Chess With a Dragon (2 page)

The host-grub was still sitting in the corner; it paid no attention as the Ki! stepped back into the pavilion. It was grooming or playing with or examining the soft flesh of its body—probably looking for fleas. K!rikkl clacked at it; the creature looked up and gobbled back, then resumed its abstracted examination of itself. K!rikkl snicked in annoyance and then turned its attention back to the board, lifting the silk scarf and considering the possibilities again.

K!rikkl waited until all the others had resumed their positions, then blinked and tapped and hesitated—and made the move it had already decided to make long before it threw the scarf, a move so deliberately neutral it suggested that K!rikkl had decided not to breed at all for the next six cycles of the game. K!rikkl glanced over at the grub in the corner. It was counting the toes of its left hind foot.

Hmm.

Perhaps there were breeding possibilities with Rrr, after all. Not just here in the game, but beyond its boundaries as well. If Rrr survived, K!rikkl might—
just might
—indenture the Ki! as a mate. But . . . if Rrr were to survive the evening, then who might take its place? Hnaxx? (Too bony. And besides, it was considered bad manners to eat the host, no matter how bad a player it was.) Lggn'nk? (Maybe. But Lggn'nk seemed greasy and unappetizing.) Dxxrt? (Possibly. But Dxxrt was too cautious a player to be trapped.) G!ligglix would be ideal, of course . . . all that juicy fat—

The grub had ceased its examination of its foot and was now picking parasites out of the dark folds of its crotch.

So! G!ligglix did have a Knrkt after all! That meant that its aggressive betting was only a bluff to encourage the other players to extend themselves too soon! What a marvelous trap G!ligglix was laying. If it succeeded, it could turn loose a very hungry Knrkt on the egg pouches of all of the other players and guarantee itself a permanent breeding advantage.

K!rikkl kept its face impassive. If G!ligglix could be forced to keep its egg pouch sealed until the Knrkt awoke—and Knrkts always woke up hungry—G!ligglix could be eaten out of the game and onto the table before even the first generation was ambulatory! Hmm. And hmm again. What an absolutely delicious possibility. . . .

But it would have to be very carefully managed. Either Rrr or Hnaxx would have to come into enough of a fortune to shift the balance of trading; the breeding negotiations could not be opened while there were still incomplete trades. If the close of barter could be delayed through three more rotations—no, that would be too obvious. Besides Hnaxx was already befortuned; it would have to be Rrr—but any advantage shifted to Rrr would have to be done anonymously. Perhaps on the next scramble—or better yet, the one after that; but it was going to be very tricky to arrange. An advantage should not be used to betray itself—especially not this advantage.

This was going to require some study.

If the other players ever found out just how thoroughly trained the fat pink host-grub really was, it would not be long thereafter that K!rikkl would be the guest of honor at a stinging. Or worse. K!rikkl might find itself hosting grubs of its own.

K!rikkl rasped its hind legs together in a loud absent-minded whirr. G!ligglix looked up curiously; the others continued to study the markers on the inlaid board.

“Your pardon, dear G!lig,” said K!rikkl, lowering its eyes shyly. “I was just considering a most interesting possibility.”

G!ligglix's reply was noncommittal.

The Liaison Officer was a slug.

It floated in a glass tank, blowing frothy green bubbles as it spoke. The voice that came through the speakers was a wet, slobbery gurgle.

Yake Singh Browne, Assistant Liaison Officer with the One Hundred and Thirteenth Interstellar Mission, listened politely to the soft whispering of the translator in his ear without expression. The Dhrooughleem were so painfully polite, it was depressing. There were at least sixty-three ritual courtesies to every Dhrooughleem transaction.

Yake stood quietly with his hands at his sides, waiting for the Dhrooughleem to finish. The slug-thing in the tank was finally concluding the blessing of Browne's genetic lineage, his parents, his egg-cluster-siblings, his mating-triad, his territorial governance, and the noble egg-clusters he had already—or perhaps would soon—sire upon his brothers in the pond. The translators weren't sure. Or perhaps the concept was untranslatable because there was no human equivalent. In any case, it made for some fascinating daydreams.

