Trang Read online

  Chapter 10

  Philippe realized something.

  He felt terrible.

  Something was hurting. Something was definitely causing him pain.

  Ow.

  Philippe wanted it to stop.

  What hurts? he wondered.

  He thought about his feet, and there they were. So he thought about his legs, and then his torso, and they, too, seemed to ease into focus, taking shape but giving no hint of the location of the pain. His arms, maybe? His head?

  But he couldn’t pinpoint what hurt. He thought about opening his eyes. It was nice with the eyes closed, he thought, it was pleasant in the dark. But if he opened his eyes, maybe he could see what had been hurt.

  That made a lot of sense. Philippe contemplated the sense that made with satisfaction for a spell. It was nice when things made sense—it was gratifying.

  He realized that nothing in particular hurt. He was just sore. Everywhere.

  I should probably open my eyes now, he thought.

  Now that hurt—a sharp, sudden pain. The light was really, really, really, really bright. Bad, bad bright light, he thought. Bright so bright it hurt, like knives. Sucked.

  Who made the lights so bright? Stupid person. Don’t they know it’s too bright?

  Philippe rested a little and tried again. The light didn’t seem quite so bad this time. They’re adjusting, he thought, and left his eyes half open. His lashes helped filter the light, so it wasn’t so bright. Eventually he saw the ceiling. It was very bright, very white.

  This looks like Beijing, he thought. I’m back in Beijing.

  “Hello, Philippe Trang,” said a voice.

  That voice is weird, thought Philippe. He peered through his half-open eyes, and saw a small green man in the chair next to his bed!

  “I didn’t know there were leprechauns in China,” he croaked. His throat was dry.

  “I do not understand you,” said the leprechaun, in his weird, precise, leprechaun voice.

  Philippe smiled. Those leprechauns! They are tricky!

  “Don’t try to fool me,” he said, looking back up at the ceiling. He noticed there were panels in it. “Tricky bastard.”

  “I am afraid that my Union English is not sufficiently fluent for me to understand what you are saying,” said the leprechaun.

  Right. “Well, that’s too damned bad, because I don’t speak Chinese.”

  “I still do not understand you.”

  “Mandarin! Or Cantonese! But I think it’s Mandarin—I don’t speak it anyway, even if it is Cantonese. Never stationed there. Not enough trouble.” Philippe tried to wave his hand in the air, dismissively. His hand moved just a little bit, so he looked at it. There was a sheet over it, holding it down.

  He looked back, blurrily, at the leprechaun. “Show me your gold,” he said. “You have to show me your gold.”

  The leprechaun, who had really grown since the last time Philippe had looked at it, turned gold.

  “Is this color more soothing to a human suffering from injury?” asked the leprechaun.

  “How the hell—?” said Philippe, as the leprechaun came into focus. He bore a striking resemblance to a beloved elder statesman who, Philippe had been told on good authority, you had to contact before three in the afternoon if you wanted to catch him sober. The statesman was mostly gold, although other colors were visible swirling around in his body, which was semi-transparent.

  “Magic Man!” said Philippe. “I apologize for my comments. I believe I am ill. Where am I?”

  “In a room,” said the Magic Man. “I was told that you were injured by your attackers and wish to express my dismay to you that I did not defend you against attack as you attempted to defend me. As you are not of the body I did not defend you against one who is of the body although that one was not behaving as those of the body should to those not of the body who might someday become of the body and that one was punished by your defenders for this failure an action that was just because your defenders are not of the body. Your defenders did not include those of the body particularly and regretfully myself because that one was of the body despite that behavior and the body must not attack itself although when one of the body behaves in an unjust manner toward one not of the body another of the body may allow those not of the body to punish the one of the body. Regardless your behavior toward me was exactly the behavior that is required by those of the body toward others of the body despite your not being of the body if you had not realized that that one was not attacking one of the body but instead attacking one not of the body particularly you. Therefore I encourage your people to become of the body in the future for then I may reciprocate such defensive behavior regardless of your attacker whereas now I am constrained if your attacker is of the body for I am of the body and you are not of the body.”

  When I wake up a little more, all that is going to make sense, thought Philippe. He looked at the Magic Man again.

  “Aren’t you dead?” he asked.

  “A little sensor tells me that someone’s awake,” George said merrily as he opened the door to Philippe’s room.

  He froze when he saw the Magic Man, then said in the same cheerful tone, but at a much louder volume, “Oh, look, a guest!”

  The doctor stepped nimbly to one side, holding open the door. In a flurry, Shanti, Patch, Feo, Gingko, Five-Eighths, and Mo bolted through the doorway, hands to their pockets.

