The Dark Horse has resumed its mission of discovery, and the new crew are settling in—some more than others. On a diplomatic mission, Maddy's problem-solving is put to the test.

Oh hey I'm still writing these! Let's kick off Season 3 of the Madison May of the Star Patrol serial Tales of the Dark Horse. It's even a clean episode, somehow? Next one won't be. Because I'm still me, after all. But have some Star Trek homage, and go thank :iconSpudz: for making this happen~

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Tales of the Dark Horse by Rob Baird
S3E1, "Shared Experience"
Stardate 66760

---

“Would you do something for me?"

Ayenni had, of course, asked the question knowing that there were many things David Bradley would do for her—the Golden Retriever having become somewhat smitten. In the interests of not appearing quite so vulnerable, he demurred. “That all depends on what it is, now, doesn't it?"

Being telepathic, the alien was not easily fooled. But, grinning, she didn't call him on the statement. “You're from someplace warm, aren't you?" Much of what made Ayenni look so much like a chinchilla came down to the dense, plush fur that covered every inch of her; it wasn't illogical to understand where the question came from.

On the other hand, he wasn't much more qualified. “Canada? Not really."

“I bet it's warmer than Yara. I come from a very cold planet. Doesn't Terra have warm places on it?"

“Sure." He'd done some of his training on Saint Vincent, where it was regularly around thirty degrees centigrade. Dave closed his eyes and pictured sunlight glittering off the water, and the heat of a summer breeze washing over his fur. “Okay."

He felt a soft touch at his left cheek, and then another on the far side as Ayenni's paws clasped him. The image in his head became suddenly sharp and vibrant, near living. “This is a real place on your planet?"

“Kingstown, yes," he said—hearing the words coming from his mouth as though carried by the same breeze.

Ayenni's voice seemed to be right in his ear. “It probably didn't have any Yara, though, did it? That part was your imagination." It amused her, more than anything else: the sight of the white-furred alien, paws clasped behind her back, looking at at the surfers and the drifting clouds, must've come from his subconscious. She just felt like teasing him. 

“Well, maybe it was one of your explorers?"

The apparition on the beach turned to face him, and grinned. “Maybe it wasn't. I think they wear more clothes."

“I'm not sure a bikini would really work."

Lavender ripples worked their way over the alien's pelt, darker along the stripes that fringed her sides; Dave's eyes were still closed, but he knew she would've been doing that in the real world, too. Her species was highly visual, and he didn't understand all of the subtleties: he knew that purple reflected confusion, but not that the particular shade indicated curiosity, too.

Still, he did what he could to picture a bikini. Ayenni's avatar glanced down at the fabric, and the purple deepened. “Well, that's what it looks like. Don't blame me…"

“It's a little less functional for my kind, I guess." She stepped closer to him, until the touch of her avatar's paws at the side of the dog's head matched the position of her living counterpart. “Thank you for showing me, though."

“What about you? Repay the favor?"

She nodded. The beach disappeared; for a moment he saw nothing at all, and then they were standing on the peak of a tall mountain. The valleys to either side were soft emerald green but if he stared at them his gaze was drawn as if through a telescope to the pointillist color of alpine flowers. “This is Yara?"

Ayenni was next to him; her fur faded from purple to red. The place, unlike Saint Vincent, didn't truly exist; it could've been any of the mountains her family called home, but she chose a suitable amalgamation of them. It would all be the same: wind-whipped lakes and flowers and the mottled lichen that clung to the scree. “Yes. The highlands on the western continent."

The thought flickered through her mind that, perhaps, she'd made the tableau up because she couldn't actually recall Mount Sarilan, where legend held it that the witch Kirri assembled her first healing bundle. Or Mount Istara, where the family shrine lay. In spreading waves, her fur went from red to a contemplative, regretful indigo. Dave picked up on that, if not the complexity of the meaning. “Ayenni?"

“It has been a very long time since I was home," she said, quietly.

“Do you want to go back?"

In her mind, a gust of wind swept up the slope toward them. Dave hadn't bothered to imagine heavy clothing; in the sudden chill he reached out for the Yara, and the shock of his touch jolted her free of their connection. Back on the Dark Horse, his arms were around her; his emotion flooded into her mind. Ayenni shuddered and calmed herself down.

David realized what he'd done—she was especially sensitive to touch—and started to relax. “Sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

“You meant well," she said. Her research told her plenty about how much Terrans enjoyed touching one another. Not just intimately—all the little things, the handshakes and the shoulder-pats and the poking and the fond hugs. She'd adapted. In the right contexts it was even rather nice. The retriever's emotions were generally soothing, so when he tried to pull away she snuggled herself closer to him and let the contact between their bodies spread. “It's fine, Dave. Stay."

He didn't need to be told twice; his arms sank back into her thick fur. “The memories weren't… unpleasant, were they?"

“No. I'm just a little homesick. We're expected to leave our planet, but they don't teach you how not to miss it. You miss Terra, too, sometimes… Canada? The…" She forced herself to concentrate, and her fur went blotchy—mottled patches of red and gold. Her finger brushed the retriever's temple to help him out with the strange word she'd detected him thinking.

“Autumn. The sight of autumn leaves… yeah. I miss that. It looks a little strange on you."

“Like the bikini?" Ayenni teased. She didn't need to read his mind to know he was about to kiss her. An odd, unhygienic practice, but as soon as their lips touched her fur shimmered into relaxed, happy crimson. “I wish I could teach you to talk like that, too," she said when he finally broke the touch.

“Changing colors?"

“Mm-hm. It would make things so much easier, wouldn't it?"

The retriever had to smile. “I appreciate how, out of everything you think I should learn, it's not telepathy or mind-reading or medicine, it's that one. Very versatile skill…"

“Maybe you're not ready for the others, yet. You have to start somewhere. It's the same for me, you know, Dave. I am very happy to have joined your crew… and it means learning new things sometimes, that's all. Right?"

***

Commander, Auxiliary Group's personal log, stardate 66761.2:

Life aboard the Dark Horse is a lot less exciting than I thought it might be… which is to say, a lot less exciting than I was warned about. It's also a lot less paperwork than I'd be putting up with on the safe side of the Terran Confed border. I can't say I'm all that impressed by the trading stations—one alien is a lot like another when they're haggling over platinum—but nobody asked me to fill out a Form 59719A47-B when I bought a bracelet for Denise.

Speaking of which, Deni would love the galley here. I'm sorry I ever made fun of her for writing a book about ancient torture devices, because these food synthesizers are ready-made for the sequel. Not that I'd wish them on her for more than research—I like staying married. The technology here is beyond antique… you can actually feel the antigravity shift between decks. The XO is having us use the downtime to bring the new crew up to speed on these older systems. Makes sense. I need to brush up on hieroglyphics, myself.

“Okay. Remember, when we switch to manual control, there's going to be a bit of a… bump." Lieutenant Parnell didn't know how else to describe it. The ship's autopilot worked by anticipating the star cruiser's path, and when it couldn't do that anymore the software had a way of giving up. The wolf had learned to adapt; Ensign Chandrika Srivastava was engaged in a crash course to do the same.

“Right," the dhole said. Right. Chandrika packed a lot into right. Like: engineering has moved on in the last three hundred years and when they told me it would be good for my résumé I didn't know they meant I'd have a good excuse for 'why I left my last assignment.'

Captain Jack Ford was staring at the two dogs from behind, unable to see their expressions, but he guessed—correctly—the mood from Ensign Srivastava's pinning ears. The coyote trusted Parnell's advice. He also checked to make sure his harness was secure. “Helm, stand by for transition."

“Ready, sir," the ensign answered, an acknowledgment which would in other circles have been considered a 'lie of omission.'

“See this?" Parnell pointed to the guidance cues painted on the navigation console. “That's the projected acceleration differential. You want to align this vector with this one here."

“Right," Chandrika said again. “I think I've got it. Computer, activate APCI."

There was, of course, no response. “We don't have one of those."

“They've been standard for four hundred years!"

Ford tightened his harness a little further. “The Rocinante's designers worried that the APCI would be deceived by Pictor interference in combat maneuvering. And it was retired before anybody could refit a neural link. Don't worry, ensign; you can do this."

Right, Chandrika thought, rather than saying it aloud. The dhole's ruddy paws went tight on the helm controls. “Interlock standing by. Ready for manual controls."

“Good. I have the conn. Helm, let's get into orbit. Right twenty degrees, down ten."

Chandrika took a deep breath, and her left thumb flipped the switch from AUTO GUIDE to what had once said MANUAL HELM and now said MA  LM. It was, at this point, the dhole realized that the worn paint should've been a clue to how often the ship was flown that way.

She had a millisecond to think about that before acceleration slammed the Dark Horse like an unruly drunk. Rika yelped, watching the velocity vector twitch from twenty degrees to thirty. She twisted the stick and, with another crunching impact, it jumped to fifteen instead.

“Careful!"

“I'm being careful!" Chandrika shot back, ignoring the wolf's superior rank and dispensing with even a perfunctory ma'am. The Dark Horse was fighting her. It felt an awful lot like a rodeo.

Parnell dropped into the next station over and strapped in before she broke any bones. “Transfer the conn to secondary helm. I'll take control."

“Belay that." Not that Jack Ford enjoyed the maneuvering—the harnesses weren't very comfortable and they dug in to his uniform rather painfully—but there wasn't anything to worry about. Not yet. “Helm, back off the throttle. Left three degrees."

Ensign Srivastava adjusted the controls as gently as she could. The Dark Horse yawed four degrees over. Two degrees back. “Aye. Sir."

“Good. Down five degrees. Don't push the throttle more than one notch."

Chandrika didn't feel comfortable giving it more than half a notch, which was in point of fact what the coyote had hoped for. The ship's nose swung slowly downwards. At five degrees she cut the maneuvering thrusters and the ship jolted hard. “Five degrees. Aye, sir."

“Now…" Before Jack could answer, the communication panel on his chair flashed an incoming message. He tapped it. “Bridge."

It was Commander May, the ship's captain, looking more concerned than usual on the tiny holographic portrait floating over his armrest. “Damage report! Are we under attack?"

“No, captain. Just maneuvering."

“Into an iceberg?"

“Having some trouble with the helm controls, ma'am. We've got it locked down, don't worry. I think we're going to try flying the rest of the approach manually."

The akita nodded. “Alright. Parnell should be able to handle that. Let engineering know if the helm's acting up, though."

