Tomorrow Happens (19 page)

Phss'aah's words shook me from perusing my new Crotonite guest. I turned back to the huge tank taking up half my ship's Visitor Suite, where a vaguely porpoise-like form whipped its tail, thrashing oxygen-rich water into a froth.

"I'm sorry . . ." and I made the wet sound approximating Phss'aah's name as near as a descendant of Earth humans could form it. "I didn't quite catch that last remark."

Bubbles rose from the Cephallon's twin exhalation slits, and now I read what might be mild exasperation in the flex of his long snout. Instead of repeating himself, Phss'aah waved a four fingered flipper-arm toward the aqua-bot that shared his tank. The bulbous machine planted a sucker on the glassy wall and spoke in its owner's stead.

"I believe Master Phss'aah is proposing a hypothesis as to why humans—you Erthuma—were the only one of the Six Starfaring Races to invent true autonomous robots. He suggests it is because you have such short natural lifespans. Being ambitious, your race sought ways to extend itself artificially. In order to be many places at once, they put much of themselves into their machines."

I shook my head. "But our lives aren't any shorter than Locrians', or Nexians' . . ."

"Correction," the robot interrupted. "You are counting up an individual's sum span of years, including all his or her
consecutive
natural lifetimes. You've had four renewals, Ambassador Dorning, totaling three hundred and four standard Earth years.

"But my master apparently thinks your Erthumoi worldview is still colored by the way existence was for you during the ages leading to High Civilization. In any event, your race invented artificially intelligent constructs like me well before learning how to Renew."

The machine—and Phss'aah—did have a point. Not for the first time I tried to imagine what it must have been like for my ancestors, facing certain death after only a single span of less than nine standard decades. Why, at my first Renewal I was still barely formed . . . an infant! I'd only completed one profession by then.

How strange that most humans, back in olden times, became parents as early as thirty years of age. In most modern nations of the modern Galactic Erthuma, you weren't even supposed to
think
about breeding till the middle of your second life.

All this time Phss'aah watched me through the glass with one eye, milky blue and inscrutable. I almost regretted that human-invented technology enabled the Cephallon to use his robot mouthpiece as yet another veil to shelter behind. Though, of course, getting Phss'aah to rely on this fancy assistant-drone was actually quite a coup. The idea was to sell large numbers of such machines to the water race, and then each of the other Big Five, so they'd get used to what some called the "bizarre Erthumoi notion" of intelligent devices . . . robots. Frankly, we newcomer humans could use the trade credits.

"Hmm." I answered cautiously. "But the Crotonites—" I nodded in the general direction of my unwanted guest in the corner. "—have even shorter lifespans than natural, old-style humans, and they don't Renew! Why, then, didn't they invent robots? It's not for lack of skill with machines. They're more nimble than anybody, with unsurpassed craftsmanship. And Space knows they have as much
ambition
as anybody."

The Cephallon rose to the surface to breathe, and returned trailing bubbles. When he spoke, the wall unit conveyed an Erthumoi translation, this time bypassing the robot.

"You reply logically and well for one of your kind. Certainly you and the Crotonites share the quick metabolisms characteristic of breathers of supercharged oxygen atmospheres. They, however, are oviparous flyers, while you are descended from arboreal mammals. Mammals are gregarious . . ."

"
Some
mammals."

"Indeed." And some of Phss'aah's irritation briefly showed. Cephallons do not like being interrupted while pontificating. That was exactly why I did it. Diplomacy is such a delicate business.

"Perhaps another reason you invented intelligent machines was because—"

This time the interruption wasn't my fault. The door behind me hissed open and my own secretary 'bot hovered into the Guest Suite. "Yes, Betty, what is it?" I asked.

"Messages received," she said tersely. "High priority, from Erthuma Diplomatic Guild, Long-Last Station."

Oblong, suspended in a cradle of invisible force, the machine looked nothing like her namesake, my most recent demi-wife on Long-Last. But, it was imprinted with her voice and twenty of her personality engrams, so she deserved a gender and basic courtesy.

