Can I see you for a bit before you go?"

"I gotta pack my stuff, Five," she said, walking on.

"Yeah," he said, following. "But what I'm talking about won't take more than a minute."

As promised, Cheep and Pinky were there within the hour, and Baby was on her way. Philippe, of course, got a mail widget.

Whoever was screening the mail was doing a good job—the volume of messages was far more manageable, and what came through had been sorted by importance, so Philippe knew what he had to answer and what could wait. This batch included a memo by someone in Union Intelligence in response to Philippe's report that the Hosts had agreed to allow a volunteer to undergo a medical examination.

Philippe read the memo with increasing consternation. Then he picked up the scroll and went to see George.

"Have you seen this?" he asked

George glanced at the scroll. "I was just about to head over to the Hosts' to do the exam," he said.

"Read this thing through, first," said Philippe.

George took the scroll and read the memo. He shrugged. "Typical UI," he said, handing it back.

"I hadn't really thought of this, of the information being used in this way," said Philippe. "To create poisons and whatnot."

George shrugged again. "It's information. If we put it out there, we can't really control how it's used."

Philippe rubbed his temples again. His headache was suddenly worse.

"Well," he said, "what do you think we should do? The Hosts are letting us do a medical examination because they trust us. I think it's pretty low if you examine one of them, and then we use that information to develop better weapons to kill them."

George gave a sardonic smile. "To be honest, Philippe, I don't think you have too much to worry about. The weapons we have now will kill them just fine. This is what the UI always does; they're always getting excited over a half-penny's advantage, but it never amounts to much in the field. Plus, you don't know—the data we collect from the examination could lead to some kind of major scientific breakthrough, or maybe it will help people feel like they understand the aliens more. There's a lot of good that could come from this."

"That's true," said Philippe, "but it still—it just bothers me that they think like this."

"This is how they're paid to think," said the doctor. "It's their job to be paranoid and stupid, and to make mountains out of molehills. It's not like everyone's that way."

"I hope not," said Philippe. "I've been gathering some recordings on the Cyclopes language. I was thinking that maybe the UI would have good linguists who'd be interested, but now I don't think I want to give them anything."

"I certainly understand that," replied George.

Philippe looked at him. "You really don't like Union Intelligence, do you?"

George laughed. "There is no love lost between the UI and the SF—they're rats, and they're useless. So, do you want to come with me to see the Hosts?"

"I can't. I've got to finish my report," said Philippe. That was, technically speaking, true, although it was also true that nowadays he only went to see the Hosts when he had to. "So, do you have a volunteer?"

"Yeah, the merchant you gave my translation gear to is up for it," said the doctor, pulling on his gloves and attaching his hood. "I just need to check and make sure that they're not incredibly sensitive to anything that our scanners use."

"Good plan," said Philippe.

They walked down the hallway. As Philippe turned to go into his office, he stopped.

"Don't you need an escort?" he asked the doctor.

George smiled. "Stone-cold killer, remember?" he said, thumping his chest.

Philippe put two stimulant patches on the inside of his right arm and went to get his morning ration bar with extra caffeine. All night, he had kept waking up from nightmares, and he felt like he'd been kicked in the head by a mule. His left hand hurt, too—he'd smacked his knuckles against the wall thrashing around in his sleep, opening up a gash that bled every time he closed his hand.

He went back to his office and sat, eating breakfast alone. He messaged George about the gash, which he assumed would set off the alarms in his lonjons once he put the gloves on. He looked again at the doctor's report—the merchant's physical examination had gone off without a hitch, and there were reams of data in there regarding the Host's physiology.

It had already gone to Earth, and no doubt some sociopath in the UI was already going over it all. Maybe they could modify smallpox or something—the Union was supposed to be too civilized for germ warfare, of course, but the Union had once been too civilized for nuclear weapons as well.

_People are animals,_ Philippe thought. _The second they feel threatened, all the rules go right out the window._

He chewed, pondering the UI and its ilk.

He stopped, mid-chew. He could even the scales a little bit. It would be a simple matter to go over to the Hosts' living area and suggest—nay, insist—that they perform a physical examination on a human.

Philippe would volunteer. And then, whatever the UI cooked up, at least the Hosts would have had a chance to do the same.

He quickly discarded the idea. Things over in the Hosts' area were just too weird. Max and Moritz were no longer speaking to each other, and they were high-profile enough in the community that all the other Hosts had noticed. Since they wouldn't say what had triggered the rupture, rumors were flying—and not just among the Hosts. A Pincushion had stopped Philippe a few days ago to ask him if he had heard that Max and Moritz's wife had found out that they were fighting and had threatened to call them home if they didn't make up—which, considering that the Pincushions had neither gender nor marriage, was a pretty powerful indication of an innate gift for gossip.

"Philippe!" One of the soldiers, in his earplant.

Philippe slapped his com mike. "Yeah."

"It's Rojy at the outer door. There's a Host here with a video message for you."

"I'll be out in a minute."

Gingko stopped him before he entered the no man's zone and made him wait for his entourage—T.R. and Vijay this time. Then he went outside to find a Host—this one without translation gear—thrumming and holding a video screen. The screen was broadcasting "This message is for the human diplomat" in universal code.

The Host saw him and hit a button. "You guys recording this?" Philippe asked his guards.

They nodded. Ptuk-Ptik's face appeared on the screen.

He began speaking, and Philippe noted that the message was transmitted both in normal sound and in universal code. Ptuk-Ptik said that he was fine, healthy and at home. He had received Philippe's and Baby's messages, and he said that they would be of great use at his hearing, which he expected to take place soon. He hoped to see them when it was all over and he could return to the station.

The message ended, and the Host turned and walked away.

It was a relief for Philippe to actually see Ptuk-Ptik, and he knew that Baby would be absolutely thrilled. They went back inside, and the two soldiers transferred their video recordings to Philippe's memory station.

He decided he should look them both over and send the better video on to Baby. He started with Vijay's recording.

The voice and translated message were the same, but Ptuk-Ptik looked different. He was glowing, he was gold, his markings had changed, and his face was different.

Philippe turned off the recording.

_Just ignore it,_ he thought.

He went back to the beginning of the message and played it again. There was Ptuk-Ptik, looking like he always had, sending his greetings and warm wishes to "my friends among the humans, including Infant and the human diplomat."

The quality of Vijay's video was pretty good, so Philippe just sent it on to Baby without looking at T.R.'s.

"Fuck, Trang, you look like shit."

"Gee, thanks," Philippe replied peevishly, stepping into Shanti's office.

"No, I'm serious—you look like you're sick or something," she said. "Are you feeling all right? You've been kinda squirreling yourself away in your office lately."

Philippe sighed. People had been saying this a lot to him lately, and it was beginning to annoy him. _I'd engage more with people if they were less irritating,_ he thought.

He said, "I'm a little tired."

"Do you want a stimulant patch?" Shanti asked, opening a drawer in her desk.

"No, no, I've got one on," Philippe said. He showed her his right forearm, with its one patch surrounded by a pink rash. He didn't pull up his sleeve further and show her the three other patches and their rashes.

"All right then," she said, closing the drawer. "You know, if you ever need something with more kick, George has some of the super-duper kind that can wire you up for, like, a week."

"Really?" Philippe perked up, interested.

"Yeah, I mean, they're like restricted and everything—you can't have a lot, and you have to be examined before and after. But if the shit hits the fan, they're there."

"Oh," said Philippe. That sounded like it would involve too many questions.

"Anyway," Shanti continued. "Did you want something?"

"Yeah, I— I—" Philippe was drawing a complete blank. "I wanted something, something important. Damn it! I can't remember what it is. Damn! I can't believe it! I can't _think_ anymore!"

"Hey, hey, don't get upset," said Shanti. "It'll come back to you, whatever it is."

But it never did.

It was more than a week since Philippe had split open the knuckles on his left hand, and they hadn't even begun to heal. Between the pain and the shaking, it was hard even to type. His head hurt all the time now, and at this point it was just a regular thing to be woken up several times each night by nightmares and to never get a restful night of sleep. He had itchy rashes all along both arms, presumably from all the patches—they looked so nasty that he had taken to wearing his gloves whenever he left his bedroom. And he had developed the same rash on his chest despite the fact that he hadn't put any patches there.

But Philippe felt good about himself. He had decided to do it.

_I've been feeling like crap,_ he thought, _because I haven't been doing my job. If I do my job better, I'll feel better._

If he did his job better, his subconscious would stop torturing him every night with visions of Guantánamo. And then he'd actually get more than 30 minutes' sleep in a stretch. And then he wouldn't have to be hopped-up on stimulants all the time. And then his headaches would go away.

Everything would be better, once he set things right.

He was going to go over to the Hosts' living area and volunteer for a medical examination. He was going to _make_ them examine him. And then he was going to have a long chat with either Max or Moritz—ideally both—about the need for the two of them to put aside their religious differences and get along. Whatever prophecies they'd been taught, whatever they believed, the three of them had jobs, important jobs, and they needed to do them well.

They were diplomats: They had to work together.

So he walked out into the common area with Mo and Bi Zui in tow (they called escort duty "Tranging" now), crossed the floor, and waited for the elevator. When it came, the glowing Host from his dreams stepped off it and walked away. Philippe ignored him.

They rode the elevator to the Hosts' floor, and Philippe walked to their living area. He saw the glowing Host twice among the café crowd, and when he entered the living area and stopped a passing Host to ask where Max and Moritz were, he was met by the glowing, golden face of the dream Host.

"I'm sorry, never mind," he said, and turned around.

He walked back, looking down at the floor the whole time. Despite this measure, he spotted a glowing Host foot with his peripheral vision during the elevator ride.

He walked into the no man's zone, waited for the doors to open, and walked straight back into the infirmary, making sure the door was closed behind him.

"Hello, George," he said to the doctor. "I think I've lost my mind."
Chapter 14

George looked at him for a moment, clearly unsure if Philippe was kidding or serious. "So, it's been a good day for you, I take it?" he finally said.

"Is there a camera on?" Philippe asked, looking around. "There was a camera in here when I was recovering from my attack."

George shook his head. "That's on only when I need to monitor someone. Don't worry: If you need a medical consultation, it's confidential. Trang, what's wrong?"

Philippe took a long, deep breath.

"I'm losing my sanity," he said. "Something's happened to me—I think maybe that attack did something bad."

"Well," said George, gesturing for Philippe to sit on a bed as he pulled up a chair. "Let's sit down and have a talk. I've been noticing that you've been looking very tired and stressed out lately. You've stopped working out with Baby and me."

"I haven't had the energy," said Philippe, defensively.

George nodded. He clearly wasn't taking it personally.

"Have you been sleeping?" he asked.

"Oh, God, not at _all,_ " said Philippe. It felt so good to finally be able to talk to someone about it—he told George all about the nightmares, the headaches, the rashes, the knuckle wound that wouldn't heal.

"And I'm—" Philippe stopped and took a deep breath. This was the hairy bit. "I'm seeing things."

George did not, as Philippe had feared he might, immediately drop his scroll, seize him by the jacket, and toss him into a padded cell. Instead, George nodded his head, as though seeing things that weren't there was a totally normal, totally healthy occurrence.

"What sort of things?" he asked.

"In my nightmares, I see a Host who glows. And I've been seeing him when I'm awake, too, in other Hosts—they glow, too."

George nodded again. "So when you look at the Hosts, they're glowing."

"Yes," said Philippe. "They glow with a golden light. And they're more yellow than they usually are." He put his face in his hands. "Doesn't that sound _crazy?_ "

Philippe looked up at George, who still looked not the least bit shocked.

"Is that all the time, or only every now and then?" he asked, in a calm, conversational tone of voice.

"Every now and then," Philippe replied.

George cocked an eyebrow. He looked— _confident,_ Philippe realized.

"The glow that surrounds them—does it shimmer?"

"Shimmer?" Philippe echoed.

He had been expecting to be asked questions more along the lines of _Do you want me to notify your family that you'll be living in an asylum from now on?_ He also hadn't really carefully observed the glow—it hadn't occurred to him that the type of glow might make a difference—so he had to think back on it a bit.

"I guess they shimmer," he said after a moment. "A little bit."

"Let me ask you," George continued, "do you have a headache right now?"

Philippe nodded. "I've had a headache all week," he said. "All month, really."

"And analgesics aren't helping."

"Right."

George adjusted his posture. "How would you describe the headaches?"

_What kind of stupid question is that?_ Philippe wondered, beginning to feel downright irritated by George's calm. "My head aches—there's pain, whatever. You know, I seem to be going crazy. I think that may be more medically significant than how my headache feels."

"Not necessarily," said George, with a small smile. "Would you describe it as a throbbing pain?"

"Kind of," Philippe said, irritably.

"Hmm," said George. "Any nausea?"

"Sometimes," Philippe replied

George went "hmm" again. "Aside from the glowing, have you noticed other visual distortions? Blind spots or zigzagged lines?"

"Zigzagged lines?" said Philippe. "No, nothing like that."

"No rainbows? No other hallucinations?"

"Are you pulling my leg?" asked Philippe. "No, nothing like that, just the glow around the Hosts—isn't that enough? And they're a different color, a yellow-gold color. Like the guy in my nightmares, that's what they look like."

George nodded. "You say you've had problems sleeping. Have the headaches you've been having been bad enough to wake you up?"

Philippe nodded. "Well, the _nightmares_ are what wake me up—the Host shrieks like those Swimmer drones did when I was attacked. But, it's true, a lot of the time when I wake up from the nightmares, the headaches are pretty bad."

"How much caffeine do you usually consume?"

"Um, usually not so much," Philippe replied, aware that he was evading the question. "Lately, however, I've been taking a lot more, you know, because I haven't been sleeping so well. The extra-caffeine bars."

"Just for breakfast?" asked George.

"Breakfast and lunch," said Philippe. "And sometimes dinner."

"What about stimulant patches?" George asked, his expression becoming, if anything, even more bland, even less judgmental. "Are you wearing a patch right now?"

"Um, yes," said Philippe.

"Just one?" George continued. "Or more than one?"

"More than one," Philippe replied, feeling a little guilty.

"How many?"

"Five."

George made a note on his scroll. "And that's pretty typical? In this past month or so?"

"Just lately," said Philippe, defensively. "Before, I didn't need it—I could sleep."

"You don't have any hardware up here, do you?" said George, tapping his head with his stylus.

"No," said Philippe. "Do you think I'm going to have to get some?"

The doctor shrugged.

"I doubt it. I can give you a scan if you really want," he said, his expression making it clear that he would consider that a colossal waste of time and effort. "But it sounds to me like there are two things going on, and they're probably making each other worse. The first thing is post-traumatic stress disorder, also called PTSD. That, as you may know, can emerge well after a traumatic event, and it can be triggered by a new trauma, such as—and I'm reaching for an example here—being electrocuted in an unprovoked attack by a hostile alien. PTSD can cause insomnia, nightmares, and heightened anxiety.

"The other thing is migraines, which can cause visual hallucinations like the kind you have described—glowing halos around objects—as well as many other kinds of hallucinations. And of course, they cause pain. Migraines can be triggered by not getting enough sleep, too much caffeine, and stress."

Philippe stared at George, stunned. _Could it be that simple?_ he wondered.

"Not like you've experienced any of those things," George continued, dryly.

Philippe started laughing.

"Oh my God," he said. "Oh, thank God. I really thought I was losing my mind."

"Not just yet," said the doctor.

"God, that's just—that's such a relief! _Migraines!_ They can do all that?"

"And more," said George, smiling. "You forget, Trang, that I talk to you every day. You're not disassociated from reality. You're not crazy. Tense, yes. Crazy, no."

Philippe flopped back on the bed, his body limp with relief. "Oh, that's really good to hear," he said to the white ceiling.

After a moment, he sat back up. "So," he said, "since I'm not crazy, what do you think I should do for this other stuff?"

"Well, there are a number of treatment options," said George. "But I think the first things you should try are cutting down on your caffeine and stimulants, and reducing your stress. Don't stop the caffeine cold turkey—that will make the headaches worse. I'll give you a schedule for tapering off. As for the stress—well, you've been stuck here for three months. Have you considered taking some leave?"

It was easy enough to arrange a vacation. Philippe's parents were delighted to have him visit the farm for as long as he wanted, and the DiploCorps already had a back-up person ready: Arne Ljungqvist. Philippe had worked with Arne in the Sudan, and he liked and respected him—Arne was dedicated, he believed in what he was doing, and he worked hard.

Arne also made it clear in a message that he would gladly drop everything to come to the station for as long as Philippe needed him to stay. Within a few days, it was set: Arne would arrive on the same ship as Baby, whose leave was up, and then Philippe and whichever SFer won the draw would get on board and be gone.

Philippe made the rounds of the station, ignoring the occasional glowing Host and telling the aliens that he would be on leave for a while, but that his replacement would be there immediately. Not unexpectedly, the only one who reacted to the news as though it was anything out of the ordinary was Max, who said darkly, "You cannot avoid what the universe has chosen as your destiny. You can only disappoint yourself and those who rely upon you."

As he was leaving that tense meeting, Philippe was waylaid by the Host merchant, who asked to speak with him. The merchant was still getting the hang of using the translator, and when he was excited, he tended to use what Philippe thought must be colorful Host expressions that utterly confounded the device.

He was _very_ excited at the moment, so his speech was pretty garbled: At one point Philippe heard, "cannot translate disgraceful cannot translate barely hear cannot translate as though the Snake Boys were cannot translate cannot translate historical period cannot translate household object."

But Philippe managed to get the gist. Now that the merchant could actually talk to the Snake Boys whom he had supplied with food for so long, he had become aware of their need for more living space. He strongly believed that they should have more space, but he had discovered that on the station, a merchant had virtually no influence with the priests.

This merchant in particular had no pull: The fact that he had gotten translation equipment was held against him by many of the priests, who either were jealous of their privileges or genuinely believed that he had gotten his translator as part of a dirty deal with Ptuk-Ptik. Some of the priests had even accused the merchant of wanting the Snake Boys to have more space so that they would reproduce at a faster rate and need more food, boosting his business.

The merchant was apparently a person of some standing back on the Host planet, and he was not accustomed to taking no for an answer, much less no with a side helping of insult. Frustrated by his dealings with his own people, he was now trying to round up support from the aliens.

Philippe was sympathetic, of course, but he had to point out that humans were a new arrival on the station and therefore were highly reluctant to criticize the way it was run. Earth would offer neither support for nor opposition to his crusade.

Philippe's last day on the station finally came. He had expected it to be quiet, but an incident that morning not only put him through his paces but also led to the cancellation of the leave draw.

Early that morning Patch had been walking around the station, somewhat bored. A Swimmer drone had struck up a conversation with him about his equipment, and the two realized that they both were carrying laser sights—or at least, Patch was carrying a laser sight, and the Swimmer had something that very much resembled one in its operation. The discovery had led to a disastrous game of laser tag that had ranged across three floors. It came to a sudden end when the drone collided with a Blobbo vehicle in the café area outside the Hosts' living quarters. Patch, distracted by that accident, proceeded to have one of his own, falling off a dining platform.

Patch sprained his ankle. Thankfully, he was the only one injured. In the course of the chase, however, he had run across four Host dining platforms with his feet—feet that _had touched the floor—_ without having had what the Hosts considered the basic decency to sterilize them first.

Philippe first had to make extensive apologies to the Hosts for that gaffe and then interview Patch to verify that he had stomped over only those four specific dining platforms with his filthy, disease-ridden feet. Fortunately Patch was able to identify the four platforms he had defiled, so the Hosts didn't have to sterilize or perhaps burn _all_ the dining platforms in the station.

The distress and disgust of the Hosts was nothing compared to the reaction from the Blobbos, however. Although their person had been hit by a Swimmer drone and not by Patch, they were apparently a sensitive species and had already begun to suspect that bad things happened around the humans. The lethal response of the soldiers to the attack on Philippe and the injury the SFers had caused the Snake Boy who had wanted to walk on his hands had both greatly perturbed the Blobbos. They seemed to take very much of a hard line where violence was concerned: Despite the fact that the humans had maintained relations with the Cyclopes, the Blobbos had cut off relations with them following the attack on Philippe. After Patch's escapade, they informed Philippe that the humans could expect the same if they were involved, however tangentially, in any more such incidents.

Patch needed to stay off his ankle, so it was decided that he would go on leave. The next day, Philippe found himself standing next to a hobbled Patch as the door to the shuttle opened.

Arne stepped off—he had gained a bit of weight since Sudan, so his tall frame looked less gangly than Philippe remembered. They greeted each other happily.

Then a blond woman came into the hallway.

"Philippe!" she said. "Hey! Thanks so much for sending me that thing from Ptuk-Ptik! That was real nice to see!"

The blond woman sounded like Baby, but she didn't look at all like her. Her hair was cropped close in the normal SFer style, but it was curly, and her skin was a deep honey color. Her eyes looked different—they were dark, almost black, and there was something different about their shape or maybe the shape of her eyebrows. Likewise her lips were thicker and her top lip was slightly rounder than before.

But she was built like Baby and was acting like Baby, so Philippe went along. "Yeah, he looked good," he said. The woman turned to Patch and started questioning him about his injury, and Philippe took Arne to his quarters.

About a half-hour later, Philippe was sitting next to Patch in the shuttle, traveling from the station to the portal.

"Was that—that was Baby, right?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," said Patch.

"She looks different."

"She always does," said Patch, nodding. "They won't let her get bodywork done, because you know, it affects your strength and shit. But whatever she can get done, she gets done often."

Philippe was baffled. Baby was perhaps a bit stocky for his tastes, but she certainly had been an attractive woman before. "Why?"

Patch laughed. "I dunno, she just does. A lot of times she's the only gal on the roster, so there's that. You know Baby: She likes to be liked. Awesome! Look at Saturn!"

Philippe leaned forward to look out the front window. They were through the portal.

The next two days were spent in quarantine on Titan, with Philippe and Patch kept in separate quarters. Philippe spent his time answering queries from Arne, dealing with the backlog of his less-important mail, and catching up on his passive entertainment.

He never once saw a golden alien.

The enforced leisure and absence of hallucinations were relaxing, and Philippe's sense of humor seemed to return. He was definitely less irritable—even Hoopen, who dropped by, seemed pleasant enough with his small talk, if still the insipid antithesis of all Philippe held dear.

Philippe spoke with the SF debriefers as a courtesy—a member of the DiploCorps was by no means obligated to answer questions from the Special Forces. Even in his mellow mood, Philippe felt a mild, perverse pleasure as one of the interrogators struggled with the concept that he couldn't actually make Philippe do anything.

The best part of it, however, was the sleep. Philippe slept gloriously, dropping off without the least effort and waking up ten hours later with no memory of what had happened in between—no dreams, no nightmares, no screaming, no waking up with his head pounding and his arms waving about. The cut on his hand finally began to close, and his rashes started to clear. He had cut back on the caffeine and stimulants during his last few days on the station, and he continued with George's tapering-off program on Titan—it worked well, and Philippe had not the least twinge of a headache.

When he got on the ship back to Beijing two days later, he felt ten years younger. He sat next to Patch, who also looked refreshed, if a bit antsy. Philippe couldn't imagine that someone like Patch would deal well with the idleness of quarantine, but Patch said that his ankle had benefited from the rest and was feeling much better.

They discussed Patch's plans for leave as the ship slammed backward and took off. The soldier apparently faced a quandary. Some friends of friends were currently in the midst of an "aerial tour" of Shanghai—apparently there were enough koffie shops in that city to keep a dedicated "flyer" aloft for months. But the Union Police was discarding explosive ordinance in the wastelands of northern Korea. Some SF buddies of Patch's had wrangled an invitation, and they had asked him to come along.

"They blow it up?" Philippe asked, as the ship shuddered into alpha drive.

"Yeah!" said Patch. "It's supposed to be a really good blow. It's not just the regular outdated stuff, it's a lot of treaty stuff that got surrendered. So that means it's not all the normal Union stuff. It's weird, homemade shit—you know what I mean? People get creative."

"Sounds neat!" chirped Philippe. He was being a little insincere, but he felt an obligation to steer Patch away from a two-week koffie-shop bender. "And it's not like you ever get to blow things up on the station."

"Yeah," said Patch. "On the other hand, this aerial tour is supposed to be _epic._ "

"Aren't there koffie shops in Korea?"

"Oh, yeah, but you know," said Patch. "For one thing, we're going to be in the wastelands, and it's pretty far even to Pyongyang. And the other thing is, these are guys I know through the SF, and I don't know if they'd be into flying."

Philippe shrugged. "You could always go by yourself if you had to—it's not like you actually know these Shanghai people."

"That's true—you make friends pretty quick in a koffie shop." Patch smiled and nodded. "So that shuddering earlier—that was the alpha drive, right?"

"Yes, you can hear the whine now."

Patch gave a little laugh. "Yeah, alpha D," he said.

The SFer looked out the window for a while, and then said, "You know, I wonder why, if we're going so fast, everyone isn't all old when we get there."

"They'll be a few minutes older than us, that's all," said Philippe, delighted to actually know the answer. "And when we travel, we get a little shorter than normal, but we grow back up when we stop."

Patch looked astounded. "Guy!" he exclaimed. "You, like, know everything! I wish I was half as smart as you are."

"Oh, I don't know anything about _this,_ " said Philippe, laughing. "I sat next to an astrophysicist on my first trip to Titan, and I asked the same question you just did."

"An astrophysicist!" said Patch, looking no less amazed. "And you, like, had a conversation with him! Guy, I would never be brave enough to do that."

"Her," said Philippe. "The astrophysicist was a woman."

Patch nodded and grinned. " _Awesome._ "

Philippe left Patch in Beijing. The SFer was checking the schedule to Pyongyang, and Philippe mentally crossed his fingers that there was a flight soon—going to Shanghai from Beijing was, of course, extremely easy, and Philippe strongly suspected that Patch would wind up there if the trip to Korea proved in any way inconvenient.

He himself flew to Calgary, live-messaging his parents from the plane to find out if they were planning to pick him up. They were, and he embraced them at the airport. They were looking well—a little grayer, maybe, but they moved easily and looked fit.

"Oh, my goodness!" said his mother. "Philippe, what have they done to your _ear!_ "

They went to the car, which Philippe was surprised to see was on auto-drive.

"You have to do that here now," said Papa, who sat in the driver's seat regardless as the vehicle drove itself through the city. "Calgary's gotten too big to let people drive themselves. Of course, that means whenever people from Calgary come up to where we live and decide that they want to drive, they get into accidents because they've forgotten how to do it."

"We can't even take the other car into Calgary now because it doesn't have auto-drive," said his mother. Despite her objections, she sat in the front passenger seat, while Philippe sat in the back.

They asked him about his trip. "It was fine," said Philippe. "I had an interesting conversation with one of the Special Forces guys on my way to Earth. He's quite the character. He joined the SF when he was 16, because it was that or juvenile detention. He was blowing up abandoned buildings for fun—I don't think he was even going to school by then; it sounds like his parents weren't around much. Anyway, when he finally got arrested, they realized he was making his own explosives. One of the officers knew some people in the SF, and they were, like, 'We've got the job for you.'"

"'Can't let that talent go to waste!'" said Papa, laughing as they passed a sign indicating that they had traveled outside the mandatory zone. He promptly clicked off the auto-drive and took the controls. "Sounds like the Special Forces, all right."

It was the sort of comment Philippe would have unthinkingly made himself just a few months ago, but he found it mildly irritating now. "Those guys saved my life," he said.

Maman asked him about the migraines—he had told them about those but had kept the PTSD to himself. Predictably, his parents agreed with the decision to see if cutting out stimulants and taking a break to de-stress would do the trick, rather than relying on medicinal patches, or worse yet, brain implants. They both meditated and were eager to share all they knew.

"So, are you going to be here for a month?" asked his mother.

"At least," said Philippe. "It wouldn't be fair to the guy who's filling in for me—that's Arne Ljungqvist, I worked with him in the Sudan—to just be gone for a week or two. This way, he gets some time to get to know everybody and settle in. And then the next time I want to go on vacation, he's not just going in blind."

"Maybe you two can split the job," said Maman. "Trade off the post or something."