“Of course. Sorry to disturb your sleep, captain." Ford closed the channel. “You heard me, ensign. One step at a time."

Lieutenant Parnell, whose name had after all been specifically mentioned, cleared her throat. “Captain, if we need to fly a manual course…"

“Good point. Lieutenant, you have the conn. Bring us into a circular orbit at five hundred kilometers altitude."

“That isn't what I meant, sir. I mean…"

“Ensign Srivastava is on the controls, lieutenant. Now, take us into orbit."

Parnell thought back to her first time flying the Dark Horse—how much different it had been from mining barges. The wolf plotted a trajectory and considered it. Right twelve degrees, reduce speed by eighty meters per second. Simple.

Next to her, the dhole's eyes were locked forward and her paws were tight and tense on the ship's controls. Nothing in any of the simulations had prepared her—they were all far too new. And as much as she appreciated Ford's misplaced confidence, Rika herself thought it made a lot more sense to just let Parnell fly the damn thing.

“Okay. Here's the thing, ensign. The ship masses a quarter-million tons. You can't fly it like a harbor tug."

Right. “Yes, ma'am. Due respect, I… I know that."

“But they want you to." The ship's powerful sublight engines walked a careful line between respect and complete disregard of its bulk. It was nothing like one of the new dreadnoughts, where you pointed where you wanted to go and the Advanced Predictive Control Interface sedately drifted you into position.

Chandrika took her eyes off the viewscreen and glanced sideways at the senior helmsman. “That doesn't work very well."

“No," Parnell agreed. “See this course?"

“Right twelve, negative delta eighty," the dhole read.

“They don't mean that. I mean we need to slow down by eighty meters a second, in the end, but try this. Right fifteen, steady, then we'll think about accelerating."

“Right fifteen," Chandrika confirmed, and started to turn the helm.

“Safe the throttle. Shut it down completely."

Chandrika nodded and let the ship turn on thrusters alone. “On course."

“Yep. Now let's take thirty meters off."

The dhole blinked, and did not say right. “Oh," she said. The ship's angle meant the change in velocity could be accomplished by firing the port and forward thrusters simultaneously, in equal measure, and without needing the big kick of her main sublight drive.

“There you go. You're getting the hang of it."

“Oh, sure. I'm a leaf on the wind." Her teeth were gritted. “What's next?"

***

Ensign Srivastava didn't think she was 'getting the hang of it' at all. Together they fought the ship into orbit around the moon, Kaizul, but the dhole was profoundly relieved when Captain Ford allowed her to let the autopilot take over. She was even more relieved when her shift ended; even before changing she went to the galley, where the ice cream machine would provide some momentary solace.

Commander Konstantin Kamyshev had the same thought, for different reasons: the age of the Dark Horse was proving to be a challenge, and he didn't enjoy it as much as his old comrade Jack Ford seemed to. The snow leopard's rough tongue was half-curled around a mouthful of chocolate when the galley door opened, and he didn't feel like mustering the energy to look more dignified.

“Sir." Srivastava nodded politely, ignoring his ridiculous expression, and summoned a bowl of pistachio ice cream from the machine. It was the newest technology on the Dark Horse, and installed on the cruiser by pure accident. Commander May hadn't reported its existence to the Admiralty, and so no bureaucrats had come to take it from them. She had their best interests in mind.

“Ensign." They were by themselves in the galley; he brushed his computer away and pointed to the free space on the other side of the old table. “If you want."

She nodded again and sat down. “Thank you, sir."

“You don't have to do that." He didn't like being thought of as 'sir,' especially not with the tiny crew they had. Even his callsign felt less ridiculous. “Just call me Bubbles."

“Uh. Alright. Why… why do they call you that, anyway?"

A minor incident, really, as things went for the snow leopard. Fleet Academy: ritual hazing, a great deal of chili, and the water-tank they used for zero-g training the next day. Pretty impressive, his roommate said. The air filter repairman quit. Commander Kamyshev took another bite of ice cream. “My fur, I guess. The rosettes."

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense." Chandrika didn't, after all, have a reason to doubt him. “Is it fun being a fighter pilot?"

“Hell, yeah, it's fun. Were you in the program?" He'd half-wondered if the dhole might have been one of those sailors who washed out of flight training and wound up settling for big ships as the next best thing.

It wasn't uncommon, and an old ship like the Dark Horse was a logical assignment to volunteer for, but in Srivastava's case the answer was simpler. “No, I always planned on big ships. It was Star Patrol or the CMM for me. The Academy was my second choice, but the scholarship was better."

“Really? You wanted to be a cum—uh. You wanted to join the Merchant Marine?"

He was trying to be friendly, and Chandrika decided his friendliness was genuine instead of Star Patrol HR buddy-buddy team-building. “Yeah. We saw a lot of those ships on the Ricrif… they felt like home."

“Ricrif? I see why you joined Star Patrol," the snow leopard teased. He didn't need to have visited Research Complex Rosalind Franklin to know 'Franklin' was its far more common name. Not everyone needed to live in a world of acronyms pronounced, inexplicably, as though they were words.

“Uh. Yeah." Chandrika poked her spoon at the ice cream. “They also let me do most of my coursework remotely. The CMM main academy is, uh… well…"

“Pretty good, right? Isn't it on Kifrea, with the stardrive school?"

“Yeah. I don't do planets."

“Oh." Kamyshev tried to figure out from her shudder how awkward the conversation had become, a problem compounded by their shared exhaustion. “You don't at all?"

“No. It's called Vassiliev's Syndrome, if you're interested."

“Oh," he said again. One of the pilots in his squadron had been afflicted by it—the man hadn't been more than ten meters from a wall of some kind until his 36th birthday, when his buddies convinced him to join them for shore leave. Their descriptions of the panic attack had been heavy with guilt despite Konstantin's incredulity. How can you be agoraphobic in a goddamned cockpit in the middle of outer space? “That sucks, though."

“I deal with it. This ship helps. It's, um, it's why I took the transfer. Captain Ford seemed to think it was because I wanted to fly an old cruiser… so did Lieutenant Parnell. The real reason is pretty dumb."

“I bet mine is worse. What's up, ensign?"

“The gravity. Ricrif is old, too—2490—they have antique point-generator AG plates rather than variable shapers."

Konstantin made a face and didn't bother to hide his displeasure. “Really? That's why?"

“Yup. When you grow up on an old station, your body learns to adapt to the feeling. You know, the way you can feel it shift when you move between plates?"

“Yeah. I know, ensign. Trust me: I know. Why do you think I stay on the flight deck?"

She finally cracked a smile, sympathetically as possible. “It's the opposite for me. On my last ship, every time I took the lift and I couldn't feel the decks passing by… I thought I was gonna throw up. It's really bad. The ship's doctor let me install a gravitic inverter in my quarters for therapeutic reasons. So… so… yeah, that's my dumb reason."

“I guess…" He tried to sound sincere, even if what she'd said disturbed the snow leopard. It was like admitting to being into sadomasochism. Maybe it even was sadomasochism. “If you're happy? That's what counts? And we get to see new things."

“Kaizul has no atmosphere and it orbits a planet completely covered in water. At least nobody's going to ask me to go to the surface." She lapped her spoon clean, taking at least as much pleasure in the impossibility of an away mission as she did the cold, sweet pecan flavor. “I could've been a miner, too. The Ardzula are miners… they don't have to see open sky either. You think I'm weird, don't you, Bubbles?"

“We have some differences, yes. I think it's a good idea if you never see my quarters," he admitted. The image on the wall changed constantly, but it was always some variant on stars seen from a mountain summit. Ayenni would've appreciated it; Rika would not.

“I bet it's all horizon and clouds," the dhole grumbled.

“I bet yours is… just the bulkheads?"

“Well, yes. Wait, you want to see something I'm sure you'll find horrifying?" She turned on the holoprojector embedded in her right paw. “These were my quarters on the Comanche."

“Oh, wow, you were on the Comanche?" He'd seen pictures of the new deep-space cruiser, and he'd definitely heard stories about the luxurious crew accommodations. Officer quarters were the size of decent apartments. Rika's had been, too, but the hologram showed the deck plates that she'd assembled into a tiny box around the dhole's bunk. “What the fuck? Uh. Ensign. Wait—no, hell with that, I'm pulling rank. What the fuck, Ensign Srivastava?"

“Rika. It was comfier that way. I don't have to do that here, thank goodness."

“I'm supposed to say it 'takes all kinds,' aren't I? I wouldn't mean it." The snow leopard turned defensively to the remains of his ice cream cone. “That's messed up. I bet you're the kind of person who likes the sound of pentavane inductors, too."

The dhole nodded shamelessly. “Yep, it's like music. Rifric's power grid was all penductors and resolvers." She found a new hologram, showing off its characteristic ring of heat dispensers—light years from the nearest star, they hadn't been able to use solar power the way most complexes did.

“I have spent the last twelve shifts trying to get the flight deck's power line in phase with the converter on our scouts. And you know something, Rika?" He didn't have to hold his cone anymore, and it freed him up to point accusingly at the dhole who had done nothing to cause his problems. “Shamrock, that damned coyote, said 'oh, it'll be a challenge.' I'm never getting the whine out of my ears."

“The penductor whine or yours, sir?" Rika was feeling better about the way flight training had gone. “You are using resolvers, aren't you?"

He kept pointing, stabbing his sharp-clawed finger towards her. “What is that? What even is that?"

“I dunno! Just a… thing we kept having to install! Dad said they needed resolution modulators for…" She tried to recall; her father had complained about plenty of things on the underfunded research station. “Feedback precession? His metaphor was about satellite orbits, but I was in the navigator program by then and he was trying to turn everything into a rocket metaphor. I remember hearing about the delta-v of my student loan repayments, for sure. Are you… okay? Sir? You're still pointing."

Kamyshev sighed, and let his paw drop. “Why do we have an ice cream machine and not a still?"

***

Captain's log, stardate 66763.4:

Our rescue of the mining vessel Sheykan has paid dividends. We're in orbit of Kaizul, a rocky moon in the Ardzula System, meeting with a diplomatic mission from the natives: a peaceful race of miners and traders with extensive connections in this sector. We know little about these people, and Dr. Beltran is her typical cautious self—but as for me, I'm looking forward to being able to make a new friend.

“Ambassador Kora's ship is aboard, ma'am."