"Thank you," I told the auto-sec. "I'll be right up."

Assuming dismissal, Betty turned and departed. From the corner of the suite, the Crotonite lifted his head and watched the machine briefly. Something in those cat-like eyes seemed to track it as a hunter might follow prey. But this Crot wasn't going to be chasing flitting airborne victims above the forests of any thick-aired world. Never again. Where once he carried great, tent-like wings, powerfully muscled and heavier than his torso, now the short, deep-chested being wore mere nubs—scarred from recent amputation.

The Crotonite noticed my look, and snarled fiercely. "Plant-eating grub! Turn away your half-blind, squinty orbs. You have no status to cast them on my shame!"

That was in Crotonoi, of course. Few Erthumoi would have understood so rapid and slurred an alien diatribe. But my talents and training had won me this post. Cursed talents. Double-cursed training!

By my own species' standards of politeness I'd have accepted the rebuke and turned away, respecting his privacy. Instead, I snapped right back in my own language.

"
You
dare throw insults at me?
You
who are broken and wingless and shall never again fly?
You
who shame your race by neglecting the purpose for which you were cast down? Here, try doing this!"

I flexed my strong legs and bounded high in the half gravity of the Guest Suite. The cripple, of course, could not manage it with his puny legs. I landed facing him. "You're a diplomat, Jirata. You won your fallen state by being
better
than your peers, the first so chosen for a bold new experiment. Your job is now to try something new to your folk . . . to
empathize
with ground-walking life forms like me, and even swimming forms like Phss'aah. To make that effort, you were assigned to me, a burden I did not ask for, nor welcome. Nor do I predict success.

"Still, you can
try
. It's the purpose of your existence. The reason your people didn't leave you beneath some tree to starve, and instead still speak your name to the winds, as if you were alive.

"
Try
, Jirata. Just try, and the least you'll win is that I, personally, will stop being cruel to you."

The Crotonite looked away, but I could tell he was struggling with a deep perplexity. "Why should you stop being cruel?" he asked. "You have every advantage."

I sighed. This was going to take a long time. "Because I'd rather like you than hate you, Jirata. And if you don't understand that, consider this. Your job is to investigate a new mode of diplomacy for your people.
Empathy
is what you must discover to succeed. So while I'm away, why not converse with Phss'aah. I'm sure he'll be patient with you. He doesn't know how to be anything else."

That was untrue, of course. Phss'aah gave me a look of exasperation at this unwelcome assignment. For his part, Jirata glanced at the Cephallon, floating in all that water, and let out a keening of sheer disgust.

I left the room.

"Actually, there are two messages of Red Priority," Captain Smeet told me. She handed over a pair of decoded flimsies. I thanked her, went over to the privacy corner of the ship's bridge, and laid the first of the shimmering, gauzy message films over my head. Immediately, the gossamer fabric wrapped my face, covering eyes and ears, leaving only my nostrils free. It began vibrating, and after a momentary blurriness, sight and sound enveloped me.

My boss looked across his desk . . . the slavedriver whose faith in my abilities was anything but reassuring. He seemed to feel there was no end to the number of tasks I could take on at once.

"
Patty
," he said. "
Sorry about dumping the Crotonite on you. He's part of an experimental program initiated by the Seven Sovereigns' League. You'll recall that particular Crotoni confederacy suffered rather badly for bungling the negotiations at Maioplar, fifty years ago. In desperation, they're trying something radical to revise their way of dealing with other races. I guess they're testing it on us Erthuma because we're the least influential of the Six. If it flops, our opinion won't matter much
.

"
In answer to your last query—I have no idea if the Seven Sovereigns cleared this with other Crotonite nation-states, or if they're doing it on their own. Crot intra-race politics is such a tangle, who can tell? That's why the Diplomacy Guild decided to farm out Jirata and the others like him to our roving emissaries. Try to figure out what's going on away from media and the like. I'm sure you understand
."

"Right, Maxwell." I gave a very un-ladylike snort. Back on Long-Last, Betty used to chastise me for that. But I never heard any of our husbands complain.