Philippe laughed. "I think that's what Arne wants; he's really excited to be there."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the countryside roll past. Philippe's father began to clear his throat. _Uh-oh,_ thought Philippe, and watched his mother. She looked at Papa, sensing—as did their son—that he was getting ready to broach an uncomfortable subject.

The decision whether or not to do so would be Maman's, so Philippe watched her instead of his father. Papa cleared his throat, and then did it again. He did it a third time, and Philippe knew that he was stealing a glance at Maman.

She nodded.

"Philippe, there's something we need to talk to you about," said Papa. "We received a message a few weeks ago from a woman—"

"Kathy Zobrist," interjected Maman.

"Kathy Zobrist," Papa continued. "She said that she was a friend of yours from Ottawa, but that she'd lost your personal address and was afraid that if she sent a message to your work address, it'd get lost in the shuffle. So she wanted us to either send a message along from our address, or hang onto it until you came to visit. Of course we said yes—"

"She _said_ she was your friend," said Maman, looking at Philippe over her shoulder.

"And we accepted the message without opening it, of course. And not an hour later—"

"Maybe 10 minutes later, if that," said Maman.

"—the police call." Maman's remark hadn't even interrupted Papa's rhythm. "And they say that this Kathy person has been fired by the DiploCorps because she's been sending you threatening messages. And the corps put a restraining order on her—"

"Since you're not here, they have to act in your interests," Maman said.

"—and so they are of the opinion—"

"—which we share—"

"—that she was trying to get around it by messaging us, but of course when they put an order on someone like that, they tag all their outgoing messages." Papa's voice came to a halt.

They were silent some more.

"I don't know what you want me to say," said Philippe.

"Who _is_ this woman?" exclaimed Maman.

"When I was in Ottawa," Philippe began carefully, "she and I were dating. But she was, as I'm sure you've gathered, emotionally unstable, so I broke it off."

"You didn't tell us any of that," said Papa. "We found out about her from the police."

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you," Philippe replied

"What happened?" asked Maman. "I mean, I always liked your other girlfriends. They always seemed like sensible women. Why were you seeing someone like that? The police said that she could be really dangerous. She was warned several times by the DiploCorps not to contact you, and she just kept doing it until she got fired. And then she did this, and I don't know what they're doing with her now."

"Look, I made a mistake," said Philippe. "But the police and the DiploCorps are handling it, and I'm sure it's going to be fine. Everything's fine."

"Fine! Fine! Everything's fine!" his mother exploded. "Ever since Cuba, it's fine, you're fine, everything's fine. It's not fine! We are your parents!"

"You can't just edit your life for us," said Papa, calmer but obviously also upset. "We need to know the whole story."

Philippe sat in silence. _The whole story of Guantánamo?_ he thought. _People suffered and died. I wrote a useless memo, and for that I'm considered a hero._

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about her, I really am," he said. "I guess I was just hoping that if I didn't bring the problem up, it would go away."

The house was the same as always, comfortable and cozy. Luxury was in the small things—real food ( _real food!_ ), sunlight, fresh air. Being able to see the horizon. Scented soap. Animals and birds. Blue skies.

It didn't take long for him to settle right in. It never did; whenever Philippe came back to his parents' farm, no matter how long he'd been gone, he felt like he'd never left it. Despite his age, Philippe had never really established a permanent home for himself—since he didn't have a family of his own, there was really no need for one, and this way he could just pack up and move whenever his assignment changed.

Farm work, while not the most intellectually stimulating activity, had its appeal—it was concrete and physical, you could take pride in helping things to grow and flourish. And Alberta in the late summer was glorious.

It was wonderful—hard work, good sleep, beautiful weather, good food, loving parents. The days began to run into each other, and when Papa came out to tell Philippe he had a live message, he was surprised to see Patch and to realize that the SFer's leave was very nearly up.

"Yeah, guy," said Patch. "I'm in Beijing and gonna board, like, any minute now. Korea was _awesome_ —I'm glad I took your advice."

"Great!" Philippe replied.

"Yeah, the koffie shops in Pyongyang are _amazing._ They really know their alpha D."

"Alpha what?"

"Alpha drive?" Patch grinned with enthusiasm. "Guy, that's the best shit to fly on—you have got to try it sometime. It's incredible. They call it alpha D 'cuz it puts you in _space._ "

Philippe smiled tightly and changed the subject. "So how did the ordinance disposal go?"

"Oh, that was awesome, too. Some of that shit that the national armies and militias use is, like, rabid. Totally fucking unpredictable. We nearly lost a couple of guys." Patch imparted that grim bit of information with no discernible lessening of enthusiasm. "Oh, but I didn't want to talk to you about that—I'm leaving in a few, so I gotta tell you about the alpha D. Usually I don't see shit when I'm on it, but this time, I totally did."

"Hmmm," said Philippe, not feeling especially at ease with the subject.

"Yeah, and it totally had to do with you, so one of the guys said it probably meant I was, you know, maybe a little worried and should check up on you." Patch looked concerned.

"Oh, well, I'm fine," said Philippe, eager to reassure him. "I'm really enjoying visiting home—it's very relaxing, and I haven't had any migraines, which is great. I'm just really having fun spending time with my family and working the farm, you know? It's so nice to be home."

"Yeah, you guys need to buy some cloned animals," said Patch. "Support Shanti. Poor kid."

Philippe laughed.

"I'm glad to hear you're good," said Patch. "'Cuz that vision I had, it was actually kind of freaky—it was really cool, but it was also sort of freaky. There was, like, this Host there. And he was, like, glowing, which was really cool, and maybe because of the glow, he was yellow, you know? Not red like they usually are. Anyway, he kept asking me about you—you know, how's Philippe, guy? How's he doing? He's seeing really bad things, all the time, do you think there's something wrong with him? He told me that you, like, had had a birthday party for me in your head—that was nice, guy—but it ended with his being cut up and set on fire, which, you know, doesn't make it sound like it was a very good time.

"It was stuff like that, over and over again, like he was really super-anxious. It kind of creeped me out—the guy seemed really worried that something might be wrong with you, and it made me worried, too. But, yeah, you're fine. And you know, he looked so awesome—I've never seen a Host like that, it was like he was giving off light. He was really incredible."

Philippe wished him a good journey, and they hung up.

He sat there for a moment, feeling a twinge in his left temple.

"Philippe? Are you done in there?" Maman's voice floated in through the window.

He looked up. "Yes?"

"Could you come out here and help us, please?"

He got up and went outside.

Other than that, messages were few and far between. Philippe had already sent off the Cyclopes recordings to linguists at McGill, and whatever was happening there with them didn't seem to require his assistance. Arne very quickly stopped asking for help, and since Philippe was no longer on the station, the flood of mail had stopped. Instead, there were routine reports, which Philippe first read, then skimmed, and then ignored altogether.

The media interest in him had ebbed as well—his attack was old news, and his going to the station was older still. By local standards, Philippe supposed that he was something of a celebrity, but in a small farm community, that was necessarily a low-key affair: Most people just wanted to know if the earplant hurt. He was asked to make a presentation at a nearby school, which made the local news, and he and his parents received a lot of invitations to dinner from people they already knew and were happy to see.

Philippe helped feed the animals and fix the fences, and he noticed that the leaves were turning. After a month, Arne asked if he could stay on the station a bit longer, and Philippe said yes. He got some of his warmer clothes out of storage and put them in his old room.

"So, do you think you're going to stay here another month?" his mother asked at dinner.

"I don't know," said Philippe. "Arne wants a little more time to settle in."

"Just be careful," Papa said. "You don't want Arne replacing you."

_Don't I?_ Philippe wondered.

Of course, his parents could read his face like a map. "Or do you?" asked Maman. "Is there something wrong with the posting?"

"Oh, no, not really," said Philippe. "It's just that—it was a lot of stress."

"It was a lot of stress for all of us," Maman said. "Are you worried that you might get attacked again?"

"No, I think that was pretty much an isolated thing," Philippe replied. "It's just that—there were some weird things happening there. I was having these repeating dreams with this glowing Host, and then I was seeing the glow when I was awake—"

"I thought that was the migraines," said his father.

"That's one explanation," said Philippe.

He paused for a moment, looking thoughtfully at Maman and Papa. He hadn't mentioned this to anyone—not to George, not to Shanti, certainly not to the debriefers.

"The Hosts have another explanation," he continued. "They have this prophecy that they say is the reason why they built the station, and they—or at least one of them—seems to think that because of my dreams, I'm this chosen one mentioned in the prophecy."

"Don't all prophecies have a chosen one?" asked Papa.

"Yeah, but—you know how I spoke to that soldier a few weeks ago? He saw it, too, he saw the glowing alien," Philippe said.

"In a dream?" asked his mother.

"In a koffie shop."

"Chemical enlightenment?" she scoffed. "Come on, Philippe. If you ever spoke to him about what you saw, or if your doctor wasn't as discreet as he should have been, then this soldier friend of yours could very well have incorporated the image into his hallucinations."

Papa nodded. "Plus, a glow? That's pretty vague. It's not like you and he had some absolutely identical dream. I'd be surprised if any of the soldiers don't regularly dream about the aliens. And even if your dreams were identical—if I dream of a talking goat and your mother dreams of a talking goat, that doesn't mean that the goats really talk."

"I know," said Philippe. "I know."

He chewed his food, mulling over their arguments—valid ones all. Patch had known about the birthday-party dream, which seemed awfully specific, but, of course, if George had gossiped . . . and it seemed sometimes like all the SFers did was gossip.

Now that he thought about it, he had also mentioned that dream to one of the Hosts, to Max. That probably happened in one of the common areas, so it could have wound up on surveillance footage, which would mean that Vip or Thorpe could have seen it—and Philippe had noticed that Patch and Thorpe spent a lot of time together. So there were two ways Patch could have heard about it.

Of course, it wasn't like he had mentioned the torture. . . .

Philippe swallowed. "I don't really believe it, but—it's just that the Hosts seemed so _sincere._ I mean one absolutely believes that I am this chosen one. The other claims _not_ to believe it, but he's really upset, so I think on a certain level he does believe it and is just unhappy about it. You know, they're aliens—maybe they know something we don't."

"The future?" asked Papa. "Other than this prophecy, which—well, don't get me started on these Nostradamus-type things that are so vague and are constantly being revised and reinterpreted. Other than that, is there anything that makes you think that they really know what's going to happen before it does?"

Philippe took a deep breath. "No. This prophecy is supposed to be quite unique in their culture. They actually got very excited when they found out about dreams—they don't dream, so it seems like a really odd thing to them. They thought that maybe _we_ could see the future, and that really had them pumped up."

Maman started to laugh. "I'm sorry, honey, I just feel so bad for you. I mean, first you wind up having to cope with that animal in Cuba, and now these people—you do realize that there are religious people who are not lunatics?"

Philippe looked at her, wishing he could laugh, too.

"Son," said his father, patting his shoulder. "Let's say—just for the sake of argument—that it's all true, and you are this chosen one. What does he do?"

"The chosen one?" said Philippe. "Well, he fends off some sort of disaster, some massive catastrophe that otherwise would wipe out all the Hosts and apparently the universe as well."

His mother was trying without much success to stop laughing.

"Well, you know, that does sound like you," said Papa, smiling.

They were in the room, in the dark, all 13 of them.

" _Meeting called to order," whispered Geirahöd._

" _At this point, all of you should have met with your alphabet group, explained the situation, and gotten either their backing or their opposition for the measure we are voting on today," whispered Aife. "I trust you were all able to do that."_

They nodded.

" _Did anyone have any problems?" Aife asked. No one replied, so she continued. "Considering the risks inherent in this measure, we must have a unanimous vote to enact it. A single 'nay' will prevent its passage. As the representative for A/B, I will begin. A/B votes 'aye.'"_

They went around the table, Surpanakha voting "Aye" for S/T.

" _We have 11 'ayes' and two abstentions," reported Geirahöd._

" _The measure passes unanimously with 11 'ayes' and two abstentions, and it is adopted," whispered Aife. "I now open the floor for discussion as to how this measure should be enacted."_

Surpanakha quietly put her hand up.

" _We recognize Surpanakha," whispered Geirahöd._

" _I think we should shoot him in the head," she whispered. "It's simple, and it's certain. We can't have him survive the attempt, or he'll unleash the Ultimate Weapon. And while shooting may seem violent, it would be a quick death, with minimal suffering."_

" _We recognize Nemain," whispered Geirahöd._

" _I disagree," whispered Nemain. "The Old Man cannot know what is coming, and if he saw someone walking into his room with a pistol, how would he respond?"_

" _Shanti?" said a loud voice behind Surpanakha._

She turned and saw a Host, bathed in golden light.

" _Can I talk to you?" it asked._

" _Shhh," said Geirahöd._

" _We can't talk here," whispered Surpanakha. She turned back to the group and raised her hand._

" _We recognize Surpanakha," said Geirahöd._

" _I request to be excused from these deliberations."_

" _Since you've already expressed your views on the question, we are willing to excuse you, but you should realize that if you are not here during deliberations, you will not be able to defend your proposal," Aife replied._

" _I accept those consequences."_

" _Surpanakha is excused," said Geirahöd._

Surpanakha stood up and gestured to the alien. They walked out of the room.

She opened a door that led to an open field filled with tall flowers. The sun was shining, and a light breeze blew fluffy white clouds across the sky.

" _We can talk now," she said._

" _Why do they call you Surpanakha?" asked the alien._

" _That's my name," said Surpanakha._

" _I thought your name was Shanti," the alien replied._

" _It is now," said Shanti, nodding and remembering. "It is now."_

She saw the bed. It was a massive, old-fashioned affair, made of carved wood that was almost black. A burgundy bedspread lay over it. It sat, heavily, in the middle of the field.

She walked over to it. There was a body under the covers.

" _Who is that?" asked the Host._

" _The Old Man," said Shanti. She raised her right hand, which held a pistol. "I was the back-up plan, in case the poison didn't work. But it did work—he was already on so much pain medication that the drugs did the job. I was so nervous about it going in, opening that door was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. But when I saw him there in the bed, I could see he was dead. I knew that he was gone and that everything was going to be all right."_

" _How interesting," said the Host. "I need to talk to you about Philippe."_

" _Philippe?" she asked, turning to the Host. She looked back at the bed, and the body suddenly sat up and started laughing!_

" _Philippe!" she shouted, overjoyed. "That's a rotten trick!"_

" _Come on, Shanti," Philippe said, pulling the sheet down from over his head and smiling. "Get in." He hit the sheets with his hand, and the bedspread changed from burgundy to a bright flower pattern, matching the meadow. The heavy wood dissolved, and the mattresses rested on the grass._

" _Oh," said Shanti, embarrassed. "There's somebody else here."_

" _Well, then you should get in," said Philippe. "You don't want him to see you naked, do you?"_

She looked down. Her gun was gone, too.

" _How did that happen?" she asked him as she crawled under the covers._

" _I don't know," Philippe said, holding up the sheet and looking at her body. "Where's your tattoo?"_

She looked down, and the pattern of stars and suns slowly appeared. "It's there now," she said.

He put his arms around her and nuzzled her neck.

" _You don't mind, do you?" Shanti asked the alien, turning away from Philippe. "It's good, life-affirming. It builds unit morale and cohesion."_

" _Whatever," said the Host. "As I told you before, I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with Philippe."_

" _Oh, what's wrong with Philippe and his braaaain?" Shanti sang, smiling at Philippe. He pouted and stuck his lower lip out. She kissed it. "Why do I keep having this dream?" she asked him._

" _It's not always this dream," said Philippe_

" _It's always that guy, for like,_ days _now. And he's always asking me about you. Do you think he wants to attack you?"_

Philippe smiled slyly, putting his hand on her waist. Shanti could feel her tension melt away. "Awww," he said, "you care."

The alien made a noise, and Shanti turned back to him.

" _You keep asking about him, but I don't know why you're so worried," she said. "He's just got a little combat fatigue, that's all. He got attacked, you know."_

" _And I didn't get counseling," said Philippe._

" _That's right, you didn't." She turned to Philippe. "What was that all about?"_

" _I'm sorry if you find my questions tiresome," said the Host, "but I've had a lot of trouble talking to Philippe, and I find that I can communicate with you much more easily. So, is he a warrior?"_

Philippe laughed.

" _He's, like, the opposite, actually," Shanti told the alien. "He's a diplomat—very anti-war. But he wound up in a bad situation several months ago, which sounds a lot like what you were describing before. So probably the attack dredged all that back up."_

" _No wonder I took a vacation," said Philippe._

" _Please tell me," said the Host. "I want to understand why it's so difficult to be with him."_

" _The quiet ones are always difficult," Shanti said. "But as for what happened, there's this territory called Guantánamo. It's part of this island, which itself is a country, Cuba. But despite that, Guantánamo belonged to another country, the United States, that for a long time didn't get along with Cuba. So finally the United States realized, What do we need this dumb outpost for? And they wanted to give it back. And Cuba was basically trying to get some money out of the deal, because the United States was a lot richer, so they wouldn't take it back. So for a long time, Guantánamo was just sort of nobody's."_

" _And then General Jesus came along," said Philippe._

" _Yeah, along comes General Jesus, and he just sort of moves in there with his followers, and he winds up using it as a headquarters for this massive cult. And this guy, his name wasn't really Jesus—that's not an uncommon name in a Spanish-speaking country, but with this guy, his name was something else and he changed it to Jesus, so you know that's trouble."_

" _Who is Jesus?" asked the Host._

" _He's the Christian messiah," said Shanti, remembering that she was speaking to an alien. "Christianity's a religion on Earth. This guy basically thinks he's God, and he's got a bunch of followers who also think he's God, and they've taken over this territory. And finally Cuba and the United States decide that they really need to reach some agreement on what to do with this place, but there are all these people here. So they go to the Union, which sort of oversees all the countries, and the Union sends a delegation."_

" _And that was me," said Philippe._

" _That was him, but there were other people, and he was like the junior guy," Shanti explained. The alien was listening intently. "Anyway, General Jesus just snows these guys. He tells them that he's OK and reasonable and wants to negotiate something and that everything is all right. But basically, he's stalling for time. So the delegation goes back and forth, and they negotiate and all this stuff, and in the meantime, General Jesus and his men are torturing people and slaughtering them._

" _I mean, this guy's nuts, and he thinks he's Jesus, and he's worried that if the Union or whoever takes this place away from him, he won't be able to save mankind or whatever. So he's trying to purify people and eliminate the people who don't really believe in him, because if they_ really _believed in him, he wouldn't be about to lose his territory, and he's just turning on everyone around him. And the only person in that delegation that had the least clue was Philippe, who wrote this long memo saying, I don't think we should trust this guy, he's nuts. But everyone else thinks this guy is OK, so Philippe is ignored."_

" _Diplomats want everyone to live in peace," said Philippe, wryly. "And Jesus is the Prince of Peace."_

" _Not this Jesus," Shanti said. "Anyway, Jesus' people finally started wiping out entire towns, which is tough to hide, so everyone found out what was going on. And they called in my people, who actually are the warriors, and we blew that motherfucker into smithereens—they were sponging him off the vegetation when we got through with him, and, trust me, no one was shedding any tears over it. They found all these torture chambers—really fucking medieval stuff, all over the fucking place. I think Philippe was part of that, too—one of the fact-finding people who saw how bad things had gotten. And it was_ bad, _too. General Jesus had a room in his house where he kept the ears of, you know, 'heretics' nailed to the wall. In his_ house _—can you imagine the smell?"_

" _Ah," said the Host. "That explains some things."_

" _And do you know what else they found in that room?" she asked. "Semen. He would go in there and jerk off. That guy was one sick fuck."_

" _Yes, his people seemed quite unpleasant when I met them," said the Host. "Tell me, what do you know about physics?"_

" _What do you need to know?" asked Shanti._

" _There's the law of attraction," said Philippe, pulling her closer._

" _Yes, there is," she said, warmly._

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Shanti woke up. _Damn,_ she thought, _always before the good parts._

Beep. Beep. Beep.

What the fuck was that?

"Shanti Pax! Shanti Pax!" the voice spoke directly into her left ear. "Contact Central, emergency status! Contact Central, emergency status!"

_Beep. Beep. Beep._ _Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Oh, shit," she muttered, fumbling around in the dark. The fucking earplant, it would just repeat and repeat until she got a message back through.

She felt around, finally finding the lamp. She turned it on and got up.

Where the fuck did Keres keep that messenger?

She left the guest room, which opened onto the living room. She turned on the overhead light and was momentarily blinded. _Fucking useless fake corneas,_ she thought. _Fucking useless earplant. They should let you at least turn it down._

She finally saw the messenger and activated it. It took her a moment to remember how to work civilian equipment—and having a machine screaming "Shanti Pax!" in her ear didn't exactly help her think. But she got Central's message, sent an acknowledgment, and the fucking thing blessedly cut off.

Keres stumbled in. "Surp, you all right?" she asked.

Shanti looked at her darkly. "I've gotta go back," she said.

"But you just got here," her sister whined, blinking in the light.

"I've gotta go back now," Shanti said. "Things are really fucked."
Chapter 15

He came on the ship, and she was sitting there, an empty seat next to her.

"Hello, Trang," she said.

"Hi, Shanti. I didn't know you were on Earth," Philippe said, and sat down.

Shanti arched her eyebrows. "Well, I wasn't here long," she said.

They sat in silence as the ship tilted back. _Funny how it's all routine now_ , he thought.

"Did they tell you anything else?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "Just that Arne's sick."

They were silent again.

"That earplant's a hell of a wake-up call, isn't it?" she said.

Philippe let out a brief laugh. "I didn't know what to do—it was saying, 'Call Central!' And I'm going, 'Central what?'"

Shanti grinned.

"Do you have any idea what could have made Arne sick?" he asked.

Worry flashed across her face. "I don't know—he was fine when I left him." Shanti thought for a moment. "You knew him from before, right? Does he have some sort of condition?"

"Not that I know of," Philippe said. "I don't think they would have let him go to the station, or even to the Sudan, if he wasn't healthy."

"Hm."

Silence again. The ship shuddered into alpha drive.

Philippe suddenly realized that he _needed_ information, any information, about Arne. He didn't know enough. A wave of guilt, far from his first, passed over him: He hadn't kept up with the reports, and he should have. If he had, he might have seen or intuited something. He might have been able to stop it. He might know something now.

"How was he doing?" he asked Shanti. "While I was gone—how was he?"

"Arne? Oh, he was all right, you know." Shanti shrugged. "I mean, I'm no diplomat, I don't know how you grade these things. But I think he was doing pretty good. He confused the aliens though, when he first came, because he's, you know, tall like the rest of us—apparently that's how they always knew who you were."

Philippe couldn't help but smile.

"He was nice, you know?" she said. "But, um, with people? I don't think he was quite as good as you were."

Philippe blinked his eyes and opened his mouth, surprised. The Arne of his acquaintance had always been open and friendly. Philippe couldn't recall him not getting along with anyone.

"Were there problems with the SFers?" he asked.

"Oh, sorry, when I say people, I mean aliens," said Shanti. She shook her head. "Boy, I sound like I'm talking through a translator."

"When you start calling me 'human diplomat,' I'll worry," said Philippe.

She laughed, but the brief flash of humor quickly sputtered out.

"Arne had a couple of issues with the SF, but what I meant was that he really seemed to have some problems with the Hosts. Not that he didn't try, but it took him a real long time to be able to tell Max and Moritz apart. I think it bothered them, and I know it bothered him."

"Are Max and Moritz still fighting?" Philippe asked, feeling another twinge of guilt.

"I think they managed to bury the hatchet," she replied. "But I felt like Arne could never really relate to the Hosts. I don't know why that was. He had some quarrels with Baby about it, of all people. They had some disagreements about where the Hosts were coming from, and to my way of thinking she understood them better. Or maybe it's just that she understood them differently than he did, and I tend to take her side."

Philippe nodded, troubled. He liked both Arne and Baby, so it was an unpleasant surprise to hear that they hadn't been able to get along with each other.

"Was that the problem Arne had with the SF that you mentioned earlier?" he asked.

Shanti shook her head. "That was part of it—it was all pretty minor, you know, but Arne really didn't like it when we spoke to the aliens."

Philippe was shocked—that didn't _sound_ like Arne. "He didn't want you to talk to the aliens?"

"No, no, no—he wasn't an asshole or anything. He wasn't like, you can't talk to them," Shanti smiled. "But if he was meeting with some aliens, and an SFer was there, he really didn't like it when we, you know, interrupted with questions or anything."

Philippe suddenly got it. "Oh," he said.

Shanti gave Philippe something of a hard look. "You never told us we weren't supposed to do that."

Philippe put his hand over his mouth for a moment, and then removed it. "I can totally see why it upset him, and I can totally see why you guys were surprised."

"Apparently when a diplomat is in a meeting, it's just supposed to be the diplomat talking and not anybody else."

Philippe nodded. "Can be, yes. It depends on the situation. Ordinarily, though, yes, the normal Union Police guards would simply be there as protection and would not be talking."

Shanti cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I know how much you love hearing about how the Union Police would do it," Philippe said. "But I always felt that this was a different kind of situation—that my guards, be they UP or SF or whatever, would be living on the station and interacting with the aliens all the time anyway, so there would be no real point in pretending that they were these mute protectors without any opinions or curiosity. I knew people were going to be interacting with the aliens, so I felt like I might as well let it happen where I could see it, and then I'd get a sense of how they were with it."

Shanti nodded. "Like I said, it was pretty minor—it was just that he did things differently than you did, so people had to adjust. But they did, and I don't want to make a big deal out of it, because it really wasn't one. In general, Arne has been fine—he's been really good at keeping us neutral, you know, so that's important."

The word startled Philippe. "Neutral?"

"Oh, yeah. Haven't they been keeping you posted?"

Philippe shrugged, feeling a new wave of guilt. "They've been sending me updates, but I was on vacation, you know, so I didn't exactly read them carefully," he said.

_Or at all,_ he thought.

Shanti looked a little taken aback. "Well, OK. Um, the Snake Boys have been kicking up a stink about their living arrangements. They were never happy about them, but then you know that merchant you gave the translation devices to? Well, he's really become, like, this activist, and he managed to get the Cyclopes involved. So now the Cyclopes are saying that the Hosts shouldn't just be running things, things need to be more democratic. And the Hosts are, like, whatever, it's our station. But the Blobbos are really upset and saying that the Cyclopes are just trying to grab power."

"I see," said Philippe.

"Anyway, it makes things a little tense, but it doesn't really concern Earth, you know?" said Shanti. "We're saying, not our business, we don't have any opinion on this, and I think they're pretty much buying that."

"OK," said Philippe.

They sat for a bit.

"But do you want to know the _really_ big news?" said Shanti, looking at him slyly.

"What's that?" said Philippe.

"George and Baby have taken themselves off the roster."

" _No!_ "

"Yup, they both went off, the exact same day," she said with a grin. "They've gone exclusive."

"Well, I think we could all see that one coming," said Philippe. "How did Five-Eighths take it?"

"Oh-ho," Shanti laughed. "Five put his foot through the door of one of the virtual-entertainment booths. We had to fix it with a board, so now when you go in there to watch something in surround, there's this black area down on the right side. And then, through some marvelous coincidence that I as mission commander know nothing about, his sleep cubicle malfunctioned, and he was trapped in there for an entire day."

Philippe smiled, but then a sobering thought occurred to him.

"What does Baby being off the roster mean for you?" he asked.

"Me?" said Shanti, looking faintly troubled by the question. "I'm MC, so I can't really have an opinion about who's on the roster."

"No," explained Philippe. "I meant, is this going to mean that people are going to pressure you to be on the roster?"

"Oh. No, everybody knows better than to do something like that," said Shanti.

"Everybody except Five-Eighths."

"Except him—he's got that name for a reason. But he knows better than to do that twice."

They chuckled.

"You know," said Philippe, "I mentioned his name at dinner with some friends of my parents who have a 15-year-old daughter. And she just turned bright red and wouldn't speak for the rest of the evening."

Shanti turned to him, scandalized. "You mentioned that name in front of a child? Trang! What's wrong with you!"

"I know, the thing is, with Five-Eighths, I don't know—"

"No, really, what is wrong with you?" she interrupted. "You should never mention that name in front of children. Actually, you should never mention that man in front of children at all. He's not fit for a young audience."

Philippe laughed.

"So, did you have a good vacation?" Shanti asked.