“What do you think? Are you ready?"

Maddy wasn't naive enough to say that she'd never had a bad first contact. She'd had plenty—but the akita was an inveterate optimist, and they had plenty of reason to be optimistic. Dr. Beltran's diplomatic report described the Ardzula as peaceful, and Ayenni, their expert on the sector said the same thing. They're traders, ma'am; they never cause problems.

That's how it starts, Leon Bader had intoned, because their tactical officer could always be counted on to assume the most paranoid—May was almost to the point where she thought of it as an affectation. Either way, she wasn't concerned: even Bader had been forced to admit that the diplomatic shuttle was completely unarmed.

“Ready as I ever have been. Atmosphere?"

Dr. Beltran shook her head, withholding comment on the captain's exuberance to focus on practical details. “It was not needed, ma'am. The Ardzula require an oxygen concentration that would be toxic to us. However, they are also capable of going without breathing for up to seventy hours."

“Convenient," May said. She tapped the control panel for the inner airlock, and the hangar door slid smoothly open.

“I have also taken the liberty of disabling the visual component of the universal translator. They produce sound by vibrating a pair of membranes located on their ventral surface, just above the tail."

“Oh, dear." Most of the time, the translator's visual augmentation was quite useful—tricking the brain into thinking an alien's mouth was synchronized to the translated audio. But not all aliens spoke that way; results could be mixed. “I take it you weren't happy with the image?"

“The translator attempts to interpret their primary cloaca as a mouth, captain. The effect is... unsettling."

“Understood."

One could learn a lot about aliens from how they designed their ships: newer Star Patrol vessels, with graceful lines and soothing blue paint schemes, were intended to project an air of sedate grace. Kora's diplomatic shuttle looked like an oversized, boxy pup tent and rested directly on a pair of small thrusters. Functional, was the message sent and clearly received. The front of the ship opened and three of the aliens emerged, one after the other.

The shuttle was triangular, the Terrans realized, because it was the only way its occupants would have fit. Out in the open they unfurled a pair of stocky tentacles—the appendages, a meter and a half long, just barely reached the wedge-shaped head that topped their flat, curving neck. One at a time the aliens bowed, heads bending down until they touched the deck.

At some point in their evolutionary history they must've spent quite some time posed that way, with the plated back of their neck and the shell of their torso forming a sturdy armored suit. But if it was as uncomfortable as it looked, there was no wonder they'd designed the shuttle for headroom.

“I checked beforehand. They will fit in the auxiliary reception room comfortably."

“Thank you." May stepped forward and raised her voice. “Welcome aboard the Star Patrol cruiser Dark Horse. I hope the travel wasn't too much trouble?"

“As expected," the lead alien said. “My name is Kora, head of the diplomatic mission in the system. My seconds, Kora and Kora." He introduced the other two in turn, waving one tentacle to each of them.

Madison saw the need for some clarification. “Hold up. You're all Kora?"

“We hardly… see a reason for your objection…"

“It's not an objection. I just didn't know you'd all be 'Kora.' I guess I'll adapt."

The aliens looked to one another, heads bobbing swiftly atop their outsized necks. “Star Patrol, the impertinence is…" 

“One moment, please." Dr. Beltran was used to minor issues like the one unfolding in front of her; they couldn't really be helped, considering the diversity on offer in the galaxy. Their lack of familiarity with sector protocol didn't help things, not that Commander May was ever in the mood to listen about that before jumping in with both feet. “Kora…"

“Yes!" the ambassador immediately protested.

Beltran felt the agitated lash of her tail. “Kora. No, wait." The translator was clearly letting them down and she didn't want to do the same; she switched it off. “Kora chinarch, mesii Commander May."

“Jun! Jun, Kora." 

He was upset. She could tell he was upset. She tried again, while her captain and first officer exchanged a concerned look. “Ita mesii ardzula, sheykin antakaw Kora konpit ol karkarchi. Ol… ol… genesh Kora metin, metinchi Star Patrol."

The ambassador's head swayed slowly. “Konpit kolka. Tashpi Kora, utbai ol." With the universal translator offline, May and Bradley couldn't follow the conversation. They also didn't notice what Felicia had: the way the ambassador spoke haltingly, pausing after every word.

It was the kind of thing you learned to do when you spent your life trying to communicate with aliens; his irritation had given way immediately to understanding and patience. Felicia knew they'd be able to work things out, and it tempered her frustration with the computer in her paw. I can take my time. These are good people. “Utbai? Ut. Bai." She tried to enunciate while the computer spun its wheels. “Utbai… utbai Star Patrol."

The movement of their heads halted. And then the three of them began to drum against the deck, one tentacle at a time in a circle that moved faster and faster. Laughter—Felicia didn't need the computer to interpret that—but eventually one of the other Ardzula stopped long enough to speak again. “Utbai Star Patrol? It can't be, this is far too small… we can show you properly, if you want? You need help?"

“No. No." Beltran reloaded her translation matrix and turned it back on. “We are not a mining collective. Captain, 'Kora' is the name of their union. It means 'iron,' I believe, but it may be an archaic term. Think of it as the equivalent of 'confederation' in 'Terran Confederation.'"

May nodded. “So you thought… you thought I was upset you were all miners? My apologies. That's obviously not a problem."

The aliens were still obviously amused, though the drumming came to a stop at last. “Good, yes. Or we would have little to discuss. I apologize if Second-Ambassador Enkaw insulted the size of your ship."

“Not at all."

Ambassador Shey, as his name proved eventually to be, stayed in good spirits. The three aliens were as amused by the cleanliness of the Dark Horse as they were by its size: their culture, devoted as it was to mining, built ships that were completely utilitarian, with no wasted space. “Yet such room, despite the tininess."

Enkaw said something else, in a dialect too rapid or quiet for the universal translator to pick up; the Ardzula thumped their tentacles on the floor again. May looked to David and Felicia; neither of them were any more knowledgeable.

Fortunately Shey understood, and bowed his neck again. “Enkaw likes the table. She points out it must mean you eat from tables even in space. You don't use intravenous nutrition."

“Well. 'Eating' is a generous term for it. The reconstituted food isn't anything to write home about."

“Your home is far way. Do you miss it? Do you miss Dirt?"

“Earth. And sometimes I do, yes. But it's also very exciting to be out in the stars, meeting new civilizations—such as yourself. It's the opportunity of a lifetime."

“Your reputation precedes you, Commander Patrol."

“May," Enkaw corrected. “Commander May. We have heard of your exploits. Oh—is that insulting? The word in our language is a little different."

Dave laughed. “'Exploits' is a pretty good word in ours, trust me. I hope none of it has been slanderous, though."

“Can I speak, Ambassador Shey?" Shey's arm-tentacles twirled in tight circles. “Thank you. I have been the Kora's alien advocate for seventy cycles. You see, the Ardzula trading network extends for many parsecs, but most of our unions stick to trade. The Kora Union is the only that manages our foreign relations, and the one that protects our home system. I believe that we must become closer to alien races if we're to improve ourselves… not just bargaining, but proper diplomatic contact."

“Enkaw is unorthodox," Shey added, “so if you wish to confine this to traditional haggling we would love it. But I must let her speak."

“Please." May nodded. “Continue."

“We heard about your fight with Kupin, and your alliance with the Uxzu in retaking Antuja. The Trade Board felt that it was a sign of a great military power, which they do envy… but I said that you might not be invaders but… more noble people. Is that insulting? The word in our language—"

“Of course it's insulting." Shey bobbed his head. “She meant no insult."

Felicia Beltran felt the need to explain before Maddy said anything that might be taken the wrong way. “We are not part of an invasion. The Terran Confederation has a strong principle of non-interference in alien affairs."

May, unlike the Ardzula ambassador, didn't interrupt her subordinate. But when Beltran was finished, the akita continued on her own. “That being said, sometimes you have to interfere. Dr. Beltran is a very accomplished diplomat, so let her speak for us. I can only say for myself that… we do strive for nobility. There are plenty of worlds out there for conquerors. It's the space in between that matters… the ties that bind us to one another."

“Your rescue of the Sheykan was enough to convince us of your sincerity," Ambassador Shey allowed. “Second-Ambassador Hal is related to the ship's captain. He requested to join this mission to meet you in the flesh."

“Well, it's good to meet him, too. It's good to meet all of you."

Felicia had been looking over the dictionary while May spoke. “The word 'noble' might be considered insulting because in their language it is used entirely in mythological context. It may imply a trait that is not found in the real world."

Shey waved his tentacles slowly. “Exactly. That's why we deal in money, not in myth. The Trade Board authorizes us to pay you for rescuing our mining vessel. But Enkaw will tell you…"

“We were authorized to request your help," Enkaw said. “The Ardzula, and our union in particular, face a grave threat. A crisis for our very existence—a challenge to our own… dirt, Commander May."

Maddy was never much for non-interference, and the tone of the Ardzula's words banished the rest of it. “What kind of threat?"

***

“Advance."

“Nothing."

“Advance."

“Nothing."

“Advance."

Valerie growled. “Sir, can we just skip ahead twenty more frames until the exciting part?"

Ensign Bader frowned. “Wouldn't it mess up the simulation? Random probabilities are computed on each cycle, aren't they?"

“Permission to speak freely, sir?" Chief Petty Officer Smith didn't ask the question like she thought Bader might say 'no.'

“Go ahead."

“If you think there's a possibility that our power grid will randomly overload in the next twenty microseconds, there's no point to this simulation at all. We might as well run it in real time. We can cover more ground that way."

“Different scenarios," Bader suggested. “We could, yes. But the captain asked us to run the standard tactical simulations. The rules for their execution are pretty clear. Frame-by-frame analysis—that's normal procedure. For that matter it's…"

Smith stifled a deeper growl. “It is elementary, yes. I'm sure they teach it at the academy."

“They did."

“And did it help?"

Whether it helped or not, Commander May's orders were clear. The Ardzula-Zel, their new allies, were being threatened by another race in the system—the Ardzula-Mar. Leon and Valerie Smith had been provided with every last bit of tactical data the Zel had on their foes, and May wanted to know how to deal with them.

Real-world experience had certain practical consequences, open warfare being the most obvious, and so the tactical officers were running simulations instead. Leon felt a little trapped. He agreed with the painted dog, in the sense that the rigid formula of the battle sims wasted time. He also knew that Commander May would be a little skeptical of taking it even as far as he had.

