"The Old Ones"
by David Brin
Few human beings qualify for this difficult and dangerous job. You students,
the elite of our race, are being trained for a task of vital importance
for the survival of our world and so many others. For those finally selected
to serve, the demands that follow will be heavy and unending.
First, above all other requirements, you have
to like Demmies.
I mean -- really like them.
Try to imagine spending a voyage of several
years crammed in tight quarters with over a hundred of the little devils,
sharing constant danger while daily enduring their puckish, brilliant,
idiotic, mercurial, and always astonishing natures. It would drive any
normal man or woman to jibbering distraction. Against such pressures, the
Human Advisor aboard a Demmie ship must exercise constant self-discipline,
along with the legendary Earthling traits of calmness and restraint...
plus, heaven help us, a genuine affection for the impossible creatures.
At times, this fondness will be the one anchor your sanity can count on.
As everyone knows, love and hate are cousins.
And while I am loyal to my Demmie captain and crewmates, there are times
when the latest infuriating Demmie antic leaves me breathless, frazzled
to the bone. During those moments I find I can fathom the attitude of fierce
loathing chosen by our Spertin foes, who wish to roast every living Demmie
over a neutron star.
Forgive my picturesque imagery. But before
you students take your turns upon the stellar marches, serving humanity
and the Spiral Alliance, you must know what you're getting into. Of all
possible interstellar societies our forebears imagined before setting off
from Earth centuries ago, none were stranger than this.
Demmies love nicknames; you'll soon learn about that trait. One reverent
title they have given humans in general is -- "the Old Ones".
From their point of view, it's obvious. Not
only do we live much longer as individuals, with lifespans of ninety or
more Earth years, but from the Demmie perspective our people have been
roaming the galaxy since time immemorial.
I guess there's some logic to it. Humans weren't
the first to develop Crandel Drive, but we used it with more gusto than
anyone had seen before, exploring star-reaches far from our home sun. Most
current Alliance members learned starflight from us...as did the Demmies,
when we contacted them, fifty-eight years after the first starship left
Sol.
Fifty-eight years, that's how much longer
we roamed the space lanes. And for that they deferentially call us the
Old Ones.
Sure. Why not?
The first rule to remember, students -- a
rule even more important than the Choice Imperative -- is to let Demmies
have their way.
For today's case study, we'll discuss the time our good ship -- the
Clever Gamble -- entered orbit about the third planet of the system, Oxytocin
41. I was performing routine scans when it all began.
"There is a technic civilization," I informed
Captain Olm. "Scanners observe a sophisticated network of roads, moderate
electromagnetic--"
"Never mind all that, Doctor Montessori."
The commander leaped out of his slouch-chair and bounded over to my station.
At almost five and a half feet, he was quite tall for a Demmie. Still I
made certain to stoop a little and leave him the best light.
"Are they over sixteen on the Polanski Scale?"
he asked urgently. "Can we make contact?"
"Contact. Hm." I rubbed my chin, a human mannerism
our crew expects of their Earthling advisor from time to time.
"I would say so, Captain, though to be precise..."
"Great! Let's go on down then."
Knowing it useless, I nevertheless tried entreating.
"What's the hurry? Why not spend a day or
two collecting data from orbit? It never hurts to know what we're stepping
into."
The Captain grinned, belying his humanoid
likeness by exposing twin rows of brilliant, pointy teeth.
"That's all right, Advisor, I've had slippery
boots before. Never stopped me yet!"
The crude witticism triggered laughter from
other Demmies in the command center. They often find my expressions of
caution amusing, even when I later prove to be right. Fortunately, they
are fair-minded, and never confuse caution with cowardice.
Remember students, around Demmies feel free
to act "prudently wise," or to urge restraint, since this is true to the
image they have of us. But also remember -- never, ever, display outright
fear.
"Break out the hose!" The Captain commanded,
rubbing his hands.
"Tell Guts and Nuts to meet us at the spigot.
Come on, Doc. We're going down!"
Alliance spacecraft look strange to the uninitiated. Until recently,
most starfaring races travelled in efficient, globe-like vessels, with
small struts symmetrically placed for the hyperdrive units. Travel to and
from a planetary surface took place via orbital elevator at advanced worlds,
and otherwise by sensible little shuttles.
