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CHAPTER TWELVE

"Aliens?" Lady Sisree asked. "What do you mean, aliens?"

One of the lady's charms was her ability to hide negative reactions. To one and all, unless she specifically wished otherwise, Sisree projected serenity and interest. And so she did now, though internally she was mightily perplexed.

"We have not seen them ourselves, Lady. So far we have only the strange configuration of their ships to go by. But as you can see, those ships are very strange."

Sisree examined the images that Sum-sef had sent to her and found the ships themselves and the movements the fliers made with them were indeed very strange. She had never seen the like. Certainly they were formidable fighters.

A little thrill of fear went through her at the thought. Until now Clan Nrgun had been invincible, with nothing at all to threaten its tranquility. But these . . . aliens? Were they in fact another life-form, or was this some bizarre yet sophisticated plot to destroy Nrgun? Either possiblility could cause indigestion and, regrettably, Clan Snargx was all too capable of dreaming up such a mad scheme of conquest.

"You may bring them to the clan home," she said at last. "But they may not leave their ship until we have considered this matter. Also, close watch will be kept on them at all times."

"Yes, Lady. I was wondering if any might be permitted to visit their ship?" His posture indicated great respect blended with intense curiosity.

Sisree wore a considering look for a moment. "Has such an invitation been extended?" she asked.

Would the huntmaster presume to withhold such information?

"No, Lady. I spoke hypothetically." Sum-sef lowered his fore-body respectfully.

In general the lady did not require such abasement; it was an instinctive reaction to something subtle in her manner. It was always wise for a male to keep his place.

"I will take your interest into consideration, Huntmaster, should such an invitation be forthcoming." The lady's pedipalps rippled in a way that indicated that it was time to close this interview. "I will have my assistant schedule a personal interview for you as soon can be managed upon your return," she said. "Please stay on until Has-sre can arrange an appointment."

With a click, Sisree was on her own again. She rose from her couch and paced her room, climbing the silk-lined walls over and over again. At last, with a resigned click of her mandibles, she returned to her console. There was no escaping her duty. She must inform the queen. With a few taps she found herself looking at Hoo-seh, Queen Tewsee's first assistant.

With a graceful gesture Sisree conceded his position as a near equal in status. Hoo-seh instantly responded with a respectful gesture that acknowledged the inherent superiority of the queen's second.

"It is excellent to see you looking so well," Sisree said.

"And a great joy to be able to say the same to you, my lady."

Hoo-seh positioned his pedipalps in the first degree of respect. Not mere flattery, either. He did indeed respect the lady for her political acumen as well as her general attractivness. Also he was well aware of the esteem in which the queen held her second. Consummate politician that he was, Hoo-seh cultivated the second's good will.

"I find I must request an audience with her majesty," Sisree told him. "It is a matter of some urgency, and also some secrecy." She indicated a subtle apology for not saying more with the tilt of her head.

Hoo-seh froze momentarily in a position of intense and respectful curiosity.

"If it is her will, you must, of course, listen to what I have to tell her majesty. I will tell her of your intense interest, First Assistant. But I must, given the sensitive nature of my news, tell her majesty in privacy first."

Hoo-seh bowed. "You have made contact at an opportune moment, Lady Sisree. The queen is just finishing with her last appointment and has nothing scheduled for another stansis."

"I will await contact," Sisree said, giving him a nod of thanks. With a click she was once again alone with her thoughts. After a moment the lady began to gather together all of the information the huntmaster had sent to her, as well as her brief interview with him, and arranged it in some order, so that the queen's questions might be answered expeditiously. Although there wasn't, at present, any answer to the most pressing question of all.

Were these indeed aliens?

* * *

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," Raeder said to his senior officers, "we find ourselves in a most interesting situation." He tapped his stylus on the table before him. "I'd like to say it's unique, but unfortunately the Mollies beat us to that."

"Sir?" Booth raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Booth?" Raeder supressed a grimace. I knew what I was in for when I invited him to this meeting, he thought. So I'll just have to bite the bullet and put up with him. 