In her mind, 'prepare a tactical report' amounted to Leon reading a briefing and summarizing it for the akita's big-picture-oriented mind. Actual analysis was more evidence of his tendency for unwarranted suspicion. Obviously he didn't agree; just as obviously, he couldn't very well tell Val Smith that. It suggested, incorrectly, a lack of faith in their captain. Leon had plenty of faith in their captain, or at least the improbable luck that accompanied her adventures, but…

“Maybe a compromise is in order."

“They're slow, heavy, and armed only with missiles, sir. We know a single ship in open space is no threat."

“Agreed, yes. What's the next step?"

“Two Ardzula-Mar attack cruisers, striking from behind the moon."

Leon reset the simulation and started to input the appropriate variables. “Of course, chief, as long as we're skipping ahead… we might as well skip this, too."

“That's your call, sir," she said, although she was grateful that he was giving in to his belief in the absurdity of the exercise.

“I mean, we know they're no threat. Not from the data we've been given, right?"

“Not as it was presented. Maybe if the scenario changed, things would be different."

“You mean, maybe if the deck was completely stacked against us…"

The painted dog hadn't made up her mind on Leon yet, but his kindred spirit obviously bubbled just beneath his rigid exterior. “Yes, sir. We might be vulnerable. And we should be ready."

“Bit of an extrapolation."

“May I speak freely again, sir? Were you told to watch me?"

Ensign Bader betrayed the answer in his moment of hesitation. “It wasn't that blunt, chief."

“They're worried that I'm too paranoid? Aggressive?"

“Even if they did," the shepherd said, “is it any surprise? The Admiralty's wellness department is always worried that we're being too aggressive."

“Are you?"

“Am I what, chief? Worried, or aggressive?"

“Both, sir."

He shrugged. “I'm here. I could've been on a dreadnought or a star carrier—milk runs and fleet exercises. But, I'm here. So if that says anything…"

“Maybe it does." Val folded her paws together and looked at the shepherd sternly. “But so am I. What does that say?"

“It might say they were right about me watching you."

“Most of the Star Patrol has never fired live ammunition against a real opponent. They haven't had to. With respect, sir, if you're out here, you understand why that's a problem. So do I. If we know that, we know the point of these sims isn't to tick a box, it's to be prepared. For whatever happens."

Leon, who had indeed been cautioned that their newest tactical specialist had a reputation for bared teeth, paused to listen to what she'd said. He looked at the simulation they hadn't quite started. “Hm. Well. What do you suppose the worst-case scenario would be? I was thinking it would be more ships, perhaps."

The wild dog had been thinking that, too. “Right. They've only put a couple of ships up against the Kora at a time, but they probably don't need to. The Ardzula mining barges are essentially defenseless."

Ensign Bader cleared the simulation and replaced it with a summary of the data they'd been given on the Ardzula-Mar cruisers. “These ships are massive as hell, too. I bet they don't move well… it's fuel-expensive. Why bother sending more ships than you really need? I wonder how many they have."

Valerie grinned with sharp, predatory fangs. It was not a mischievous grin but a dangerous one. “One step ahead of you, sir. Here's a cross-reference from the telemetry Dr. Beltran gave us. Based on these telltales, there's no more than twenty unique cruisers, and two of them haven't been seen in five years."

“Eighteen, then?" The two dogs shared, as if telepathically, a logical deduction: if the Mar were anything like the Terran Confederation they could field only a fraction of their fleet at once. Some of the ships would be undergoing repairs, some would be refueling, some being inspected; when all was said and done, the Star Patrol considered 40% readiness to be exceptional.

Leon set up an attack by nine cruisers. Chief Smith stopped him, adding in something else she'd noticed; their propulsion was oddly quiet, and they'd be coming from the planet rather than deep space. “Acquiring them from three thousand kilometers out instead of thirty seems more fair."

“Good point." The German Shepherd reprogrammed the computer and began again. “Okay, they're at thirty-five… thirty-four…"

Valerie's claw—not for the first time Leon noticed the scars on her paw and found he looked forward to inquiring about them—pointed to the Kaizul Moon. “We should look for this. These gravitational anomalies… they'll give us a few extra seconds of warning."

The cruisers were a fraction of the Dark Horse's size but nearly half her mass: the artifacts of their presence were plenty easy to detect. Both tactical officers were in agreement that it meant their armor would be dense and impenetrable; rockets would bounce off, and even the particle cannons would need plenty of time to do significant damage.

On the other hand, what were they up against? According to their data, the attack cruisers still used projectiles—missiles with kinetic warheads or low-powered atomics. It wasn't much to fret about.

But they tried their best.

***

They were still playing around with the sims when, on the bridge, Spaceman Mitch Alexander noticed some new contacts on her sensors, rounding Kaizul. Nobody had told the Abyssinian what to look out for; the sound of the alert was her first cue. “Uh, contact, sir."

Dave perked his ears. “Elaborate?"

She sorted through the data on her console as best, and as quickly, as she could. “Three… no, strike that. Four—six ships inbound. Yeah. Six."

“Who are they?" the commander asked, even as he secured his harness and tried not to contemplate the odds of yet another confrontation. “Do you recognize them?"

Mitch shook her head, in case Bradley had been looking at her; it was another few seconds before the report was finished and she could explain in more details. “No, sir. They don't look familiar. But their targeting scanners appear to be active." That, or the aliens had invented a version of Morse that involved a barrage of high-frequency radar pulses.

“Hail them." He entered his authorization code into the armrest of the captain's chair to transfer more of the starship's functions to his direct command: there were only the two of them standing watch, and Madison was with Felicia Beltran talking to the Ardzula. “I'm going to take us to condition gold."

“No response to our hails."

Great. “Action stations, action stations. Ship to Condition Gold. Captain, please report to the bridge. Section heads, make reports directly to me."

“Engineering, Sakata here. Our reactor's at full alert power, and shield emitters are standing by."

Jack Ford was almost as quick to reply. “Auxiliary. We can have one of the scouts launched in five minutes."

Dave let his finger hover over the command to bring their deflector shields online. “CCI, what's going on? Talk to me."

“They're eight thousand kilometers out and closing."

The bridge door started to open; Leon Bader pounced through it halfway through the process, ignoring the impact to his shoulders. In six bounding steps he was at the tactical console. “Shields ready! Weapons in active-standby."

“Half a dozen ships closing to port. Unknown configuration, unknown weapons, unknown intent."

Leon listened with one ear to the commander; he was working over the data from Mitch Alexander's station. “Ardzula-Mar attack cruisers, commander. Their guidance systems are online and they're attempting to get a weapons lock."

“You know them?" Bradley looked over his shoulder at the shepherd, who nodded enthusiastically. “How?"

“Simulations. They're armed with multiple-warhead guided missiles. Our point-defense grid can more than handle it if they open fire." Everyone was happy to hear that—Leon in particular; he rather felt it justified the work he'd been doing with Chief Smith. “Shall I ready the point-defense systems?"

“Please."

Madison made it onto the bridge just as Spaceman Alexander announced that the Ardzula-Mar finally felt like talking. The hail was voice-only. “Unidentified starship, this is Commander Taell of the Ardzula Defense Force. Withdraw immediately or be fired upon."

Taell didn't appreciate that this was starting him off on the wrong foot. “Commander Taell, we're here at the invitation of the Kora Union. Ambassador Shey—"

“The Kora have no claim here! You must leave—immediately. You have fifteen seconds to comply."

Bradley muted the transmitter and spoke quietly to his captain. “Ensign Bader says their weapons are no match for us. Light missiles. We don't need to worry."

She nodded. “Commander, with due respect, we're not going anywhere and we don't respond well to threats. Now, if you stand down…"

Instead, they closed the entire channel. Spaceman Alexander picked up the missile launches a second later. “Multiple inbound projectiles, captain. Range—"

It was a tactical report, tactical reports were Bader's job, and he felt no shame in cutting her off. “Captain, torpedo launch. Stingrays, forty-plus, bearing one-seven-zero up three. Four thousand kilometers. They're in range of the point-defense system."

“Take 'em out, ensign."

As soon as Bader disabled the safety on the point-defense array it started doing its job, and an admirable job at that. Even from four thousand kilometers away, the primitive missiles with their obsolete technology were sitting ducks for the Star Patrol cruiser's defenses. “Missiles defeated, sir."

“They're firing again," Mitch reported.

Maddy rolled her eyes. “They don't learn, huh?"

Leon watched the number of missiles drop from forty to twenty to zero in a pleasingly few number of attempts. “Inbound missiles defeated. Captain, request permission to return fire."

“You said they can't hurt us, right?" The akita didn't see a point in needlessly escalating the situation, if that was the case. “CCI, hail Commander Taell, please."

“We told you to withdraw. We'll keep shooting! Don't make us keep shooting! This is our space!"

“With all due respect, Commander Taell, your weapons are no threat to us. We don't mean you any ill will."

“Then why are you allying with our enemies? Why are you here to do the bidding of the Zel? Our territory is inviolable! Don't make me fire again. Get out—get out of here! Go! Go back to your home waters."

“No. Look—"

“Captain, torpedo launch. Closing from… this can't be right—five hundred kilometers, it's inside—"

“Shields!"

Bader got their shields up just in time for the impact. His overloaded computer console darkened; fortunately the circuit protection system did its job and nothing exploded. For the moment. “Rear deflector at seventy percent. That was a detonation in the… thirty-five thousand terajoule range."

“Particle components strongly suggest antimatter weaponry, captain," Mitch added.

“Captain. Request permission to return fire."

Maddy didn't like how quickly the situation was changing. But she liked even less the thought of starting a war when they'd only just arrived. “Stand by. Tactical, switch power to the rear deflectors. Helm, break orbit and take us out, ahead one-half."

Chandrika eyed the AUTO GUIDE/MALM switch warily. “Aye, captain."

The Dark Horse shuddered heavily. “Tactical! Damage report!"

Bader ran the numbers, but it didn't seem that the Ardzula-Mar had fired again. “Shields… holding, captain? That was—"

“The inertial compensators," Rika muttered. “Sorry. Right twenty degrees, ahead one-half. Course laid in."

“The attack ships?" May asked, though she guessed the answer, and when Bader told her they weren't pursuing she wasn't especially surprised. “Alright. Helm, hold us at one of the Lagrange points until we know more. Keep us at gold alert. Tactical, you said they couldn't damage us—what happened?"