The Dhrooughleem Liaison finished its recitation and waited without expression for Yake's response. Keeping his face carefully blank (a smile was considered an insult to a slug, the showing of one's teeth implied that one was thinking of the other as a possible meal), Yake began to thank the Dhroo Liaison profusely. His thanks went on for several moments; it wasn't exactly a formal part of the ritual, but it was an expected one.

When Yake finally finished, the Dhrooughleem burbled something green. The translator whispered: “Unfortunately, as pleasant-garble as it is to acknowledge each other—garble-garble, tree-shrews taste terrible—occasionally we must pause to garble-garble our respective purposes as well.”

Yake agreed. He turned around to the desk beside him and picked up a folder of documents. “You have been so helpful to us,
Mn Dhrooughlorh
, that I hesitate to ask new impositions of you, and yet—it seems that there is still much my people do not understand. There are many more subjects about which we would like to experience clarification. I have taken the trouble of preparing a list—”

He held it out to the Liaison's mechanical manipulators.

The Dhrooughleem made no move to take the folder. “May I respectfully garble-garble a new subject,
Mr. Browne
?” it asked.

Yake tried to hide his surprise. “I beg your pardon?” In eight hundred and twelve previous meetings with the Dhrooughleem, the subjects covered had been so meticulously according to ritual, the meetings could have been scripted in advance. This was a total break in protocol—

“—must abase myself with a thousand salt water apologies for garbling the pattern of grace and [pneumatic gill-slits] and [soft red mud] which we have so carefully wrought together—”

Yake struggled to keep his face impassive. He hoped that the monitors were getting all this. Indeed, they should already be ringing for the Ambassador.

“—may I have your permission to garble a concern?”

Yake felt uncomfortable. The translating circuits were having greater than usual difficulty with the Dhrooughleem inflections. Clearly, something was not right. “Yes, of course,
Mn Dhrooughlorh
,” he said. “Please continue to garble—I mean, share your circumstance.”

“My people have nowhere invested as much time in the garbling of the nature of your species as you deserve—[??] [Despite your odorous appearance, we look forward to eating and enslaving you] [??]—and we apologize if we are garbling presumptuous, of course—but have we been uncareful in explaining the nature of our service here?”

“No, of course not,” Yake was quick to reassure. “The Dhrooughleem have been extraordinarily helpful to us in our missions. Were it not for the Dhrooughleem, we would not be able to query the Exchange anywhere nearly as efficiently as we have been.”

“Yes, that is precisely the issue, dear garble.” The Dhrooughleem writhed in its tank, stirring the brackish-looking water into murky brown and green swirls. “We are concerned about your relationship with the Exchange. [Your egg clusters are a lovely shade of ignorance.] Perhaps we do not understand you well enough. Perhaps you do not understand us—”

“Oh, no—we understand you perfectly!” Yake caught himself in mid-word, and corrected himself hastily: “I mean, we understand you as well as we can. That is, allowing for cultural and biological differences and the inefficiencies of our translating circuits.”

“Yes, that is the [offspring]! Perhaps, we have failed to garble what your responsibilities are to the membership of the Exchange.”

Yake cleared his throat uncomfortably. What was the damn slug driving at anyway? This was going to require some fancy tap-dancing. “As I understand it,
Mn Dhrooughlorh
,” Yake began carefully. “The Exchange is a gathering of many different species from many different worlds. Admission is granted to any species that can maintain a mission here. Is that correct so far?”

“Unfortunately so. You are aware also of the responsibilities and [fresh excrement] that such membership entails?”

“Information requested must be paid for with information of equal value—or by services. My species understands the concept of value exchange quite well.”

“That is the concern and [antique chair collection] of my species. I am relieved to hear you say that. I had so feared that we might be [enamored] about the circumstances, Mr. Browne.”

Yake was about to reassure the Dhrooughleem again when something went
twang
in the back of his mind. He said, instead, “As we understand the contract, new species are allowed a period of indebtedness in which to acquaint themselves with the . . . the rules of the game. Have we been mistaken about that?”

“Again, your grasp of the [slime mold] is admirable, Mr. Browne. It is I who must wear the [seasoning-spices] of embarrassment. Please to accept a thousand and three apologies for even raising the subject. The question was brought up only as a [traffic ornament] of our great respect for your species, and our concern that your [enslavement] be applied most deliciously.”