"Exactly what sort of threat are we operating under?" The security officer looked subdued and very serious.

"Well . . ." Peter looked around the table. Everyone wore much the same expression as the security officer. The commander cleared his throat. "We are in fact operating under threat. But they are very reasonable threats," he said, lifting his hands as though to stave off objections.

"I might have known," Booth muttered.

"Mr. Booth," Raeder said, looking hard at him. "I'm answering your question." Peter waited a moment longer, until Booth's eyes reluctantly fell.

"They are escorting us to their clan home," the commander continued. "We've been warned that if our weapons go hot, they will assume that we intend to fire them and we will be fired upon." He gave Sarah a grin. "I think you seriously impressed them out there."

The lieutenant commander smiled and blushed; around the table officers tapped their Academy rings in approbation. All but Booth, who didn't take his eyes from Raeder.

"Sir," he said, "what do the Fibians intend to do with us, once they've taken us to their planet?"

Raeder just looked at him for a moment. "Fair question," he said at last. "Especially if one assumes that we are being taken somewhere. In fact, we're not. We've been invited to accompany them. Had we wanted to we would have been permitted to leave after the battle."

"Hunh! That's what they tell us now. Sir. Now that we're doing what they want us to do. How do you think they'd react if we just stopped right now and said we'd changed our mind?"

"I honestly think they'd let us go, Mr. Booth. I also think they'd consider us boors and that they might not be so welcoming next time someone from the Commonwealth dropped in."

Peter tapped his stylus in a steady beat. He took the quiet way his officers allowed this conversation to go on without their input to be an indication that they, too, had reservations.

"Here's the situation, people," he said leaning forward. "We have one transit engine down, we have one in desperate need of repair. Not to mention the repairs needed to the hull. And we have wounded to tend." Peter looked around the table. "Moreover, we do not have enough fuel to get us home."

There was an almost invisible ripple around the table at that; tiny shifts in position, or glances crossing. Some of them had known it for a fact, the rest seemed to have had a sense of the situation. Even so, they'd have to be stone not to show some reaction.

"Even if we did have that much antihydrogen," Raeder continued, "we would still need to travel through Clan Snargx's territory. With one engine out, one in need of repair. This craft was built as a fast raider. With one ankle broken, we'd have to try and smash our way through. Do any of you really want to try a slugging match with major capital units . . . with the other side right next to their supply bases?"

He leaned back and idly rolled his stylus to and fro. Then he looked up, his gaze finding each face for a long moment.

"So you see, our options are to take a chance here, or die for certain, out there."

He watched his officers weigh what he'd said. Waited quietly until each one looked him in the eye and nodded. And then there was Booth.

"Then we have to establish our superiority," the security officer insisted.

"Lest the natives get uppity, Mr. Booth?" Truon Le asked with a crooked smile.

The security officer bristled, but before he could answer Raeder stepped in.

"I think we've established ourselves as, if not superior, certainly equal to themselves, thanks to the squadron. We've also treated them with all the courtesy we can."

Peter rubbed his forhead. "Mr. Ticknor, our linguist, tells me that the Fibian language includes a lot of body language which is necessary to be really understood, and to indicate subtleties of meaning and courtesy and so forth. Which brings us to another point that's been worrying me. How are they going to react to the way we look?"

It was as though the whole group of them took a deep breath.

"I suppose we look every bit as bad to them as they do to us," Ashly Lurhman said, wrinkling her nose.

Doctor Goldberg looked thoughtful. "If they're as xenophobic as humans are we'll have to reveal ourselves slowly and carefully. I can put together some text and pictures that might prepare them somewhat."

"Perhaps some entertainment recordings," Sarah said. "Dance, for instance."

Goldberg nodded slowly. "That might be a good idea. I certainly wouldn't recommend showing them war stories."

"Especially the kind where one or two humans defeat legions of Fibians," Truon Le commented dryly.