  “I’m fine!” said Philippe, sitting up with a sudden rush of energy. “I’m fine! I’m OK! The Magic Man was just dropping by to see how I was doing! It’s a friendly gesture, isn’t it? Visiting a sick friend in the infirmary, in a friendly sort of way. And I’m fine!”

  The six SFers stood looking at the Magic Man, their bodies tense.

  “How did he—” Shanti began.

  “I’m sure that’s a conversation for another day,” said Philippe. “Right now, I’m just so happy to be feeling better, and I’m glad that the Magic Man is alive and well after that horrible attack we both suffered! I sure hope he stays that way! Alive and uninjured!”

  “I, too, am pleased that you are well,” said the Magic Man. “I hope you reflect on what I said.”

  “I certainly will,” said Philippe, who was beginning to think that sitting upright had been a bad idea. “Thank you for visiting and talking to me. It was a big relief to see that you were not hurt.”

  “I repeat my desire that the situation would have allowed me to prevent your injury,” said the alien.

  “Can we escort you back into the common area?” said Shanti through gritted teeth.

  The Magic Man agreed, and Feo, Shanti, and Five-Eighths followed him out.

  “How’re you feeling, Trang?” asked George.

  Philippe slumped back on the bed. “Exhausted. Fine. He didn’t do anything to me,” he said as George and Gingko began looking him over.

  Patch and Mo were still standing in the doorway, propping the door open with their bodies, so Philippe could hear it once the Magic Man was on his way and Shanti felt at liberty to inquire as to how he had accessed the infirmary. Of course, he probably would have heard her inquiry if the door had been closed. Or if he had been back on Titan. Or Earth.

  “Mo,” he said. “How’s Sucre?”

  “Good, good,” said Mo, with a smile. “You were the only one to take a hit.”

  Philippe laughed weakly. “You can tell who the amateur is, right?”

  “No, you did the right thing,” said Mo. “I mean, OK—first you did the smart thing, and then you did the right thing, but you acted like a real SFer out there. I was really proud of you.”

  Philippe blinked back the tears. “Thank you,” he croaked. “Thank you for everything.”

  Mo beamed at him.

  Philippe smiled back, and then looked around him. “What happened?” he asked.

  “You got electrocuted,” said George.

  Philippe tried to fit the word “electrocuted” into his memory of the attack, but he was too tired
and quickly gave up.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Oh, guy, yeah, you got zapped by a Cyclops. He went krach! with his hand,” said Patch, throwing his left arm out dramatically and nearly hitting Mo in the process. “And then this bolt of, like, lightning hit the Magic Man, and he blew up—”

  “But not really,” said Mo.

  “But not really, ’cuz he’s still here,” said Patch, suddenly distracted from his story.

  “Unless there’s two of him, but I think he would have said something,” said Mo.

  “Yeah, weird, huh?” Patch replied. He noticed Philippe again and launched back into his tale. “And after he blew up, the lightning hit you!”

  “And you flew all the way across the room, and we thought you might be dead,” said Mo. “But the doc here saved you.”

  Philippe looked up quizzically at George, who was shaking his head. “You were never dead,” he said. “Just knocked around and a little scorched.”

  “Hey, Trang!” It was Sucre, coming in, followed by Baby and Bubba and everyone else.

  There was a brief, impromptu party in the infirmary before George and Shanti broke it up, George because he wanted Philippe to rest, and Shanti because she wanted to find out how “that fucking dead-eye smiling rainbow-colored fucking freak show got the fuck in here.”

  It was good that everyone left because Philippe was suddenly overcome by an urge to pass out. He slept for a few hours more. The moment he woke up, Shanti knocked on the open door and came in, carrying a scroll.

  “You sleep well?” she asked.

  “Like the dead,” he replied.

  “Funny,” she said. “You didn’t hear the ruckus?”

  Apparently while he was sleeping the White Spider had decided to decamp from his office and head back out to the common area. Everyone had forgotten that it was there, so when it set off Vip’s motion detectors there was a great deal of confusion, and Shanti noted that she “damned near” forgot to disarm the no man’s land before letting the White Spider go through it.

  “I didn’t even know,” Philippe said, smiling. “Seems kind of minor, now.”

  “I guess it does,” said Shanti, looking uncomfortable. “Uh, speaking of what happened, there’s something you’ve gotta know, and I think you might get upset about it, and it might create problems for you.”

  “We killed the Cyclops,” Philippe said.

  “We did. Or that is what the Cyclopes say. He ran off to their living area, so we didn’t see it, but they say he died soon afterward.” Shanti twisted her mouth, as if tasting the story for authenticity. “Probably that’s the truth. He didn’t get that far; their area is on the same floor as the Hosts’. And he took two scramblers to the chest, one high and one low. A fucking elephant can’t survive that, you know, that’s like a blender to your insides.”

