Absorption (6 page)

Brett grinned at the sarcasm. “Sorry sir. I’ll do better next time.”

Colonel Barr continued, “In answer to your earlier question, I didn’t recommend you for this. You’re a smart guy, but you weren’t transferred to military intelligence because of your skills as a diplomat … or a spy. It just so happened you were one of the neurosurgeons who spent the most time working with people exposed to nanomachines… at just the time Oceanian technology was booted way up in our list of priorities.”

The Colonel had left out Brett’s Silver Sun, which was fair enough, since arguably it was as much a product of stubbornness as courage. Brett had never heard of a neurosurgeon winning one before him. He hadn’t wanted it after learning what had happened to Sergeant Mackey, but the Colonel had convinced him he deserved it, and that the Space Force needed heroes just then. Now it seemed Barr felt he needed a dose of humility, and continued to deliver it. He hadn’t even mentioned Brett’s independent research.

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t recommend my worst enemy for this. I might. I know how strongly you believe in this, and I’ve heard how impressive the Senator is in person, but take care. No matter how resolute he seemed, you have his clout behind you to a point, but he won’t shoulder the blame if things go wrong. Good luck, Major.”

Brett respected Colonel Barr, but was convinced this mission was necessary. He hadn’t been asked to argue though, and he didn’t.

As soon as he was dismissed, Brett headed back to his cabin to make sure his dress uniforms were ready for the trip, and examine the skimpy briefing materials given him on their Oceanian counterparts. He made his belt computer project them on the wall. The head of the team they would engage in verbal combat with didn’t sound formidable. According to his predecessor’s notes, the Oceanian ambassador was 213 years old, a living example of the extended Oceanian life expectancy. He had a rare condition, rare even a hundred years ago when Oceanian technology had been cruder. Due to brief periods of ‘totaling’, using his entire brain to participate in the overmind, the sensory and motor cortexes of his brain displayed certain imperfections when performing their normal functions.

What would that look like in practice? Could it give the Federalist Worlds an advantage? Beware of overconfidence.

Brett found he only had time to skim the other sections – he would have to rely on Williams to brief him after they landed. There wouldn’t even be time to meet Williams before the shuttle trip.

Despite the dubious aspects of his mission, it would feel good to breath fresh air again, and walk somewhere with trees and no walls. No claustrophobe could ever join the Space Force, and his time as a lieutenant had taught him to be grateful to have the little cabin all to himself. Yet soon he would be able to stride straight in one direction as long as he wished.

The shuttle bay had more open space than most areas of the ship. Brett stood on a catwalk above the Firefly. He would step down directly into the passenger seats in the rear of the cockpit. The body of the craft was shaped like an isosceles triangle, with an aerodynamically shaped needle nose, and it was held in place by scaffolding, although the wheels rested firmly on the floor. The crew bubble, shaped to minimize atmospheric friction, currently stood open. The pilot was doing piloty countdown things. There was no copilot in the seat next to him for this routine trip. The two passenger seats were in the rear of the bubble.

Brett liked the effect the sleek black tiling created, as if warning bystanders not to mess with the Firefly. The color was counterintuitive given the concern about radiation, but surfaces that absorbed light also radiated fastest. Since the heat would come from friction rather than radiation, black was cooler.

Brett had a few moments to study Ambassador Williams as he crossed the shuttle bay. Certainly over fifty, thin but not athletic, too dark black hair probably dyed.

"Good afternoon, Major, um, Johnson?"

Ambassadors were probably supposed to be good at names, but maybe he wanted to save the diplomatic skills for the Oceanians instead of wasting them on the help.

"A pleasure to meet you, Ambassador," Brett said, stretching the truth only slightly. He was pleased the man was here so they could get started. When the other man made no move to walk down the steps, Brett led the way. The seats were a little cramped, but well designed for comfort. He helped the other strap into his seat so the pilot didn't need to come back into the passenger compartment.