They all chuckled at that. The Commonwealth Office of Information had been putting out plenty of those ever since the Mollie-Fibian alliance had become known. In fact, they'd reached as far back as the twentieth century for models.

"If we have any of those on board," Peter said, "it might be a good idea to pull them from the computer. I wouldn't want them to think we're guilty of xenophobia, or hostile intentions, either."

"But we're guilty of both," Sarah said with a sly grin.

"But I don't want them to know that," Peter said. He leaned forward again. "Mr. Hartkopf, I want you to monitor transmissions out there and to relay them to Mr. Ticknor for study. If they have entertainment transmissions of their own we might find those especially revealing."

Sarah gave him an old-fashioned look and Peter turned to the doctor for support.

"Well," he asked, "wouldn't they?"

Goldberg chuckled. "They might very well be unintentionally revealing, sir, but we have no context. It might take years for us to define those traits that are meaningful to Fibians, as opposed to humans."

"Well," Raeder said, "they would at least provide Mr. Ticknor with a library of gestures and so forth that he isn't getting from voice transmissions." Not that I think he's sleeping any easier for not seeing them. He already knows what they look like. Still, he's been holding up very well in observing our prisoner. 

"I want it understood now," the commander said, "that no one is to reveal themselves to the Fibians until further notice. There will be no outside repairs done, no visual transmissions, internally or otherwise, until we've tested the waters with these people. I firmly believe that they are civilized and at least disposed to be peaceable. But there's really no telling how something as traumatic as a shipload of totally alien beings will impact them . . . or their culture."

"Let's hope they think we're adorable," Lurhman said.

"Let's hope they don't think we look tasty," Booth muttered.

"On that happy note," Raeder said, "let's move on to engineering's report on their repairs."

* * *

Her majesty's chamber was an enormous bower of pure white silk, the walls woven in such a way that subtle patterns formed, changing with one's angle of view. Soft light penetrated from some undisclosed source, keeping the whole room uniformly and pleasantly bright. An occasional sculpture or plant hung suspended, adding a touch of color here and there.

The queen's couch was made of fresh webbing every day and swung from the high ceiling, comfortably supporting her under her abdomen and thorax. Before her swing was a single couch of a more ordinary sort. More of them could be added at need but in this, less formal, room she preferred to keep things simple and uncrowded.

Hoo-seh advanced respectfully, enjoying the give beneath his clawed feet from a depth of silk one only found in the palace. He lowered his fore-body submissively and Tewsee acknowledged his obeisance with a gracious gesture.

"Seat yourself, First Assistant," the queen said. "I would have you present as my second tells us more of her tale. Begin," Tewsee said.

At her command a projection of Lady Sisree flared into existance between them. Hoo-seh could see the queen through its translucence, yet the second's image was clear.

A few sentences later the first assistant looked through the projection to the queen. He was terribly shaken. The voices that the huntmaster claimed came from the strange ships sounded like none he'd ever heard. What sort of faces must these beings have to produce such sounds? Hoo-seh shivered. But he could see that the queen was excited and eager to meet these creatures.

"We are faced with two possiblities," Tewsee said. "They are genuinely alien, or they are a fraud. This leads to four possibilities. Either Snargx knew of these aliens and did not want us to find out about them, or they did not know of them but for one reason or another found it necessary to chase them into Nrgun territory in order to destroy them. I doubt that would be to protect their good friends in Clan Nrgun," she said dryly. "Or, they are a fraud perpetrated by another clan on Snargx for the purpose of raiding their territory. In which case, I expect them to reveal themselves shortly and invite us to share in the joke. Or they are a fraud being perpetrated on Ngrun by Snargx as the means to effect a raid of some subtle kind."

"Five possibilities, Majesty," the Lady Sisree reminded her gently.

Tewsee cocked her head questioningly.

"If they are genuine, they may wish to establish diplomatic contact."

The queen lifted her head, her chelicerae shifting to show genuine pleasure.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful?" she said.