"Oh, yeah," Philippe replied. "I had a great time, very relaxing. I didn't have a single migraine the entire time."

"You've been having migraines? I didn't know that. Did you get a—?" She tapped her head.

"An implant? No," Philippe replied.

"I thought you had to get one if you had migraines—if you want them to stop."

"I guess if they're really bad, you do, but I didn't have to," said Philippe. "I just got some sleep and cut out caffeine and stimulants. And I counted breaths."

Shanti gave him a skeptical look. "You counted breaths?"

"It's a meditation technique, you count your breaths. You count to ten over and over again. It helps you focus on the present instead of stressing about the future or worrying about the past," Philippe said.

It had all sounded much more plausible when his parents had explained it to him back in Alberta. Shanti's expression wasn't helping. "You know, you can manage stress without getting your head cracked open. There was no need for an implant."

"Oh, but you should get one—they're great, they really are. They go in, and you don't have to worry about anything," said Shanti. "You don't have to count anything."

"Is counting a problem for you?" teased Philippe.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Seriously, we all have them."

"All the SFers?" Philippe asked, shocked. He could see them all having to get implants for their eyes, but brain implants seemed excessive, even for the SF.

"No, no." She waved her hand. "All the _Paxes._ "

"Really?" he said, thinking of Kelly. "All of you?"

"Yeah, and if we say, 'Hey, I think we _should_ take over the world after all!' they explode." Shanti made a crashing noise with her mouth and pulled her hands slowly away from her head.

"Uh-uh," Philippe said. "I think I'm going to try to find another seat."

"No, seriously. We all do, because of our mom," she said. "Mom—the woman we were cloned off of—they think she was manic-depressive. She was Nigerian Army—you know, decorated, a big war hero. But then she got heavily into self-medication, and she was dishonorably discharged. So when the Old Man dangled a big bunch of money in front of her, she took it, and then she spent all the money on drugs and none of it on food, which is what killed her."

"Did you ever meet her?" asked Philippe.

"No, she died when we were five, we never even knew about her until after we got out of there." Her expression became wistful. "I'd like to think that if she knew about us, maybe she—you know, she would have thought that she had something to live for after all."

She snapped back to herself. "Anyway, they didn't want us all to wind up the same way, so they gave us implants. And it's a big relief, you know—you never have to worry, if your brain starts working funny, the implant just kicks right in and nips that shit in the bud. That's how mental illness works, you know—it starts small and you let it go, and then you get big problems and you don't know it, 'cuz by then you've lost your mind. They make 'em for anxiety disorders, too."

"Um, I can see the appeal, but I think in my case, it'd be a permanent solution to what was really a temporary problem," Philippe replied. "I haven't had these kinds of problems coping with stress in my other jobs, and I think it was really a unique set of circumstances this time around."

Shanti raised an eyebrow. "Maybe they make one for technophobia," she said.

Philippe clucked at her. "So, why were you back on Earth? Did you win the draw, or did you also cause an interplanetary incident?"

"Oh, we're getting fucking sued again. Have I told you about that?" she asked. Philippe shook his head. "The old man has some nephews and nieces and cousins—all folks who couldn't be bothered to look him up once in the 20 fucking years he was off being crazy in the South Pacific. They're all a bunch of fucking losers who are pissed that we got his money. They're like, You murdered this poor old man! And we're like, No, assholes, it was in self-defense—which it was, and the courts said so, too—so fuck you, you spoiled brats, we've got a right to this money."

"Huh," said Philippe.

"Yeah, and the shit we went through there toward the end, and these people have the nerve . . . it's so fucked. Anyway, according to the Union, the money's fucking _ours_ , so what they keep trying to do is file shit with the national courts." The anger mounted in her voice. "Basically the only life plan these fucks ever had was to cash in when the old man died, and there's always a chance that one of the national courts will want to stick it to the Union. So _now_ one of his fucking dipshit relatives—who probably wouldn't have gotten anything even if we hadn't been in the will—crawled out of a koffie shop and filed another fucking suit, so I came down for a family conference. Our lawyers say not to worry, but at this point, I think we should countersue for legal costs every fucking time they do this, because it's getting fucking ridiculous."

"I didn't know about all that," said Philippe.

"It's been going on fucking _forever,_ and it needs to fucking die," she said. "I mean, do you know what they found when they searched the place after we surrendered?"

Philippe shook his head.

"Our entire sleeping area was wired to blow." Shanti shook her head. "The old man was always going on about this Ultimate Weapon, and we were afraid that he was going to use it to wipe out the population of the Earth—that was key to his whole plan, you know, the normal people would all die, and then we would take over. And it never even occurred to us that he meant _us,_ his kids. He was going to wipe _us_ out.

"We earned every fucking penny of that money, and I will apologize to no one for it. Especially someone who just sat on their ass and let it happen because they didn't want to piss off their rich, crazy uncle because then he might cut them out of his will."

They talked a bit more until the conversation began to lag, and then they read. They ate and napped. They had the ship to themselves—they were on an emergency flight to Titan—so there wasn't anyone on board to ask about Arne.

When they got to the Saturnian moon, they changed into their lonjons and transferred to Cheep and Pinky's ship.

"Guys, when you get a chance, you've got to tell us about Arne. We don't know shit," Shanti said as they stepped on the ship.

"He very sick," Pinky said.

"That much we do know," replied Philippe. "What happened?"

"He have a sickness from alien in stomach," said Pinky. "He very, very sick."

"Does the doctor think he's going to live?" asked Shanti.

"We no speak to doctor; he too busy."

"He's had a hell of a time, I can tell you that much," said Cheep. "We're bringing all kinds of crazy medical shit on this run 'cuz the doc's used it up or needs more for that poor bastard. We got a ton of medication, and skin, and gut."

"Catgut or people gut?" asked Shanti.

"What?" asked Cheep.

"A cat?" asked Pinky. "He no is a cat."

"What's catgut?" asked Philippe.

"OK, so people gut," Shanti said. "Thank you for answering my question. Catgut, so you know, is used to sew up wounds."

"You _sew_ wounds?" asked Cheep. "Like, embroidery or something?"

"What century is this?" asked Philippe.

"They no sew wound not even where I grow up," said Pinky.

"Fine, fine. I grew up with the survivalist training, OK?" Shanti said. "You can all shut up now."

They grilled Cheep and Pinky some more, but the pilots had told them all they knew—Arne was extremely ill with some alien bug that attacked his stomach, and George had been hard-pressed to keep him alive.

When they docked, Philippe immediately went into the infirmary. The place looked like a tornado hit it—every cabinet door was open. His foot slipped on something on the floor. It was a puddle of something dark that he couldn't identify.

_It's probably better that way,_ he thought, noticing that the Cyclops arm had been taken out of the isolation unit and thrown onto a counter.

There were four beds in the infirmary, plus the isolation unit. George was curled up on one of the beds, asleep. Philippe walked over to the clear walls of the isolation unit. Lying there, his body utterly limp in the bed, a mask over his open mouth, was Arne.

_Oh, God,_ thought Philippe, staring at the pale, drained body.

"Trang?" said a sleepy voice.

"George?" said Philippe quietly, turning around and walking over to the doctor. "Don't get up. I'm sure you need to rest."

George shook his head. "I just wanted a little nap. I told Raoul and Gingko to go to sleep—we've been up forever—and I was going to clean up in here, but. . . ."

He stood up and staggered over to the counter. He stared at the Cyclops arm.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with this thing?" he asked nobody in particular.

"Can I help?" asked Philippe.

"Uh, yeah," said George, and then turned to look at him. "Oh, no. You don't have your gloves on. It's all right, I just need to neaten up." He began putting the containers that had been knocked over upright, putting supplies back in the cabinets and closing the doors.

"We brought more supplies," said Philippe.

"Good," said the doctor.

"George, what happened?"

"Arne, God bless him," said George, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the isolation unit. "Arne _ate_ alien food. The Hosts had some, so he had some, too."

"Oh," said Philippe.

"You probably want to sit on the bed, there. I'm going to get the wet vac going on the floor," said George, pointing to one of the beds. Philippe sat.

George kept talking. "The problem wasn't the food itself, it was something that grows in the food—some kind of parasite. And it so happens that this parasite just _loves_ the human small intestine. That's how lucky Arne was."

He set the wet vac going and sat on another bed, facing Philippe. The drone's buffing wheels started on the stains on the floor.

George looked down at the drone, distractedly. "You know, at this point I'm kind of disappointed when these things don't talk to me like the Swimmers do."

He shook his head, snapping himself back into the moment.

"Anyway, of course I've got no idea how to treat this parasite—it makes these big black tumors, I don't know how, and I keep cleaning them out and cleaning them out, and they keep growing back and growing back. So we go to the Hosts, and they said, we have this poison for it, but we'd never, _ever_ use this stuff on a person. And I said, give it to me, because I've got absolutely nothing, and this guy's dead for sure. So they send a shipment of this, this _pesticide,_ and I don't know what's in it, and I'm supposed to slap it around old Arne's small intestine, and I don't know if he's going to absorb it and it will poison him or what the hell's going to happen, but those tumors keep getting bigger by the minute. And it turns out that this pest killer is beyond caustic, and it burned the hell out of his gut, and I had to replace five meters of his small intestine with the artificial gut. Unbelievable."

"Is he going to live?" asked Philippe.

"Fuck if I know," said George. He collected himself for a moment. "He's not growing black potatoes in his gut anymore, so, yeah, if they don't come back, he'll most likely live."

George looked over at Arne in the isolation ward.

"If they start to grow again, he's dead," he said, flatly.

He stood up. "I guess I'll go get those supplies."

"I'll help you," said Philippe.

They unloaded the medical supplies with help from several SFers. Then Philippe grabbed his bag and headed with some trepidation toward his room. According to George, if Arne survived, he had a long recuperation period ahead of him. Once he was well enough to be moved, he would be going straight from the infirmary to a medical facility on Earth.

That meant that Philippe could move straight back into his old room—as soon as he packed up Arne's stuff, a task that struck Philippe as opportunistic and unsavory.

He walked into the office, then turned around and walked back out. Patch was in the hallway.

"Patch?" Philippe said. "Why are there gold things in the office?"

"Guy, have you been in your conference room? There's lots in there, too," Patch replied. "They're get-well presents from the aliens. They say that the color gold, like, heals people on Earth."

"Who told them that?" asked Philippe.

"Well," said Patch, with a shrug. "They say you did."

Philippe shook his head. It was bizarre, but right now, it wasn't really important. "Have we been keeping the aliens posted about Arne's condition?" he asked.

"Uh, not really, I don't think," said Patch. "They sure know he's sick, though."

Philippe went to the infirmary. George was lying down on one of the beds again, but he was not yet asleep.

"I'd like to tell the aliens how Arne is doing," said Philippe. "What can I tell them?"

George hauled himself up to a sitting position. "Well, there are no alarms going off, so that's good," he said, then looked at some of the monitors. "It's been three hours with no sign of the parasite—you can tell them that's good news; before it was coming back every five minutes. He's in critical but stable condition now. He's young and doesn't have any underlying health problems. If the parasite stays gone, he may well recover."

"Thank you," said Philippe.

He went to the door leading to the no man's land, feeling like he had forgotten something.

He had. Fortunately, Feo was on duty and pointed out that Philippe needed his gloves, hood, and entourage.

"I'm rusty," Philippe replied.

A few minutes later, duly outfitted and guarded, he stood in the tunnel as the outer door opened.

It was like his first day on the station all over again. There was a crowd of aliens standing around the door—Philippe even saw a small group of White Spiders hanging out on the ceiling—and underneath the various noises they were making was the continual thrumming of several Hosts, who doubtless had been holding a vigil. Philippe saw the familiar faces of Max and Moritz among them. He noticed that the Pincushions were all wearing gold on their spikes, and the Magic Man—who had showed up without being asked this time—was also gold.

He asked one of the Swimmer drones to start recording for broadcast. "Our doctor has every confidence that, should the parasite remain dormant, the human diplomat will recover," he began. "He will most likely return to our planet to recuperate, however. I am once again taking over the position of human diplomat and representative of Earth, effective immediately. I would like to extend our thanks to the Hosts for providing us with the antidote, which the doctor tells me was vitally important and saved the human diplomat's life. I would also like to thank all of you who have expressed your concern and well-wishes to us humans. Your support means a great deal to us."

After his statement, various aliens came up to express their concern. "It is an emphatically shameful action that an important official was poisoned," said a Cyclops named Stern Duty, whom Philippe had not met before.

"The poisoning was not intentional. It was an accident, and the Hosts provided the antidote," he replied.

"Nonetheless, it is a very emphatically shameful action," said the Cyclops.

Philippe expected someone to ask if he had spoken with Arne, or if Arne had regained consciousness—certainly on Earth those questions would be asked. But for whatever reason, the aliens did not.

Finally Max and Moritz approached and asked if they could speak with him in private. He commed Patch and had the no man's zone disarmed, and the three of them went into the cluttered conference room. Philippe asked his guards to stay outside.

"We are very sincerely concerned over this incident, and regret it most sincerely," said Max.

"I appreciate your concern," said Philippe

"I assure you it was accidental," said Moritz.

Philippe nodded.

"We attempted to dissuade the second human diplomat from eating Host food, because we knew it was probably dangerous to your people, but he insisted despite our cautions," said Max. "I do not want you to have the least suspicion that it was anything other than an accident."

"Why would I think it wasn't an accident?" asked Philippe.

Max and Moritz looked at each other.

"Max told me that when he heard you were to leave, he attempted to dissuade you out of a belief that you are the chosen one mentioned in the prophecy," said Moritz. "We were concerned that you might assume he had caused harm to the second human diplomat in an effort to force you to return here. I assure you that that was not the case. I, too, was present at the unfortunate meal, and what Max has told you is what I witnessed. We attempted to dissuade him from eating our food, but he said that he believed the risk was minimal and that his body could withstand any harm."

"We know that you are a curious people," said Max, looking testy. "But curiosity must be tempered by an awareness of the risks of danger. The curiosity of the second human diplomat was excessive and ill-advised."

"I must agree with Max in his blunt assessment of the situation," said Moritz. "I admire your people's desire for knowledge, but certainly this desire could cause you to participate in dangerous activities. Survival is also important and must always be considered while making decisions."

"I appreciate your concern, and I wish to assure you that I place no blame for this incident on your people," said Philippe.

He saw them out and went to speak again to George. Arne's condition was unchanged, so Philippe went into his bedroom and guiltily packed the sick man's things. When he was finally done unpacking his own belongings, he lay down on the bed and went to sleep.

He slept heavily, with no dreams. When he woke up, he got a caffeine-free ration bar and went to find the doctor. Raoul told him that George was in Shanti's office, so Philippe walked over, knocked, and went in.

George and Shanti were glaring at each other, tense and upset. "Is something wrong?" asked Philippe.

"Have you checked your mail?" asked George acerbically.

"I haven't had the chance," said Philippe.

"They decided what they want to do with Arne," said Shanti, her face grim. It wasn't until that moment that Philippe realized they weren't having an argument. They were angry—very angry—at something other than each other.

"It's criminal," said George.

"What are they doing?" Philippe asked.

"Oh, they're outfitting a medical suite for him!" said George with sarcastic enthusiasm. "It will have _everything_ you need for a complete recovery! The latest in automated-care technology, because God forbid a human being touch him."

"They're putting him in isolation?" asked Philippe.

"They're putting him in an _orbital isolation pod!_ " George spat. "They're outfitting one now—you know, one of those _pods_ where they keep mass murderers and serial killers. Because _that's_ what he deserves for his service and sacrifice to the Union."

Philippe was stunned. "You mean the ones in _space?_ "

"Yes, the ones in space!" raged the doctor. "The ones in orbit, kilometers away from the precious surface of the precious Earth. And do you know how long they're going to keep him there?"

"How long?"

"They don't know!" George threw his hands in the air. "However _long_ it takes them to feel _safe,_ because obviously this parasite—the one that grows on plants? the one that's gone?— _obviously_ it's an intelligent life form bent on taking over the motherfucking planet. Christ!"

"George." It was Shanti. She was trying to calm him, which in its own way was disturbing.

George turned to her. "You know, any _intelligent_ form of life would know enough to stay the hell away from us."

Shanti turned to Philippe. "Do you think you can do anything?"

Philippe put his hands up. "I will certainly try."

She nodded at him, and Philippe went back into his office.

His breakfast lay untouched on his desk as he began composing a message for the DiploCorps expressing the shock and outrage of all the humans on the station at the way Arne was being treated.

"Needless to say, this is pure poison to station morale. The soldiers can now expect that, if they too are injured on the station, their sacrifice for the Union and for Earth will be repaid by imprisonment in an ultimate-security facility," he wrote. He made some vaguely threatening noises about how the aliens would react if they found out how their "honored colleague, and in some cases, dear friend" was being treated.

He also drafted a message to send to all of his and Arne's mutual acquaintances in the DiploCorps, alerting them to the situation and asking them to bring any influence they might have to bear to help the sick diplomat.

It wasn't much—if the Union was outfitting the pod, then the decision had already been made. The DiploCorps was either being ignored or going along with it. But it was what Philippe could do.

George knocked on his door and told him that Arne was awake and wanted to talk to him. Philippe hurried to the infirmary. Arne was looking marginally better—his eyes were open, at least. His body, though, was still completely limp, as though every muscle had been utterly exhausted.

"How's it going, buddy?" asked Philippe.

"They say a lot better than before," replied Arne, weakly.

Philippe asked if he could go into the isolation unit. The doctor grimaced.

" _Apparently_ the planet-conquering life form still lurking within your friend here is too dangerous for you to enter into its dread presence," he replied. "Even we disposable medical staff are now required to wear our hoods and gloves when touching the untouchable."

Philippe looked at him.

"Yeah, I think it's bullshit," said George. "The main problem is, given his condition, he's being monitored with a camera. And if they go through that footage and see you go in there, they might fix up a pod for you, too. At this point, I seriously have no idea how they're going to treat Gingko, Raoul, and me when we head home."

"I'll risk it," said Philippe.

George looked at him for a moment, and then smiled and touched his shoulder. The doctor let him into the unit and showed him the pull-up seat in the floor. Arne asked George if they could have some privacy.

"I really blew it," Arne said once George had turned off the camera mike and left. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, Arne, don't," said Philippe.

"No, I totally screwed up. I screwed my sister."

Philippe smiled, trying to lift the mood. "You've been around the SFers too long."

Arne did not look consoled. "I just—I just absolutely blew it. I can't believe how badly I screwed up."

"Oh, come on," said Philippe. "So you ate something you weren't supposed to. I accepted gifts from the aliens, and we didn't know if that was safe. We've all done it—someone offers you food, you eat it. Otherwise you'll offend them. If their sanitation isn't quite up to snuff, you get sick afterward—that's just how it goes. One time when I was in Kurdistan, I was desperately ill for a week after drinking a warlord's goat milk. But you know, he signed the treaty and stuck to it, and frankly, that was worth losing seven kilos in as many days."

Arne shook his head, the movement barely perceptible. "No, no, no. They _tried_ to tell me not to do it. They _tried._ Have you met Five-Eighths?"

"Um, yes," said Philippe, wondering about the sudden change in topic.

"He was my guard," said Arne. "You've met him, and you know: The only thing that man thinks about is his penis."

Philippe nodded, realizing that any denial would reek of insincerity.

"I said I wanted to try some food. They—the Hosts—they said it might not be safe," Arne whispered. "And then they launched into this story of an old outlawed cult among their people, these Host priests who wanted to experience being alien so much that they would eat alien food and die. And I thought, OK, maybe this is a warning, but maybe it's a challenge—if they could risk their lives to bring people together, what better way to prove that that's what I want to do?"

"Oh, _Arne,_ " said Philippe.

"And he took me aside—Five-Eighths—he took me aside, and he said, 'I really don't think you should do this,'" Arne croaked, agitated. "And then he said, 'Can't you see how frightened they are?'"

He paused, his breathing irregular.

"'Can't you see how frightened they are?' he said," Arne said again, once he had recovered. "And that's when I decided I had to do it. I had to, you know. I had to prove him wrong."

Philippe stared at him in amazement. "Why?"

" _Because I couldn't see it!_ " Arne hissed. "I _couldn't_ see how frightened they were—they didn't look frightened to me, or happy, or angry, or anything. And this dumb jarhead, this ambulatory scrotum who probably joined the SF to avoid being thrown into jail on a morals charge, _he_ could see it. They _all_ can see it. I'm the only one who can't."

Philippe just sat and looked at Arne.

_There has to be something I can say,_ he thought.

But there was not one thing.

"Tell me," said Arne. "That grinding noise they make—do you like it?"

"What noise?"

"You know—" and Arne launched into a fair approximation of the Hosts' thrumming.

"Oh, yes," said Philippe. "I guess I never really thought of it as a grinding noise."

"They sound like cement mixers," said Arne, his voice bitter. "And half these soldiers play that noise to help them sleep."

"Look," said Philippe, gently putting his hand on Arne's shoulder. "None of this matters, OK? You got hurt and you feel like crap—I went through the same thing, all right? The important thing—"

Arne was shaking his head.

"The _important_ thing—" said Philippe, in a firmer tone of voice, so that Arne stopped shaking his head and looked at him "—is that you don't get down on yourself, and that you get healthy. You've been through a lot, and it's very hard, and I know you feel terrible and feel like you've failed. But I've worked with you—you're a good diplomat, you're good with people, and you're smart. Trust me, I was in Ottawa before I came here, and the DiploCorps could use many, many more people like you. And you're going to need all your skill when you get back to Earth—I suppose the doctor has told you how they plan to treat you?"

Arne nodded.

"OK, you know that it's not fair and it's not right. You deserve better, and you need to focus on getting well and getting your strength back, not on tearing yourself down," Philippe said. "I'm sending messages to everyone I can think of who might be able to help, but you know that you're going to have to fight this, too. It's not just for you—you heard George, most likely he and the medics and now me, we're all going to be stuck in orbiting pods, too, if we let them do this to you."

Arne looked a little more energetic. In the Sudan, Philippe remembered, Arne had always worked best when fired up to combat some injustice.

Philippe hoped that that was still true. "Once they decide to isolate everyone who gets stationed here, you know that no one will agree to come. If we let them, they will destroy the diplomatic mission on this station. They will simply destroy it."

Arne nodded. "All right," he croaked.

"All right!" said Philippe. "I'm going to head back to finish those messages—when you feel up to it, just ask the doctor or one of the medics to get you a scroll, and you can start lodging protests yourself."

He raised his fist in the air, and they smiled at each other—Arne only weakly, but it was the first smile Philippe had seen on the sick man's face.

Philippe went back to the office and worked on his call to arms. He dug up some addresses of those who might be responsible for Arne's treatment, so that his friends would know who to pester. He did some brainstorming and came up with some additional people to whom he could send either pleas for help or messages of protest.

Finally he decided to stop and take a little break. He ate his breakfast ration bar, and then he walked into his bedroom. He pulled out a mat he had been permitted to bring to the station because it was classified as "necessary medical equipment for the treatment of chronic migraine." He unrolled it onto the floor, and then he rummaged through his bag for the other piece of "necessary medical equipment"—an electric candle. His parents had found the very notion of an electric candle hilarious, but open flame was prohibited on space stations.

He lit it and sat, comfortably cross-legged, on the floor, facing the candle.

_One._ Inhale. _One._ Exhale.

It was hard to focus—for the first couple of rounds of ten, Philippe's brain kept coming up with new people for him to contact about Arne. Finally he was able to settle his mind down, to focus on the numbers and the breathing.

_Six._ Inhale. _Six._ Exhale.

He started to get more relaxed, attaining the slightly zoned-out feeling that would last for a few minutes. He couldn't stay in it much longer than that at this stage, but it seemed enough—he could just really relax for a spell, and then come out of it and get on with his day.

_Three._ Inhale. _Three._ Exhale.

Since he was so relaxed, it didn't alarm him when the light from the candle began to blur—his eyes often went a little out-of-focus when he meditated, so he kept his mind focused on the breathing and the counting.

He breathed and counted as the light blurred and expanded. He breathed and counted as it grew, and he breathed and counted as it coalesced into the shape of a golden, glowing Host.

"Hello, Philippe," said the Host. "It's good to see you again."
Chapter 16

_Five_. Inhale. _Five._ Exhale.

"This is different," said the Host. "This is much better. How long can we talk like this?"

_Six._ Inhale.

"As long as I don't get anxious," said Philippe during the exhalation.

"OK. Try to stay calm, then" said the Host. "So, how did you get me out?"

_Out?_ thought Philippe as he inhaled.

"Out?" he said as he exhaled.

"Out of your head. I wound up in a couple of other people. I kept getting bumped around."

"You were in other people?"

"In their minds, you know. It was nice, but obviously it's important that I be here with you, so I came back as soon as I could. Were you going through the portals?" he asked.

"Yes," exhaled Philippe.

"That must have been what forced me out, I think," said the Host, pensively. "I don't know a thing about this process, but I can't think of anything else that would have done it. Can you?"

"No," said Philippe. He inhaled again and tried not to think about what an understatement that was. "Who are you?"

"My name is Kre-Pi-Twa-Ki-Tik-Nao," said the Host. "I'm a physical scientist—or I _was_ a physical scientist. I also used to be what I believe your people call a Host. I hope I still am."

"What do you want?" exhaled Philippe.

"Wow, so many things. To go back home, mainly. But I don't think that's going to happen, not if you've already met my kind and the other aliens." The Host looked dismayed. "It was bad seeing those guys, let me tell you."

"Why?" Inhale. "Are they bad?"

"For me, yeah," said the Host, resignedly. "They're not harmful or anything, it's just that, if you know them, that means that a _lot_ of time has passed."

It was too much. Philippe could feel the tension rising in his body. The Host seemed to recognize what was happening and tried to say something else, but it was no use. In a blink of the eye, he was gone.

And Philippe was far too freaked out to get him back.

Philippe tried again and again, but of course you couldn't get into a relaxed state if you were damned nervous about what you'd find there. He decided to just leave off the meditation for a little while.

That night, he worried that the nightmares would return. Of course, the anxiety made it hard for him to fall asleep, but when he did, his only dream was about eating slice after slice of fresh, hot, delicious apple pie—the type of dream he always had when going back onto the all-ration-bar diet.

The next day, he went to see Max. The weeks he had been on vacation had apparently marked a relaxation in the SFers' security policies, especially where the Hosts were concerned, because when Philippe asked his entourage if he and Max could meet privately in Max's office, they just shrugged and said, "Sure."

Philippe asked Max for more information about the Host messiah and the chosen one. Not surprisingly, Max was eager to help, but there was very little in the way of actual historical facts known about the messiah himself, and the only information about the chosen one was contained in the verses that Max and Moritz had chanted to him earlier.

Philippe did learn that the Host messiah lived about a century-and-a-half before the Hosts began to build the station. According to Max, the messiah "studied the world" before "attaining his destiny," which might mean he had been a scientist, but it might mean something else entirely. Intriguingly, the messiah made himself known as such by appearing in a vision to every single Host simultaneously and singing his prophecy. When people who knew him before tried to track him down after the vision, he had disappeared.

It was all quite interesting in the light of recent events—not that Philippe was necessarily buying into the whole messiah/chosen one thing, but there could be some truth behind the myth. In any case, there was not much more he could do to investigate until he could see the Host again.

As Philippe spoke with Max, he realized that he really wasn't bothered by the return of the glowing Host. He'd certainly been surprised when it happened and somewhat anxious immediately afterward, but now he viewed it as a puzzle to be solved.

_It's because I know I'm not crazy,_ he thought, although in the back of his mind, he remembered Shanti saying something ominous about the way mental illness worked.

There were more pressing things to deal with, however. Philippe asked Max for as much information as possible on the parasite that had sickened Arne, telling him that the medical personnel on Earth wanted to be prepared for any eventuality.

There might be some truth in that, Philippe didn't know, but his real agenda was to keep Arne out of orbital solitary. Pressure from Arne's friends had already gotten the Union to set an outside date on his imprisonment—no longer than six months, assuming there were no complications.