Like any prudent person, I'd be far happier
travelling that way, but I try to hide the fact, and you students should
too. Demmies cannot imagine why everyone doesn't love slurry transport
as much as they do. And since Demmies love it, rest assured that it will
eventually become the principal short range system used near all Alliance
worlds. We might as well get used to it.
It's not so bad, after the first hundred or
so times. Really.
As a Demmie-designed exploration ship, the
Clever Gamble looks like nothing else in the known universe. There are
typically garish dem-style drive struts, for starters, looking like frosting
swirls on some psychotic baker's confection. These are linked to a surprisingly
efficient and sensible engineering pod, which then clashes with a habitation
module resembling something straight out of Hans Christian Anderson.
Then there is the Reel.
The Reel is a gigantic, protruding disk that
takes up half the mass and volume of the ship, all in order to lug this
prodigious, unbelievable hose all over the galaxy, frightening comets and
intimidating the natives wherever we go. The conduit was already half-deployed
by the time the ship's artificer and healer met us in the slurry room.
Through the viewer, we could see a tapering line descending toward the
planet's surface, homing in on the selected landing site.
The Captain was hopping about, full of ebullient
energy. For the record, I reminded him that, contrary to explicit rules
and common sense, the descent party once again consisted of the ship's
top four officers, while a trained xenology team waited on standby, just
three decks down.
"Are you kidding?" he replied. "I served on
one of those teams, long time ago. Boringest time I ever had."
"But the thrill of contacting alien --"
"What contact? All's we did was sit around
while the top brass went down to all the new planets, an' did all the fighting
and peacemaking and screwing. Well it's my turn now. Let 'em stew like
I did!" He whirled to the reel operator. "Hose almost ready?"
"Aye sir. Nozzle End inserted, behind some
shrubs in what looks like a park in their biggest city."
I sighed. This was not an approach I would
have chosen, but most of the time you just have to go with the flow. It
really is implacable. Anyway, it pretty often turns out all right in the
end.
Olm rubbed his hands. "Good. Then let's see
what's down there!"
Resignedly, I followed my leader into the
dissolving room.
At this point I should introduce Guts and
Nuts. Those are not their formal names, of course. But, as a Demmie would
say, who cares? On an Alliance ship, you quickly learn to go by whatever
moniker the Captain chooses.
Commander-Healer Paolim -- or "Guts" -- is
the ship's surgeon, an older Demmie and, I might add, an exceptionally
reasonable fellow. It is always important to remember that both humans
and dems produce individuals along a wide spectrum of personality types,
and that the races do overlap.
While some Earthling men and women can be
as flighty and impulsive as a Demmie adolescent, the occasional Demmie
can, in turn, seem mature, patient, reflective. On the other hand, let
me warn you right now -- never get so used to such a one as to take it
for granted! I can recall one time, on Sepsis 69, when this same reasonable
old healer actually tried to persuade a mega-thunder ameboid to stop in
mid-charge to pose.for a group photo.... But hold. We'll save that story
for another time.
Commander-Artificer Nomlin -- or "Nuts" --
is the ship's chief engineering officer. A female Demmie (she dislikes
the slang term, "fem-dem," and I recommend against ever using it), she
is brilliant, innovative, stunningly skilled with her hands, mercurial,
and utterly fixated on making life miserable for me, for reasons that I
would rather not go into. Nuts nodded to the Captain and the doctor, then
curtly to me.
"Advisor."
"Engineer," I replied.
Our commander looked left and right, frowning.
"How many green guys do you think we oughta take along, this time? Just
one?"
"Against regulations for first contact on
a planet above tech level eight," Guts reminded him. "Sorry, sir."
Olm sighed. "Two then?" He suggested, hopefully.
"Three?"
Nuts shook her head. "I gotta bad feelin'
this time, Captain," she said. "Right down in the pit o' my stomach."
Melodramatic, yes, but we have learned to
pay attention to her premonitions, especially when her voice takes on a
certain dour tone.
"Okay, then," Captain Olm nodded. "Many. Dial
'em up, will you, doc?"