* * *

"Calm down," Raeder said, finding it hard to take his own advice. "Just take deep breaths." He inhaled in instruction.

"I'm trying!" Sirgay snapped. "I'm just not succeeding."

The doctor handed him a bag and told him to breathe into it. Which he did, and it slowed his breathing, without having any noticeable effect on the panic that made the linguist want to scream.

"Try walking," Doctor Goldberg urged him. "Get up and move around, do something with all that adrenaline."

Ticknor bounced to his feet and began marching back and forth, swinging his arms. Raeder and Goldberg ducked and did their best to move out of his way, but the room was too small for three men and a panic attack.

"Let's go into the corridor," Raeder finally suggested.

Ticknor was there before them. He marched away, he marched back. Goldberg and Raeder stood in the sick bay's hatch and watched him.

"How long has he been like this?" Peter asked the doctor.

"Not that long, about forty minutes. I called you as soon as he came in because he was saying he couldn't do it. I thought you needed to know."

"Isn't there some sort of medication for this?" The commander gestured down the hall at Ticknor. "I mean, look at the poor guy."

"He's on medication," Goldberg said. "He's been taking it regularly and, frankly, I don't have anything better in stock than what he's taking. I also wouldn't recommend upping his dosage. Not if you want him as a translator; as a lawn ornament, possibly." He shook his head. "With a fear this deep-seated drugs can only do so much. I think it's pretty remarkable and a tribute to his character that he's been able to keep going this long by himself."

"So what should we do?" Peter asked. "Medication isn't the answer, what is?"

"Frankly, Commander, I think part of the problem is isolation." The doctor held up his hand when Raeder would have protested. "I know we've been busy, crisis after crisis. I know that. He knows that," Goldberg said, pointing to his patient. "But things have slowed down now and he's more vital than ever. So if we want him to be able to function, we've got to open up and make him part of the group."

"What are you saying?" Raeder asked, his brow furrowed.

"I want him to mess with us. I think he should be included in any meetings about how we're going to deal with the Fibians. I think that we should at least try to socialize with him."

"You mean, like, invite him to Paddy's poker games?"

"Yes! Especially if we can get them to treat him with a little respect. The man is our resident Fibian expert, and he's damn near killing himself to do his job. If it takes a little nurturing, if we have to hold his hand a little bit, then yes, by all means invite him to poker night."

"Doctor, when it comes to poker Paddy doesn't even respect me." Raeder put his hands on his slim hips and watched Ticknor pace. He shrugged. "If what you're talking about is distraction . . ."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. Something to get his mind off the way Fibians look. Distraction will do very well. In fact, at the moment, it's the only game in town."

Raeder shook his head.

"It seems cruel, but you're the doctor." He leaned closer to Goldberg. "Should I let him walk a little bit more?"

The doctor gave his patient an appraising look.

"Yeah," he said. "Give him a couple of minutes. Meanwhile, you can be setting up a game."

"Still seems pretty cold," Peter said, doubtfully.

"Yeah, well, sometimes the cure can seem worse than the disease. But we have to do something. Maybe you can keep Paddy from making this game too high stakes."

Raeder snorted and turned away.

"Yeah, and maybe I can convince him to wear a tutu."

* * *

Ticknor sat at the table fairly thrumming with nervous energy. He looked around at his fellow players, who looked back at him like a tank full of sharks, long after feeding time at the aquarium was due.

They were a mixed lot: officers, some chiefs, some enlisted. But they all had chips on the table and the ease of familiarity about them.

"Now," Paddy began, "you bein' new here we're gonna let you be the dealer for this first hand." He took a sip of his drink and gave the linguist a toothy smile. " 'Tis a tradition with us. No rank in the mess, as the sayin' goes . . . and this is as messy a place as the good ship Invincible affords."

The others all chuckled. Ticknor shrugged gamely.

"Sure," he said, and offered them a nervous smile. "Cards?" he said and reached out for the deck Paddy offered him.