Six months in zero-gravity solitary confinement was hardly ideal, however, so Philippe was hoping to prove to the Union that the parasite was a simple, unintelligent organism unlikely to plot the everlasting conquest of Earth. George had wanted to make the inquiries, but Philippe didn't dare let him: The doctor was so angry about Arne's imprisonment that Philippe was sure he would let the news slip to the alien population. The last thing Philippe wanted was for the aliens to know the extent of the Union's paranoia.

Max, naturally, was happy to help. They couldn't simply share information—the Union would not allow the humans to link their data system directly to the aliens'. But Max and Philippe arranged for Vip to come over and access the Hosts' data; the SFer had some way of doing it that avoided any potential contamination.

It occurred to Philippe on the way back to his living area that that the parasite-taking-over-Earth scenario should not, perhaps, sound so far-fetched to someone who was seriously considering the possibility that an alien messiah had recently taken up residence inside his head.

A few days later, Arne had recovered enough of his health that it was safe to ship him off to his orbiting prison. Philippe came in for a last chat, and casually asked if he had ever dreamed about the Hosts.

"Oh, all the time," said Arne. "I'd dream about not being able to talk to them, when everyone else could."

"I used to have this repeating dream about this one particular Host who would glow," said Philippe. "Instead of being red, he was this gold color."

"In my dreams I could never tell any of them apart," replied Arne. "They were always making that grinding noise. And everyone else was best friends with them, and I was always out in the cold."

After Philippe saw Arne off—the sick man was being transported in a mobile isolation unit that looked inauspiciously like a coffin—he dropped by Shanti's office to find her sitting behind her desk.

"I've been talking to Arne," he began, "and I was wondering about something. You were saying that he couldn't tell Max and Moritz apart, and he was saying that everyone else seemed to be able to tell just by looking at the Hosts what they were feeling."

She nodded.

"And I was thinking, he's right—we can." Philippe paused and looked at her. "Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"Odd?" Shanti echoed.

"Think about it—we can't, or at least _I_ can't—read the body language of any of the other aliens like that, and it's the devil to tell them apart," Philippe said. "I mean, I've learned from experience with some of them, but I remember coming into the common area of the station the very first day we were here and _knowing_ that the Hosts were happy to see us, just by looking at them. I didn't have to study them at all. And once I saw them in the flesh, I could always tell Max and Moritz apart, from each other and from any other Host."

Shanti smiled. "You know how we do those fighting simulations?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, well, after we got here, everyone's reaction time slowed down, and when I checked, it was because they'd started to hesitate before they'd shoot the Hosts," she said.

"See? See what I mean? Why is that?" Philippe was getting excited. "You know, maybe the Hosts didn't just build the station. Maybe they built the portals, too."

"The Hosts built the portals," Shanti said. "And then they didn't take credit for it. Does that sound like them?"

"Say, for the sake of argument, that they built the portals," Philippe continued, undeterred. "And the portals are somehow, I don't know, imbued with their energy, so that when you go through them, you become a little bit like the Hosts."

Shanti rested her elbow on her desk and put her fist on her cheek. "And Arne?" she asked.

"Maybe the energy . . . ran out or something," Philippe said, knowing how lame it sounded. _Maybe the energy's living in my head,_ he thought.

"You know there's another possibility," Shanti said. "Other species? On Earth? You know—dogs, cats, horses? We read their body language all the time. Maybe the Hosts just happen to move like those animals do."

"Yeah, but—" said Philippe.

"Obviously some of the species are easier to talk to than others, even with the translators," Shanti continued. "You know that alarm the Swimmer drones use, the really awful shrieking? That's a recording of the Hosts' distress call. So if their spoken language is easier to understand, why shouldn't that be true of body language as well? They're just easier to understand, that's all."

"I like my theory better," said Philippe.

Shanti shrugged her shoulders. "OK," she said, returning her attention to the scroll she was reading. "But I don't buy it."

Philippe retreated to his office. The room was still cluttered with gold get-well gifts, and he stared at them blankly. Obviously they couldn't ship all these alien artifacts to Arne. So what to do with them?

There was no answer: According to the Union, alien goods weren't even supposed to be in the human living area, except maybe in the isolation unit. But that obviously wasn't a realistic policy.

There was no place for these things, but there they were. Philippe wondered if, one day, the Union would decide that the same was true of all of them.

Predictably, Philippe was once again able to see Kre-Pi-Twa-Ki-Tik-Nao—whom he had begun mentally referring to as just "Creepy"—the one day he was meditating just because he needed to relax a little.

During his absence, the relative harmony between the alien species had become strained—a situation that Philippe was forced to conclude that he and Arne both had worsened, however inadvertently.

The spark had been the attempt by that Host merchant to better the living conditions of the Snake Boys. The merchant had sought support from other aliens for his campaign, and had gotten the backing of the Pincushions and the Cyclopes.

But the Cyclopes were all new—Endless Courage had rotated out while Philippe was on Earth—and led by Stern Duty, they was taking a more militant tone. They wanted to change the entire way the station was run. Much to Philippe's chagrin, they pointed to the way multinational organizations on Earth operated as an example of how the station should be governed—apparently Brave Loyalty had not kept his meetings with Philippe entirely secret.

The Hosts had, of course, been politely but completely inflexible, noting that running the station was _their_ destiny, and strongly implying that obeying the Hosts' rules was everyone else's. The Blobbos were hostile toward any idea that emerged from the Cyclopes, whom they unapologetically viewed as untrustworthy and aggressive. The Swimmers and the humans remained neutral, as did the Magic Man and the White Spiders, assuming that either of those two species was even aware a conflict existed.

Arne's illness was apparently viewed as an opportunity to score points against the Hosts by the Cyclopes, who began publicly denouncing the "poisoning" of the second human diplomat. Philippe had several conversations with Stern Duty and other Cyclopes, pointing out that the humans did not consider the poisoning to be deliberate or even the result of negligence on behalf of the Hosts.

The Cyclopes kept describing Arne's illness in those terms in public, however, and Philippe began to wonder if perhaps they were not entirely unfamiliar with the concept of a smear campaign. Many of the aliens on the station had noticed that Arne was not as chummy with the Hosts as Philippe had been. That, combined with the fact that the Cyclopes kept using Earth examples when talking about representative forms of station government, had given rise to speculation that perhaps the humans were not as neutral as they claimed.

So Philippe had to initiate a little campaign of his own, repeating publicly and often that the humans did _not_ blame the Hosts for what happened to Arne, noting again and again that the Hosts had tried to warn him away from the food.

Philippe was a little uncomfortable positioning the humans more toward the Hosts' side: He, of course, ardently believed that governments _should_ be representative, and he never liked having to say that he had no relevant opinion on how a place was run. He also felt sympathetic to the Snake Boys, who really did need more space, and he certainly didn't want to damage their cause.

But Philippe disliked more the idea of being used, and when the Cyclopes ignored his multiple requests that they stop saying that Arne was deliberately poisoned, he began to wonder what his options were. Could he file formal protests? Ask the Swimmer drones to play a little disclaimer every time a Cyclops was overheard blaming the Hosts for Arne's absence?

He was trying to put it all out of his mind for a brief spell, and, of course, that meant that his meditation practice went quite well, which meant that the candle's light once again morphed into Creepy.

Philippe tried to not let his irritation ruin things.

"Oh, good, you did this again," said Creepy.

"It's better than the dreams."

"I'll say," said the Host.

Philippe inhaled. "So, you are the Host messiah."

"What?" Creepy looked dumbfounded. "No, no, no. I've got nothing to do with your Jesus. I'm a scientist. I study matter and the blossoms of energy. I'm not religious."

"You're not?" exhaled Philippe.

"Of course not," said the Host. "Perhaps it is different on your planet, but on my planet, religion is just a bunch of silly crap fabricated to make you think that your family is better than any other family. No decent person of any intelligence believes in religion. Religion has brought nothing but pain to my people. I'd like to see all of it gone."

Philippe took a deep breath before responding. "'Abandon your divisive religions, and listen to me, for I will show you the genuine truth.'"

Creepy sat for a moment. "Yeah, that's basically what I said," he replied cautiously. "But I tried to be a little more poetic. How did you know about that?"

"Two of your priests sang it for me," said Philippe, "when we were discussing the miraculous reappearance of the Host messiah."

"Oh, shit," said Creepy. "Well, I guess that figures. I really wish they could have done things some other way, though!"

"They?" asked Philippe.

"The ones who took me. I mean, there's just no way I'm going back home, right? If they're telling you about me, then the history's already been written." He looked dismal. "Do you know how long it's been since I was taken?"

"Since you vanished?" Inhale. "About 850 Earth years."

"What is that in Host years?"

It was hard to stay relaxed and remember how to convert the years at the same time, but Philippe realized about halfway through that there probably wasn't any point to what he was doing.

"Were there portals around when you were alive?" he asked.

"I'm not dead!" snapped the Host. "And, no. No portals."

"Your calendar has changed," said Philippe. "I can't help you."

Creepy looked, if anything, more depressed. Then he went out of focus, and Philippe was staring at the candle again.

Philippe came out to greet his visitor. The Host merchant was looking concerned, and Philippe ushered him through the no man's zone and into the conference room.

"I apologize about the clutter," he said, gesturing at the gold gifts. He had moved the ones from his office into the conference room and stacked them so that they took up less space, but they still dominated the room. There was also a White Spider on the ceiling, and Philippe found himself thinking that it looked a bit tatty.

"Those must be the gifts given when the second human diplomat became ill," said the merchant. "I am of the opinion that he was not allowed to take them back to your planet because of security concerns."

"You are correct on both counts," said Philippe.

"I am of the opinion that giving gifts is not a functional tradition on this station," said the merchant, looking over the items.

"We do appreciate the gesture, nonetheless," said Philippe.

"Can you identify these items?" asked the merchant.

"I am afraid that I cannot," Philippe replied.

"I can identify some of them, because they are traditional gifts. Would you like me to identify them for you?"

"Yes, please."

The Host gave a quick tutorial. As Philippe had suspected, the gifts were mainly symbolic—statues representing friendship, plaques containing symbols for good health, and the like.

"And this," said the Host, gesturing at what looked like a golden rod with a wire at the end, "is a Pincushion organ of renewal, in the act of imparting health to another Pincushion."

Philippe looked at the rod and started. "I thought that was the organ through which the Pincushions exchanged genetic information," he said carefully.

"It is," said the merchant. "That is how they maintain longevity. Their longevity is why they rarely need to actually reproduce."

"How interesting," said Philippe.

"It is," said the Host. "They rarely die, but they also do not live quite as we do since their genetic makeup is always changing. I often wonder if they really maintain the same identity throughout one lifetime, or if it is more accurate to describe them as constantly dying and being reborn by increments."

"Please do not take this observation as an insult to your chosen career," said Philippe, "but you do seem very philosophical for a merchant."

The merchant looked up from the rod, amused. "Despite what some may think, I was not allowed to come onto this station solely because of my wife. I have come to visit you, however, to discuss something else."

"Please do—I am happy to hear you speak on any topic," replied Philippe.

"I am concerned about the damage I appear to have caused the community of this station."

"What damage?" asked Philippe.

"My efforts to secure larger living facilities for the Snake Boys," said the merchant, looking worried. "I fear they were a terrible mistake."

Philippe thought for a moment before replying. He was going to have to proceed very cautiously.

"As you know, my government is neutral in this matter, since we are new to this station and do not feel competent to criticize its governance," he said. "But on a personal level, I believe that your intentions were good, and I do not think you should feel badly for having tried to better the lives of the Snake Boys."

"What is your opinion of the Cyclopes, given that one of them attacked you?" the merchant asked.

Philippe took a deep breath. This conversation was definitely moving to treacherous ground. "The attack on me was an isolated criminal incident," he replied. "My government has friendly relations with the Cyclopes, as we do with all the other people on this station."

"I ask because they are asking me to help with something, and I am unsure if I should provide this assistance," said the merchant. "The Cyclopes have been critical of this station's governance. They now are suggesting that the people on this station create an organizational structure to settle trade disputes. Your people do not currently have a trade agreement in place, so I will explain: Currently disputes are either settled between the two parties, or if they cannot be resolved, the Hosts pass judgment."

"I see," said Philippe.

"My concern is that the Cyclopes have asked me to provide them with a great deal of information about my family's trading operations, since we have a contract to provide foodstuffs to the Snake Boys. I cannot understand what harm it would do my family's business to provide this information. But I also cannot understand why the Cyclopes would want such information." The merchant looked even more concerned. "I know the Blobbos think they are untrustworthy, and currently the Pincushions think very poorly of the Cyclopes as well."

"They do?" asked Philippe, mildly surprised. The Pincushions, along with the Cyclopes, had been backing the Snake Boys' bid for more living space.

"Yes, they are offended by the Cyclopes' attitude toward poisoners," said the Host. "While I found the Cyclopes helpful in the beginning, the departure of Endless Courage and the arrival of Stern Duty has marked a change in their attitude that is distressing to me. I have been made particularly unhappy by the Cyclopes' comments blaming our diplomats for the poisoning of your second human diplomat."

"Well," said Philippe, "I am speaking here as a private individual, not as a representative of Earth. But I would say that if you are made uncomfortable by a request, then you should decline the request. If you are concerned that you will offend the Cyclopes, you could always say that your business associates do not want that information revealed."

"That is true," said the Host, perking up. "I can tell them that my wife will not give me permission to provide the information. That would most assuredly be understandable to them."

Philippe agreed, although privately he doubted if the current pack of Cyclopes would be sympathetic to the peculiar structure of Host marriages.

"I appreciate your assistance," said the merchant, looking grateful. "I, of course, lack priestly training, and I fear that until the return to the station of cannot translate—I apologize, until the return to the station of the priest who helped me obtain the translation gear from you, I am without assistance from my own people in these matters."

"These matters can be confusing to even the most experienced diplomat," said Philippe. "I think you have managed as well as anyone could. Your speech, for example, is much improved from when I departed."

"Thank you," said the Host. "We laymen frequently mock the speech of the priests as archaic and simplistic, but now I understand why they speak as they do."

"How are things going for the priest who was asked to leave the station?" Philippe asked.

"The hearing has not yet taken place. Religious orders are never very prompt in resolving their affairs. I do not know very much about it because if my family involved itself, that would harm his case, but I understand that his wife is optimistic."

"I am happy to hear that," said Philippe.

The station was definitely getting tenser, as was Philippe. Surveillance footage from the common area revealed none other than Stern Duty telling a completely indifferent Magic Man that the Hosts had not really saved Arne's life but had, in fact, poisoned him twice _—_ once with the food, and once with a caustic toxin masquerading as an antidote.

Philippe had had enough. He and George called what was essentially a press conference, speaking to a Swimmer drone with the express purpose of creating a broadcast to the rest of the station. George explained that the parasite would have continued to spread without the Hosts' antidote, so while the antidote did damage Arne's small intestine, it also saved his life.

"I do not know why these rumors have been spreading regarding the Hosts' treatment of the second human diplomat," said Philippe in closing. "But we consider such rumors as entirely without merit. Our relations with the Hosts remain friendly, and we encourage all other people not to allow such unfounded rumors to influence their dealings with the Hosts, who performed such a vital service in preserving the life of the second human diplomat."

The conference marked—or perhaps sparked—the beginning of a larger backlash against the Cyclopes. The Host merchant told Philippe that he had stopped talking with them altogether, and the Pincushions formally asked the Cyclopes to stop making remarks defamatory of the natural abilities of any people—apparently a reference to the constant harping on poisoning. Informally, many Pincushions satisfied themselves by pointing out whenever possible that a Cyclops had electrocuted the first human diplomat, and that electrocution was a particularly sadistic method of attack—far more painful than, say, poison.

Of course, since Philippe _was_ the first human diplomat, he wound up doing damage control on all sides. In addition to having to constantly exonerate the Hosts for Arne's illness, he had to do the same for the Cyclopes, exonerating them from blame for his attack. After several days of this, Philippe began to feel like if he was woken up suddenly in the middle of the night, he would shout out "isolated criminal incident" and "we attach no blame for this incident to the Hosts."

As the merchant had warned they might, the Cyclopes began agitating for a court or board made up of representatives from all the planets to review trade disputes. The Hosts viewed trade agreements as symbolic of friendly relations and had them with everyone except the humans and the White Spiders. In some cases the actual trade was nominal—their agreement with the Magic Man, for example, was purely symbolic—and of course with the Snake Boys the agreement was simply that the Hosts would provide them with the provisions necessary for their survival with no expectation of payment.

But in other cases, the trade was quite valuable. And, as the Cyclopes endlessly pointed out, giving the Hosts final authority over disputes to which they could be a party might create a conflict of interests. The Hosts—with their polite but absolute inflexibility—replied that there was no possibility of such a conflict, since merchants conducted the trade but priests settled the conflicts.

While Philippe once again found himself agreeing with the Cyclopes in the abstract, none of the other aliens with experience trading on the station appeared to view the system as fundamentally flawed or unfair. The priests who settled trade conflicts were screened to ensure that they and their families had no interest in the outcome, and that apparently had once been enough to satisfy everyone. And again, the level of rhetoric coming from the Cyclopes was disturbing: More than once, Stern Duty all but called the Hosts thieves.

Of course, in all the debate over methods of governance and the motives of the various aliens, the issue of living space for the Snake Boys was completely forgotten.

"I was hoping to relax."

"I do not have many opportunities to communicate with you. I feel we should not waste them."

Philippe let that slide—really, there was no point in getting cross with Creepy, it just made meditating even less worthwhile.

"Who took you from your planet?" he asked.

"You don't know?" asked Creepy.

Again, Philippe suppressed irritation. "Why would I know?" he asked.

"You're an alien. And you know other aliens," said the alien.

"You were taken by aliens," said Philippe.

"Yes, I was. I thought you'd know more about them."

"You're the one who is with them." _Inhale._ "Why don't _you_ know more about them?"

"They're weird," said Creepy. "They don't—they haven't been keeping me in a normal place. I haven't even been able to really see them. It's been very disorienting."

"Maybe they don't have a physical form?" asked Philippe. "You don't."

"I _used_ to," said Creepy. "But why don't you know about them?"

"Why should I?"

"Because they _chose_ you," said Creepy.

" _You_ chose me," said Philippe.

"No, no—I didn't have anything to do with it," said Creepy. " _They_ chose you. You've got to have some kind of connection to them."

"Like you do? They chose you, too, you know."

And Creepy was gone before Philippe finished talking, leaving him to sit there alone and stare at the electric candle, annoyed.

After a few weeks of escalating debate, the Cyclopes suspended trade on the station until their demands for a new trading panel were met. Since the humans were still neutral—Philippe's comments about being attacked by a Cyclops appeared to balance out his refusal to blame the Hosts for what happened to Arne—he offered to act as an intermediary for the Hosts to see if relations between the two species couldn't be put on a sounder footing.

His offer was rejected, with Max telling Philippe that it would be inconsistent with the Hosts' divine destiny as foretold by prophecy to have a non-Host try to settle a significant conflict.

"I do not wish to offend your religious sensibilities," Philippe said, "but this is ridiculous. The entire problem with the Cyclopes is that they feel you exercise too much authority. Why do you assume that they want to acknowledge and strengthen that authority through direct negotiation? I assure you, indirect negotiations through a third party can work—I have done it before, many times, with great success."

"The Cyclopes are a test of our commitment to our destiny," Max replied. "They are not the first test we have faced since the prophecy was sung to us by our messiah. Our ancestors developed the technology to go into space before the portal opened, and they built this station before another alien race was found, all because of their belief in the prophecy. We should follow their example and fully embrace our destiny."

Philippe thought for a moment. It was a bit low to take advantage of someone's beliefs, but considering the situation. . . . "What about that disaster?" he asked, quietly. "The one I'm supposed to stop?"

Max was apparently not capable of rolling his eyes, but his body language got the message across. "This is not that disaster," he replied. "Our friends from this station do not cause the disaster. On the contrary, they will help you to prevent it. That is what was sung by cannot translate."

The situation appeared to get worse the next day, when Baby dashed in to report that the Cyclopes were going to be broadcasting some remarks in about a half-hour. Philippe and his entourage hurried over to the Cyclopes living area, where a small crowd was gathering, including several thrumming Hosts.

The doors to the Cyclopes living area opened, and Stern Duty stepped out, positioning himself before a Swimmer drone.

"Greetings fellow residents of this station," he began. "As all of you know, for the past several weeks we have made certain demands on the Hosts regarding how this station is run. I am announcing at this moment that we have determined that such demands are very emphatically unnecessary. Like all the people here, we are guests in the establishment of the Hosts, and they emphatically have the right to run the establishment as they wish. Our demands were the result of our being emphatically misled by certain other parties, and we intend to restore emphatically normal relations as soon as is possible. We apologize if we caused any dismay and hope to emphatically embrace the Hosts in friendship. I am finished."

The crowd began talking, as a small group of Hosts walked up to speak to Stern Duty. Philippe could see that they were ecstatic.

He stepped over to Max. "That was a surprise. Were you expecting this?" he asked.

"It is a surprise," Max replied. "You understand now why we follow the policy of embracing our destiny. If we do so fully, all will be well for ourselves and all people."

Max took his leave to go speak with the Cyclops, and Philippe stood there, watching the delighted Hosts exchange pleasantries with the inscrutable Stern Duty.

His head began to throb.
Chapter 17

"Does that make _any_ sense to you?" Philippe asked Shanti.

"Trang, they're _aliens,_ " she replied. "Their logic is different."

He sat back in the chair and stared at her as she sat behind her desk. "So you're comfortable with this," he said.

Shanti shrugged her shoulders.

"They make demands," Philippe said. "The demands escalate. They say that the Hosts are despots, would-be murderers, and thieves. Then—even though none of their demands have been met, not a single one, and the Hosts have been _completely_ inflexible—everything's suddenly OK, the Hosts are great, and the status quo is the best thing ever."

Shanti shrugged again. "They made a deal, maybe? Something you don't know about? You know they were losing allies—maybe this new crew didn't understand how badly they were blowing it. And then they realized how much they were hurting themselves, and now they're trying to make it up."

Philippe shook his head. "They're still making enemies. It's just that now they're blaming the Snake Boys and that poor Host trader for everything."

"So, they're bullies, these new guys. They don't learn. They lash out." Shanti looked exasperated. "Fuck, Trang, I don't know."

Philippe kneaded his temples. "This worries me. It worries me because it doesn't make any sense. And besides, it's been a week—have you seen any indication that the Cyclopes are trading again? I haven't. Baby hasn't. No one has. If they want things to return to normal, then things should be normal. It reminds me of Guantánamo—they're saying what everyone wants to hear, but their actions don't match up."

Shanti spread her hands. "There's not much we can do. I mean, I can tell everyone to keep an eye peeled, but if it's between the Cyclopes and the Hosts—"

"I know," Philippe said. "I know."

"Your people don't seem to be able to relate to others the way they used to," Philippe said.

"That's a shame," Creepy replied, clearly uninterested.

Philippe took a couple of deep breaths and willed himself to stay relaxed. He wanted to be able to say this without losing Creepy. "I think there may be an attack."

"There are always attacks," said Creepy. "My planet is plagued with warfare—different families attack each other all the time. The priests egg it on. It's disgusting."

Philippe took another breath. "I don't think that's true now."

Creepy looked skeptical. "Well, that _would_ be a significant improvement, if it's true, but. . . . I take it you haven't actually _been_ to my planet?"

"I haven't."

"So, basically, you just know what the priests tell you. Believe me, they know how to lie."

Philippe decided to drop the subject. "Tell me about the catastrophe."

"The one you're supposed to prevent?" asked Creepy, looking grim. "It's bad—very bad. That's why they took me, so that I could help you stop it. It destroys their people, and my people—and I guess probably your people, too, right? Otherwise why would you be involved? Anyway, it's bad news all around."

"What is it?" Philippe asked again

"I don't know."

Philippe took a couple of breaths. _Stay calm._

"You don't?" he finally said.

"No," said the Host.

"How will you stop it?" he asked

" _You_ stop it," said the Host. "That's why you were chosen. I help—or maybe I've already helped, maybe just telling you that it's going to happen is help enough. I don't really know."

"Do you know when it happens?" asked Philippe.

"I don't even know when _now_ is, how am I supposed to know that?" asked Creepy. "Anyway, if you're worried that it's going to happen soon, you should visit my planet."

"Why?" asked Philippe

"That's where it happens—that much I know," said Creepy. "Whatever happens, happens there."

A visit was surprisingly easy to arrange.

Philippe went to Max. "Your messiah wants me to visit your planet," he said.

"That is wonderful news," said Max.

"I don't think my government is ready to allow something like that," Philippe said.

"We can make the visit discreetly, so that your government's surveillance satellites are unlikely to see it," Max replied. "The ships of the merchant you have befriended make regular trips between our planet and this station. I am certain he would be happy to assist us."

Everything seemed set, but a hitch occurred to Philippe that night as he was lying in bed: He had lost Creepy when he went back to Earth, and Creepy had attributed that to Philippe's trip through a portal.

Assuming that Creepy's theory was right—that he couldn't stay with Philippe when they traveled through a portal—then going through the portal to the Hosts' planet would force Creepy out of his head and into someone else's again.

_Well,_ thought Philippe, _I should probably have company anyway._

"Hi, Shanti," he said the next day, closing the door to her office. "I have to tell you something."

"Go for it," she said.

Philippe took a deep breath. It was just a little lie.

"I'm going on a top-secret mission," he said.

Shanti nodded, her face impassive.

"I'm going to visit the Hosts' home world."

"Oh," she said.

"They're OK with it, but you know, it has to be an unofficial visit," Philippe continued. "Very hush-hush. I'm telling you because I don't want you to worry when I disappear for a few days, and because I suppose I need a guard. But this is top secret: You can't mention it to _anybody._ "

"Sounds exciting," she replied, looking down and poking at something on her desk. "Top secret?"

"Yeah," said Philippe. "It's really, really top secret."

Shanti picked up a scroll. " _So_ top secret that I haven't heard a peep about it from Special Forces _or_ Union Intelligence."

" _Very_ top secret," Philippe replied, feeling a little foolish.

"Can I ask you something?" Shanti put down the scroll and looked him in the eye. "Is it _so_ very top secret that even the DiploCorps doesn't know about it?"

Philippe flushed.

"Yeah, I'll get in a lot less trouble if you don't answer that question," she said, unperturbed. "Well, considering the sensitive nature of the mission, I guess I'd better go myself."

Philippe started.

"Just remember," Shanti said, her voice getting harder, "top fucking secret. That means you keep your mouth fucking shut, now and for always. I don't want to spend six months in an orbital capsule with my thumb up my ass because you like to talk. And we take George."

Philippe nodded—that actually sounded like a good idea. So there would be three of them: The unit's doctor, its diplomat, and its commander. . . .

"Won't we be missed?" he asked.

Shanti laughed. "And you wouldn't be missed if you went by yourself?" she asked. "Don't worry—we've pulled this kind of shit before. Patch will cover for me, and Vip and Thorpe can fake up the surveillance footage. If you're not already behind on your messages, get behind on them—it's a good idea, too, if you prep some mail to go out while you're gone, that way there's no gap. Unless there's some colossal sister-fuck, no one on Earth will have a clue that we went."

"Um, thank you," said Philippe. "Hopefully there won't be."

"Yeah, but you gotta tell me what we're doing," said Shanti. "Just a couple of days, right?"

"Just a couple of days," said Philippe. "Max says that their home world is basically right next to their portal, so we just run over there, spend a day visiting, and run back."

"And you're not doing anything stupid, right? Like signing a treaty or committing Earth to anything?" she asked.

"No, no," said Philippe. "I just want to take a look."

Shanti grinned. "Me, too."

It was surprising to see how docile the SFers were—usually there was endless gossip when something out of the ordinary happened. But this time, Shanti just told the relevant parties that the three of them were going to be gone and that they didn't want any record of their absence. And everyone just accepted it—no one asked them where they were going or what they were planning to do or why they didn't want the Union to know about it. No one asked questions, not even Baby.

"That's what it means to have discipline," Shanti said when Philippe remarked on it.

He got the same kind of unquestioning acceptance when he told Max and the merchant that they'd need to go through the portal exactly three times before landing on the Host planet and exactly three times before returning to the station.