***

“Ambassador, this is Ensign Bader, my tactical specialist. Ensign, this is Ambassador Shey and Second-Ambassadors Enkaw and Hal. Tell them what you told me."

'Diplomatic relations' had been one of the classes that Bader took pass/fail, and in the end the grade had been more an act of pity than anything else. The shepherd didn't know if he was supposed to bow, or shake their tentacles, or do a dance—so he ignored everything, and got right down to Antarean tacks. “We were attacked by the Ardzula-Mar with a missile that wasn't in your databanks. It carried a powerful antimatter warhead."

“You never told us they were capable of class-four weaponry," May added.

Shey twirled his tentacles in agitation. “We didn't know they were operational. The military leaders of the Ardzula-Mar have been working on such weapons for years."

“And you believe that they're aimed at you?"

“Yes. We told you, commander, that we faced an existential threat from them. Those missiles could devastate the Ardzula homeworld. They're pursuing even more terrible technology: missile obscuring systems that prevent us from being able to detect their launch and react in time. If the Ardzula-Mar are able to deploy them, they would dominate the entire system. Everyone on Ardzula lives in fear of what they could do."

“Based on what you told us in our initial meeting, you no longer maintain official relations with them. Does that extend to discussions about your mining operations on Kaizul?" Dr. Beltran still thought the Zel had good intentions; Shey had sounded regretful when he admitted it the first time, and in response to her question his tentacles drooped.

“Yes. They don't desire contact. They used to, but…"

Enkaw elaborated further without needing to be asked. “We traded for tens of thousands of cycles—more than eight thousand of your years. The rotation of their homeworld means that their capital, Ardamar, turns away from us for half a generation at a time. A thousand years ago they rotated into darkness… and when they should've been in range again, there was no answer."

“We knew they were still alive from our scouts, but they didn't answer us. They stopped trading, too. We eventually had to begin mining on Kaizul ourselves… there were a few skirmishes, but… then… more silence. After their missiles destroyed a mining base, we sought outside help. You, commander, are that help. Please: save us."

***

“So that's the situation. What are our options?"

“Their weapons are numerous, but antiquated. Lieutenant Schatz has helped me to analyze the cloaking technology used on their long-range missiles. I've already put the needed corrections into our sensors."

Maddy wrote 'cloaking defeated' on the whiteboard. “What if they attack us with more ships?"

“Our analysis is that they don't have more than a few dozen patrol vessels. What attacked us is likely to be their entire battle-fleet, captain. Their ships are extremely dense and unmaneuverable… we assume that they use them as a last resort. The missile technology is probably a more reliable standoff weapon for them."

“Including a cloaking device, even if we have overcome it. Ambassador Shey said that it was beyond them. It's not?"

Barry distilled his summary into as few words as possible. “It's quite simple, actually, captain. The design is a very early attempt at a Zarkilli cloak, but they haven't yet figured out how to adjust for the antineutrino effect—I think if you spoke to the Ardzula, you'd find that they don't even know how to look for that kind of radiation. If you know how, it's a simple matter of triangulating the filtered output of the ECF scanner with the temporal compensator."

“Specifically…" Ensign Bader prompted, because in his view the specific details were tactically relevant. “The—"

“I expect a full report to Lieutenant Hazelton and myself," Maddy said quickly, before additional babble could distract her. Intriguing—even 'tactically relevant'—as they might've been, she wanted to focus on the implications. “Basically: we can detect them. Can we teach the Zel?"

“Yes, though some of the circuitry is beyond their technology at the moment."

“By the time they discover that much, the doctor and I both think the Mar will have moved on to newer cloaking technology."

Jack Ford saw the artifacts of a cold war playing out before them. “We'd have to strike now, then," the coyote concluded. “Our scout ships will be able to determine the location of their missile batteries, and a particle cannon barrage would be enough to do the trick."

“Correct, sir," Leon confirmed. “We can remodulate the particle cannons to increase their penetration down to four or five hundred kilometers. More than enough."

Commander May added 'attack plan,' and then started a list beneath it. “Casualties?"

“None on our side. Theirs would depend on how precisely we can target the weapons facilities. If we gave them a few minutes' warning, we could prevent them from launching and achieve our effect on the target." Captain Ford, who had looked over Leon's tactical briefing, was unimpressed by the Mar's defensive capabilities. “Walk in the park, Commander May."

The akita reviewed what she'd written. “So we have a credible first-strike ability. That's good."

“Captain?" Barry raised his paw hesitantly. “It might be worth noting that a precise strike would cause collateral damage. Their planet is aquatic… the shockwave would likely be devastating."

“Could mean we reduce the beam power," Jack proposed. “I mean, like… they shouldn't pick fights they can't win, you know?"

“You think we should do it, Captain Ford?"

“Yes, ma'am, I do. The way I see it, they shot first. We showed up here and they tried to blow us outta the sky. They're building weapons that could wipe out a whole damn planet—and we're in a position of strength. We should show it. We should be leaders."

Felicia Beltran sometimes felt that her presence at staff meetings was a formality, never more than when military options were being discussed. Her diplomatic point of view was just something else to be ignored, but she had to try anyway. “With due respect, leadership is not about wielding the biggest stick, sir; it is about how to wield it. The ability to wipe out a billion people doesn't make you a leader."

Jack was inclined to think of things in simpler terms than this, even if he understood her point. “No," he told the leopard. “Not necessarily. It could make you a bully, like these damn Ardzula."

“Ardzula-Mar," Felicia corrected, holding her ground. “This is significant. Captain, Commander May, consider this situation from their perspective. They have been engaged in a lengthy conflict with the other Ardzula in this system—a conflict dramatic enough that they have invested substantial technology and resources in long-range weaponry to even the score."

“You don't even the score with planet-busting antimatter rockets." As a fighter pilot, Captain Ford had been trained to respect and fear such devices. As a coyote, he had learned well that the arc of the universe bent against underdogs—and that when they tried to beat it to the punch, they didn't always feel like taking prisoners. “Depending on how powerful they are, they'd even be banned in the civilized universe."

“Probably." And like most of the Diplomatic Corps, Felicia studied and advocated disarmament. But it cut both ways: “it might even the score if you felt you had no choice. The Ardzula are known throughout the sector… but not the Mar. Why not? Is it because they are vicious and despotic… or is it because the Zel have kept them imprisoned here? Or both?"

Out of all the crew David was among the most sympathetic to Dr. Beltran, and he did what he could to preserve that sympathy. “You're speculating, though, doctor." They had no evidence one way or the other.

May glanced over her shoulder at the whiteboard, where 'Attack Plan' was still written in bold. “Speculating because we don't know the truth. What if she's right, though? I know, there's no way to find out."

Oh, God, Bradley thought. “Captain, I can guess at what you're going to propose, but…"

“Nobility, Dave. We're the good guys. Ensign Bader, did your tactical scans reveal anything about their planet itself? Where they live, where they farm, where they… do… whatever it is you do as an Ardzula-Mar?"

“The Mar Military High Command transmits from an underwater complex along the equator. I wasn't able to get precise readings, but there are EM anomalies suggesting a large structure several hundred kilometers beneath the surface." He debated adding in that it might have told the Star Patrol something when a 'military high command' seemed to be the governing authority.

In the end he said nothing, since he also had the experience to guess that May's mind was close to being made up. And, true, the akita's nature meant she was on to other things. “We can't travel at that depth, can we?" None of them knew; she paged the engineering department. “Shannon?"

“Hey Mads," Hazelton answered at once. Her hologram flickered to life; the raccoon's eyes were hidden behind goggles and an active welding laser was in her right paw. “What's up?"

“Can the ship survive two hundred kilometers underwater?"

Shannon was unfazed, which should've been their first cause for concern—and was, for David and Jack. “Of course. Gotta run the reactor hot and reinforce the shields, but why not? We goin' somewhere?"

“How long would it take to make the modifications?"

She switched off the laser and flipped the goggles up to make proper eye contact through the hologram. “Not long. Six hours to check the reactor for extended ops. The biggest problem'll be keeping the shields up against the thrusters. Oh, yeah," she went on, explaining for the benefit of her captain's tilted-head puzzlement. “'Cause you're gonna flash, like, a cubic kilometer of water into plasma. When that collapses… it'll be fun! We can manage."

“I presume this would cause some collateral damage?"

It was now the raccoon's turn to look puzzled. “Collateral damage to… water? You mean… you mean steam, Mads?"

“Hold off on any changes for now. May out." The akita dismissed the hologram and wrote 'ship won't go in water' on the whiteboard. “What about a Type 4 shuttle? Or your scout ships, Captain Ford?"

Jack shook his head quickly. “No. They can't take it. The structural integrity field will collapse maybe… fifty kilometers down. Your Vostok, though." The ancient Vostok-class shuttle, which the coyote had been quite surprised to discover, hadn't been designed with the elegant fragility of later Star Patrol sensibilities. “It's armored to hell and back."

“We don't know that they're open to talking, either, Maddy."

“Sure," the akita told her first officer. “But we have the option. Just like we have the option to shoot. Dr. Beltran, put together a message to the Mar military command and tell them I want to meet. On their planet—friendly territory."

Trying to organize first contact with a hostile species and no context for their diplomatic protocols wouldn't be easy, but Felicia knew she'd have to deal with the implications later. “Yes, captain. At once."

“If they balk, say that we have technology that can completely negate their cloaking system. And we'll give it to the Zel."

“What shall I tell the Ardzula-Zel delegation, as long as we are on that topic? They may not be happy to find out we are speaking to their mortal enemies."

“I doubt they will be. Once we launch, your job is going to be keeping them happy. Convince them my heart's in the right place. And we're enlightened."

Dave didn't like the subtext of what he was hearing. He cleared his throat. “Captain, you're planning on talking to the Ardzula-Mar?"

May didn't need to remind him that they only had one diplomat, and nobody needed to remind her that the akita's first impressions could turn out a little mixed. “Good point. You're coming too."

***

It might not have been the answer that Dave expected, and it certainly wasn't the one he wanted. His concerns were the same pragmatic ones Felicia would've voiced if anyone asked her. First contact was always fraught, even when it hadn't been delayed by antimatter rocketry.