A cheerful voice came from the front seat, “Launching in five seconds. Three, two one.”

The ground cracked open under the center of the craft, and the gap grew as the floor slid away in two sections. The scaffolding released them, and they fell out into space.

It took a moment to get used to free fall. To avoid vertigo, Brett closed his eyes and didn’t think of them as falling. Doors opened on the outer surface of a rotating sphere, near the ‘equator.’ The Firefly kept going in the same direction as that particular part of the ship had been moving at the moment of release. The shuttle bay doors rotated away from them.

Brett glanced at the man next to him. Space sickness didn't seem imminent, but distraction might be in order. They had things to discuss anyway. "Ambassador Williams, I'm Major Brett Johnson. This is my second campaign in a twenty year commitment. I spent seven years on Roundhouse as a medical officer, and was transferred to military intelligence when Oceania and the ability to understand their technology became a high priority. Although they'll know I'm there because I'm the closest thing we have to a specialist in their technology, I'm still presenting myself as a medical officer."

Brett didn't really feel like telling the ambassador how he had earned his Silver Sun on Roundhouse, or what it had cost him. As it turned out he didn't have to. The ambassador didn't ask questions, or talk about his own qualifications, or even dive right into the briefing.

Williams spoke in a tone higher than before, unpleasantly like whining, "I don't see why they assigned a military man to this mission. We're here to save lives, not end them."

Brett kept silent for the space of a breath, not letting the civilian get to him. "I'm a doctor, and hurting people isn’t my job, so maybe you could brief me as one man of peace to another?"

The mission would be easier if he got along with his new boss. Brett did not say, “I'm a doctor, not trained to kill, but in your case I'll make an exception.” He refrained from explaining that he had indeed lost several patients, but saved a great many more, and didn't enjoy talking about the former.

Williams' face reddened. "People talk like the Oceanians have a contagious disease. If you think what they've done to themselves is wrong, that's your business. We're here to negotiate with them, not judge them."

Where had that come from? What had Williams been told about Brett? The Senator hadn’t wanted a doormat for Williams, or he would have chosen someone else. “The Space Force doesn’t judge people. We don’t even kill them without good reason, unless we’re having a very bad day.”

The Ambassador replied, “Silly remarks aside, it’s not for you to decide if we have good reason to kill.”

True enough, but the opening implication that the Space Force killed capriciously, and the accusation without evidence that Brett would be judgmental rankled. Still, getting down to cases beat futile arguing. "I'll keep that in mind. What do I need to know to avoid giving accidental offense?"

"Their ancestors were English speaking people from Old Earth.”

Of course they were. The Firestorm had been built and crewed on Old York, as part of their contribution to the Federalist Space Marines. The Firestorm and her sister ships were chosen partly because the common language would make occupation of the planet a little easier should it be necessary. So far Williams had told Brett nothing he didn't already know. Patronizing Brett – or concealing ignorance?

Ambassador Williams warmed slightly to his theme, and his tone became less grating, “The embassy is in Landfall, the capital city of Oceania. For the most part they developed in isolation from the rest of humanity until a few hundred years ago. There was a wave of new immigration when they made themselves a legal haven for nanotechnological research, but English is still the dominant language. Many unique cultures have developed over thousands of years, so it's better to just be polite than to try to cram too much into your head. They know we're from another world. Just be polite and do what everyone else does."

Not too helpful, but Brett didn't feel like trying to cross examine him. The pilot announced maneuvers, giving him an excuse to end the conversation. The shuttle braked like a rocket while shedding enough velocity to enter the atmosphere. Brett’s stomach did a flip-flop as the gyroscope reoriented them. Now for all intents and purposes they rode in a high flying airplane with mediocre aerodynamics. Brett’s legs tensed impatiently in anticipation of landing. When the craft finally wheeled to a stop he removed his harness, but his legs buckled momentarily from sitting too long. He grabbed his little duffle bag and climbed onto the metal catwalk that had rolled up to the Firefly. It had been so long since he’d breathed un-recycled air that the sweetness hit him like a blow. Brett could faintly smell the oceans for which the planet was named. The base of his brain didn't know what to make of the alien biosphere smells which mixed with those of Earth descended flora and fauna. His face stretched into a huge smile without his realizing it.