Guts went over to the cabinet lining the far
wall of the chamber, and turned a knob all the way over to the last notch
on a dial that said 0, 1, 2, 3, M. There followed a hum and a rattling
wheeze, then a panel hissed open and several impressive figures, all attired
in lime-green jump suits, emerged from a swirling mist. They were Demmie
shaped, and had a Demmie's pointy teeth, but they were also powerfully
muscled and taller as a human. Across their chests, in big letters, were
written their names.
JUMS
SMET
WEMS
They stepped before the captain and saluted.
He, in turn, retreated a pace and curtly motioned for them to step aside.
One learns quickly, in the service, not to make a habit of standing too
close to greenies.
When they moved out of the way, it brought
into view another figure who had been standing behind them, also dressed
in lime green. This one was much smaller than the others, and built decidedly
differently. Her salute was just as crisp, however, tugging the uniform
and its crossed bandoliers tight across her chest, a display which normally
would have put the captain into a panting sweat, calling for someone to
relieve him at the con. In this case, however, the sight rocked him back
in dismay.
"Lieutenant Gala Morell, Captain," she introduced
herself. "You and your party will be safe with us on the job." Snappily,
she saluted a second time and turned to join the others.
"Aw hell," Olm muttered to me as the security
team filed into place behind us. "A girl greenie. I hate it when that happens!"
All I could do is shrug. I already knew this
was going to be an expensive mission.
The dissolution tech ushered us toward our
positions, taking from us any metal objects to be put into pneumatic tubes.
I recognized her as the crew-member nick-named "Eyes," presumably because
of the big, round, doelike irises she flashes whenever I look her way.
She is very pretty, as Demmies go... and they will go all the way at the
drop of a boot-lace. But I'm sure you upperclass men and women have been
warned about that trait more often than a hound-droid could count nano-fleas.
"Ready, commander?" The tech asked, trying
to catch my eye even as she addressed the Captain.
"Do it, do it, do it!" Olm urged, rocking
from foot to foot.
She stepped behind a transparent door which
sealed behind her, and turned a switch. I instantly began feeling a powerful
tingling sensation.
For those of you who have never slurried,
there can be no describing what it feels like to have a beam zap through
you, reading the position of every cell in your body. But this is nothing
compared to what follows... the rush of solvent fluid, flooding in through
a hundred vents, rising from your boots to your thighs to your neck faster
than you could cry, I'm melting!
It doesn't hurt. Really. But it is disconcerting
to watch your hands dissolve right in front of you. Closing your eyelids
doesn't help much, since they go next, leaving a dreadful second or two
until your entire skull -- brain, eyes and all -- crumbles like a sugar
confection in hot water.
I regained consciousness on a strange world,
watching my hands reappear in front of me as the reconstructor at the nozzle
end re-stacked my cells, one by one, in the same relative positions they
had been in before slurrying down.
Overhead, the Hose stretched upward into a
cloud-flecked sky, cleverly invisible to radar, sonar, infrared, and most
visible light. (I could see it, of course. But then, Demmies are always
amazed at the ability of humans to perceive the mystical color, "blue.")
A final word about slurrying. In its way,
it is an efficient mode of transport, and I'm not complaining. Things might
have been worse. I'm told that true matter teleportation, where an object
is "read and replicated" atom-by-atom, instead of cell-by-cell, is a ridiculous
impossibility. Quantum uncertainty and all that. Nevertheless, there is
a Demmie research center that refuses to give up on the idea... and Demmies
never cease to surprise us.
(Impossibility be damned. I recommend secretly
blowing up the place, just to be sure.)
Stumbling out of the Nozzle, we retrieved
the tubes containing our tools and proceeded to look around the place.
So far, so good. We appeared to have de-licquesced
behind some boulders and shrubbery in an uncrowded portion of the park.
Tall buildings could be seen jutting skyward beyond a surrounding copse
of trees. Distant sounds of city traffic drifted toward us.
The greenies fanned out, very businesslike,
covering all directions with their tidy blasters. I took out my scanner
and surveyed various bands.
"Life forms?" Olm said, peering around my
shoulder, speaking loud enough to be heard over the traffic noise.
"Yes, Captain," I replied, patiently. "Many."
"Many," Nuts repeated, morosely.
"Many," Guts added, his eyes filled with wonder
while his right hand stroked his vivisection kit.