In the worst case scenario, they would fail to make an impression on the Ardzula-Mar and hopelessly sabotage their relationship with the Ardzula-Zel, whose word carried weight in a sector that hadn't exactly been totally benevolent. He hoped Dr. Beltran could smooth things over. But it was a worthwhile gamble, if they could avert a system-wide war.

Apprehensive, he took a seat in the old Vostok and buckled in. May was already sitting down, betraying no signs of any apprehension whatsoever. She had a hunch that things were not as they seemed between the Mar and the Zel, not in any sinister sense but in the form of an unsolved mystery. That was something to be anticipated.

Dave was obviously too nervous to share in that enthusiasm, so she tried their pilot instead. Sabel Thorsen was not a helmsman by trade—he was a purpose-built combat unit, designed to stay frozen until needed. But his creators gave him a wide range of skills, and Vostoks had conveniently still been in service when they made him.

Madison didn't know if the warrior's quirks came from his programming, his personality, or the way he'd been left in cryogenic storage for two centuries and forgotten about. This gap in knowledge, like a love of excitement and small arms proficiency, was something the two shared in common. “Hey, Sabel. Looking forward to this?"

“No," the spitz said. “But that's irrelevant. Main reactor is online. Launch control is ready."

“Take us out." Maddy waited until the hangar bay door was open and they'd started to move. “Why aren't you looking forward to it? Concerned?"

Sabel pointed the shuttle towards the planet's surface and double-checked the entry trajectory. “No."

“Then… what's the problem?"

“There's no problem, captain. You asked me if I was 'looking forward' to this mission. My understand of the Terran phrase is that it implies anticipation. The flight parameters are conventional and uninteresting and any potential combat would be immediately and unavoidably fatal given the environmental conditions. I believe the odds of that are low, but very little of the mission is truly exciting."

Taken a single word at a time, Maddy could make sense of what Sabel Thorsen was saying. It didn't help her gain any particular insight into the spitz's way of thinking. “You do get excited, though… right?"

“Certainly!" And, indeed, Sabel wasn't much better at understanding how people like May thought than she was at understanding him. “But, to borrow another Terran phrase, I don't believe in counting my chickens before they hatch."

David, listening quietly, cocked his head a few degrees and spoke up. “I already know that you don't mean because you wouldn't want to be disappointed." He'd talked to Sabel enough to be familiar with his simultaneous love and misinterpretation of sayings like that. “But… what do you mean?"

Sabel sighed; it was, really, quite bizarre how much Earthlings liked coming up with strange proverbs and then denying their plain meaning. “Who finds counting anything exciting? Particularly non-existent things. The act of counting might be intrinsically soothing—Leon says Terran children count imaginary sheep, as well—but it's hardly stimulating, is it?"

Maddy shot her first officer a quizzical look, and took his shrug in stride. They were sitting behind Sabel, and he wasn't watching their reflection, but the spitz knew what they'd be doing. Miscommunication was an enjoyable Terran sport, as far as he was concerned. There was no other way to explain their insistence on metaphor and analogy.

Sabel believed in directness and literal meaning, which had advantages. The flight parameters were conventional; the Vostok dropped without complaint beneath the surface and began its steady, swift descent. When the sun faded at last, Sabel turned on the landing lights. He did not share May's need to gasp in wonder, but nor did he begrudge it to her.

They sank through a swarm of jellyfish shaped like Japanese windsocks—two meters in diameter, strobing irate violet back at the disturbance of the shuttle. Two minutes later, something like a squid swooped by them, reaching out a trio of spine-covered tentacles before thinking better of the craft and drawing them back.

Neither May nor her first officer were xenobiologists, which made their appreciation of the view largely aesthetic. Both, however, had silently gone to work collecting as much data as they could. Picture after picture; readings on the temperature and the pressure and the mineral content of the planet's huge ocean. Sabel, who put fish in the category of things that were impractical to punch and therefore uninteresting, was content to focus on flying.

And eventually there was nothing else to see. Madison found another reason to break the silence. “It's incredibly clear, isn't it? Like the Caribbean. Did you take Basic Confed History in Kingstown, Dave?"

“I did indeed."

“Water has the same color. What do you think, Sabel? Could we go for a swim?"

“I doubt you'd like it, captain. The water temperature is between one and one hundred-fifty degrees, and rising. My exosuit would manage… but it would not compensate for the pressure. That's why we have the spaceship."

David spared a glance down at his computer. “Visibility's starting to drop again, too. But I think we've got a lock on the Mar military complex. Twenty degrees ahead. Sabel?"

“Confirmed, sir. I'll open a channel." The spitz had been programmed to navigate the controls of a shuttlecraft by feel; he set the radio switches and powered on the transmitter without taking his eyes from the head-up display charting their course. “Ardamar, this is Terran Confederation diplomatic shuttle four, requesting docking clearance."

“Shuttle. Shut down your weapons and sensors."

“We have no weapons." Unfortunately, Sabel thought. But Star Patrol weapons wouldn't have worked at those depths anyway. “We do need some sensors for guidance, however."

“No. You will not be permitted to spy on us. Disable your sensors at once."

A dim, straight beam of light shot up from the depths; Sabel looked to May for instructions, and the akita nodded her head silently. Sabel turned the active scanners off. “We've complied, Ardamar control."

The light grew stronger, and bit by bit the crew began to see it joined by others—stars, slowly dawning. Until they realized these were no mere points of light but the glowing roofs of buildings. Thousands of them, joined by softly illuminated walkways—a glittering spiderweb stretching as far out as they could see.

“My God. Will you look at that…"

David split his attention between the vista and the shuttlepod's passive scanners, old as they were. “The structure is made of kuritanium supported by what appears to be a carbon-fiber lattice in simultaneous tension and compression. It's… it seems like it's free-floating, but that can't be right…"

“No. It's not," May said. The scale of the complex was hard to judge with the naked eye, but it obviously sat on something; the spotlights, spreading out in the abyssal gloom, gave the surface beneath a strange glow.

“It's not showing up on passive sensors, at least."

“You'll find they're not calibrated properly, sir," Sabel said. “It's ice."

Maddy was growing more awed by the second. “Got cold quickly, didn't it?"

“The ambient temperature exceeds three hundred degrees, captain."

Commander Bradley confirmed that much from the passive sweep. “Ice seven, I think. At these pressures the temperature doesn't really matter. It's incredible…"

The Vostok had to pass through six airlocks before they could go no further. Sabel checked the environmental scans and reported a tolerable atmosphere in terms of pressure and oxygen content. It wasn't what they'd expected.

Neither was the creature waiting for them outside. It looked something like a crab, or like a harvestmen that had invested money in steroids and a gym membership. Its three eyes were on short stalks and it waved a trio of stocky, terrifying claws in their direction. “Star Patrol," it said.

“We're supposed to meet with a Grand Admiral Xu'ta? Can you take us to her?" Madison didn't know Ardzula-Mar greetings but assumed, or feverishly hoped, that handshakes were alien to their culture.

“No. I am Xu'ta."

“A robot?" Sabel was something of a cyborg himself; his eyes saw in a broad spectrum and the electronics underneath the Mar's carapace were less than subtle to him.

“It's easier than bringing you into our environment," Xu'ta said curtly. “And we can't breathe here. I assure you it is a perfect replica of our physical form."

“It's impressive," May did her best to recover for Sabel's forthrightness. “Very impressive. Greetings, admiral. I'm Commander May, of the Star Patrol cruiser Dark Horse. Commander Bradley is my first officer. Sabel is our pilot. We represent the Terran Confederation."

“Wait. High Command." Xu'ta spoke in short bursts, and it took another explanation before they understood that the admiral intended for them to follow her. Sabel, who was not of a diplomatic mind, gladly agreed to stay with the Vostok.

High Command had their own robots, positioned around a table not unlike the one in May's ready room. It was much lower; the two Terrans were compelled to kneel, which at least had the advantage of keeping them at eye level with the Mar. May repeated her introduction, trying to sound as friendly as possible. 

“Are you surrendering?"

“Uh. No?"

The admiral's claws flailed and clicked together. “I could have you killed here, you know."

“Your home is three hundred degrees and the outside pressure exceeds nine hundred megapascals, admiral. A lot of things could have us killed here. I want to talk."

“What is there to talk about? You come into our system, ally with our greatest enemy, give them everything they want…"

“And you opened fire on us. You're pursuing weapons of mass destruction and deep-space missiles to carry them."

“Please." Admiral Xu'ta snapped her claws shut with a rifle-loud bang. “Don't mock us with your ignorance."

“Then clarify it. Nobody develops stealth missiles for their own protection." May echoed Captain Ford's interpretation of the military program, courtesy of her own service record: it was a plainly aggressive act.

Xu'ta clearly disagreed. “We do. We must. The Zel have had their way for fifty generations—fifty generations too long! The water is ours! The water will always be ours!" Around the table, a dozen other Mar began to do the same thing Xu'ta had done—May and Bradley had to clamp their paws over their ears at the deafening fusillade. “You won't stop us!"

“Before we get to that point," May shouted, and finally the clattering died down. “Before we talk about stopping you, I'd like to understand you. I'm puzzled. You clearly have an advanced military, and you value it greatly. The Zel fear you—stop, damn it, don't do that damned thing with your claws again."

Xu'ta left her claws wide, but hissed defiantly. “They should fear us."

“Right. Fine. But according to their historical databank, you've never invaded them."

“Them?" May saw what was coming and had her ears covered before the din started. “They invade us. They come to our moon. They say it's their right. Why? How? How can it be their right? It's obvious what they're doing. They mean to trap and destroy us. They've wanted to since the third dawn—our darkness. No, it stops here."

“Pretend I'm completely naive, admiral. Third dawn?"

“That supposedly brilliant scientist. The invention of their hyperdrive. We naively thought they might leave us alone with a galaxy to plunder, but no, no, that wasn't good enough. It never was. Not even before. Nothing will be until they're destroyed and we can go back to living in peace."

David got ready to protect his ears again—they were still ringing, and he was about to cause trouble. “Isn't the idea of genocide and 'living in peace' slightly contradictory?"

“Is it? Ask them. They have experience."

“But you've had peaceful contact with them, too. You used to trade," May pointed out. “At least, that's my understanding."

“Used to. They found better partners, more… pliable ones. Lighter-boned ones. Like you two. Flying beasts—you're always so proud of yourselves."

The phrasing was odd to both of the Terrans. Beasts had caught May's ear—she found herself wondering if, perhaps, the Mar thought of them as inferior in some way. Pack animals. She was about to ask, but Dave opened his muzzle first. “Spacefarers. Your people don't go to space, do you?"