He shook the deck from its protective package and his hands began to dance. Cards began to flow back and forth in fans and riffs that Raeder had only seen in vids. And their ultranervous, high-strung, totally intellectual linguist began a litany of rules that told one and all at the table that this pigeon had teeth.

* * *

"That was an excellent game," Sirgay told Raeder as they moved down the corridor to officer country.

The linguist shuffled the pack of credit chits with the same enthusiastic skill he used on cards.

Raeder offered a pained, polite smile and nodded.

"I worked as a pit dealer when I was in college," Ticknor confided. "I love poker. I thought I might go into it professionally for a little while there." He tapped Raeder on the arm. "James Scott offered to teach me, to be my manager when I got a little experience on me."

Raeder's eyes bugged. Even he'd heard of James "Scotty" Scott. Well, that explains why I am now totally broke. If this guy could impress James Scott, for God's sake! We never had a chance. 

"Well, I think we all learned a little something from playing with you tonight," Raeder assured him. "I hope it helped."

Ticknor stopped.

"Yes. Yes, it did. Thank you, Commander." He looked embarrassed. "Sometimes, it just catches up with me and I freak," he said. Sirgay shrugged and laughed nervously. "I guess I needed a little less bug time."

"They're not bugs," Peter said firmly.

Ticknor looked down and waved his hands as though to erase what he'd just said.

"I know, I know. I don't mean to disparage them, I'm just trying to make this more manageable some way."

"They are not bugs," Raeder said again. He looked hard at the linguist. "They are not bugs. They are not spiders. They are a sentient species, the first we've ever encountered. Now, you are going to have to convince yourself that they are not bugs."

Ticknor wouldn't meet the commander's eyes. He held his hands up, palms out, and kept pushing them towards Raeder's chest in a calming motion.

"I know, you're right. But they look . . ."

"Maybe you could think of them as being more like a lobster," Peter suggested. "That might help your perspective."

"No, I don't eat lobster. Lobsters are just big bugs."

"Lobsters are not bugs," Raeder said and started walking again. "I eat lobsters." He took a few more steps. "They are not bugs."

Ticknor was shuffling his chits again.

"Actually they are," he said as they walked along.

I didn't need to know that, Peter thought.

Goldberg had a lot to answer for.

* * *

Peter sat quietly, in deep thought, after watching Doctor Goldberg's proposed instructional recording to familiarize the Fibians with the human shape.

"You don't like it," Goldberg said.

"No, no," Raeder said, straightening in his chair. "It's not that at all. In fact I think it shows a great deal of talent. Maybe you should get into movies after the war," he suggested with a smile.

"But . . ." the doctor said. He cupped his hands palms up and wiggled his fingers in a c'mon, give gesture.

"Well," Ticknor said, "maybe it should be more technical-medical and less—and on our menu today."

Goldberg frowned at him.

"I thought we should make it clear that we're omnivorous. They're sure to wonder about it," he said.

Peter was nodding though.

"I think Mr. Ticknor has a point, Doctor. We can cover the eating stuff in a later vid. This is just an introduction to our general appearance. Besides, we cook our food, they . . . don't," Raeder said with a grimace. "It's quite possible that they might find our method of preparing food for eating as disgusting as we find theirs."

Goldberg looked thoughtful; at last he nodded.

"Yes, they might well consider us to be carrion eaters . . ." He grinned at them. "I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to sit down to dinner with a genuine carrion eater myself."

"Fewer pictures of other Earth life," Sirgay interjected. He had a distant look about him, as though he hadn't heard most of the conversation. "Right now it looks like you're saying—`Earth, you never saw so many things to eat.' "

Raeder and Goldberg just looked at him.

"Well," the linguist shrugged, "I'm trying to see it from their perspective."

"Maybe he has a point there, too," the commander said. "Just strip it down to an introduction of what we look like. Maybe you could work up to it easy. Show them our clothes first, or something. Then build up slowly from the skeleton to the flesh."