Philippe had come up with that idea to solve the problem of Creepy being forced out of his mind when they passed through the portal. Once he hit on that solution, he was doubly happy that the doctor was coming along—with three people Creepy could bounce from Philippe's head into, say, George's on the first pass through the portal, then on the second pass, he could go into Shanti's head, and then on the third pass he'd be back in Philippe's head just in time for them to land on the Host planet.

"What?" asked Creepy when Philippe explained this to him.

"We'll go through the portal six times total," said Philippe, pausing for breath, "The first two times you're forced out, go into one of my companions' heads. Then on the third pass, go into my head. Then follow that pattern a second time. That way you'll be with me when we land on your planet, and you'll be with me when I come back here. We don't want you in someone else's head when we reach your planet, right?"

Amazingly, he was able to get all that out before losing focus and Creepy. Even though what he was doing hardly qualified as traditional meditation, it really was getting easier to achieve and maintain that relaxed, slightly zoned-out state.

Things had been quiet on the station—too quiet, really, since the Cyclopes had not resumed trading and were largely avoiding the common areas. Despite that, when Philippe, Shanti, and George finally walked out of the humans' living area and headed over to the Hosts', Philippe felt confident.

And excited: He was going to an alien planet! No human had ever done that before. Sure, he was going to make sure there wasn't some Universe-ending catastrophe about to happen, but even if Philippe took every single thing Creepy said at face value—and really, why should he?—it didn't mean that this trip would be anything other than a fascinating bit of adventure travel. After all, the catastrophe might not happen for years and years. And Philippe's mere presence might be enough to stop it—he might have stopped it already, without even knowing it.

The three humans walked casually into the Host living area, where Max greeted them. Just as casually, they walked through the living quarters to the loading dock. George had told them that they should wear their protective hoods while they were on an alien ship or an alien planet, so they pulled the hoods over their heads.

The dock's doors opened and Philippe saw open space. He recoiled for a moment before realizing that he was looking through the transparent body of the Hosts' ships. He had seen their ships before, on video—they looked vaguely like glass-topped cake holders—but actually stepping out onto one was a little unnerving. He felt exposed, especially after living in an enclosed space for so long. He wondered briefly why a species would build a station with no windows whatsoever and then build ships that were nothing but.

"You are welcome to my family's ship," said the merchant.

"Thank you for your hospitality," replied Philippe. "This is a beautiful ship. What is its name?"

The merchant looked at him, puzzled. "I do not think that question translated correctly. I apologize, but I believe that we must hurry. Please follow me," he said, walking over to some cargo containers.

The gray containers were arranged in two groups, so that there was a long, narrow aisle between them. "I believe that if you wish to make a discreet visit to our planet, you should stand here," he said, gesturing at the aisle.

Philippe began to step in, but Shanti grabbed his shoulder and gestured the doctor in first. He walked up and down the aisle, and then nodded. She gestured to Philippe to get in and followed him.

"Was that necessary?" Philippe whispered, putting his hand over his translation mike.

"Just getting you in the habit," she whispered back. He glared at her mike, and she shrugged and put her hand over it. "I know it's been a while since you took your security seriously, but you might want to be a bit more cautious if you're going to run off and visit strange planets."

_It's just the Hosts,_ Philippe thought to himself, but he wasn't going to argue about his security with the head of security. He looked around.

"Is this going to be enough cover?" he asked.

Shanti shrugged. "Well, the Union's not looking for us, so I'd say as long as we don't draw attention to ourselves, we should be fine. Just don't, like, _wave_ when we pass one of our satellites."

"OK," said Philippe, looking around some more. "Where are the seat belts?"

The ship gave a slight shudder and moved gently away from the station.

"Artificial gravity," said George. "God only knows how they do it."

"Yes?" asked Shanti.

Philippe turned his head to look at her. The merchant's nephew was standing at her end of the aisle. He didn't look particularly happy.

"I was told that you are female," he said to her.

"Yes, I am," she replied.

His voice was, of course, without inflection, but his body language reeked of hostility.

"It is through simple chance that you were born female," the Host said.

Shanti stared at the alien for a moment, her face hardening. _She's just never going to let things lie,_ thought Philippe.

"Actually, in my case, it wasn't," she snapped. "In _my_ case it was part of a long-term strategy to repopulate the planet after a catastrophic war."

The Host gave her a puzzled, but still unfriendly, look and walked away.

"That was strange," she said, looking at Philippe. "What? I didn't cuss."

Philippe realized that he was staring at her. "Oh, no, I'm sorry. It's just—you know, I forget sometimes about what a hellish upbringing you must have had, and then you say something like that."

She smiled. "It wasn't that bad—I mean, yeah, we were raised with a bunch of lies, but it was all very positive for us, you know. We thought that we were going to be the heroes, that we were going to save everyone from the bad things. So we were pretty upbeat—we used to meet secretly at night and try to figure out how to stop that big war that was supposed to happen. It didn't get really weird until we were 12 or so and the Old Man got rid of our teachers."

Philippe wondered whether or not he should ask how exactly "the Old Man" had accomplished that, but then Max appeared at the end of the aisle. "Are you all comfortable?" he asked.

"We're OK, thank you," said Philippe.

"I am so pleased to know that," said Max. "I wanted to show you this device."

He held up a small piece of machinery.

"It is a translation device for use with Hosts who lack translation gear, which as you know, is a group that until recently contained all Hosts who were not priests. It operates on a similar principle as our translation gear, translating our spoken language into universal code, which is then broadcast to your translation gear. When you speak, and your gear broadcasts universal code, this machine translates that code into Host speech, which it broadcasts through this speaker."

"Oh, that'll be useful," said George.

"Do you have any questions about anything?" asked Max.

_Why not?_ wondered Philippe.

"I was curious to know about the clear portion of this ship," he said, pointing up to the transparent roof. "Is that a force field?"

"I am uncertain if that translated correctly," Max replied. "I do not know what a field composed of force would be like, so I believe the correct answer to your question is no. The clear portion of our ship is composed of a composition."

"Thank you," said Philippe, silently cursing his translator.

"Hey, is that your portal?" asked Shanti, pointing to a ring of lights that was fast approaching.

"It is," said Max. "If you will excuse me, I hope to contemplate this, the most profound of the mysteries of the Universe."

"Go for it," said Shanti.

He stepped away, and soon Philippe could hear the Hosts thrumming rhythmically. The portal—or at least the markers indicating the portal's location—drew closer and closer. They went through.

In the blink of an eye, the starscape before Philippe changed completely. A bright blue sun shone before them, momentarily dazzling him. He held up a hand to block the light.

Only then did he notice the massive planet. It was covered in white clouds, which formed familiar patterns of stripes and whorls. Through the gauzy haze Philippe could see something bluish green in color. Was it water? Vegetation?

He peered closely and spied another gap in the clouds. This time something reddish showed through. Was it desert? Would the sky over a desert be so cloudy? There was a dark ribbon cutting through the red—a river? Wouldn't a river be too small to be seen from space? Maybe some kind of geological formation? A mountain range?

Philippe's curiosity was suddenly overwhelmed by a brief but sharp stab of homesickness—the planet was beautiful, and it was also strangely familiar.

"That your planet?" asked Shanti, stepping out from the aisle. George tapped Philippe on the shoulder and gestured for him to follow.

Philippe realized that they could stand in the open now: Earth had no eyes here, theirs were the first.

He stepped out, grinning.

"Yes," said Max. "That is our planet."

"The portal's just right there by your planet," she said.

"We are extremely fortunate," said Max.

"Sooo," she said, a little too casually. "Are we, like, staring down the barrel of a big old gun, or what?"

Philippe's gaze followed her finger. He hadn't noticed the station—as big as it was, it had been dwarfed by the magnificent planet and brilliant sun behind it. But it was there, between the portal and the planet, and indeed, what looked suspiciously like the barrel of an enormous cannon was pointed right at them.

"No," said Max. "That is new."

"A big _new_ gun," said Shanti.

"Yes, it was recently built to replace the previous defense station," replied Max.

"That is _fantastic,_ " she said, in a tone that conveyed rather the opposite sentiment to the humans present.

"We must wait a few minutes," said the merchant. "There is a ship of meditation that is scheduled to pass through the portal next. But we will not have to wait a long time here, and we will not have to wait even a short time on the other side of the portal."

"What's going on?" Shanti asked.

"It's a religious thing," Philippe replied quickly. "The Hosts like to make several passes through the portal in order to contemplate it. We're only going back and forth once."

"OK," she said. "Uh, I guess we should get back with the cargo crates then."

"Good idea!" said Philippe, eager to ward off any discussion of the precise reason for their itinerary. He grabbed George, who was staring intently at the planet, clearly fascinated. They went back to the aisle, George still peering around them to look at the planet before them. The brightness of the sun didn't seem to bother him at all.

Philippe noticed that George's eyes were now a silvery-gray, which gave him a nasty start. Then he remembered that the SFers had artificial corneas.

Behind George, Philippe saw something move. "Oh, hey," he said, pointing. "It's the meditation ship—they're going through the portal."

"You know, they've got a shitload of satellites, and they all look nasty," muttered Shanti. "I mean, that looks like a whole fucking defense grid around their home planet. We don't have anything like that around Earth."

"Well, they've had almost a thousand years to develop it," George muttered back.

They were both staring at the planet—or, more likely, at the defenses surrounding it. But Philippe had never actually watched a ship go through a portal, so he decided to look at the larger cake dish—this one loaded with Hosts, their orange and red bodies clustered together like autumn leaves—as it passed through.

It was a little spooky—the front end of the ship just disappeared, as though it were passing behind an invisible door, and soon the whole thing was gone.

Then their ship began to approach the portal, which was encircled by an elaborate and brilliant filigree of lights. It was a spectacular marker, much bigger than the one on the other side, made up of lights that appeared to move and change color.

_They celebrate the portal,_ Philippe thought. _Their attitude is so different from Earth's_.

As they got closer and closer, Philippe became more and more fascinated by the lights. The pattern of the filigree somehow looked both angular and flowing. It was unfamiliar but beautiful, and Philippe wondered if it was totally unlike anything on Earth, or if the possible shapes and combinations of shapes in the universe were finite, and if you looked through the entire history of human art you would find this exact pattern decorating a silk brocade or a wooden icon or a clay pot.

He strained his neck looking up at the pattern of lights as they traveled under it. He realized that the filigree was three-dimensional, with parts of it looping out and behind the main plane directly above him.

Then he realized something that sent a shock of cold through his body: He could still see the filigree. It was still sunny.

They were still _there_.

"The hell?" said George.

"Fucking portal's fucking broken," said Shanti, her voice just a tiny bit higher and faster than normal. She pointed her finger in the direction of the planet. "And what the fuck's that?"
Chapter 18

Philippe looked in the direction she was pointing. In the dark space on the far side of the planet from the sun, several round discs of yellow light were fading.

"Human diplomat, how is this possible?"

It was Max. Philippe looked at him blankly for a moment. "I don't know," he said.

"Why are you fucking asking him?" asked Shanti, annoyed, as she stepped out from the cargo containers. "Holy fuck, it's not like it's his fucking portal."

The barrage of obscenities snapped Philippe's attention into focus. "I apologize to you for my companion's harsh language," he said to Max, earning an eye roll from Shanti.

"It is of no significance," said Max. "Copulation, while not sacred in our culture, is highly valued. But have you no insight to offer regarding the portal? Such an event has never before been recorded that I have knowledge of, and I have studied the portals my entire life. If the portals fail to operate, I believe that would be a tremendous disaster to many people."

"I'm afraid—" Philippe began, but he was interrupted by the horrible shrieking. He was suddenly hauled backward and dragged among the cargo containers by George. Shanti followed him. Weapons materialized in their hands.

The shrieking cut out and a loud chirping began. "What is it?" Shanti yelled.

"An alarm," said Max. "We have been instructed to come to the defense station."

_Do they think we're responsible?_ Philippe wondered.

"Because of the portal?" he asked.

"No," Max replied. "Because we are unarmed and there is an attack."

"That there?" Shanti said, still yelling, pointing back toward the planet.

Philippe looked where she was pointing. The discs had faded, but he thought he saw a flash or two, like far-away lightning in a cloud.

The chirping continued, and the four Hosts startled.

Max looked at Philippe. His expression was one of utter bafflement. "This cannot be a true thing," he said.

"What is it?" asked Philippe, trying to keep the crawling hysteria out of his voice.

Max's expression of bafflement slowly and painfully changed into one of despair.

"The attackers are the Cyclopes," he said.

Half an hour later, Philippe was sitting on a low platform in what were allegedly guest quarters in the defense station. Shanti and George were sitting alongside him.

"Well, Philippe," said Shanti, "you were right about the Cyclopes."

"I'd give my left arm to have been wrong," Philippe confessed.

"At least it wasn't Earth who attacked," said George. "As it is, most of the Hosts didn't seem exactly thrilled to see us."

They sat for a moment.

"Their weapons fire looks _bizarre,_ " said Shanti. "It looked like they use beams of some kind."

George nodded with enthusiasm. "Yeah, yeah, I saw that, too, right before we came in. There were explosions but also all these _beams_ , of light or something. You think it's lasers, or something else?"

Philippe looked at them, puzzled. "I didn't see anything like that—I mean, I just thought I saw some flashes."

"You missed _that?_ " asked Shanti.

"He doesn't have—" George pointed two of the fingers on one hand at his eyes. "You know, Nature Boy."

Philippe looked around the room, feeling suddenly ashamed of his eyes and their sad lack of artificiality.

There wasn't much to see, though—the room was bare. It was lighter in color than the diplomatic station, but otherwise similar in design to Max and Moritz's office.

They were probably sitting on a desk, Philippe realized.

He remained seated anyway.

"It's weird not knowing what's going on," he said. Shanti and George looked at him. "Outside, I mean. It's weird not to know how the battle is going."

"Not really," said Shanti, as George shrugged. "You usually don't when you're fighting. You don't have the big picture; you just know what you're doing."

They fell quiet again.

"That must have been what they were after!" Philippe exclaimed.

The other two gave him puzzled looks.

"The Cyclops who attacked me—he was trying to take something from a merchant's room," he continued, excited. "And then the merchant we traveled here with, he told me that the Cyclopes wanted information from him about how he conducted his trade with the Host planet."

They stared at him in silence for a moment that was long enough to make Philippe feel rather silly.

"It's—" he began

"Defense information," said Shanti, slowly. "Of course."

Philippe nodded. "Defense, or maybe navigation. Something like that."

"How _did_ they get here, anyway?" asked George.

" _That's_ a fucking good question," Shanti replied.

"They didn't go through the portal," said George. "We would have seen them."

"Maybe they snuck through earlier," said Philippe.

"An entire invasion force?" asked Shanti.

"Um, maybe they've been sneaking through for a while? Just a couple of ships at a time?" he replied.

Shanti mused for a moment.

"You saw the defense system here. I don't think that's possible," she said. "And they would have had to sneak an entire armada through the space near the Host's diplomatic station. Also not possible, even if you're just doing a couple of ships at a time. That space is crawling with surveillance—ours, theirs, and everybody else's."

She stood up and began to pace, her brow furrowed.

Philippe watched her as she walked. "Did they find a new portal?" she asked her pacing feet. "One that the Hosts don't know about? One that just happens to lead here from their planet? No. Not unless they are the luckiest sons of bitches alive.

"They must have some new technology—better engines, something that lets them travel faster than light." She pivoted on a foot, and smacked one hand into the other. "They want to attack the Hosts, to show them who's boss. They develop this technology, but they need intelligence, information about the defenses and maybe the exact location of the planet. So they make a couple of runs at that first."

"But that didn't work," said Philippe.

"As far as we know," said George. "They might have tried something else that we don't know about that did work."

"Or maybe not," said Shanti, still pacing. "Intelligence is never perfect. Maybe they got tired of waiting."

"Maybe there's something political going on at home," said Philippe.

Shanti stopped suddenly, pointed at Philippe, then dropped her hand and resumed pacing.

"Right, like an election or something where the politicians wanted them to rush in and attack _now,_ and damn the intel," she said. "And why not attack as soon as the ships are ready? Even if this attack doesn't come off, if the Cyclopes have a faster-than-light drive and the Hosts don't, the Cyclopes are in an excellent tactical position. They can reach the Hosts however they want, but the Hosts can only reach them one way, through the portal. That's good choke point—I bet the Cyclopes have incredible defenses around their portal now."

"If that's the case," said George, "why not make some small attacks first? Probe the defenses or send surveillance?"

"Surprise," said Shanti, smacking one hand against the other.

"They don't want the other aliens to know and intervene?" ventured Philippe.

"No, that doesn't make sense," said Shanti. "They shut down the portal—they've cut the Hosts off from the other aliens."

"Unless they didn't know that was going to happen," said George.

Shanti stopped pacing and stared at him.

"How would they test a portal-closing weapon anyway?" the doctor continued. "The Hosts monitor all the portals that open to the diplomatic station, and the portal to the Cyclopes planet has never closed, right? The Hosts are certainly acting like something like this has never happened before."

"I'm certain they would have mentioned it if it had," said Philippe. "They're very attached to the portals, and they watch them obsessively."

"The only other explanation is that the Cyclopes found a bunch of new portals that _don't_ lead to the Hosts' diplomatic station, and then used them to test and develop a portal-closer," said George. "They'd have to be _very_ lucky to have done that. I think it's more likely that they closed the portal by accident. Maybe these new engines have that effect."

"Wouldn't they know?" asked Shanti.

"Only if they tested them near their portal," George replied. "And I can think of a million reasons not to test a technology designed to fight the Hosts anywhere near a portal that leads directly to the Host station."

"We certainly wouldn't," said Philippe. "And the Cyclopes are if anything more paranoid than we are."

Shanti nodded. "It makes sense." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Assuming the Cyclopes closed the portal in the first place."

"It's a hell of a coincidence if they didn't," said George. "But I suppose we don't know for sure."

"We don't know much of anything," Shanti replied, ruefully. She sat down and sighed. "But, boy, Max sure seemed to think _you_ knew something, right, Philippe? About the portal, and about that prophecy? What's that all about, anyway?"

Philippe thought for a moment. Her question was more rhetorical than anything else—she was trying to commiserate, not trying to get an answer.

But he might be able to _find_ answers. And considering the circumstances, it would be immoral of him not to try.

He took a deep breath.

And he told them. _Everything._

It was amazing how liberating it was—Philippe felt a growing thrill of exhilaration as he talked, as he told the _whole_ truth. It was a shame that he hadn't felt this way in so long. _The truth will set you free,_ he thought as he spoke, feeling the full power of those words.

And then he was done.

Shanti and George did not look nearly as elated as he felt. Shanti got on her feet and walked quickly to the far side of the room. Then she walked back and stood in front of the doctor.

Her voice was low, but furious. "He told you all that, and you didn't say shit to me?"

"He didn't tell me all _that,_ " George replied.

"I edited," said Philippe, eager to defend George.

"Edited?" Shanti snapped, whipping around to him. "That's one word for it."

"Shanti, please," said George, adopting what Philippe now recognized as his professional persona—the calm, confident medical professional who could surely fix your problem.

He turned to Philippe, allowing a hint of a concern to creep into his expression. _Damn, he's good,_ thought Philippe.

"I wish you had told me all this sooner, Philippe," George said. "I'm not upset with you, and I'm not judging you, but this is worrying to me. It's not that you saw something that wasn't there; it's that you're allowing a hallucination to govern your decision making."

Philippe tried to match George's sensible demeanor—the more rational he seemed, the more likely it was that they would believe him. He had a professional persona, too.

"I don't think it is a hallucination, George," he said, calmly. "Patch saw the alien, too, he told me about it. I thought that was just coincidence, but—did you tell him, or anyone, about my problems?"

"I maintained your confidentiality," George said, as though that point were inconsequential.

"No shit!" Shanti burst out. Her composure was nonexistent. "Yes or no, George—did he go back to Earth on your orders?"

George gave her an exasperated look. "It was my recommendation that Philippe take a vacation, yes."

"Your _medical_ recommendation," Shanti replied. "And you didn't tell me—I thought it was just a normal vacation. You asshole."

"He didn't tell you that he wanted me to go back to Earth?" asked Philippe.

"Fuck, no," said Shanti. "I thought you were going on holiday, not a fucking rest cure."

"He's one of my patients, not one of your soldiers, Shanti," said George, firmly.

She opened her mouth to reply, but Philippe interrupted. "If George didn't tell anyone, then why did Patch see my Host when he was on Earth? He was—" He paused for a moment, but then realized that everyone present knew quite well how Patch usually spent his leave. "He was flying, and he saw a golden, glowing Host who was very anxious and who repeatedly asked him about me—how I was, how I was feeling, if I was OK. The Host wanted Patch to tell him why I was dreaming the things I was dreaming.

"And he was able to tell Patch about one of the nightmares I'd had. I hadn't told anyone about it, not in that kind of detail. But Patch knew all about it, about his birthday party that went wrong and the torture. And the Host wanted to know why all that was in my mind, why I kept seeing such horrible things."

"He wanted to know about Guantánamo," Shanti interrupted, quietly.

Philippe paused, not quite believing his ears. He looked up at her.

"He wanted—?" he asked, gently.

"He wanted to know about Guantánamo," Shanti repeated. She was glaring at him with an equal mixture of astonishment and irritation.

" _What?_ " said George.

Shanti turned to George. "I saw him, too. In a dream—several dreams, actually. I saw a gold Host who wanted to know all about Philippe and his nightmares. He described the dreams to me, and one was of Patch's birthday party, which got interrupted by General Jesus' thugs, who tortured him."

Shanti and George stared at each other for a moment.

" _I'm_ not crazy," she snapped. " _I_ have an _implant._ "

"When did you see him?" Philippe asked.

Shanti was still talking to George. "I _dreamed_ about him, OK? I wasn't _flying,_ I'm not _crazy,_ I didn't fucking _hallucinate._ It was when I was on Titan and on Earth before Arne got sick. The Host was trying to figure Trang out—or I was trying to figure Trang out, something like that. So it was a lot of questions about Guantánamo and stress disorders, that sort of shit. He said that Trang was seeing people getting tortured, and that it was happening over and over."

"And then we got back to the station and you never dreamed about him again, right?" asked Philippe. Shanti stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. "That's because he was back with me. He can't stay with one person when he goes through the portal; he has to go to someone else. So right now, he should be with one of you. We've got to find him and talk to him—he might know something."

Shanti walked to the far end of the room. George was shaking his head.

"What do you think?" she asked, not turning around.

"About what?" George replied, his composure slipping. "Chasing after something you saw in a dream and he hallucinated? Seeking advice from a delusion? Oh, I think that's a _great_ idea."

Shanti turned to George and stared at him for a moment.

"I don't like it either," she said. "But I saw what I saw."

"Come on, George," said Philippe, almost begging. "They're _aliens._ They're mysterious _._ We don't know what they can do."

Shanti shrugged. "They could be telepathic or something. You can't say it's impossible."

They were silent for a moment.

"There's one way to find out," Shanti said. "Put me to sleep."

"What?" asked George.

"That's how I'll see him, right?" she said. "Just get my suit to dope me up, and I'll dream about him."

"I am _not_ going to sedate you," said George. "In case you've missed what's going on, we're in kind of a tight situation here, and we need everyone to be alert and awake."

Shanti thought for a moment. "You can knock me out and then wake me up again—I'll have a hangover, but it shouldn't be too bad. If he's crazy, then we'll know for sure. And if he's not crazy, it might help."

George sighed. He shook his head, and then sighed again. He seemed to come to some sort of decision, and shrugged.

He turned to Philippe. "You say you can see him when you meditate?"

Philippe nodded.

George looked at Shanti. "I'll hypnotize you," he said. "That will put you—"

"—in a deeply relaxed state," Shanti finished. "That's a great idea—you do me, then I'll do you, so we'll know for sure."

"You know how to hypnotize people?" asked Philippe.

"Yeah, it was part of the whole survivalist thing I grew up with," she said. "It was supposed to be for pain management, but we mainly used it to make people wet themselves."

"That's always fun," said George.

"Where do you want to do it?"

The doctor stood up from the platform and gestured at it. "What's wrong with here?"

"Just, uh, just be sure not to put your feet on it," Philippe said, anxiously. "It might be a dining platform, and they have a big taboo about that."

George and Shanti looked at each other for a moment.

"Trang?" said George. "Would you mind waiting outside?"

"Do you think that's OK?" Philippe asked. "Or maybe they want us all to stay in here?"

"I don't think the door's locked," Shanti replied.

Philippe tried the door, and sure enough, it slid open. He stepped out into the hallway, and then looked back at Shanti and George, who were staring at him blankly.

_I'm probably not a very relaxing sight for either of them right now,_ he thought, and quietly closed the door behind him.

The hallway was empty; the doors leading to it were all closed. Their room wasn't under guard, which Philippe hoped was a promising sign.

Nonetheless, their reception on the defense station had been decidedly chilly, and Philippe decided he should stay by the door and not go wandering about. Most of the Hosts they had seen here had not been priests, so presumably they had no translation devices, and Max had not left the portable translator with the humans.

More fundamentally, it had been hard to miss the difference in attitude between the Hosts here and the Hosts on the diplomatic station when they arrived. On the diplomatic station, even the Hosts without translators would thrum and look friendly; here they were all much more guarded, and some were obviously made uncomfortable by the humans. It seemed likely that the Host population at large was not quite as enthusiastic about aliens as, say, Ptuk-Ptik or Max.

It was also entirely possible that the Hosts suspected the three of them of having links to the attack simply by virtue of their being aliens—especially aliens who had shown up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Philippe suspected that their guest quarters could quite easily become their prison cell.

_If our positions were reversed,_ he thought, _any Hosts visiting Earth would fare very poorly._

Philippe sat down on the floor by the door and waited. The walls here were slightly soft, like on the diplomatic station, and the one behind him gave just a bit as Philippe leaned against it. He pushed with his fingers into the floor and decided that it was a tiny bit soft as well. He put his hands to his face, rubbing it through his protective hood. They needed some kind of help, some kind of guidance, from Creepy or anyone, really.

His thoughts were interrupted when another door onto the hallway opened and a Host came out. He looked quizzically at Philippe, who waved. The Host hastily walked away without saying anything audible.

A few minutes later, two Hosts appeared at the end of the hall, hurrying toward Philippe. "Human diplomat," said one of them.

"Max!" said Philippe, standing up. It was Max and the merchant's nephew.

"You are well?" asked the nephew.

"We were told you were suffering," said Max.

"No, no, I am fine, I am quite well," said Philippe, a little puzzled.

"You were on the ground," said the nephew. "We were told that you were seen on the ground and flailing in agony."

"We thought perhaps you had fallen," said Max.

"No, I was just sitting, resting," said Philippe. "I was on the ground, but I was just resting."

"I understand," said Max, looking relieved. "I believe you were seen by one of the soldiers, who thought you were in distress. Among the Hosts, people lay their bodies on the floor only if they are sick or injured."

"Were you seen by a soldier?" asked the nephew.

"I was seen by a Host whom I did not know," said Philippe. "He may have been a solider."

"It is extremely simple to determine if a Host is a soldier with certainty," replied the nephew. "If you examine the markings on the third bodily segment, soldiers are marked very clearly as such, just as priests and merchants are."

_Really?_ thought Philippe.

"How is your planet faring against the attack?" he asked. "Has the portal reopened?"

Max's face fell. "It has not," he replied. "The soldiers have put our defenses fully into action. The planet itself remains protected, although we have not yet been able to repulse the attackers. The portal has not reopened, which is a source of great concern and despair."

"Why is that?" asked Philippe. "Is it important to your defense?"

"Not in a physical manner," said the priest.

"The defenses were largely built with the expectation that any attack would come through the portal, however," said the nephew. "The large weapon on this station cannot be aimed elsewhere but at the portal."

"That design was always considered improper by the priests," Max said.

"Has this ever happened before?"

Max looked shocked by the question. "Never since the portal opened," he said. "We have never been attacked by our friends."

"Do you know what the Cyclopes want?" asked Philippe.

"Dominion," Max replied, glumly. "They want governance of the diplomatic station—which is, of course, completely improper—as well as pledges that we will send them items of value for no restitution and acknowledge their superiority in some symbolic fashion."

"Endless Courage and Brave Loyalty broadcast the demands. They are here on the attack ships," said the nephew. "Cannot translate is extremely unhappy."