“We can't. That makes us worthy of destruction, in some eyes. Eyes and suffocating, probing tentacles…"

“You can't?"

“Maddy, their ships. Remember how armored Leon said the patrol fighters were? Admiral, do you mind if I ask about your patrol fighters? How many crew do they have?"

“You are spying! Classified information! Well, I won't tell you."

David gave up, shaking his head and waving the question away with his paw. “It's not really armor. They need it to survive. They're adapted for this environment. I won't prompt you for sensitive military information, admiral, but… Maddy, I bet if we asked Dr. Schatz he'd tell us those ships don't leave orbit."

“Can't," Admiral Xu'ta reiterated.

Madison took the next step. “That's why you're building the missiles. You don't have a way of threatening Ardzula Prime with your own navy. Wait. Wait. You don't have a way of occupying Ardzula Prime… you couldn't survive there. You're not air-breathers."

“We don't want their planet." Xu'ta's tone went beyond scorn into outright contempt, though it wasn't obvious whether the ire was directed at the Zel or their Star Patrol allies. “We want them to leave ours alone. It's clear now that they won't as long as they see us as denying their birthright to the stars. We hold them back. Obviously. You're just the last thing they need to finish off their plan."

***

“The attack ships use a repulsor design powered by the planet's magnetic fields. It allows them to get to orbit, but that's about it. Even the moon is a stretch." Shannon Hazelton had been summoned to the ready room with the rest of the senior staff, in order to go over what they knew about Ardzula-Mar technology. It was idiosyncratic, to say the least.

“So they're not FTL-capable."

“I'd go further than that, Mads. I'm not sure they can be. Like… the power required to generate a Kariv-Atias aperture is related to the mass of the object crossing the aperture, right? Simple stuff. Doc, check me on this, but if you plug those numbers into the Järvi-Tammann equations, I don't think you get a valid answer."

“Of course you do," Schatz said. “Those equations aren't even practical. You always get valid answers." He pulled up a calculator on the table's surface and started figuring. “See? The solution is… wait, it's negative? How do you have a negative radius?"

Maddy clucked her tongue, and pointed in quick succession to Shannon, Barry and her first officer. “Not you, not you—you. Explain, Dave."

David scanned what Dr. Schatz had written down, although he knew the Border Collie was right: the equations were impractical, so simple that they only really existed as proof of the concept of hyperspace travel. Nobody ever actually needed them. “The equation tells you how much energy you need for a gateway, captain; it's related to the ship's mass. But field diameter is also proportional to energy."

“Put it together and it suggests that if you exceed a certain density, the field diameter is less than the object's actual diameter. If you tried to go to hyperspace like that, you'd… I don't even know what would happen, Mads," Shannon admitted, though the raccoon would've been pleased to know that the results were dramatic, energetic, and explosive. 

“They're too heavy for FTL?"

“Too dense for FTL," Dave corrected. “They're pretty much confined to this system. Trapped."

Madison raked the fur of her neck with her claws. “They think the Ardzula-Zel will destroy with them with no repercussions. Because nobody trades with them. Nobody even knows they're here, I guess… right?"

“That comports with the information in their historical records, as well, captain. First contact between the Ardzula-Zel and the Ardzula-Mar, as the ambassador said, dates back almost eight thousand years. Notably, there is no information on Ardzula-Mar prehistory. At least, none that the Zel know." Dr. Beltran had asked Barry if the databank he'd obtained from Qalamixi had any more information; the Border Collie hadn't been able to turn anything up.

The crew were forced to assemble the pieces on their own. “They lived in harmony? Or is that too generous?"

“It is not inaccurate. Neither of the Ardzula species have many natural aggressive tendencies that I can discern."

“My people didn't see anything like that, either." As a native to the region, Ayenni had the advantage of a certain degree of context afforded by her culture's extensive travels. “They were one of the first alien races we met. I've heard later that it was a surprise to both of our kind when other species turned out to be less… accommodating."

“You met the Zel, though, right?" May asked.

“Yes. I'm not a cultural expert, but I didn't even know there were Mar."

“For most of their history, the Mar were the leading industrial power in the system. Their planet and its moon are rich in natural resources, inextractable to the Zel… resources that were required for advanced technology. The Zel focused on trade, perfecting inter-planetary starships rather than the unmanned drones used by the Mar to leave their environment. Once they invented hyperdrives, the Zel no longer needed domestic resources; they were able to find them elsewhere. Their population continues to grow, along with their influence."

“Leaving the Mar behind," the akita brought her diplomatic officer's summary to its plain conclusion. “And now, to them, it looks like the Ardzula-Zel are tidying up loose ends. But I don't think they want to… I don't think either of them want to. Dr. Beltran?"

“No. I believe that is reflected in their weapons. They are perfunctory. Even… reluctant. The state of affairs, if I might be permitted to editorialize, is tragic."

“More than that, it's ironic. The Zel have starships, but their engines are subpar, at best." Dave drew the conclusion from their previous encounter, which amounted to a rescue operation for a ship trapped in a natural phenomenon that most spacefarers would've been able to escape. “Ardzula-Mar reactor technology isn't much worse than ours, but they're using it to build warheads instead of hyperdrives."

“Then here's the next question, guys. How do we get them into space?"

Bradley's ears lowered. “You heard Lieutenant Hazelton, ma'am."

“I did. That was then, this is now: how do we do it? Would more power help? What if they had a bigger… hyperdrive… generator?" May faltered at the last part because the technical term escaped her; the other staff had guessed where she was going anyway by the time 'more power' was on the table.

Most of the time, for certain definitions, it worked. It was Shannon's first answer to everything, too—she was more disappointed than any of them when it didn't help. “The suspension field would still be inside the hull, Mads. That's bad news, trust me."

“We change our field diameter, though," Dave said, thinking aloud. “If they had enough power…"

“Nope. Look, if I'm saying turning a reactor to 11 is a bad idea? It's a bad idea. Especially when the goal is not blowing up a planet. Not everybody was meant to go to space, Mads. It's not great, but there it is."

Nobody protested. Madison May waited. She counted to fifteen. And then she bared her teeth, and gave a snarl Sabel would have understood far better than any trite proverb. “Damn it. The last time we were in this room, I asked how to destroy the Mar. You told me immediately. You don't get to just shrug and give up now. The problem is their ships are too massive, right? What if they weighed less?"

Shannon still felt a little chastened by the captain's outburst. “I'm not a shipwright, okay? But they don't make their stuff the way they do for fun. They're pretty close to the limits of material science."

“What about making them weigh less? We do that. The ship has inertial compensators, I know that much."

“It's not quite the same thing, Mads. The dampeners and the grav plating… huh." She caught herself and brought up the starship's technical manual for a quick read. “No, I'm wrong. Our AG does use those shitty old point inverters."

Dave was familiar with them mostly because of the constant maintenance they required—engineering had gotten into the habit of giving their repair logs straight to him rather than waiting for May to forward them along. He felt he saw where the raccoon's mind was going. “They could be adapted, right?"

She wrinkled her muzzle thoughtfully before answering. “'Could' is a funny word, commander. And you said it where Mads could hear. Maybe it's possible. We don't use 'em anymore 'cause we found something better, but… maybe. I'll give ya 'maybe,' Mads. Let me look into it."

***

Diplomacy officer's log, October 27th, 2807:

We are about to be party to the first meeting of the Ardzula-Zel and their erstwhile allies, the Ardzula-Mar, in generations. The last time they spoke, Terra was a hundred and fifty years from establishing the United Nations. It is a momentous occasion, and a great honor. I hope they will be more up to the challenge than we were then.

“You've taken us perilously close to the Mar defensive batteries. They could obliterate us."

“They won't. I hope. Spaceman Wallace?"

“Ready. I think. Cross your fingers?" TJ logged in to the ship's high-bandwidth communications array, checked the connection, and started the protocol one of the other engineers had designed. A minute later the door opened, and half a dozen Ardzula-Mar clattered their way into the room. “Hey hey, not bad. Hey dudes." TJ waved.

“He doesn't mean anything by it," Madison interjected quickly, in case waving was grievously offensive. “Also please remember not to do the… claw… thing."

Shey and his two companions were staring, aghast, at the robots. “What have you done. May…"

“We're near the planet because I want to minimize any latency—this is as close as we can come to bringing everyone here face-to-face. I think that's important. Grand Admiral Xu'ta, I want you to see the Kora diplomatic mission. I want these talks to be public—out in the open. Ambassador Shey… these are the people you call your enemies. You might have differences, but they are still people."

“That was never in dispute, commander," Shey said, plainly uncomfortable with the robots. His nerves lasted long enough to finish the statement, as if reading out last words. “And realizing it hasn't checked their desire to commit murder."

“The long-range missile program," Madison asked. “Antimatter weapons. Based on their design, my tactical officer tells me they could be made more powerful by a factor of ten or twenty. I won't ask you to boast, Xu'ta. I don't think it's anything to boast about." Maddy waited, to see if anyone had any objections. None were forthcoming.

Admiral Xu'ta finally ended the silence. “Why are we talking, then? Why are you wasting our time?"

“Because she's staying our hand in taking action against your menace," Shey responded immediately. “I know you're thinking about putting those claws to use. Well—well, you might get me here. But Ardzula Prime is a long way from your orbit, Mar."

“You'll find our claws have a long reach, Zel. Isn't that why you fled to these Terrans?"

May tapped the table a few times with her claw. “Let's go ahead and not do this part. I know you're suspicious of each other—and, admiral, you're suspicious of my motives. You have reason to be. I'm about to give you more."

Xu'ta bristled. “You call yourself a diplomat?"

“No," Madison said, at the same time as Dr. Beltran opened her muzzle to phrase an identical response more gently. “I'm a starship captain. I know what it's like to feel responsible for my people… to defend them, when they're in jeopardy. Even to fight, if it's needed. Most of the time, it isn't. That should be obvious when you think about it. Destruction only rarely solves problems. Maybe this is one of those times. We analyzed the cloaking technology used by your missiles. It's similar to devices we abandoned a long time ago."

The Mar chattered quietly, with their translators switched off. When they finished, Xu'ta twitched all three of her claws, arching them up menacingly. “Your point?"