"Let's go see," Olm commanded, as I counted
down the seconds til something happened.
Something always happens.
At the count of eight, it did. Someone screamed.
We swivelled and hurried toward the source,
which turned out to be Lt. Morell.
She panted, with one hand over her breast, while pointing her blaster
toward a set of bushes.
"I shot it!"
"What?" Olm demanded, shoving everyone else
aside to charge forward. "What was it?"
She came to attention. "Don't know, sir. Something
was spying on us. I saw the weirdest pair of eyes. Whatever it was, I think
I got it."
"Um," I stepped forward, reluctant to point
out the obvious. "Parsimony might suggest, in a calm city park, that your
something just might have been... well... perhaps a local citizen?"
Lt. Morell gulped, at that moment looking
just like a young human who had made a similar, nervous mistake.
"Of all the damn foolishness," Guts grumbled
as he hastened through the undergrowth, unflapping his medical kit while
I hurried after. Behind me, I heard the lieutenant sob an apology to the
Captain.
"There now," Olm answered. "I'm sure he...
she...it's just stunned. You did use stun-setting..."
"Sir!"
When I glanced back, he was leading her by
one arm, his other one sliding around her shoulder. I should have known.
Guts shouted when he found our prowler. A
humanoid, of course, like ninety percent of Class M sapients. He had managed
to crawl twenty or so meters before the stun nanos got organized enough
to bring him down. Now he lay sprawled on his back, spread-eagled on the
forest loam, arms and legs pinned by half a million microscopic fibers.
He was still straining in surprise as we emerged to surround him, then
his struggles ceased as he stared with large, dark eyes, gurgling slightly
behind the nano-woven gag in his mouth.
Nanos are reputedly too small to see, but
not always. In fact, the type shot out at high speed by a stun blaster,
is about the size of a large Earthling ant. No more than a dozen or so
must have hit him, and it takes several seconds for them to duplicate into
thousands and get to work. By now though, they swarmed all over their captive,
inspecting their handiwork and jumping up and down in jubilation. Some,
for lack of anything else to do, appeared to be hard at work sewing rips
in the native's dark, satin-lined cloak and black, pegged pants.
The victim's eyes grew even wider as Guts
began scanning him, and as I drew two objects from my belt. One was my
blaster. I adjusted the setting, then sighted it straight at his face.
He cringed as I fired.
A stream of intense, tuned microwaves shattered
nano fibers into harmless gas wherever I aimed. In an instant, his mouth
was free and he gasped, then began jabbering frightfully in a tongue filled
with moist sibilants.
I heard a distinctly different hiss and glanced
aside to see Guts inject our captive with a hypo spray, using an orange
vial marked ALIEN RELAXANT #1. The native saw this too. He tensed for a
moment, then sagged with a sigh.
Remember, students, to always inspect your
ship's supply of Alien Relaxant Number One. Make sure of its purity. Very
few sentient life forms have fatal allergic reactions to 100 percent distilled
water, nevertheless, most will respond quickly to being sprayed, as if
a potent, local narcotic were suddenly flowing through their veins.
Bless the placebo effect. Its near universality
is among the few constants in the known cosmos.
Guts gave me a sly wink. He knows what's going
on, and so I no longer need to mix his batches of "ol' Number One." Don't
assume your ship's doctor will understand, however. Call it an "ancient
human recipe" until you're sure your medico can be trusted with the truth.
With the native now much more calm, prattlimg
at a slower pace, I set up the universal translator on its tripod. Meanwhile,
the Captain dropped to one knee, preparing for that special moment when
true First Contact would begin. Colored buttons flickered as the machine
scanned, seeking meaning in the slur of local speech. Abruptly, the lights
all turned green. The translator swivelled and fired three more nanos at
the poor autochthone, one for each ear and another that streaked like a
smart missile down his throat.
It wasn't painful, but startlement made him
stop and swallow in surprise, blinking twice.
"On behalf of the Federated --" Captain Olm
began, expansively, spreading his arms.. Then frowned as the native had
the poor grace to interrupt his speech, speaking in pure, aristocratically-accented
Demmish.
"... don't know who you people are, or where
you come from, but you must get out of the park, quickly! Don't you know
it's -- dangerous?"
END OF PART ONE
Stewart Blandón