"He refers to his uncle the merchant," said Max.

"I apologize," said the nephew.

"I take absolutely no offense," said Philippe. "I share your uncle's distress at that news, and he has my sympathies. I, too, believed that I had established a trusting relationship with them, particularly with Brave—"

The door opened. George was standing in the doorway, looking perplexed.

"Oh, hello," said Philippe.

"I, um, I think we found him," said George, scratching the side of his neck and closing the door behind him. "Your, ahem, your prophecy guy."

"He means your messiah," said Philippe to Max.

Max immediately brightened up. _He's excited, but he's not surprised,_ Philippe realized.

"Shanti wants to talk to your military commanders right away," George said.

"I will tell them," said Max, hurrying away.

"Well, but, uh—she needs something to draw with, too," said George to Max's retreating form. He turned to Philippe. "Do you think they'll listen to her?"

"She is a female," said the nephew. "They may not do what she says to do, but they will listen to her as she says it."

Shanti opened the door and walked out. Her eyes were half closed, and her face was without expression. There were tears on her face, and she was breathing like she'd been running.

George jumped when he saw her, but quickly recovered. "Shanti, please tell me where you are going," he said, his voice deep and calming.

"To speak with the Host military command," she replied. Philippe saw her eyelids flutter. "It's very important."

"You can do that in just a little while," said George in a soporific voice. "We're setting that up right now, so you can relax about it and stay relaxed. What I want you to do is to take a nice, deep breath, and with that breath I want you to return to that nice, relaxed state, that nice, relaxed hypnotic state."

She inhaled deeply, and her eyelids stopped moving.

"It is OK if I touch your arm?" George asked. Shanti nodded. "I'm going to lead you back into that room, and then we'll come out again when they're ready for you. They'll be ready and listening in just a little while."

"OK," she said. George led her back through the doorway and closed the door, still looking perplexed.

Philippe and the nephew stood nervously outside the door until a Host came up, chirping. "He is here to take us to the commanders," said the nephew.

Philippe opened the door. Shanti was sitting on the platform, her arms out. Her palms were turned upward and her index fingers and thumbs were touching. "Now you've got Twinkle," George was saying.

"They're ready for us," Philippe said.

"Is it OK if I touch your arm?" George asked Shanti. She nodded. "OK, I'm going to lead you over to the Host military command."

She stood up, and they began walking.

They followed the Host, who led them through the wide corridors to a room. Despite the differences in design—the proportions were way off, and instead of there being stairs, the floor slanted upward—it was obvious to Philippe that this room served as a small auditorium. Max stood at the lowest point in the floor, facing platforms behind which stood a number of somber-looking Hosts. Philippe noted with relief that Max had placed the portable translator on the floor.

"Do you have something she can draw with?" asked George. The portable translator chirped.

"Yes, this drawing utensil," said Max, holding a rather chubby-looking cylinder.

George looked at it. "Can you please explain to her how to use it?"

"Yes. Greetings, taller female human," said Max.

Shanti didn't respond.

"Max is talking to you, Shanti," said George. "He's going to call you taller female human."

"Oh," she said, straightening her posture further.

Max showed her how to use the drawing utensil—apparently if you held it at the right angle, it emitted what looked like a laser beam. That didn't seem very helpful until Max showed that if you pointed it at the wall behind you, the wall held the mark. Point the other end, and a different colored beam erased the mark.

"Now, we're here in front of the Host military command," said George. "Since you know how to draw using that device now, I want you to start your presentation, using that device to make any drawings. The Hosts are over here," he faced her in that direction, "and the drawing board is back here." He faced her the other way.

"OK," said Shanti. She turned to face the Hosts and threw up her right arm, which held the drawing device.

"We will begin by outlining some basic principles that we believe, once fully understood, will provide important practical insight into the nature of the Cyclopes faster-than-light engine and of the portal from your home world to the diplomatic station, which recently closed."

Shanti's voice had suddenly turned loud and brisk, as though she were addressing her unit but had somehow forgotten to use obscenities. Her right arm, seemingly of its own accord, began sketching furiously as she continued, her half-closed eyes not once looking at the elaborate drawing emerging on the wall behind her.

"While disabling the Cyclopes engine at the moment lies beyond our comprehension, we believe that we have uncovered the theoretical understanding needed to reopen the portal, thus contacting the other alien species and, we hope, obtaining their assistance in this crisis. We begin with the eighteenth blossom of energy, which we have sketched out here."

Philippe looked at the drawing on the wall. It looked nothing like a blossom.

Shanti continued to draw, modifying her sketch as she spoke without looking at it. She talked at a brisk clip, enunciating clearly and never much varying the tone of her voice. Philippe had never seen her look so professional, although he had no idea what she was talking about.

Finally she said, "We'd like to mention a theory popular on Earth, called string theory. Specifically, some of the insights from the third string revolution we think will shed some light on this matter."

"Excuse my interruption," said a voice in Philippe's earplant, as a Host in the second row chirped.

"OK," said Shanti, in a quieter voice.

"You said that this theory of strings was originated on your planet?"

Shanti paused, and then regained her professional composure. "String theory was developed on Earth. It is somewhat dated, but we think you'll see that some of the ideas have some interesting and relevant parallels to some of the ideas we've just presented."

"Where does the eighteenth blossom of energy come from?" asked the Host.

Shanti swayed from side to side, and then stopped. "That one's yours," she said.

"It once was," said the Host. "It is an ancient theory. It was popular during the lifetime of cannot translate. Do you know of him?"

Philippe thought he heard the Host say _kre_ and _nao,_ although it was hard to hear his voice over the earplant.

"Who?" asked Shanti in a small voice.

"Cannot translate," said the Host, and Philippe was sure he heard _kre_ followed by a _ki_ and a _nao._ "Do you know of him or his song?"

"No?" she asked. Her eyelids began to flutter again.

"Shanti, I think they're talking about that Host you saw or, um, are seeing," said Philippe. "The gold one."

"He sings?" she asked.

There was a slight rustling as apparently every Host in the room felt the need to shift his feet. The room fell silent, and Philippe realized that the atmosphere had changed from one of curious attention to something closer to awe.

A couple of the Hosts began to thrum.

"What should we do to reopen the portal?" asked the Host.

Shanti paused, her eyelids relaxing again. She reached out with the drawing implement and speedily erased the image on the wall.

"Since the Cyclopes faster-than-light engine essentially creates a short-lived portal, our recommended course of action is: 1. Acquire a Cyclopes ship that is powered by a faster-than-light engine. 2. Position said ship in the center of the closed portal. 3. Detonate the ship. It will require significant explosive firepower in order to bring the engine up to the appropriate energy level, but once that firepower is achieved, the portal should immediately reopen and remain stable."

"We obey," said the Host.

A few moments later the room was clear of all the Hosts except for Max. George was holding Shanti's arm and slowly counting backwards.

He reached one, and she blinked. "You did it," the doctor said.

"That was fucking weird," she replied. "Interesting, but fucking weird."

"He's gone?" asked Philippe.

"For now," Shanti said. "Max! I wanna see what's going on. Can you take us to tactical?"

"I obey," said Max.

"That's what I like to hear," Shanti replied.

They followed Max out. Philippe increased his pace to catch up with the Host.

"I wasn't the chosen one after all," he said.

"No, I was mistaken in that belief," said Max.

They walked on in silence.

"Do you think Moritz is going to be upset, still?" Philippe asked.

"The chosen one may not be a Host, but at least the chosen one is female," Max replied. He stopped a soldier and explained where they wanted to go; the soldier immediately changed direction, and thrumming away, took them toward what Philippe assumed was tactical.

"I thought that you guys said that most Hosts didn't know the prophecy," said Philippe as they walked. "Those guys sure seemed to know it pretty well."

"They do not know every word of it," said Max. "Only the priests know that, and only priests see the image. But everyone is trained to identify the chosen one."

They followed the soldier into a large, dark room, and Philippe gasped. On the wall were large video images of the fight, but his attention was seized by a three-dimensional graphic of the battle that took up the middle of the floor. At first Philippe thought the whole thing was some sort of projection, but he realized by watching the Host move across the floor that there were clear columns rising from the floor, each of which contained an image of a specific area of space, with different colored icons representing ships and satellites.

Philippe looked at the walls and the displays, trying to figure out which ships belong to which side. Neither side had warships that were clear like the Host merchant vessels, however. Instead, there were ships that were angular, almost like a W, that shot missiles, and there were round ships that shot what looked like liquid fire.

_What do they burn in space?_ Philippe wondered.

He thought at first that the round ships must be the Cyclopes ships, because a species that could shoot beams from its body seemed likely to build ships that also shot beams. But he asked Max, who told him that the round ships were the Hosts and the angular ships were the Cyclopes.

One Cyclopes ship in particular dominated the wall screens. Several Host ships were picking at it with their beams of liquid fire. They were joined by several gigantic, multi-tailed versions of the little tow-pods that the Hosts had once used to grab Earth satellites when they went through the Titan portal. These ships began to grip the Cyclopes ship with their whiplike extensions, like a mob of octopi.

The three-dimensional graphic gave another perspective: It showed a cluster of Host ships around one Cyclopes ship—and it showed the other Host ships being outflanked and punished as a result of this concentration of forces.

There was a hubbub, and Max said, "On the screen, you can see that the Cyclopes ship has been captured."

And so it had been—four or five giant tow-pods had their whips about it.

"What will they do if the Cyclopes use their faster-than-light engine?" Philippe asked.

"We will capture a second ship," said Max.

But the Cyclopes were either unable or unwilling to engage the ship's engine, and it was cut off from the other Cyclopes ships by the Hosts. The tow-pods dragged the captive ship just in front of the filigree circle that marked the now-closed portal and held it there.

"Can they evacuate before their ship is destroyed?" asked Philippe.

"The people in the towing ships? I do not think that will be possible," said Max. "But they know for what their sacrifice is being made."

"I meant—that's bad, too. What about the Cyclopes?"

Max looked uncomfortable. "Even if they were to evacuate, their own ships cannot pick them up here, and the planetary defenses are activated and will automatically destroy all alien vessels that approach them." He looked at Philippe. "It is regrettable, but this is our first space war, and we have not had the opportunity to prepare to be civilized."

The station began to shudder.

"What's that?" asked Philippe.

"The station is preparing to fire its most powerful weapon," said Max.

A deep roar began from far beneath their feet.

"Oh, shit," muttered Shanti. "I hope I haven't fucked my sister."
Chapter 19

The noise was incredible, a hundred times worse than taking off in a rocket. It tore through Philippe's very being, rattling his eye sockets. The monitors on the walls showed the massive beam of fire in the instant before it hit the Cyclopes ship.

Philippe felt his stomach twist as a cold sensation traveled up through his body, making his teeth chatter and his hands shake. _Get away,_ he thought.

But they could not. The fire engulfed the Cyclopes ship, the tow-pods, and the filigree, destroying all in an instant.

"Keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going," said Shanti, steadily.

"Continue. The chosen one says to continue and to continue," Max translated.

The river of flame flowed through what now appeared to be empty space. _What in God's name does she want?_ Philippe wondered.

As though in answer, a bright explosion of violet light emerged from the center of the flames.

"Cease fire! Cease fire! We did it!" Shanti yelled.

"She says to end the flames; we have accomplished our purpose," said Max.

The beam ceased, revealing a violet corona around where the explosion had been.

"Yeah," said Shanti with a smile. "There you are, motherfucker."

Max wisely chose not to attempt translation. Just then, a Host soldier ran in holding the portable translation device. _I guess we left that in the conference room,_ Philippe thought.

"Is it done?" asked George.

"I think so," said Shanti.

George scowled at the screens. "It doesn't look any different. That light should be straddling the portal, right? But it's all on this side."

"It's just light," Shanti replied. "It's OK, it isn't matter."

George looked incredulous. "But there has to be something giving off that light, right?"

Shanti gave a brief bark of laughter. "Try not to worry about it. See there, I think that's a message probe going to get help. When it— _shit!_ "

"Oh, goody, more surprises," said George.

The satellite had collided with something that was coming through the portal from the other side—something very big and very dark. It glistened in the sunlight like polished onyx. It didn't seem to have a definite shape, instead extruding itself through the portal like paste from a tube.

The tactical room was completely silent for a moment. Even the ships near the portal seemed to stop in wonder. A rainbow of colors flashed in the depths of the dark, semi-transparent body as it flowed out of the portal.

A Cyclopes ship, which had been attempting a rescue of its captured brethren, was the first to react, zipping around the momentarily flabbergasted Host ships and shooting a missile at the new threat.

The missile struck the front end of the visitor, burrowing in and exploding. A chunk was blown off and began to drift toward the Cyclopes ship. As it traveled, the chunk dissolved into a dark mist. The mist quickly caught up to the Cyclopes ship and surrounded it in a sooty cloud. Then the cloud contracted, covering the ship like a coat of paint.

_Oh, no,_ thought Philippe.

The Cyclopes ship was in sunlight, so everyone in the tactical room could see when its humid atmosphere began to vent into space. The crew must have been desperately trying to seal off sections of the ship, for the white atmosphere came out in bursts—some vapor would vent, and then there would be a pause, and then more venting. Philippe watched in horror as the dark mist lifted off the dead ship, which floated aimlessly until the defense station's secondary guns cut it into ribbons.

"Greetings," said a flat-yet-familiar voice behind him. Simultaneously, his earplant repeated the same word.

Philippe turned. It was, of course, the Magic Man.

"Display no hostility toward this person, he is one of our friends who is divinely ordained to assist us in our time of need," Max told the room.

_He is a monster,_ thought Philippe.

He knew that the thought was unfair, but he was looking at a creature out of a nightmare. At the moment, the Magic Man was only about a meter tall and about as wide. Presumably in order to speak to both species, he had taken on the shape of a human head and torso and roughly half a Host body stuck together.

"Hey, there," said Shanti. "You came to help us!"

"No," replied the head of a beloved senior political figure. "I came to help those of the body who have been attacked by those also of the body."

"You mean the Hosts," said Philippe. "You're here to help the Hosts."

"They are of the body," replied the Magic Man.

"We're helping them, too, but I gotta admit, you're way better at it than we are," said Shanti. She pointed to one of the screens, which displayed the long, tubular body that had emerged from the portal. "Is that all you, like, you personally?"

"Yes," said the Magic Man's human head. The alien's Host half began to chirp. "I have arrived among you to obtain advice regarding how best to eliminate this threat," said Philippe's earplant.

"You are following your destiny, and we commend you," said Max. "We must prevent the portal from closing again. We believe that the new engine technology on the Cyclopes ships closes the portal, and it is extremely important that they not be used. If you would be willing to disable those engines, it would be a great help to us."

"Why is a priest—?" George began, but Philippe shushed him. He was actually wondering the same thing, but the room was filled with Host soldiers. If none of them was objecting to Max taking leadership of a military operation, Philippe certainly wasn't going to.

"I am willing," said the Magic Man.

On the wall screens, the long, iridescent tube suddenly sped off. Some Host technician switched to a wider view of the battle, showing the Host ships and Cyclopes vessels trading fire. The tube passed through the scene like a comet, its end dissolving off until the entire thing turned into a dark vapor that settled onto the Cyclopes ships.

"What are you doing?" asked Philippe, trying to keep the apprehension out of his voice.

"I am eliminating those responsible for operating the new technology," said the Magic Man.

Philippe stood, feeling like a dead man.

"What did he say?" asked Max.

Philippe looked at him blankly for a moment.

"He spoke to you in your language," said the Host, apologetically. "He does not wear translation gear, and this portable translation device can translate directly only from Host speech, not human speech. I do not wish to inconvenience you with my questions, but—"

"He is killing the Cyclopes who run the engines," said Philippe.

Max looked at the Magic Man, disbelieving.

"Is his translation accurate?" he asked.

"Yes," said the Magic Man.

Max stood for a moment. "You are killing the engine crews?" he asked.

"Yes."

"On every Cyclopes ship?"

"Yes."

Max flinched. "Why did you choose not to disable the engines themselves?" he asked.

"I am unfamiliar with the engine technology, and it would take time to determine how to disable the engines," said the Magic Man. "I am already familiar with the bodily operations of the Cyclopes, thus it is more efficient to eliminate them."

Everyone was silent for a moment.

"What if they bring in new crews?" asked Shanti.

"For the short term, I will maintain a lethal presence in the area where the engines are located," said the Magic Man, with both heads.

Philippe turned to Max. "You have to talk with the Cyclopes, you have to tell them to keep their people out of their engine rooms."

"I agree," said Max, turning to a soldier. "Establish contact with the Cyclopes liaisons."

"Yeah, yeah," said Shanti, stepping over to the priest. "Now's the time to negotiate and get a cease-fire, too. You let them know that we've got them by the short—that we've really got the advantage now."

"Tell them to stay out of the engine rooms, or they're going to die," said Philippe.

"That is an unnecessary effort," said the Magic Man's human head. "A part of the body may not attack another part of the body."

The humans were silent again, while Max hovered over a Host soldier in blissful ignorance.

"Or what?" asked Philippe. "What happens?"

"The corrupted sub-body is eliminated," said the Magic Man.

"Hosts, I comprehend that you have not lost your aptitude for poisoning," said Philippe's earplant.

He turned to see who was talking. One of the screens showed Endless Courage and Brave Loyalty standing together in a room.

"It wasn't them," said Philippe. "You're in a lot more trouble than you realize."

"That is an emphatically nonsensical comment, made solely in an attempt to deceive," said Endless Courage. "This time, our ships are to fulfill our expectations and not turn back. All you have done is behave in a manner that is very emphatically shameful, and to ensure that our behavior will be very emphatically without shame."

"The remaining people on your ships could be killed," said Max. "The portal is reopened. Our friends can help us now, and with their help, we will overpower your forces."

"More Cyclopes ships shall follow, and more," said Endless Courage. "Shame shall be eradicated."

"So says our leadership," said Brave Loyalty. "And none may question their lack of shame."

Philippe turned to the Magic Man, who had already grown a third appendage that presumably enabled him to hear and speak the Cyclopes language, although it didn't really look familiar.

"Tell them," Philippe said. "Tell everyone, tell all of us, in every language. Tell us all what you are going to do because the Cyclopes attacked the Hosts."

"I will eliminate the corrupted sub-body," said the Magic Man's three appendages.

"What does that mean?" Philippe asked. "Are you going to kill all the Cyclopes on the ships here, even if they surrender?"

"Yes."

"Then are you going to stop killing Cyclopes?"

"No."

"Where will you kill them next?"

"I will return through the portal and eliminate the members of the corrupted sub-body on the station," said the Magic Man. "Then I will go through the portal that leads to the planet of the Cyclopes and will eliminate them there. Then I will seek out secondary colonies or other ships in that region of space and will eliminate them there. That should eliminate the great majority of that sub-body. If at a later time I find other members of that sub-body elsewhere I will eliminate them at that time."

"Because you believe that the entire sub-body—and by that, you mean every individual Cyclops, regardless of age or occupation—is corrupted and must be eliminated," said Philippe.

"Yes."

Aside from the underlying noise of the station, the tactical room was silent. Max had an expression on his face that Philippe had never seen on a Host before. _Max is terrified,_ he realized.

"That assumption is faulty." It was George.

"You are not of the body," said the Magic Man.

"Nonetheless, I attempted to protect you," said Philippe. "He and I are of the same body, and I think you should listen to him."

"An entire sub-body doesn't have to be corrupt for the whole thing to act wrong," said George. "In our bodies, a diseased organ can act in a way that is harmful to the health of the overall body. But that doesn't mean you eliminate the entire organ—that won't help the larger body either. Instead, you eliminate the disease. Once you do that, the organ will return to its normal function, and the body is much healthier."

"Yes, yes," said Philippe. "You keep talking about the body, but you're thinking about _your_ body. All the parts of your body are basically the same, aren't they? They follow a single will. But with our bodies and the Hosts' bodies and the Cyclopes' bodies, the parts are different. The members of the Cyclopes sub-body are different, too—they're individuals, and they each have their own will. They just aren't always free to express it."

"That is nonsensical," said the Magic Man.

"Other people are mysterious," said Max, looking at the Magic Man with apprehension and revulsion.

"They are not so mysterious to your people that your people chose not to combine them into a single body," replied the Magic Man.

"But that body is different from your body, correct?" said George. "It behaves differently. You have a body, and it is part of a larger body—but that body doesn't follow the same rules as your own sub-body. In other species, that principle also works the other way. The Cyclopes are a sub-body, but within that sub-body are other, smaller sub-bodies, and they don't all follow the same will."

"Why then do these other sub-bodies not make their will known?" asked the Magic Man.

"Disease," said George.

"Dictatorship," said Philippe.

"The bad guys won't let 'em," said Shanti.

An idea came to Philippe in an instant, fully formed.

"I'll prove it to you," he said to the Magic Man. "We'll prove it to you."

He turned to the screen, alive with hope. "Brave Loyalty, you once said to me that you thought the Cyclops who attacked me acted despicably. We now believe that that Cyclops was acting on orders from your leadership in order to help your people prepare for this attack. Tell me what you honestly think of those orders and that leadership."

Endless Courage made a whining sound, and shuddered, looking at Brave Loyalty. The second Cyclops stood absolutely still.

"Come on," said Philippe. "Tell me."

"Speak of your very emphatic loyalty," said Endless Courage, pacing away from the screen.

"You think that it was all shameful, don't you?" asked Philippe.

Brave Loyalty stared at the monitor, inscrutable.

"Come on. It's OK," said Philippe, begging now. "Come on and say it."

Finally, Brave Loyalty spoke.

"Human diplomat," he said, "if I answer your question with honesty, tell me what the result will be?"

"Your people will live," said George.

"All of them? My leaders?" the Cyclops replied. "I perceive what you wish to accomplish and the role you wish for me to play, and it would be very emphatically shameful. You wish for me to arrange to have my leaders assassinated by that freakish creature. And who would the new leader of the Cyclopes be, if not that same abomination? You wish for me to betray my entire planet and place it under the leadership of that hideous entity in order to prevent my own death."

"You would be saving your entire species from a threat your leaders brought down upon you," said Philippe.

Brave Loyalty twisted his arms in a gesture designed to convey—anger? defiance? resignation? sadness? "Who has the greater shame?" he asked. "The leader who acts shamefully, or the Cyclops who betrays that leader?"

"You can't be serious, you can't be!" Philippe realized that he was yelling, that he had completely lost control, but he didn't care. "He'll kill you all! What's wrong with you? Don't you understand that? Don't you care?"

"Death is unavoidable. Death creates life. Shame is not and does not," said Brave Loyalty. "I have served without shame and operated within the fields my entire life, and if I am to die, I will do so in the same manner and within the fields. If I am to die, that is as it is. The betrayal you seek shall not come from me."

When the bolt hit him, the humans gasped and a Host shrieked, but Brave Loyalty made no noise. His body convulsed under the constant pummeling of the electrical discharge.

It let up for a moment, and he took a few steps away from the screen— _he has to die running,_ thought Philippe. Another bolt of white electricity hit him. Brave Loyalty staggered for a moment; his legs gave way and his gray body slowly collapsed. He fell below the monitor's field of vision.

Endless Courage stepped in front the screen. He moved slowly and staggered slightly. He looked drained.

"Magic Man, the humans are right," he said. "Some of the Cyclopes are poison. I believe that this attack on the Hosts was a very emphatically shameful action, and I opposed it, but I was unable to express my will because those who are corrupt had superior strength. Seeing your emphatically superior strength, I have executed this one to demonstrate the sincerity of my desire to purge our people of shamefulness. Please help me eliminate the emphatically shameful corruption from our body."

"The fuck?" said Shanti.

Philippe shushed her.

Everyone was still for a moment.

"I accept your theory," said a flat voice in Union English.

And the Magic Man melted away.

At first, they went back among the cargo containers.

"Why are we—? We can't keep _this_ a fucking secret," Shanti muttered, so they walked out onto the deck of the merchant's ship again.

George let out a small, slightly hysterical laugh. "All that, and we never got to see the planet!" he exclaimed.

They watched in silence as the Cyclopes ships passed through the portal. One by one, they were swallowed by the void.

"Does anyone know where they're going?" asked George, after the last one vanished.

"Wherever the Magic Man fucking tells them to," Shanti replied in a dead voice.

"Probably back to their home planet," said Philippe.

"Probably."

"Yeah, he has to kill off their leadership," said George. He laughed again, a little more hysterically this time, and put his hands to his head.

" _Fuck!_ " he yelled, making Shanti and Philippe jump.

They all started to laugh, shakily. It quickly stopped, but something, some part of the tension, had been released.

"Yeah," said Shanti. "He's a hell of a guy, and he's got a hell of a second." She put her hands to her head, too, and then dropped them, as though too spent to even attempt to ease the pain.

She turned to Philippe, looking at him like a child. "Philippe, what the fuck is going to happen? You all saw what I did, right? Endless Courage, like, totally fucking fried his buddy to save his own ass. He's a lying asshole."

Philippe shrugged his shoulders. He was spent—too spent to play the good dad, too spent to come up with some soothing half-truth that would put everyone at ease.

"And now, with his help, the Magic Man is going to wipe out the Cyclopes' leadership," Shanti continued. "God only knows how many people that's going to be. But I'm sure Endless Courage will be sitting pretty at the end of it—the Magic Man's right-hand man, ready to take over. Christ! What a fucking asshole!"

"It's terrible, yeah," Philippe said. "But, honestly, sometimes the assholes are your best bet. Their self-interest makes them pragmatic."

They fell silent. They were all just too wiped out, too tired.

_We just want to go home,_ Philippe thought.

Their ship began moving toward the portal, which had been hurriedly marked out by the barest clutch of lights. _I wonder how long it will take the Hosts to rebuild?_ thought Philippe.

Despite his fatigue, he realized that his question applied to more than just the wreath of lights. A prophecy that had given structure and meaning to the Hosts' lives for the past 850 years had just been fulfilled. What were they going to do now?

They moved closer to the lights, and Philippe's anxiety over the future was suddenly replaced by a gripping fear that the portal would not work, that he would never see home again—not the station, not Titan, not Earth.

He tried to calm himself. The portal _had_ to work this time. It had _just_ worked, for an entire fleet of Cyclopes ships. And the Magic Man had promised to destroy the faster-than-light technology (the technology itself, Max and Philippe had ascertained, not necessarily the people who made it), so the portal couldn't shut down again, right? Right?

Philippe thought about his previous trips through the portal. The problem was that the successful trips through the portal hadn't really differed from when they couldn't go through. He wouldn't know if the portal was working or not because there hadn't really been anything that stood out about the non-journey, aside from the result.

Which was weird, right?

"Hey, Shanti," he said. She and the doctor had wandered up to the front end of the ship, some distance ahead of Philippe. She turned around to face him. "Why is it that, when you see a ship go through a portal, it disappears bit by bit—you know first the front end and then the back end—but when you're actually on the ship, even if you're in the back, it's not like the front end vanishes or anything—it all looks normal? Is it because you're closer to the portal or something?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Shanti replied.

_Well, that was predictable,_ Philippe thought.

They were almost at the portal now. Philippe decided to watch carefully, in hopes that he could see something, anything, that would indicate that they were actually going through. He focused directly at the front of the ship, which was just about to pass through the area marked by the lights.

At first he saw nothing, but then he saw a small, shimmering oval forming between where he was standing and where Shanti and George were. It appeared to be about waist high. Philippe blinked, but it was still there.

_Am I the first to see this?_ he wondered.

The oval got rapidly bigger. Then two shimmering spots appeared below it, and a moment later, the three spots grew and connected. The single large spot began to shrink, and then to grow.

Philippe started: It was coming at him.

Philippe took a step back. "Magic Man?" he asked, alarmed. "Hello?"

It came faster. He backpedaled some more, but it was gaining on him, getting bigger and smaller and bigger again. _How close are the crates behind me?_ he thought. _Am I trapped?_

He saw someone come from his right, fast. Shanti hit him, yanking him off his feet.

But she was too late. Something hit them just as he was being knocked aside.

Something.

Some _thing._

Some _nothing._

It only lasted an instant. There was nothing to see or feel or hear or taste or smell.

But like a moment's glance from a loved one, the instant contained multitudes:

There was a calculation of angles and speed, a determination of the force necessary to move a body of a particular size a certain minimum distance without causing injury to said body.