“We've used our more advanced sensors to locate your assembly facilities—and the dozen hulls you're secretly assembling in orbit, the next generation of rockets. You can tell by the expression of the Zel delegation that they weren't aware of those. They are now. By giving them the technical schematics for our sensor array, we enable them to defend themselves against this possible threat."

“How big are these rockets?" Shey asked.

Her few conversations with the Mar High Command had already convinced May that their answer would be a curt 'enough,' and that wasn't going to get anybody anywhere. “Based on our estimates of what they can stably contain given the details of the design? We put the lower bound between ten and twenty exajoules. The results would be devastating."

Shey's tentacles fell limp; his Ardzula-Mar counterparts were chattering again, increasingly agitated. Madison took this as a sign that her tactical officers had been right in their projections; she hoped it meant they'd been right about other things, too. Time would tell.

“As I said, our sensors will neutralize that threat. I hope, Grand Admiral Xu'ta, you understand the gravity of what I'm saying as much as Shey does. We're not giving them the technology."

The universal translator didn't have Shey's startled response in the dictionary. Fortunately he was too stunned to find anything that did translate; Madison continued in the shocked silence that had descended from both parties.

“The moment I do, I'm starting a clock. Ambassador Shey, we figure that from the time you have the schematics, it'll be twelve to eighteen months before you can build a reliable detector. Maybe we're wrong—maybe you can do it in six. The Mar know that once you have those detectors, they lose their means of defense against you. They know that if they don't strike when they have the chance, they might never be able to. Can you finish your defenses before their missiles are done? I don't know. And it's not a gamble I'm willing to make."

“The consequences are the same," Shey murmured, his voice a despondent whisper. “They'll destroy us the moment they can…"

“Will you?" May demanded. “I've put my cards on the table. The Ardzula-Zel requested my help because they fear for their lives. They think they face a threat to their very survival. I've heard those words before, admiral—from you. So this is your chance: tell them, now, that you will exterminate them. Promise it. Give them the decency to spend a few months with their families before you incinerate their homeworld."

The Mar shifted, and their claws twitched; Xu'ta said nothing, not even in her own tongue.

“Your two cultures share eight thousand years of history," Dr. Beltran reminded them, her voice gentler than the akita's had been. “Commander May said that she is not a diplomat; I am. And, Admiral Xu'ta, I believe her question is not only not impudent but the most decent, most basic question to ask. Will you attack? If you are still considering your answer, permit me to continue speaking out of turn. The interaction of the Ardzula-Mar and the Ardzula-Zel is admirable and enviable."

Shey flexed his tentacles incredulously. “Were you listening to what they said? And what they haven't denied when directly asked?"

“I have read your history, ambassador. My lineage, over many generations, stretches back to Terra, just like everyone else on the ship save for our doctor. On our homeworld, our cultures share biology, lifespan, physical capabilities… vulnerability to the same diseases and enjoyment of the same emotions. We share cuisine, and clothing; a small handful of ancestral languages unites most of the globe. And since time immemorial, we have been at each other's throats. It was not until a few hundred years ago that we put our past behind us. Before that, as strange as it seems, two Terrans could each transfuse their very blood into the other and yet kill over differences as ephemeral as borders and as ineffable as gods. Yet you did not. Sharing nothing but a star, you constructed seven millennia of peaceful cooperation. If anything, I should be asking you how you did it. How your people understood and embraced the potential of their shared destiny so many centuries before my own gained that maturity."

“Ask them," Admiral Xu'ta replied, at last. “Ask them why they abandoned it."

“We didn't."

“We did." Enkaw's tentacles swirled hesitantly; her defiance of the senior ambassador was voiced softly. “Since the third dawn. Shouldn't it be inconceivable that a traveler could talk to the Ardzula and not know we're two people? But we let that happen."

“I don't speak for our forebears, Enkaw."

“But we could answer for them," she suggested.

“If you don't speak for your ancestors," May went on, taking the opening as it was given: “do you speak for your kin now?"

“What do you mean?"

The akita had left a computer chip sitting on the table, within easy reach; now she held the data crystal up where both of the Ardzula delegations could see it. “This computer contains the technical specifications for a 'gravitic inverter.'" She pronounced the name as something arcane—she didn't quite know what it was, but she was smart enough to know that didn't matter. “We use something like that as part of our inertial dampening system. What we have isn't advanced enough to adjust for the materials the Mar use in their pressure-vessels… but then, we've never needed anything that complex. My science officer thinks it could be sufficiently enhanced within a year or so."

Admiral Xu'ta focused all three of her eyes on the chip, as if somehow she could read its contents at a distance. Her electronics, impressive as they were, couldn't manage the feat. “And then what?"

“You're most of the way there. The energy you use to create the antimatter for your warheads is immense, and apparently if you can control that, you can handle what it takes to create a hyperspace aperture. I didn't understand all the specifics; my science officer isn't great at explaining them. But I trust them… and, as you know, the Ardzula-Zel have already achieved FTL travel. Working together, you could join them. You could take your place in the galaxy. Working together."

“Our people will never agree as long as there's a gun pointed straight at our planet, Commander May." Ambassador Shey's tentacles twitched and fidgeted. “That's not partnership, it's a hostage situation."

Beltran saw the endgame in sight. “Which is why the question my captain posed remains. Admiral Xu'ta, it may be that fate has given you the power to write the final line in the eight-thousand-year history of your people. And it may be that you are comfortable with your signature below that line. But we do not know, so the question stands: will you destroy the Zel?"

Her colleagues began to chatter, but the admiral snapped her claw together—not as loud as the report had been in Ardamar, but enough to jar everyone listening in the room. “No," she said. Clearly and calmly. “I will not. If your offer is genuine—if you have another way—I will not. As a sign of good faith, we'll dismantle the long-range missile program. I suppose, Star Patrol, with your superior sensor technology, you can provide the Zel defense forces with the project's coordinates so they can confirm what we've done."

“I can, certainly." May felt that the most important hurdle had already been crossed; the akita was almost beginning to relax, even if her colleagues would hold their breath a few minutes longer. “You should keep the scaffolding intact, though; it's easier to build starships in orbit."

Shey exchanged glances with his subordinates. “That would be an acceptable start," he ventured.

“We could answer in kind. We could agree to halt our mining operations on Kaizul. Yes, Shey, it's our right to do so… but it's a provocation, too. We don't need that."

“We need the minerals, though, don't we Enkaw?"

One of the Mar rattled its claws, and tapped one of them against Admiral Xu'ta's carapace. “You aren't the only ones who know how to operate a mine there. Remember that we used to, as well—before we were forced to withdraw." More rattling from the Mar next to her prompted the admiral to continue: “We could match whatever price the Kora Union was obtaining… but our freighters are in a state of disrepair."

The Zel conferred, quietly. Shey spread his tentacles out, gently cautious. “We can find a solution."

***

The robot through which Admiral Xu'ta spoke had only limited battery power, and they couldn't spend much extra time aboard the Dark Horse. Madison led them back out to the shuttlebay, where Ensign Parnell was waiting to transfer the party to an Ardzula-Mar ship drifting alongside.

Xu'ta sent her colleagues ahead, pausing at the ramp. “I'm sure the Kora will say the same thing, but I'm grateful that you intervened. It was… unexpected. I don't know a better adjective."

“Noble?"

“There's no need to use their insults. I was being serious."

May smiled. “A poor choice of my words, then. Do you think there will be peace?"

“I believe so. There's dialogue, and… and there is also greater vision." One at a time, softly, she clicked all three of her claws, stalling for time to form the words. “We spent a long time looking back to our rift, without looking further to our unity. Being reminded of that is useful for everyone."

“I hope this isn't the last time we talk. Next time, with any luck, you'll be on your ship."

“Yes," Xu'ta agreed. “I regret firing on your starship, captain. It was rash."

“You didn't do any harm. Neither did we—it's in the past. Forget it."

“Our exposure to alien races is obviously limited. But I feel you should know that you weren't the first."

May quirked her head, pricking her ears forward. “You've met others?"

“I haven't, not personally, but the Ardzula-Mar have. It was long ago. The records say we were visited by a transiting fleet… we knew we were not alone in the universe, naturally; we'd met the Zel. But these were different. They called themselves Yanoka, or Yanosha—the word is not in our language. They came from far away. They were intrigued by our submarines… desirous of our technology."

“What were they like?"

“Large. Armored, like us, but too frail to live underwater. They taught us how to build these robots. Like you, they said we were meant for the stars… that the Zel were savages, holding us back from greatness. According to legend, we listened. But in the end they wanted more than we could give them… and, eventually, they departed, along with much of our treasure."

Her head had canted the opposite direction; a hunch was forming—the name was too familiar. “The Wanesh? Could you have had contact with a Waneshan raiding ship? Is that possible?"

“I can't know. But that is closer to a mysterious word I've heard in the Zel language."

“They're an advanced culture—and highly aggressive. Piratical, even. Maybe you were lucky, if the Wanesh couldn't enslave you."

“Maybe. I said it is closer to the Zel word. We never asked. The Yanoka had stripped us of many valuable resources; it was all we could do to maintain the structural integrity of our cities. Then we were in a cycle of darkness. When we emerged, our listening posts had records of the first Zel hyperdrive test."

“You don't think that was a coincidence?"

“Officially, I do… as I must. It's legend, Commander May, and impossible to substantiate. I cannot feel that they betrayed us. I certainly can't feel they betrayed us and yet trust an outsider like you. The idea that aliens set us against one another eons ago is absurd… isn't it?"

She hoped that it was. “Your people's destiny needs to be your own, admiral. Whatever might've happened, it's true now."

“You interfered, though."

May had no defense for that. And the more she reflected, the more she understood a hint of what Dr. Beltran might've meant when she stressed the importance of their non-interference principle. “Yes."

“I suppose that's our first lesson in this grand galactic community you've invited us to. We can't trust everyone. But we can't let suspicion imprison us, either. In our home waters, we knew who to trust. These aren't our home waters. We're blind. There's no way to know whether there are more people like you, captain, or more like the Yanoka."

“No. It's difficult, admiral. But there's one way to tip the balance, and that's to know where you stand—and what you stand for."

Admiral Xu'ta snapped her claw, but weakly; the battery had almost died. “We do, now, I think. But I must depart. Thank you."

“Of course. I'll send our regards through every Ardzula trading ship we meet."

“I'll be listening for them. Good luck, commander."

“Same to you. And safe journeys."