"I'll bet they like our skeleton," Sirgay muttered. He looked up. "It's the only thing about us that looks remotely like them."

Goldberg nodded and made a note.

"Okay, I'll go with that," he said. He looked up. "Anything else, gentlemen?"

"Not at the moment," Raeder said, rising. "If I think of anything, I'll get back to you. Hey!" He snapped his fingers and pointed at Ticknor. "Maybe we should show it to your associate."

Ticknor nodded. "That's a very good idea. I know he's bored, I'm sure he'd enjoy it. I don't know how far we can trust his opinion, though."

"Understood," Raeder agreed. "We have to take everything he tells us with a grain of salt, but so far he's come through for us."

"I get a feeling he's very young," the linguist said. He stood and turned to go. "Nothing definite, just a sense that he's very naive."

"Ask him how old he is," Raeder said. "When we've established contact with the Nrguns we can check his age against their life expectancy and find out if you're correct."

"That could be important," Goldberg said and made another note. "By the way, how does he seem to you, Mr. Ticknor? Is he eating and drinking? Does he seem depressed?"

"I—I'm really the wrong person to ask about that stuff," Ticknor demurred. "I just can't say."

"Maybe it's time you interviewed him yourself, Doctor," the commander said. "We don't want our guest to fail just when we need him most. But I wouldn't mention anything about Clan Nrgun to him."

"I think you're probably right there, sir," Goldberg said. "I wouldn't want to add to his anxieties. But he must suspect that we're still in Nrgun territory. Where else would we go?" He held up a hand to ward off a repeat of any warnings from Raeder and Sirgay. "Don't worry though, I won't bring it up. May I use your equipment, Mr. Ticknor? Perhaps interview him from your lab?"

"Sure," the linguist said. "I've got to catch up on some stuff in my other lab."

Goldberg rubbed his hands in glee.

"I'm looking forward to meeting the young fellow."

* * *

Truon, Hartkopf and Gunderson seated themselves at the conference table. They'd been the last to arrive, perhaps because it was their report that the senior officers had gathered to hear.

"The planet, or clan home Nrgun, is very densely populated," Truon began. "There are also a great many orbital habitats and factories around the planet. From what we've seen of Nrgun's surface it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that some of these habitats are farms, since the surface shows no sign of any such places. Or," he cocked his head, "nothing that we would recognize as such."

"Are there green areas at all?" Doctor Goldberg asked. "Parks, untenanted lands?"

"There are a substantial number of greenlands, Doctor," Gunderson said. "Certainly enough to keep the atmosphere healthy. Indications are that their atmosphere is very close to Earth normal."

"We'll still need a sample to determine if it's safe," Goldberg cut in.

They all nodded at that; it didn't pay to get cocky.

"As you can see," Truon said, calling up a holo of the Nrgun system, "there's a narrow asteroid belt here." A red arrow appeared on the holo and pointed to a belt that wasn't very wide but consisted of much larger pieces than the one in Earth's system. "We've found evidence of mining going on here. And, as we noticed when we first exited the jump point, there's substantial merchant traffic. Much of it from outside this system. We've noted ships of Fibian configuration marked with four different colors so far: green, orange, yellow and purple."

"Six clans that we know of," Raeder said slowly. "And we thought tangling with one of them meant we were fighting above our weight." Boy, if we screw up here, we could pretty much be resposible for the end of the human race. No pressure, no pressure, just truckin' along. . . . "Anything else, Mr. Truon?"

"We have yet to see any ships with the specifically military shape that have anything but blue markings. From that we conclude that either Clan Nrgun is the premiere power among Fibians or that all of the clans are equally powerful and none has warships in the others' home space."

Raeder nodded. Two very different things there. But they had no way of knowing which conjecture would prove accurate at this point.

"Anything else?" he asked.

"Well, sir, this is only speculation," the XO said. "But," he tightened the focus until a space station midway between the asteroid belt and Nrgun came into view. "based on the emissions that we've detected coming from this station, I'd say it's an antihydrogen factory."

