Grayfield could sense the chunk of compact rock waiting beneath the ship, as if its atmosphere were a held breath. Would this be the one? He approached each new contact with a mixture of excitement and dread. Always the Areopagus won. And still he came away empty. "Contact established, Imperius." "Lock in, Praetor, and close," Grayfield said with practiced formality. "Computer has anticipated and enacted, sir." The spaceship automatically honed in and did a thousand calculations. It was at these moments that Imperius Grayfield, proxy commander and Chief Spirit Officer, felt most useless. Technology had rendered many of his executive decisions impotent. High Command wasn't the blood and guts of old; now it was a palmful of soulless silicon. Grayfield sighed and watched through the simulation screen as the ship he still couldn't help thinking of as his entered the new planet's orbit. "Docking complete, sir." "Secure all decks and assemble Diplomatic Corps, Praetor." "Computer has already issued those orders, sir. Corps awaiting debarkment." Grayfield removed his simulation visor and dragged his weary human bones from his bunk. He looked around his spartan quarters, wishing he had a flawed oil painting hanging on the wall or a handmade sculpture sagging in the corner, some non-manufactured object he could take comfort in. There was only tungsten precision and bright rayon upholstery. He entered a code into a small keypad and a panel slid open. He knelt and gazed into the velvet interior of his secret sanctuary. Here was his collection: buddhas and Ibeji twin-figures that were banned on his native planet, Oortian relics and the sacred bones of a Centauri sandreader. A Denebolan ghost-image was sealed in a crystal vacuum, swirling in an eternal aurora of red and orange. Thick crumbling books and dusty tablets sat weighty in one corner, holy words of wisdom from dozens of species, some in languages long forgotten. If the Areopagus ever found out about these forbidden artifacts, Grayfield himself would be only dust, all record of his existence obliterated from their great computers. He wondered what sort of religions might have flourished on the planet below. Maybe a new totem or fetish might find its way into his vault. But he would trade them all, along with his position, prestige, and wealth, for one ounce of enlightenment. Not the enlightenment of scientific discovery that was espoused by the Areopagus, but the kind that was hinted at in his collected legends. Grayfield closed the panel and walked down to the debarkment area to meet the Corps. His arrival was awaited by a phalanx of bright-eyed, eraser-headed graduates. Their eyes shone with dutiful enthusiasm. "Briefing?" he asked the room at large. An apple-polisher stepped forward, jutting out her chest to make her name insignia more visible. "Planet first identified by subspace microwave in the year 2414. Initial probe revealed various carbon-based species dominated by intelligent civilization with complex social organization. The name the species gives itself translates as 'Pacis Manus.' Apparently benevolent." Grayfield said, "Did you memorize all that or just have the chip installed?" "Sir?" "That's all, Praetor." The praetor stepped back into rank and stood rigidly with the others. Grayfield said, "Let's go to work. The Areopagus awaits our report so they can decide if they wish to assimilate." Of course the Areopagus would wish to assimilate. Bigger was better, whether computers, star-eating spaceships, or interplanetary alliances. The Areopagus had expanded its influence across dozens of solar systems, brought hundreds of intelligent species under its heel. And if these Peacehands resisted? Too bad for them. Grayfield pressed the transition button and instantly the Corps was standing in a high basalt dome before a trio of Peacehands. They looked just as the simulation screen reports had depicted them. An anthropoid species with milk-colored leathery skin and four sets of eyes that ringed their oblong heads. Stocky builds with short, blunt limbs, withered wings on their backs that they were losing in evolution's ever-changing wisdom. Exoskeletons covered with thin fibrous clothing. One of the Peacehands stepped forward, eyes jiggling at the ends of limpid stalks. "Greetings, members of Areopagus. We are pleased to meet your species," she said. Tiny ear-implanted computers translated her musical clicks and whistles instantaneously into Neo Celtic. Grayfield nodded and bowed slightly, one of his vertebrae popping audibly as he did so. He spoke, a chip on his larynx translating his words into the Peacehand language. Studies had shown that species were more likely to let down their guard when Spirit Officers spoke to them in their own language. "The Areopagus returns your greetings," he said, prefacing the same speech he had given on many other planets. "We're always pleased to meet new peoples and to explore new areas of space. We hope you'll learn from us as well. The Areopagus believes we have much to offer each other." Yes, we offer you the chance to lick the asteroid dust from our boots and you offer us unfettered access to your natural resources, Grayfield thought bitterly. If the Peacehands had tongues, that is. He had seen no movement inside the Peacehand ambassador's speaking orifice. Her glottal phrasings wouldn't necessarily require a tongue. "I am--," the Peacehand ambassador said, chirping a name that the computer randomly designated, "-- Exa. Please allow me to give you a personal tour of our city." Grayfield bowed again. "That would be most generous of your time, Exa." Then, to his praetors, "Commence exploratory duties as per High Command orders. Meet here in one hour, and remember, no trouble." The rows of gleaming uniforms saluted him and disbanded into groups of two and threes. Exa led Grayfield down the long basalt hallway to a large door. Grayfield looked up at the arch twenty meters above and wondered why the stubby Peacehands needed such clearance. Then he was squinting into the daylight that rained from the planet's cool orange sun. The light reflected off the slightly elevated streets and radiated about the buildings, causing the entire city to shimmer before his eyes. He followed Exa out the door. As much as he loathed computers, now he was grateful for the biomaintenance system tucked into his front pocket and attached to his aorta by thin wires. It regulated oxygen and filtered toxins, making protective suits necessary only in the most inhospitable environs. He breathed the thin air of the planet without fear, savoring the respite from the stale shipboard air that was continually recycled until it lost its essence. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the sunshine, he scanned the city that stretched gleaming in all directions. The structures were built of white marble, and followed neat geometric organizations of height and width. More Peacehands walked the streets with shuffling, meek movements, their eyes bugging out from every side. And the streets...impossible! The streets were paved with pure gold, and his boots made no sound on the hard but yielding metal. |
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