To his right he could see the city of Landfall. The skyscrapers wore a different shape than he was used to, with rounded instead of rectangular edges. The buildings were colored in greens and blues and browns, and sometimes a light color like white sand. To either side the city was surrounded by beaches and ocean.

To his left he couldn’t see as much, since the elevation was higher than his. Some of the trees and vegetation resembled home. Mixed in were some bright blue treelike shapes. He couldn’t make out all the details in the distance, but the trunks looked as blue as the tops.

He now had to prevent a war. Or maybe that wasn’t his problem. Williams could handle it. Only Brett was starting to understand the Senator’s lack of confidence in the fellow.

To say Ambassador Nocker didn’t look a day over two hundred would be a polite lie, Brett decided. There was something creepy about the way he moved, without the normal pauses in the natural rhythm of movement, and with brief hesitations where none should be. His assistant, Ames, seemed normal enough, and didn’t appear to find anything uncomfortable about the proximity. All four of them wore suits and ties, an ancient fashion of formal dress which created a touchstone between cultures evolved separately for thousands of years since leaving Old Earth. Only the waiter who helped Nocker seat himself was dressed Oceanian style. His suit was blue and white, and had curves instead of lines and corners.

Brett and Williams stood until their hosts seated themselves. The four of them sat on a balcony, which offered a view of both the city of Landfall and the white sandy beach adjacent to it. The noise of the sea was audible when the conversation paused. A thin screen enclosed them, although there were no insects visible.

From a distance, only the height of the buildings pointed to a technological civilization. Their coloration contrived to blend in with the sea and sand and sky. Much of the traffic in the streets consisted of pedestrians – the transportation network lay underground. Brett had never seen an advanced city with a more rural appearance.

Oceanians did well by their guests. The four of them had the balcony to themselves. There was certainly something alluring about the planet, despite what dwelt at its heart. Ambassador Nocker ordered red wine. His younger companion ordered the juice of an unfamiliar berry whose name Brett didn’t quite catch. Williams had coffee. Brett asked for a beer, since nobody else had ordered food. It was too early for dinner, but it seemed a shame to reserve this spot just to sit around and talk.

The man across the table from him spoke. “Ambassador Williams and Major Johnson, it is a pleasure to meet you. I’m Cory Ames. Allow me to introduce you to my boss, Ambassador Nocker. Given the immediacy of our mutual … problems, and the time lost by the replacement of your predecessors, I’m sure we can quickly develop a working relationship.”

Brett thought ‘quickly’ sounded promising, but there wasn’t too much time to be spent on relationship developing. Cory was a little overenthusiastic, but likable anyway. The young man was of average height, only slightly overweight but with a build that spoke of soft living – physically anyhow. He had wavy brown hair, an expressive face, and a ready smile.

Brett swallowed beer out of a frosted mug. The underlying nutty flavor was new to him. He wasn’t sure what to call it next time he wanted some, but this didn’t seem the moment to ask.

The silence stretched, long enough for Brett to wonder if he was the one expected to respond. Then Ambassador Williams replied, “I’m happy we could arrange this informal meeting, and I have strong hopes it will be more productive than the larger and more formal ones between our two governments earlier. Perhaps we can start with those immigrants to Oceania who now wish to return home? And I very much hope success there will lead to a broad reduction of tensions. The very foundation of the Federalist system is a belief in the possibility of mutual cooperation between very different cultures.”

Nobody laughed out loud, so apparently this display of windbaggery wasn’t extraordinary for a diplomat. Could the problem be as simple as that?