"
That's my Patty
," he went on, as if he was sure my reaction would be complete enthusiasm. "
Who knows, maybe the League's idea of using crippled bats as envoys may work, so let's put it on high priority, okay
?"

"As high as preventing a break in the Essential Protocols?" I muttered. But I knew the answer.

"
Of course, nothing is to stand in the way of getting King Zardee to toe the line on replicants. If he gives you any trouble, just tell that freon-blooded son of a b
—"

I'd heard enough, and ripped the flimsy off. It instantly began dissolving into inert gas.

"Orders, madam?" Captain Smeet looked at me coolly, expectantly.

"Proceed to Planet Nine of this system, and please beam to King Zardee that I'll wait no longer for him to prepare for my arrival. If he plans to shoot us out of the sky, let him do so and live with the consequences."

Smeet nodded. I could have asked her to take me wet-diving in the nearby sun of Prongee System and she'd find a way, keeping her opinion of crazy diplomats to herself. That was more than
I
sometimes was able to do, after listening to Maxwell for a while.

Why success followed that awful old man around so, I could never understand.

An angry visage greeted me, glaring out of the communications tank.

I had been sent on this mission because, among all the different styles of government used by various Erthumoi nation-worlds, monarchies were among the quirkiest, and I had the most experience in our sector dealing with arrogant creatures known as kings.

Some were smooth. But this one actually reminded me of Jirata as he growled.

"We are not accustomed to being made to wait," he said as I stepped into the Communications Lounge. Ignoring the remark, I curtsied in the manner customary for women in his commonwealth.

"Your majesty would not have liked to see me dressed as I was when you called. It took a few moments to make myself presentable."

Zardee grunted. I felt his eyes survey me like a piece of real estate, and recognized covetousness in them. I always find it amazing how many Erthumoi societies leave their males with these unaltered, visually stimulated lust patterns. And Zardee was nearly eight hundred standard years old!

Never mind. I'd use whatever chinks in his armor I could find.

"I accept your apology," he said in a softer tone. "And I must offer my regrets in turn for keeping such a comely and accomplished lady waiting at the boundary. I now invite you to join me on my yacht for some refreshment and entertainment I'm sure you'll find distracting."

"You are most gracious, Your Majesty. However, first I really must inspect your mining establishment on the ninth planet of this system."

His visage transformed once more to anger, and again I felt astonishment this system's folk put up with such a monarch. The attractions of kingship are well documented, but sentimental indulgence can become an illness if it isn't looked to.

"There's nothing on my mining world of interest to the Diplomacy Guild!" he snapped. "You have no authority to force yourself upon me!"

This from a fellow so atavistic, I had no doubt he would chain me to a bed in his seraglio, were it in his power. I kept my amusement to myself. "I'm sure, Your Majesty, that you wouldn't want it to get out among your Erthumoi and Nexian neighbors that you have something to hide."

"
All
kingdoms and sovereign worlds have secrets, foolish woman. I have a right to keep vital security information from the prying eyes of outsiders."

I nodded. "But not when those secrets violate Essential Protocols of the Erthuma. Or is it your intention to join the Outlaw Worlds, forgoing the services of my Guild?"

For a moment it looked as if he might declare just such a move. But he stopped. Commercial repercussions would be catastrophic. That step might push his people too far.

"The Essential Protocols don't cover much," he said, slowly. "My subjects have access to Erthumoi ombudsmen. I vet my treaties past Guild lawyers, and my ship captains report to the Guild on activities observed among the Other Five races. That is all that's required of me."

"You are forgetting Article Six of the Protocols," I said.

Blinking, Zardee spoke slowly. "Exactly what do you accuse me of, ambassador?"

I shrugged. "Such a strong word. There are rumors, Majesty . . . that someone is violating the rule against creating fully autonomous replicants."

His face reddened three shades. I did not need a Nexian's insight or a Cephallon's empathy to tell I'd struck home. At the same time, though, it was not
guilt
I read in the monarch's eyes, but rather something akin to
shame
. I found the reaction most interesting.