Underneath that, there was a mission, something that defined and was not merely done: _Protect._

Underneath that, there was love.

There was shock, discomfort, the pain and constriction of the body, the astonishment that there was a body to be pained and constricted.

Underneath that, there was a lesson, learned the hard way, again and again: _Do not dare to hope._

Underneath that, there was hope.

There was satisfaction, smug satisfaction, the sense of a plan finally completed, the pleasure of coming out on top.

Underneath that, there was a desire: To be rid of the task once and for all, to tie off the annoying loose ends, to throw out the garbage and never think about it again.

Underneath that was something that Philippe could never understand.

Philippe and Shanti flew through the air and landed on the floor a couple of meters away, skidding along the smooth floor.

"You don't have the survival instincts God gave a fucking walrus. If it's coming at you, go to the fucking side," Shanti said, rolling off him. She was breathing hard and her voice was distracted—she was hectoring him out of some sense of duty, but he could tell that her heart wasn't in it.

Philippe lay on his back, too shocked to answer.

George suddenly loomed into his field of vision.

"Wow!" he said, the old enthusiasm back in his voice. " _That_ was _cool!_ "

"You saw that?" asked Shanti.

"I saw a thread—no, a band—a band of, like, _invisibility_ pass through you two," George said, excitedly. "You froze for a second, and it went _whoop_." He held up his index finger and passed it across his face, right to left.

"You're taking it well," Shanti muttered.

"It's damned interesting!" George snapped the fingers of both hands and pointed at them both as they lay on the ground. He was beaming. "When we get back—medical examinations all around!"

Philippe looked past George, through the clear roof of the spaceship, and realized that he was looking at the pure darkness that surrounded the diplomatic station. _We made it through,_ he thought.

Then he brought himself up to his elbows, and what he saw made him want to lie back down and close his eyes for the rest of his life.

There was a Host standing where Philippe had just been. He was glancing around him jumpily, and he looked as alarmed as it was possible to look.

He was no longer glowing, but he was decidedly golden in color, especially when compared to the other Hosts on the ship. The other Hosts stared at him, and after a long moment's pause, they began thrumming.

The noise startled him anew. He looked awfully confused and unhappy—as well as awfully familiar.

_It's time to go back to work,_ thought Philippe. He smiled and waved from the floor.

"Hello, Creepy," he said, slowly moving to his feet.

The Host messiah chirruped something in reply.

Max was too far gone with rapture, so the humans had to find the portable translator and figure out how to turn it on themselves.

"How are you feeling?" asked Philippe. "Are you OK?"

"Do not allow them to take me through another portal," said Creepy.

"Did you guys hear that?" Shanti barked. "He doesn't want to go through any more portals! God only knows what will happen to him if he does."

Creepy looked like he was ready to crawl out of his own skin. Philippe reached out and patted one of his legs, not sure if the Host would find the gesture calming or menacing. He wished for a moment that he could thrum.

"I know that last trip was pretty rough," he said. "You, um, you look healthy, at least."

Creepy stared at him for a moment. "Do I appear healthy?" he finally asked.

Philippe looked over the Host. Creepy looked fine to him—especially for someone who was almost a millennium old and had spent most of that time disembodied. _But, really, what do I know?_ Philippe wondered.

"This man," he said, pointing to George, "is a physician. Let's hear what he thinks."

George shrugged. "Can you walk?" he asked the Host.

Creepy slowly walked around in a small circle. He came to a stop and looked up. "I can walk," he said, astonished. "I can indeed walk. Despite the long period of being incorporeal and unable to walk, I can walk now as well as I walked in the past."

He suddenly pulled his body up and stood on his two back legs, then lowered himself and stood on his two front legs, and then settled back down onto all six. He looked delighted.

"So, it looks like you've got good strength and balance," said George. "I'm a little concerned about your color, though—I've never seen a yellow Host before."

"That is unexpected because I am of an ordinary color." said Creepy. He looked at the thrumming Hosts. "They are unusually red in color."

The Hosts looked at each other, and then looked at Max.

The priest shuffled forward, awed. "We color ourselves, all Hosts do," he said. "We consume a chemical compound on a daily basis that makes us red."

"Why?" asked Creepy, baffled.

"So that we would look different than you, our messiah, and we would be able to identify you instantly were you to return to us," said Max.

Creepy looked appalled.

"This is terrible," he said.

"He's not very religious," Philippe said to Shanti and George.

Shanti walked over to Creepy. "So they gave you back," she said, smiling.

"They were done with me," said Creepy, looking happy to see her.

"Who returned you to us? Whom should we thank for this?" Max asked.

Creepy looked askance at Max.

"They don't know about the other aliens," Philippe explained. "The other Hosts don't know."

"There is a kind of people," Creepy said to Max. "They are the creators of the portals, and they are the ones who took me and held me."

Max gaped at Creepy in wonder. "Were they the reason you were able to sing such a marvelous prophecy?" he asked, excited.

Creepy looked slightly ashamed. "These people witness time differently than people such as ourselves," he said. "They apprehended a crisis as well as a means to offset that crisis. They led me to believe that this crisis would destroy our people, although I am no longer certain that they were genuinely concerned about our people."

Philippe started. _He felt the same thing I did,_ he thought. _Indifference. Not benevolence. Solipsism._ He looked at Shanti. She was nodding—she had felt it, too.

There had been something familiar about that brief glimpse into the minds of those aliens, and Philippe suddenly realized what it was. They had reminded him of Wouter Hoopen, the self-serving manager of the Titan station.

Max, however, was radiant. "They saved our world," he said, with the assurance of a true believer. "Through you, they provided our people with centuries of guidance that protected us from an unprovoked attack."

Creepy looked like he wished that he could vanish again.

"We, uh, we don't think that's exactly what they were after," Shanti jumped in. "When I was under hypnosis, this Host and I—we were very close, in our minds. We were able to really pool our knowledge of physics."

"You know about physics?" Philippe asked.

"I minored in physics in college. And I _read_ ," she replied, annoyed.

Philippe successfully quashed any expression of surprise.

"Anyway, that's how we were able to figure out how to reopen the portal," Shanti continued. "We don't think that the aliens who took Creepy live here, you know, in our three physical dimensions. But they use them to—well, kind of as a dump, that's our best theory, anyway. When they make the portals, it helps kind of clean things up where they live.

"The crisis was those Cyclopes engines. Those are . . . I guess _dirty_ 's the word. They make portals, but their portals are different from the other kind—they make, you know, dirty energy. Plus they unmake the good kind of portals, so all the trash that got cleaned up before is now right back in these aliens' yard, along with all this new junk. So what I think is that to prevent that engine from being put into widespread use, those aliens grabbed our guy here and, um, did what they did."

"That seems kind of selfish," said George.

"These people preserved our planet from invasion and conquest," said Max.

George managed to get out, "You wouldn't have been invaded if you hadn't built that station," before he spotted Philippe's gesticulations. He quickly covered with, "But what do I know? I'm not an 850-year-old alien messiah."

"It sounds better to be one than it is to be one," said Creepy.

"They provided us with our unique destiny," Max said to George, obviously not willing to let it go.

"It doesn't matter what they wanted," said Shanti. "They're done with us now."

Philippe walked into his office and collapsed into his chair.

There was never an end to negotiation.

First, they had reached the station, which had proven another shock to Creepy—he had thought that it would be more along the lines of an artificial planet, and it took some explaining for him to understand that they all lived inside it, not on the surface.

Then, Creepy had nearly had a panic attack when he attempted to breathe the station's atmosphere. It turned out that Hosts who went on the station for the first time underwent a lengthy acclimation process, but since Creepy was, after all, the messiah, none of the Hosts had thought it would be necessary for him.

They were wrong, so for now, he was staying on the merchant's ship. The Hosts had already decided to convert an entire unoccupied living spike into a home just for their messiah. It would no doubt feature the sweetest air available, siphoned directly off the cleanest mountaintops the Host planet could provide.

After hearing the Hosts discussing their plans, Philippe had spoken with Creepy for a moment. The Host messiah's first official request was that three-quarters of his living area be set aside as additional housing for the Snake Boys. Creepy's generosity was celebrated by the Hosts and taken as further evidence of his holiness, which annoyed him. But, he had told Philippe, at least the number of people on the station who thought he was their savior numbered in the dozens, not in the billions.

The Magic Man had not been seen on the station since the portal to the Host world had closed. But Stern Duty and three other Cyclopes on the station had fallen over dead shortly after the Cyclopes armada had passed through the portal leading to their home planet, so Philippe knew that part of the mysterious alien was still among them.

Their deaths and the closing and reopening of the Host portal had alerted everyone on the station to the fact that something very big had happened. The Swimmers were preparing a broadcast on the attack and the Magic Man's effective conquest of the Cyclopes planet, and Philippe knew that the days ahead would be filled with debate and more than a little panic.

And that wasn't even considering the response of Earth.

Philippe leaned over his desk, sighing. Shanti was giving some sort of briefing to the SFers—a briefing that he was not privy to—so he was left alone in his office to dismally contemplate events.

God only knew how the Union was going to react. Philippe wondered if they would all be pulled out, or if only he would be, or he and Shanti and George. Then he wondered if any of them would be allowed to set foot on Earth again, or if the best that he could hope for was an orbiting isolation pod next to Arne's.

Philippe slowly wrapped his arms around himself.

There were things to feel good about, he reminded himself. They had pretty much saved the Hosts from invasion and the Cyclopes from extinction. And Shanti apparently knew more about the portals than the best physicists on Earth.

Those were the things he was _really_ going to have to emphasize in his report if he didn't want a major Earth freak-out on his hands. Philippe leaned forward, looking at the blank scroll on his desk.

He sighed. Not one, but two alien invasions—was there anything that he could write about that that would prevent the Union brass from panicking?

Talk about an impossible task. . . .

Someone knocked on his door and opened it. It was Bubba. "Visitor," he said, and walked off.

Philippe looked at the empty doorway, puzzled, until a movement on the ceiling drew his attention. Another White Spider.

He turned back to his report. Where to begin? Obviously, he would have to say that they had traveled to the Hosts' planet—he, Shanti, and George had agreed on that. They had to tell the Union about their unauthorized mission; they couldn't pretend that they had merely heard about what had happened secondhand.

But it wouldn't be very politic to start the report with, "I was possessed by an alien, so I broke a bunch of rules."

Philippe stared at the scrolls on his desk, unable to open even one to begin his report.

_Was there any way?_ He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands. Suddenly grief overcame him. His body was racked by silent sobs.

So many had died. _Again._ Brave Loyalty had been murdered in front of him. And as odd—as _alien_ —as the Cyclops had been, Philippe knew in his heart that a good man had been brutally assassinated.

Others might disagree, but Philippe had a gut feeling. Brave Loyalty might have been hard to understand, he might have been misled, but he had been _good_ , a good, decent person who didn't deserve to die the way he did.

What had he said to Philippe just before he left the station? He had said that he wanted to keep the Cyclopes focused on the Cyclopes. At the time, it had sounded like an insult, but now Philippe knew better: Brave Loyalty had wanted the Cyclopes not to attack the Hosts. He wanted them to focus on themselves, not to direct their energies at one-upping the other species.

He had failed, and he had paid with his life. Many, many other Cyclopes would die, too, Philippe was sure of it—the Magic Man might contain his slaughter, but it would be a slaughter nonetheless. As always, the innocent would die along with the guilty.

Philippe wiped his eyes.

Was this what the future held? Death and murder, destruction without end? Would Philippe have to stand by and watch it happen all over again, helpless again? Would the Union call him back, deciding that Brave Loyalty was right, that entanglements with aliens were too fraught with risk, that there was no upside to reaching out, that humans should stay safe and snug at home?

And if they did that, could Philippe honestly say they were wrong?

Could he answer the basic question, _What are we doing here?_

A _plunk_ interrupted his thoughts. Philippe looked up and realized that the White Spider had dropped onto his desk.

_This one's more inquisitive than the others,_ he thought.

He wiped his face and smiled at the alien.

"Hello there!" he said, waving.

The White Spider raised a foreleg and carefully repeated Philippe's gesture, wiping the front of his body and then rotating the front end of his right foreleg in Philippe's direction.

"I bring from my people a loving welcome to this station, human diplomat," the strange, white creature said. "We would be happy to call your people friends."

THE END

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**Chapter 1: Your Sneak Peek at** Trust!

March 2, 2119

_It's all OK,_ Philippe Trang said to himself. _Everything is OK. I just need to get my hands to stop shaking._

He stared at his trembling fingers, willing them to stop. They wouldn't.

He tried again.

They shook harder, beating a frantic rhythm against his thighs.

Philippe took a long breath in and let it out slowly.

_How's my suit?_ he wondered.

He stood hunched over his hands. His back rested against the wall of the white corridor that led to his ship. His upper body was bent almost double, like a sudden wave of nausea had overtaken him in the hallway.

Standing like this isn't going to keep this suit neat!

He straightened his body.

He ran his hands over his navy-blue dress jacket. (Were they shaking now? He could feel a slight quiver where they pressed against him.) He bent down and smoothed out his pants. Then he realized that by bending over, he had necessitated another check of his jacket.

It was hard to look disheveled or tortured in a DiploCorps custom-tailored suit, but it wasn't impossible, so Philippe shook out the jacket again. Everything seemed to be lying properly.

After his interrogation, Philippe had carefully smoothed his black hair and eyebrows, and he gave them another check now with his steadying hands. He rubbed his face to bring a little color into it again—his complexion was perhaps too olive for him to become believably rosy-cheeked, but he was willing to try anything to look healthy. And Kelly Pax had complimented his looks earlier, so encouraging the circulation to his face had clearly done something.

He gave his hands a last, deliberate shake from the wrists. _There,_ he thought, _all better now._

He turned and walked to the ship. The hallway was white and sparse, exactly like every other hallway the Union's Space Authority had ever designed. It attached to the side of the spaceship just like a jetway on Earth would attach to the side of an airplane. Aside from the substantial looking seal where the hallway met the ship, and the lightness of Philippe's step, there was nothing to indicate that he was on Titan, a moon of Saturn, and not back on Earth.

He saw the open doorway to the ship and paused. The ship was small and laid out somewhat like an airplane, with an open cockpit for its two pilots in front of several rows of seats, divided by a center aisle, for the soldiers. His traveling companion would most likely be in the row directly behind the pilots.

The doorway was located between that row and the pilots' seats, meaning that Philippe was going to have all eyes on him the moment he entered. He smiled slightly before stepping in—hopefully not so much as to make him look manic, but just enough to make him look content. A quiet joy.

And then he blew it by tripping over the threshold of the ship and falling flat on his face.

"Fuck, Trang!"

That would be Shanti.

"Jesus fucking Christ, what did they do to you?"

He looked up, smiling. The massive mission commander loomed over him already—he had learned from nine months of living with the Union's Special Forces that _large_ did not always equal _slow._

This particular SFer was bristling with outrage and protectiveness and lethal training—no doubt primed to race back onto Titan station and crack a few skulls. Even the pilots, Cheep and Pinky, were out of their chairs.

That was bad. He needed them to sit back down. He needed—no, _they_ needed—to stop wasting time. They all needed to go back through the portal, back to the station, back to the aliens. They needed to get to their jobs.

"I'm fine, really. I am fine," Philippe said, standing up quickly in what he hoped was the jaunty and energetic fashion of a man in the absolute bloom of health. "I just tripped."

Cheep and Pinky immediately sat back down, returning their attention to the panel filled with readouts in front of them. Philippe smiled, more genuinely now, as the door shut and sealed behind him. Shanti glared at him, her dark eyes in dubious slits, but when he gestured to the seats behind Pinky, who was the farthest from the door, she sat.

He sat down next to her, on the aisle. Philippe hoped that his presence between her and the door would act as a barrier—if only a psychological one—to her leaving.

"So, how was your stay?" he asked, buckling up.

"Not bad," Shanti replied, following his lead and buckling up herself. "I took apart the desk this time."

Philippe laughed—perhaps a little more than he should. Distraction was necessary, but it couldn't be obvious. He had to keep things light and pleasant. Then, even if the conversation went to the topic he wanted to avoid, everyone would stay relaxed and would remain reasonable.

If he did this right, no one would get upset—and he didn't want to upset his friends. They should be happy and calm. Everyone should be calm and reasonable.

Philippe took another look around the ship. The momentum was there now—Shanti and the pilots were all buckled up. They were _going_ , traveling back to the aliens, not staying on Titan station to kick up some sort of unnecessary fuss.

"Did you find anything interesting?" he asked Shanti. "In the desk?"

"No, it was boring," she said. "No bugs or secret drawers or anything."

"Did you put it back together afterward?"

She smiled (good sign) and shook her head. He laughed again.

The ship tilted back, and they took off. Philippe exhaled, releasing tension in his shoulders he hadn't fully realized was there. They were on their way. The farther they got, the less likely it was that Shanti would return to Titan station.

Of course, she'd probably yell at Philippe instead, but there was no getting around that. Shanti Pax was forceful, as Philippe supposed was required of a Special Forces mission commander. You didn't rise to a command position in the Union's only lethal combat force without being the sort to charge ahead.

But charging ahead left your sides vulnerable, and Philippe Trang was a master at coming in sideways. Shanti might rant and rail to him whenever she wanted, but she already was too late.

She was too late, and she didn't even know it. Philippe smiled again. The DiploCorps had been right to make him Earth's first diplomat to the aliens: He was good at his job.

But not so good at space travel, he realized as they shed Titan's yellow atmosphere and the moon's gravity loosened its hold. Philippe hadn't remembered a sick patch, so he just swallowed hard and hoped for the best as he watched Saturn splay its rings out across the dark.

Shanti, demonstrating what was for her a remarkable level of restraint, waited until his struggle with nausea had been resolved in his favor before commencing her interrogation.

"Did you see Kali?" she asked.

"You mean Kelly? Yes," he replied. "You didn't call her Kali did you? I think conversations in quarantine are monitored."

Shanti shrugged. "She called me Syrup."

Philippe laughed. It was rude to call the Paxes clones—after all, no one else was expected to identify themselves by their method of conception—but that didn't change the fact that Shanti and Kelly were two of 52 genetically identical sisters, created illegally and raised as fighting machines as part of a madman's apocalyptic plot. Their rehabilitation had, as far as Philippe could tell, been a complete success. But others in the Union remained skeptical, and minor slipups like using the old war-goddess names could have ramifications.

_Syrup_ had not been one of those names, however.

"That's what they called you? That's not very intimidating," he teased her.

She shrugged. "Neither is Surpanakha."

"It must have been nice to see your sister," Philippe remarked, deliberately pushing the conversation on to the subject.

But Shanti's reaction was not what he expected: She looked apprehensive. Before he was assigned to the alien station, Philippe had gotten to know Kelly Pax on Earth—she worked for a human-rights group, which sometimes brought her into contact with the DiploCorps. While he viewed Kelly more as a colleague than as a friend, he knew that the exact nature of his relationship with her was somewhat of a mystery to Shanti.

"Or, maybe it wasn't," he continued.

"No, no—it was . . . sort of," she stammered. "I just wasn't expecting her. She said that the girls were worried that maybe I wasn't being treated too well after, you know, everything that happened. They thought maybe the Union was mad at us for our role in all that."

_All that._ That's how they referred to it now. _All that,_ or _everything that happened._

Philippe nodded, returning his attention to managing the conversation. Bringing up Kelly had been a good move—even though the Paxes had hardly been a traditional family, Shanti could talk about her sisters for days, which would keep her off more-unpleasant topics.

He looked out the only windows, which were in front of the pilots, and saw the pulsing lights of the nuclear mines—they'd be deep into the defenses that littered the Earth side of the portal soon, which was good. Every meter forward made it less likely that they would turn back.

"Do you think Kelly could be UI?" Shanti asked.

" _Kelly?_ " Philippe turned his attention away from the window, surprised out of his game. "Union Intelligence?"

He shook his head, disbelieving. "I'd be shocked _._ The organization she works for has been pretty aggressive in exposing some of the sleazier deals the Union has struck with poorer countries. I can think of at least two or three instances when they probably embarrassed Union Intelligence very badly. Why do you think she's UI?"

"Oh, I dunno," said Shanti, relaxing. "Just paranoid, I guess. I only knew her as a kid. And Kelly was—well, I know she's your friend, but when we were little, she was always kind of an ass-licker. She wouldn't have any part in taking out the Old Man. She abstained."

Philippe shook his head again. "I just can't see it," he said. "Kelly's the type of person who gets bitterly disappointed when the Union fails to live up to its ideals, and that's not the type of person who joins the UI. Maybe she'd do it if she was convinced that Earth's very existence was at stake—maybe. As for not taking part in the execution of your father, she may just have a genuine distaste for violence." Philippe looked slyly at Shanti. "Some people do."

"Hey, I do, too," she replied.

Cheep and Pinky started to laugh.

"I do!" she said. "Shut up!"

They shut up, but whether because their mission commander had issued an order or because they had begun navigating the minefield, Philippe couldn't say. The Special Forces were indeed special, with much looser command structure than the Union Police whom Philippe had worked with before. According to his research into the topic, this had to do with the SF's history: It was an outgrowth of what were once called commando units, which were small groups of highly trained soldiers who performed very dangerous raids. These special soldiers operated with a great deal more individual autonomy than the run-of-the-mill members of the armed forces.

"Well, I really enjoyed seeing Kelly," he said.

He truly had, although to be perfectly honest, his first thought on seeing her was, _Wow, she's bloated._ Being clones, both Paxes had started out with the same build and bone structure, but years at a desk job had made Kelly round-faced and soft where Shanti was angular and hard. Kelly's long hair had been braided into an updo that had seemed perfectly innocuous before but now struck Philippe as extravagant and overdone when compared to Shanti's short SF crop. Even their mahogany skin was subtly different in tone—Kelly seemed to have a slight undertone of gray, which Philippe hoped wasn't indicative of some sort of creeping cardiovascular disorder.

"She ask you about the patch-and-probe?" Shanti asked.

"She took a somewhat professional interest in my situation," he replied carefully.

"And did you tell her it was none of her fucking business, like you did me?"

Philippe sat for a moment in silence. So, here they were, on the topic at last. At least now they were well into the minefield, although he was going to have to tread lightly with Shanti, anyway—it would be difficult to turn the ship around, but it wouldn't be impossible, and she still might do it.

"I'm sorry I said that the patch-and-probe wasn't any of your business," he said. "I was being childish and repeating back to you what you had said to me, which I admit was inappropriate. Your situation is different from mine."

Shanti nodded, and Philippe knew the apology had been accepted. She was quick to anger, but equally quick to forgive.

"I am sorry you found out about the roster thing the way you did, though," she said.

Philippe gave a nervous laugh.

The roster was one of those traditions among the Special Forces that brought home to Philippe exactly why he had never joined it. When SFers were away on a mission, they drew up a list of those in the unit who were available for sex with everybody else also on the list.

It wasn't like Philippe had never had a casual sexual liaison, but the bloodlessness of the roster, the lack of any sort of romance or passion involved in the drawing up of a list, the idea of having sex with people as some sort of professional courtesy _—_ well, that was beyond him.

In addition, the vast majority of the SFers were men—there were only two women among Philippe's military guard. While the SFers unquestionably had a very open attitude toward male homosexual encounters, and the SF had stringent regulations designed to prevent people from being forced onto the roster, it was obvious to Philippe that there was pressure on the female SFers to sign on. He himself had seen an SFer ask Shanti to put herself on it, and the same fellow (Five-Eighths who, granted, was considered a shameless dog even by SF standards) had kicked a hole into one of the virtual entertainment booths after the unit's other woman, Baby, had taken herself off the roster to enter into an exclusive relationship with George, the unit's doctor.

Just before they left for Titan, Shanti had signed on to the roster. Philippe was willing to admit that if one looked at that decision dispassionately, it was probably a good sign, indicating she was healing emotionally from her recent divorce.

But it had been hard to look at the situation dispassionately when, on the morning before Philippe left to undergo a particularly intrusive form of interrogation, Five-Eighths had run into the mess hall and loudly announced that there was now a woman—or rather, a particular part of a woman's anatomy—on the roster. And it got even harder to be dispassionate when Five-Eighths had jumped on a table and, using the most vulgar language and gestures imaginable, had explained in explicit detail just how he planned to exercise his considerable libido on Shanti's various orifices.

So despite the fact that it was considered extremely rude for even an outsider to criticize someone's roster status, Philippe had dashed out of the mess hall, found Shanti in her office, and expressed his sincere disapproval of the entire situation. As luck would have it, he had arrived in Shanti's office just after she had discovered that he had agreed to undergo a patch-and-probe, a decision that she had considered remarkably ill-advised. The result had been an epic shouting match, followed by a silent and sullen ride to the Titan station.

And now they were riding back.

"You won't see Five when you get back, not for a couple of days, anyway," Shanti said.

Philippe blinked. The space the humans lived in on the Host station was not very large, so it was hard to avoid seeing anyone for any length of time. "Is he on leave?"

Shanti shook her head forcefully. "I fucking wish! You know they haven't given us back our leave. No, he got real sleepy after that display, and he went to take a nap in his cubicle."

She stared at Philippe for a moment, an eyebrow cocked.

"You know how unreliable his sleep cubby can be," she said. "It gets stuck shut all the time."

Philippe put his hand to his mouth. He had been told that you could fit two SFers into one sleep cubicle, but he wasn't sure how. "How long are you going to keep him in there?"

"It so happens that he's not on any kind of essential duty for the next couple of days," said Shanti. "So, I guess no one's going to miss him or figure out he's trapped in there for a while. It's a real shame, but accidents happen."

"Especially—" Philippe began.

"Especially when you fuck with me, yeah. Accidents happen a lot then." She smiled.

Philippe took a deep breath. He tried, hard, not to criticize the SF's ways, but sometimes. . . .

"Does he have water?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!" Shanti exclaimed. "He has lots and lots of water—he packed his cubicle full of water before he shut it up to nap. And he has lots and lots of ration bars. Unfortunately, he chose to pick up those ration bars from the infirmary and not the mess hall, so they're the kind you eat if you're constipated."

Philippe buried his face in his hands.

"His lonjons are going to get quite the workout," Shanti said, still smiling jovially. "George is really excited to see what's going to happen."

Philippe looked up. "And after all this is done, you're going to clean him up, and then you're going to have sex with him," he said in what he hoped was a lighthearted tone.

"That's our way!" she said, fortunately amused. "But quit changing the topic. You've got to tell me about that patch-and-probe."

_Damn it,_ thought Philippe.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Well, as I told Kelly, there was an observer there, a retired civilian judge."

"Good."

"And the whole thing was really not that big a deal. The drugs are delivered by patch, and they made me feel a little slow, but it wasn't unpleasant in the least. There's no actual probe, of course—they use a normal brain scanner, you know, a headrest with a hood over the face. You lie down; it's very comfortable. Between the hood and the drugs, it's a wonder I didn't fall asleep. They should really just call it a 'patch-and-scan.' Patch-and-probe sounds so intrusive."

Shanti gave him a dirty look.

"What?" Philippe asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing."

"Of course, they just asked me the same questions as always."

"See, that's what I don't understand," Shanti said. "They keep asking you what happened—George and I gave them good surveillance, they know what happened. Do they not believe it? Is it because you tried to go to the Host planet without getting permission first? Because I went with you, and they quit asking me about it a while back."

Philippe sighed. "Well, I think for them the issue is that I didn't tell anyone about my nightmares and visions of the Host messiah."

Shanti snorted dismissively. "They're upset that you didn't tell them you were hallucinating Creepy? You thought you were insane—they have to realize that you wouldn't want to tell anybody _that_."

Philippe suppressed a smile. Shanti had been considerably less understanding about that decision when she had first found out about it.

"What bothers them was that—OK, you know that at first, I was on the Host station, and I was seeing Kre-Pi-Twa-Ki-Tik-Nao in my dreams and then when I was awake. And that's when I thought I was losing my mind," he explained. "But when I took my vacation on Earth, I stopped seeing him. And then when I got back to the station, I started to see him again, but by then, I knew that your second in command had seen him, too."