Around the table officers leaned forward to study the holo. It didn't look too different from the factories the Commonwealth had started up again at the beginning of the war.

"And based on the amount of exports they seem to be making," Gunderson said, "I think we can assume that their process is far more efficient than ours."

Now that, Raeder thought, is good news. It meant that they might be able to purchase some for the trip home. It also gives us something to negotiate for once we've opened formal relations. Scaragoglu screwed up. The notion warmed him a little. The old devil should have sent a diplomat along with us. 

"Apparently," Peter said aloud, "it's still not as efficient as mining the stuff. Otherwise Snargx wouldn't be cuddling up to the Mollies." Raeder suddenly slapped his forehead. "Nrgun didn't know about humans before we showed up here. Therefore it follows that Nrgun doesn't know about naturally occuring antihydrogen!"

"The question now is," Sarah said into the silence that followed, "do we want them to know about it?"

Raeder shook his head.

"We'll need to know more about them before we decide. I suspect that we'll have to come clean before we're finished here. I mean, it's not too much of a stretch to assume that once the Mollies and Snargx have flattened the Commonwealth the Mollies will find themselves being rolled over. So Snargx's ultimate goal might well be to upset the balance among the clans and nominate themselves as first among equals."

"That certainly gives us something in common," Truon said quietly.

"At the very least it gives us something to think about," Peter agreed.

"Sir," Skinner said raising his hand slightly from the table.

"Yes, Mr. Skinner?"

"The Nrguns might be able to supply us with parts to repair our engines. There's the chance that theirs will be too different," the engineering officer allowed. "But we should find out."

Raeder nodded. Pure Skinner, he thought. Focused, incredibly focused. 

"Thank you, Mr. Skinner," the commander said. "That will definitely go on my list of things to discuss."

Sarah looked across the table at Ashly Lurhman, then turned to Peter.

"Ms. Lurhman and I would like to suggest that as the two highest ranking females aboard that we go with you to the planet when you go down to negotiate."

"It appears, from things Mr. Ticknor has been telling us, to be a matriarchal society," Lurhman put in quickly.

Raeder looked over at the linguist, who stared back like a nocturnal animal caught by a bright light.

"It's . . . I . . . Sna-Fe told me that red clan is ruled by a queen, and that his huntmaster is under the comand of a female." He shrugged and looked around the table nervously. "I didn't think it was classified, or anything."

"No," Raeder said, trying to look pleasant so that he wouldn't scare him. "It's not classified, don't worry about that. It's just that it's something I should know." He gave the linguist a friendly nod. "Just keep me informed. Anything you think might be useful when we're talking to these people, please, just share it with me."

"You told me not to call you," Ticknor pointed out.

Raeder threw his head back.

"Ah," he said. "Well, I meant during a crisis. You can tell when those are going on by the crew running to battle stations and announcements over the com and warning chimes and so forth. Then it is a bad thing to just call me up. But otherwise, while I'm on duty, if you feel it's something I need to know, certainly, feel free to call me."

"Thank you," Sirgay said. He opened his mouth as if to say something else.

"Ms. Lurhman, Ms. James, thank you for offering your services. I agree, it would probably be diplomatic to include you both in any landing party we send down."

The two women grinned at the commander, then at each other.

"Is there any other business?" Raeder asked.

Ticknor said, "Yes!"

Peter turned to him in some surprise at the violence of that "yes."

"Sorry," Ticknor said, grimacing with embarrassment. "Didn't mean to be so vehement. I was going to suggest that the next time you speak to our escort you request an expert in protocol to coach us and guide us so that we don't risk offending anybody."

"Excellent suggestion, Mr. Ticknor," Raeder said, and meant it. "Thank you, I'll do that. Now, if there's no other business." He put his hands on the arms of his chair as if to rise. There were no takers. "Then we'll adjourn. Thank you everyone."

 

 

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