“I beg your pardon? What was that about ‘enslavement'?'” (Yake promised himself an appointment with the Chief of Translation Services. This was intolerable!)

The slug burbled a blue froth. “[I have exercised my hair.] What word didn't you understand?”

“The word for ‘service,' I believe.”

The slug blew a single red bubble. A bad sign that. The translator whispered: “I said nothing about service.”

Yake sighed and retreated into the safest of rituals. “Pardon my ignorance,
Mn Dhrooughlorh
, but I am confused here. I abase myself at my own stupidity. Please do not feel that the misunderstanding is a result of any of your words or actions. Please accept my apology for any inference that you have done less than your best. Perhaps in my eagerness to ease your discomfort at having to travel meet in such a cumbersome device as a tank on wheels, I presume familiarities that I should not.”

Yake reached up and twiddled his hair with his fingers; the closest he could come to an abasement wriggle. He felt like Stan Laurel doing it; then, having satisfied the ritual, he continued carefully, “Somehow I get the feeling that there is a subject we are discussing about which I do not have all the facts. May I request that you speak your concern a bit more directly? I promise you that there can be no offense taken here. We are searching only for the clarity of truth within your information.”

“Since you ask for candor, I can only give it to you.” The slug sank back down in its tank. Its eyes—all eight of them—were suddenly very large and very black. “My species is quite concerned about the size of your information debt.”

“We have asked for something we should not have?”

“No, no—it is not the current package of requests that is the issue. It is the extremely large amount of information that you have already [ingested]. The interest is accruing perhaps a bit more rapidly than you are aware? Indeed, at the current rate of accrual, you are going to strike your debt limit in less than eighteen of your months. My species is [be-fargled] that your species will be indentured before you have had an opportunity present a [vat of boiling chemicals] to the Monitors.

“It is clear to me of course, now that you have reassured me here, that you and your species fully understand the nature of the circumstances and are not without knowledge of the [edibles]—but of course, the cleverness of your species is such that you must already have a [foundation garment] to present to the InterChange, and I have been dreadfully out of line for even garbling the subject. Please, no offense is meant—”

“—and none is taken.”

“However, the [garlic seasoning] of this discussion was to let you know that the Dhrooughleem stand ready to continue to assist the Terran Mission in any way possible—”

“We thank you for that.”

“—and if your [menu of green flavors] is turned down by the Monitors, we stand ready to assume the indenture of your entire species—”

“I beg your pardon? It sounded like you said ‘indenture'—”

“—We have assumed many indentures, and always at the worst equable rate. We would take great [condiments] to be the kindest of guardians while your [enslavement] is [ingested]. You promise to be a most [delicious] species.”

Yake felt dizzy. The translator hadn't been out of focus at all! Oh, dear Lord in Heaven!

“We have hesitated to mention this, of course, out of our fear that we might somehow [gringle] your [pentacles]. To some species, even to imply [malodorous deflation] might be smelled as a [sphincter] of offense. It [tickles our bladders] that you [descendants of tree shrews]
are so [happy to be eaten]. Some species would see such a [bereavement] as a [dishonorable suicide]. It is our very high regard for you [things that belong on a plate] that mandates our concern here. If you would pass this [offer of ingestion] on to your own superiors so that they may be aware of our concern and our willingness to purchase your indenture and [eat your livers], we would be most—”

The rest of the interview was a blur.

The Crying Room looked like a war zone.

Every terminal was alive, whether someone was sitting before it or not; every screen was either scrolling through long columns of text or flashing bright-colored three-dimensional graphs and translation matrices. The diplomacy-technicians were moving quickly from work station to work station, pulling reports from one, giving instructions to another, keying in new instructions to a third. The Section Chiefs were clustered in small groups at or near the big briefing table; that end of the hall was raised above the rest so that most of the large screens at the opposite end of the chamber would be visible from that position. The table itself was covered with a six-hour detritus of half-empty coffee mugs, still-glowing clipboards, scratch pads, pens, crumpled wads of paper, and red-bordered hardcopies of classified documents.