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, when I started seeing Kre-Pi-Twa-Ki-Tik-Nao again, I knew I wasn't insane. I wasn't stressed out, I was sleeping, and Patch had seen him. At that point, I knew he was something real. And I didn't tell anyone _then_ —and that's what bothers the Union. I knew that I and at least one SFer—an SFer with command responsibilities, no less—were being influenced by an alien in some telepathic sort of way, and I didn't say anything about it. And you know, upon reflection, I probably should have."

Shanti thought for a moment. "Why didn't you?"

"Well, that's what this interrogation was about. And you know, apparently the reason I didn't tell anyone was the mission."

"The mission?"

"I didn't want anything to interfere with the mission—establishing good relations with the aliens. I didn't want anything to be wrong with me, because then I couldn't do my part."

She nodded.

"It was interesting to find that out. Really, you know, the patch-and-probe is more like a therapy session than anything else—it gives you a lot of insight. I think it really could be good for people."

Shanti snorted. "Good for people? Trang, if you were SF, they couldn't do a patch-and-probe on you. Not under these circumstances. Same if you were in any Union country. And most of the non-Union countries."

"I know," Philippe said.

"And I hope that Kelly explained to you why her group thinks no one should ever undergo a patch-and-probe. Never ever."

"She did," he said, "rather at length. And you know, I, of all people, appreciate that technology can be abused."

"Especially the patch-and-probe," said Shanti. "You basically get ass-raped in the brain."

She looked perfectly serious, so Philippe tried not to laugh. _She just needs reassurance._

"That's not what it was like," he said. "I wasn't emotionally brutalized by some sadist, and no one was placing false memories to incriminate me—it just wasn't that big a deal."

"How would you fucking know?" Shanti exclaimed. "If they planted false memories, how would you know?"

Philippe sighed. She could be so dramatic. "What memories would they plant? It's not like I got a patch-and-probe and now I'm suddenly confessing to molesting children or something horrible like that. And if that happened, you and the other SFers would say something, right? Plus they'd have to get around all the surveillance, including whatever alien surveillance there is on the station that we don't even know about. They can't get too creative. I'm safe."

Shanti shook her head. "Promise me you'll never agree to one again," she said.

"Don't worry," Philippe replied, sincerely hoping that she wouldn't.

He smiled at her for a moment, wondering when he could change the topic again.

He looked away, out the front window. The mines were gone; Saturn was gone. Instead they faced true darkness, the empty space between the Milky Way and the Small Magellanic Cloud. With his unaugmented vision, Philippe could barely make out the lights that marked the many Earth and alien reconnaissance satellites surrounding the Host station, as well as the occasional ring of lights surrounding the almost two dozen other portals that led here. The station itself was looming out there, somewhere, like a gigantic bicycle wheel with no rim, but it wasn't well-lit on the outside, and at the moment Philippe couldn't distinguish it.

"Oh, hey, we're through," he said. At this point, the lack of drama involved in traveling through the portals no longer unnerved him. You just went from _here_ —a point near Saturn's moon Titan—to _there_ —a point outside your own galaxy. It only took an instant, it didn't feel weird, and you didn't see a thing—you were just _here,_ and then you were _there._

But an instant contained an opportunity.

"So what did you do on Titan?" he asked Shanti. "They didn't bring you there just to dismantle their furniture, did they?"

She laughed, once again unthinkingly accepting his change of topic. "Well, it felt that way. But I had some business with the SF that you should know about: We're getting reinforcements."

Philippe blinked.

"Really?" he asked.

Shanti nodded. "We'll get about a dozen new SFers, probably in just a few hours."

Philippe felt an odd sensation, like he was slipping.

"How many?" he asked.

"Um." She thought for a moment. "Fourteen, exactly, including the new second."

Philippe felt the slipping sensation again. "Is that—did you feel something? Like turbulence?"

Shanti shook her head. "We're in space, Trang."

"What does—is the ship OK?"

"We no have problem here," said Pinky.

Philippe shook his head and blinked his eyes several times.

"Did you say that we were, um, getting a new second?" he asked.

"Yeah, her name's Princess," said Shanti. "This is her first time being a second, but I've known her a long time, and she's good."

Philippe stared at her for a moment, trying to follow the implications of what she was saying. With effort, he latched on to one.

"Patch isn't going to be your second anymore?"

"He will be," said Shanti. "I'll have two seconds. With a bigger unit, you need more supervisors to, you know, supervise."

"Patch and Princess—sounds like the names of a couple of cats," said Philippe.

"I guess."

"I'm glad Patch is staying," Philippe said. "I like Patch. He's good at heart."

"He's a nice guy," agreed Shanti.

"I like Patch. It's too bad that he named the aliens, though."

Shanti smiled. "Yeah, the Cyclopes. . . . "

"Cyclopes!" Philippe exclaimed, throwing his hands to his forehead.

"What is that, Cyclopes?" asked Pinky. "I have wondered."

"Like, magic creatures," Cheep replied.

Philippe stared at the back of Pinky's head for a moment. Pinky was that rare thing—rarest among those who worked for the Union: He had not grown up speaking Union English.

" _Die Zyklopen_ ," Philippe said. " _T_ _siklopy._ "

" _Kiklopi?_ " Pinky asked, disbelieving. "Their eyes are four!"

"I know!" Philippe exclaimed.

"Patch is an—" Cheep's eye wandered back to Shanti, which interested Philippe. As casual as the Special Forces seemed, there were, as he had discovered to his chagrin, some lines that were not to be crossed.

And this appeared to be one of them. "—not very well-educated person," Cheep finished.

"Patch meant to call them centaurs," said Philippe. " _Kentavry._ He got confused."

Pinky nodded. "They look like that. Why you no fix?"

Philippe sighed. "The Hosts won't let us. They say it makes too much work for the Swimmers."

"It doesn't matter," said Shanti, a touch defensively. "With the translators, they don't know what the hell we're calling them."

"That good," said Pinky.

Philippe smiled. "It is good."

Shanti shrugged. "Patch did his best. He isn't a diplomat."

"No," Philippe cheerfully agreed. "I don't think he'd have much success in the DiploCorps."

They jostled against something firm.

"OK, that wasn't me," Philippe said.

"We here!" exclaimed Pinky.

Philippe sat for a moment, uncomprehending. Shanti unfastened her safety harness and stood up.

"Oh," said Philippe, "we're here." _Here,_ he thought. The alien station, built by the Hosts centuries before in the hopes that other aliens would someday find it. His newest home.

He quickly released himself from his seat and stood up. The ship reeled around him for a moment. _Did that too quickly,_ he thought.

He grabbed the seat back to steady himself, which turned him toward Shanti. "Did you say fourteen new SFers will be coming onto the station?" he asked her.

"Yeah, fourteen." She gestured. He turned in the direction she was pointing and realized that the door of the ship was open to a white corridor.

Another clean, white, featureless corridor. The Union's Space Authority was not blessed with an overabundance of creative interior designers.

Philippe turned back to Shanti. "And one of them's a new second."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

He turned and walked to the corridor.

He stopped again. "When are all these new people coming?" he asked.

"Like I said, as soon as possible," Shanti replied from behind him. "Probably later today."

Philippe tripped over the threshold to the corridor, but he caught his hand on the wall and didn't fall this time. "A new second," he said.

"It's not a demotion for Patch," said Shanti.

"I like Patch," said Philippe.

"Trang, are you feeling OK?" she asked.

Philippe stopped and turned to face her. "So we have fourteen new SFers, including a new second, arriving on this station, most likely later today."

Shanti nodded slowly. "Yes," she said equally slowly.

Philippe turned around and started walking again, not entirely sure where he was headed. He tripped.

"Stupid doorsill," he muttered.

"Trang," Shanti's voice was tense, "the doorsill is two meters behind you."

"Everything's fine," he said, continuing to walk. "We just have fourteen new lethally trained Special Forces soldiers, including a new command staffer, arriving on this station, very shortly. On an alien station. On a diplomatic mission. So right now, or in just a little bit, they're on Titan—"

He spun around to tell Shanti something important, but he was surprised by how close the smooth, white floor had gotten. He was even more surprised when it hit him.

Chapter 2

Philippe woke up choking.

Something was smothering him from the inside, like a signal flare had gone off in his lungs. He gasped for breath and was surprised when he succeeded.

It was cold, whatever it was. Cold and sharp and choking and . . . _minty_?

"George, you asshole!" came Shanti's voice. "He was waking up! You didn't have to bomb the poor bastard."

"It's just aromatherapy," rumbled George.

"It's fucking chemical warfare, you fucking—"

But Philippe lost the thread of her invective when he began to sneeze. And cough. And gag. All at the same time, as every last speck of goo that had been resting harmlessly inside his sinuses began to flee whatever potent mix of menthol and vapor George had just pumped into his respiratory system.

Finally Philippe's spasms began to settle. He looked up, only to see a square box flying at him. He raised his hands to stop it, but another fit of coughing seized him and he was too late.

It landed in his lap with a gentle _plop._

A box of tissues.

Philippe wiped his mouth and nose clear enough to take another breath in, and he managed, "We have to go back to Titan!" before another violent sneezing fit seized him.

"Why do we have to go back to Titan?" Shanti asked, the moment he resumed normal breathing.

Philippe sneezed again.

_Why do we have to go back to Titan?_ he wondered.

He'd had a definite idea that going back was very important, but now he couldn't recollect why that was. Maybe it had just been a dream?

He thought about it for a minute, and another conviction seized him with equal force: Going back to Titan would be a real bother. It was silly to want to go back. It wasn't reasonable.

Indeed, it was so unreasonable that he couldn't even imagine why he had wanted to go back.

He had passed out and now he was having delusional impulses. Had he had a stroke or something?

Philippe took a look at George. The doctor didn't seem worried, and he probably would be worried if his patient was suffering from something serious, like a stroke.

Of course, Philippe recalled, George would probably be delighted if his patient was suffering from a really interesting stroke.

He looked around, wondering if something would either jog his memory, or more likely, confirm that his impulse to return to Titan had no basis in reality.

Unsurprisingly, he was in a bed in the infirmary. He noted with an unconscious pleasure that he was the only patient and that, aside from some scrolls and the sinus-blasting tool that George had just tossed on a counter, all the medical equipment and supplies were neatly tucked away in the white cabinets and drawers. Philippe had disturbing memories of seeing the infirmary in much greater chaos, with supplies thrown everywhere and dark fluids smeared across the floor, but things had been quiet lately for George—which was unusual, since it seemed like the typical SFer's reaction to quiet was to go do something incredibly risky.

He looked down and noticed a gray, square patch on his arm. It was about five centimeters across, with rounded corners, and it had an _N_ written on it in a slightly lighter shade of gray.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to it.

"That's what they didn't give you enough of," said George, furrowing his thick, black eyebrows. "It's neutralizer. I'm guessing they just followed the directions for an average SFer without taking into account your smaller mass, so they gave you too much dope. Then they assumed you'd metabolize it quicker than you did, so they didn't give you enough neutralizer.

"I know you're thinking, 'Wouldn't a good doctor adjust the dosage?' but keep in mind that good doctors don't do patch-and-probes."

"Don't neutralizers make your teeth fall out?" Philippe asked.

George smiled, while behind him, Shanti rolled her eyes. Philippe's suspicion of technology was another value he did not share with the Special Forces. "You'd have to use them for a really long time before they'd neutralize enough nutrients to give you scurvy or rickets," the doctor said. "I'll give you a multivitamin once this patch comes off, just to be on the safe side."

"That's great," said Shanti in a tone that indicated that the time for this nonsense was past. She put her hands on the bed and leaned close to Philippe's face. "Trang, why do you want us to go back to Titan?"

Philippe fruitlessly groped for an answer. The sliding sensation began again, more strongly than before.

This time, it felt like something was sliding into place, like a dislocated joint settling back into its socket.

"The new soldiers."

The words came out of Philippe's mouth almost of their own accord. The moment he heard them, he knew they were right _._

Of course! The new soldiers! Another bunch of hyperactive combat specialists were coming to screw up his diplomatic mission. More large, violent soldiers who had been carefully trained to kill things, when what he needed were people who would _not_ kill things, who would defuse situations instead of blowing the heck out of everything.

_The Special Forces._ That phrase had struck terror into Philippe's heart when he first discovered that his protective detail on the alien station would not be provided by the Union Police. It had confirmed a suspicion that not everyone in the Union brass wanted his mission to succeed, that even after years of remote communication, there was still on Earth a profound, almost primal fear of the aliens. Putting the Special Forces on the alien station instead of the Union Police had been a deliberate effort to sabotage diplomacy—and Philippe had spent his first few weeks on the station trying everything he could think of to get the SFers removed.

He had failed, although his mission had not. The SFers he had come with had, with training and many long conversations, adjusted, but new ones—oh, no. He was going to have to have a very long talk with each and every one of them before they came on board.

"I need to talk to them, like I did with you guys, to give them an idea of what to expect and how to behave on the station," he said.

Shanti nodded. "Yeah, train them to be all diplomatic and shit, that's a good idea," she said. Then she snapped her fingers. "But you don't have to! I mean, you already have!"

"How did I manage that?"

"Virtual you did it—a VY has already trained them."

Philippe closed his eyes and sighed. Her faith, her touching, childlike faith in technology. . . .

"And how do we know that the VY did a good job?" he asked.

Annoyance filled her voice. "I'm sure it was a standard VY. It got high marks for quality of information, I remember seeing that. So you think you can fucking relax about it?"

Philippe's eyes snapped open. The SF's chain of command might be amorphous, but one thing was clear: Philippe, being DiploCorps, was not in it. When it came to security, he'd learned to let the SF take the lead, but in any other field, Shanti had no right to boss him.

He stared at her for a moment. "High marks. From the people who need training, and who therefore are by definition unable to judge the quality of the information?"

Shanti's eyes narrowed. "You know, I think I liked you better when you were doped up."

"Of course you did. Please ask the Special Forces to send me a copy of the VY so that I can check and make sure he's not a virtual incompetent."

She opened her mouth to protest. Philippe prepared himself to parry when a flat, emotionless voice sounded in his ear. "You have an all-station meeting in thirty minutes," it said.

"My earplant just went off," he said, pointing at his left earlobe, which, like those of all the humans on the alien station, was distended by the hardware it contained. "I've got an all-station meeting in thirty minutes."

"Should you go?" asked Shanti, her annoyance instantly forgotten. "Are you well enough? We can send Baby if you're not feeling up to it."

"I'd rather go myself," said Philippe. He turned to George. "I feel fine now."

The doctor grabbed a scroll off the counter and unrolled it.

"Yeah, you should be OK," he said, after consulting its contents. "Hang on a second."

George fished something small out of a drawer and walked over to Philippe. He painlessly whipped off the old patch and slapped the new one on in one dexterous motion.

Philippe looked at the new patch. It was black, and it had a _V_ on it made out of multicolored happy faces.

"Happy faces?" he asked George.

"That means placebo," Shanti said, smirking.

Philippe laughed, and then started to look around the room for his jacket. It had apparently been removed when he was out cold, leaving him in only his short-sleeved lonjons. He saw part of a dark blue wad sticking out from under the bed next to his.

"Is that my jacket?" he asked, pained.

"Oh, sorry," said Shanti, retrieving it and giving it a rough couple of shakes before tossing it to him. "We were in a hurry."

Philippe nodded, accepting that he would be leaving this suit jacket behind. He fished his gloves and hood out of the wrinkled jacket's pocket. Then he protested uselessly as Shanti and George insisted on putting them on for him, sliding the long gloves up his arms and pressing them against the sleeves of his lonjons to make a seal impregnable to any alien toxins than he might come across in the common area, and attaching the hood to the back of the lonjons' neck where he could pull it over his head and face if need be. Although he looked like he was wearing nothing more than some kind of wet suit, he was now outfitted in the most advanced armor the Union could provide.

He managed to stand up and walk without wobbling too excitingly, so he insisted on going to his room unaccompanied. There, he put on his other suit jacket and smoothed his hair once again. He walked out to go to his meeting feeling relaxed and just a tiny bit victorious.

Then he looked down and wondered why his hands were shaking.

He crammed them in his pockets and went on his way.

There had never been a shortage of meetings on the alien station.

During his time there, Philippe had met countless times with all nine of the different aliens species—

Scratch that. Or, allow it: It all depended on how one defined a meeting.

If only formal meetings, with schedules and agendas, counted, then Philippe had met countless times with only seven of the nine alien species.

After all, no one had formal meetings with the bizarre and dangerous shape-shifter that Patch had named the Magic Man. When Philippe wanted to talk to that particular alien, he just had to hope that their paths would cross. If luck was with him and they did run into each other, then Philippe had to hope even more fervently that Magic Man would not ignore him.

Even more elusive were the White Spiders. Running into them was not a challenge—they hung around everywhere in the station. But they did so in complete silence, utterly unresponsive to any invitation to discussion. Philippe's "meeting" with the White Spiders consisted of one conversation he had had with one White Spider. Once.

Still, with seven other highly social species on the station, there was never a shortage of meetings—informal chats, one-on-ones, formal summits, group sessions, and even press conferences. There were days when it felt like all Philippe did on the station was attend meeting after meeting after meeting.

Which was not all that different from the life of a diplomat on Earth.

The all-station meetings, however, were something new, an experiment being conducted by the Hosts. These meetings, like Philippe's and Shanti's interrogations on Titan, were the result of a series of harrowing events that had taken place when the Cyclopes had attempted to conquer the Hosts' home world. The invasion had been stopped by the Magic Man, who had, in retaliation, conquered the Cyclopes planet—all by himself. To top things off, Kre-Pi-Twa-Ki-Tik-Nao, the reluctant Host messiah, had rematerialized after roughly 850 years spent in a kind of incorporeal half-life.

That had been quite a day.

Prior to the invasion, one of the Cyclopes' major complaints had been that, since the Hosts saw themselves as divinely ordained to run the station that they had built, they almost never accepted input from other species. That had, in fact, been a fairly accurate description of the Hosts' style of governance, although Philippe and nearly everyone else had assumed the complaint was merely a pretense to justify the Cyclopes attack.

After all, there was really no rational reason for the Cyclopes to go to war over the governance of the Host station: The Hosts were more than willing to leave alone any species that did not wish to join those on the station. They required other species to do the same. And there was no practical way for any species to reach another without passing through the portals—all of which led to the Host station—and alerting everyone else to their nefarious intent.

There was no reason to invade—unless a species was governed by paranoid, aggressive expansionists, which the Cyclopes apparently were. It had taken them a mere thirty years following the opening of the portal from the Cyclopes planet to the Host station to not only draw up an invasion scheme but also to develop a faster-than-light drive—a technical accomplishment no other species had ever gotten close to achieving—that would allow them reach the Host planet without using the portals.

Thanks to the Magic Man, the invasion had failed miserably. It had, however, sufficiently rattled the Hosts' complacency that they had rethought their methods of governance and had begun holding all-station meetings. The meetings were designed to discuss matters of importance to the station as a whole, and input from other species was, for the first time, welcomed and even occasionally implemented.

Not that the group Philippe now joined in the common area was entirely inclusive. The Cyclopes had no representatives there, ostensibly because they were now a subject people (although Philippe did not doubt that their attempted invasion of the Host planet had something to do with their exclusion). The Magic Man had been invited, both as the sole representative, and perhaps sole individual, of his own people and as the ruler of the Cyclopes. But he was not there—not as far as anyone could see, anyway. The Magic Man could break himself into tiny pieces and literally be two or a million places at once, so it was possible that he was attending the meeting in a form invisible to the naked eye. Given his usual disinterest in everything that went on at the station, however, chances were good that he was, in fact, absent.

The meeting was being held because of the absence of a third species: the Blobbos. The small aliens, who looked like slugs that had been bedecked with salt, had once run around the station in ornate protective vehicles. They were gone now, having retreated back to their home planet, following what they considered an inexcusable series of violent events. The question now before the group was how to best convince them to return.

So Philippe stood in an area that was marked off from the rest of the station by walls so low he could see over them. In contrast to the stark white of the Space Authority–built human living area, the walls and floor in the common area were brown and intriguingly soft, almost like they were constructed of membranes stretched over supports. The Hosts had designed their station's common area to accommodate the average alien, and the average alien was most certainly not bipedal. As a result, tables were low, spaces were open, and there was never any place to sit. This particular meeting place reminded Philippe of nothing so much as an especially large stall in a horse stable.

Leading the meeting was the Host liaison to the Blobbos. Hosts needed space: Even when they stood on all six legs, as this one was doing now, they came up to Philippe's chest, and they were roughly two meters long. This particular Host was especially red, almost crimson in color, in contrast with the more common dark-orange tones of Max and Moritz, the two Host liaisons to the humans. Like them, this Host had black markings adorning the sides of his segmented body that, Philippe had recently learned, indicated his status as a priest.

The expression on this Host's face—which was not really a face, more a combination of the way the Host held his body and adjusted his segments—was grim. The Blobbos had gone from refusing invitations to talk to not responding at all.

"Have they shared a specific set of demands since we last met?" asked a Pincushion. The alien, like all Pincushions, looked like a giant sea urchin. He wore orange and yellow "clothing"—clumps of some indeterminate substance worn on the ends of his purple spikes. New trends in Pincushion clothing were frequent and typically were a commentary on recent events of note. Baby usually had the scoop on the latest Pincushion fashions, and Philippe made a mental note to ask her about the new color combination.

"No," said the Host liaison to the Blobbos. "They have offered no communication since their departure. We know nothing more than we did before."

"It is nonsensical," said a Swimmer drone. "They disliked the Cyclopes' actions, but certainly the Cyclopes are no longer in a position to undertake such actions again."

Philippe clenched his teeth. Comments like that—along with the attitude that only the Cyclopes had done something wrong—drove him insane. _Denial is truly a universal coping strategy_ , he thought darkly to himself.

He spoke. "When I was attacked by a Cyclops and my security experts killed my attacker, the Blobbos told me that they were unhappy with my people because of the killing, even though it was undertaken in self-defense. Perhaps they are dismayed by the Magic Man's response to the Cyclopes' attempted invasion of the Host planet."

God knows I was.

"Do you believe they are dismayed by his initial response, or do you believe they are dismayed by his current response?" asked a Snake Boy, writhing his long body as he spoke.

"Perhaps both," Philippe replied. "Perhaps they fear what he might do in the future."

"If the latter is true," said the Host, "and if they abstain from all communication, they will never know if their fears are realistic or if their fears are unrealistic. My people would like send communications on a regular basis through their portal to the Blobbos."

"I would caution against sending unsolicited communications," said the Snake Boy. "In the past, with my people, the appearance of unsolicited communications generated intense panic."

"I do know that," replied the Host. "Your people had never received an alien communication before, however. The Blobbos lived on this station for a long time. In addition, we mentioned that we might send communications to them, and they did not forbid it."

The discussion went back and forth. Everyone sounded calm, but then again, everyone always sounded calm: The translation devices saw to that.

They finally decided to have an unmanned communications probe sent through the Blobbos' portal on a regular, but not frequent, basis. The Hosts wanted to send the probe, but at Philippe's suggestion, the Swimmers took on that responsibility. The Swimmers—two cooperative aquatic species, whose small, brown remote-controlled drones roamed the station—had been entirely uninvolved in the invasion and takeover. In addition, they had a long history of providing generally accurate information to the station's residents, which might make the Blobbos more receptive to their overtures.

With the decision made, the meeting began to break up. Philippe was glad to see that a few White Spiders once again had hung around the meeting. Although they had said nothing, they had stayed fairly close, clinging to a nearby table with their long, white, feathery legs rather than hanging from the high ceiling. Philippe was certain they had listened in.

Philippe knew he was the only human on the station to have had a conversation with a White Spider, and he hadn't yet definitively eliminated the possibly that he was the only sentient being to have done so. Nonetheless, they seemed to be indicating more interest in the possibility of communicating with others, even if any actual communication lagged. The issue appeared to be cultural, not technical: The translation devices had worked fine during Philippe's friendly conversation with a White Spider. They simply chose not to talk.

"I should tell everyone before you leave: We are adding to our staff on this station today, so there will be new humans to meet," Philippe said.

"Are you reproducing?" asked the Pincushion.

"Um, no," said Philippe, trying not to look embarrassed. The Pincushions very casually and quite publicly engaged in group reproductive activity—although, Philippe reminded himself, it was really more of a group renewal activity, in which Pincushions exchanged genetic material, a process that apparently did not give rise to little baby Pincushions. "These are mature humans, coming from Earth."

He took his leave of the other representatives and walked over to Ofay, one of the SFers who had been assigned to guard him.

"Do you know when the new soldiers are getting here?" he asked.

"No idea," said Ofay with a shrug.

"I was thinking of going to the café," Philippe mumbled as he slapped the com mike in his jacket collar. "Patch," he said, opening a channel to the second. "Patch, it's Trang. Do you know when the reinforcements are arriving?"

"They're here now, guy," Patch's voice sounded in Philippe's earplant.

"They're _here?_ "

"Um, yeah, the ship just docked."

"Oh, fudge!" exclaimed Philippe.

Patch laughed. "Language, guy!"

Philippe hurried back home, but by the time he got there, the new soldiers had already gotten off the ship and dispersed. He spotted a couple of newcomers in the hallway and introduced himself, meeting a Pazzo and a Dick.

Then he heard an unfamiliar voice coming out of the open door to Shanti's office, so he stuck his head in.

_Not bad,_ he thought.

Shanti was standing next to another woman. She was a little shorter than Shanti, but gave the impression of being taller. Philippe wondered briefly why that was—being SFers, each woman stood like her spine had been fused to a flagpole. Then he realized that, by SF standards, the new woman was slender. No doubt she was physically strong, but she lacked the burly, muscular build that typified most SFers, be they male or female. Her body, in contrast, was a smooth hourglass. She was almost—perhaps not by civilian standards, and her bulky uniform wasn't helping—but almost, very nearly, quite close to being willowy.

It had been a long time since Philippe had seen a woman like that.

Her head was almost touching Shanti's—they were both looking at the same scroll, deep in a discussion of schedules, which, Philippe realized, meant that he could look at them for a little longer without seeming to ogle.

The two faces complemented each other, each emphasizing the other's prettiness. The new woman had remarkable eyes—large, round, and black, surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes—but Shanti had good eyes, too—tilted in a way that could give her face a merry cast. Both had high cheekbones, although the new woman's face was more oval, while Shanti's was heart-shaped. Both had full mouths. Their noses were different, though: Shanti had a button, while the new woman's nose was decidedly Roman.

_They would probably make a good recruiting poster,_ Philippe thought. _Or a calendar._

Shanti looked up at him. "Hey," she said.

Philippe snapped out of his reverie. "Hi."

He turned to the new woman and smiled—experience had taught him that there was really no reason to expect Shanti to attend to social niceties like introducing people to each other. "Hello," he said, sticking his hand out. "I'm Philippe Trang of the DiploCorps."

"It's a pleasure," said the woman, taking his hand in her own and shaking it. "I'm Princess."

Her voice had that precise, clipped quality that once would have meant that she hailed from England. Nowadays, given how young she looked—Philippe would be surprised if she was twenty-five—her accent meant she was likely from South Asia. North Americans had defended their regional accents, but the British had taken their role as "Guardians of the Language" so seriously that they had pushed standard Union English with the standard Union accent down the throat of their schoolchildren with a maniacal vengeance. As a result, unless you were in a former Commonwealth state where schoolteachers clung to the old ways, you almost never heard the plethora of accents that were so common in old virtual entertainments—no dropped _h_ s, no clenched teeth, no twittering tones.

Perhaps this standardization had improved communication and eradicated class and regional barriers the way its boosters claimed, but Philippe was hard-pressed to consider it progress. He liked Princess' accent. And her voice. And a number of other things about her.

He snapped himself back to the moment.

"So, you're Shanti's new second?" he asked.

A voice exploded into his earplant.

"Trang!" It was Sucre. "Trang! You've got to get out here now! I'm in the common area near the Cyclopes! You've got to get out here! One of them is down! A Cyclops is down!"

Philippe slapped his mike. "Sucre, I will be there as soon as possible. Tell George as well." He slapped it off.

He looked at Shanti, who had already dropped the scroll—she'd been commed in.

" _Go,_ " she said.

"What is it?" asked Princess, following Shanti out.

"It's the Magic Man," said Shanti. "He's killed again."

. . . buy Trust now!