  Philippe had no idea what a scrambler was, but he nodded. “How are the Cyclopes reacting?”

  “They’re saying he’s a crook, a thief, good riddance,” Shanti waved her hand dismissively. “He apparently was someplace in the Hosts’ living area where he wasn’t supposed to be—I guess it’s not all open to the public in there—and he got caught. He made a run for it, but the alarm went off.”

  “That was—that shrieking noise was an alarm?”

  Shanti smiled at him. “It was the Swimmer drones. Effective, huh?”

  Philippe shuddered. “It was horrible. I’ve never heard anything like that.”

  She held up the scroll.

  “Do you want to see it?” she asked. “We can watch it without the sound.”

  Philippe nodded and sat up in bed. Shanti unrolled the scroll and put it on his lap.

  The scene had been shot from an overhead camera, which covered the entrance to the Hosts’ living area, as well as the area in front of it. Philippe could see himself talking to the Magic Man, only a few meters from the door.

  “Now, Mo and Sucre? They’re over here,” said Shanti, gesturing off the screen with her finger. Between them and the doorway was one of the Hosts’ café platforms.

  Suddenly, the Philippe on the screen began running toward the wall. The Pincushions dashed out of the scene before he even reached it. (“Look at those fuckers go,” muttered Shanti. “You never would have thought they could move like that.”)

  Sucre and Mo appeared behind the platform, lying on their bellies and using it as cover. Philippe noticed that they had their hoods on, and realized with sudden embarrassment that he should have put his on, too. He shot a quick, shamed glance at Shanti, but she was watching the screen, so he returned his attention to it.

  The Magic Man did not move.

  “So, first they’re yelling at the Magic Man, because he’s not moving,” she said. “Then they’re yelling at you, because you are moving.”

  “I tried to grab his jacket, you know?” said Philippe, feeling a sudden compulsion to explain. “But it was attached to him, it was all one piece, and slippery, so I couldn’t get a hold of it.”

  “Here’s the bad guy,” said Shanti.

  A Cyclops came out from the entryway, running. It spotted the Magic Man and Philippe, and almost offhandedly flung out its top left hand. A bolt of what certainly looked like lightning came out from the hand, passing through the cloud that had formerly been the Magic Man and striking Philippe, throwing him out of the scene. There were two small flashes from the hands of Sucre and Mo. The Cyclops’ body began to shudder as the scramblers went to work inside him. He ran out of the frame.

  “Now, I want to show you something, in slow-mo,” said Shanti. “Watch the Magic Man.”

  She adjusted the screen controls so that the scene froze as the bolt was emerging from the hand of the Cyclops, then centered it on the Magic Man. The scene went forward in slow motion.

  Philippe watched, perplexed.

  “He blew up first,” he said.

  “Yeah, he saw it and went, ptew. I think that’s how he gets out of the way. Now watch this.”

  She touched scroll’s control panel, and the infirmary Philippe was sitting in now appeared. Philippe was lying in bed, eyes closed. His body was limp. “Watch the chair,” Shanti said, expanding that part of the shot.

  A speck appeared in the chair, slowly turning into tiny, multicolored body. Philippe watched as it grew, its color swirling.

  There was a rustling from the direction of the bed.

  “Hello, Philippe Trang,” said the small, mostly green body, unmistakable in shape and voice as the Magic Man.

  It was a marvelous party.

  The great hall shone beneath its massive chandeliers. Waiters poured wine and whisked about plates featuring scrumptious food—puff pastries bursting with real butter, sweet pieces of sashimi, tender and rich slices of steak, bits of duck that positively melted away in the mouth.

  There was an orchestra playing and some were dancing, but most people were too caught up in lively conversation to be enticed onto the parquet floor. Everyone looked fabulous, well-dressed and rested, groomed and young. Everyone was laughing.

  Philippe stopped a waiter and got a piece of cheese. It didn’t look like much, but when he bit into it—oh, my God. Cheddar, really excellent cheddar, had such an amazing flavor, rich and deep. It was one of his favorites.

  He looked up. Standing before him, looking elegant in an eggplant dress suit, was George. He was talking to an attractive woman in a dark red halter dress. Her dark hair was streaked with gray.

  “Hi, George!” said Philippe.

  “Philippe!” said the doctor. “I thought I might find you here.”

  “Hi, Philippe,” said the woman.

  “Yoli!” said Philippe, recognizing her. “I’m so happy to see you guys! When did you get into Ottawa?”

  “Just now,” said George. “We came for the party.”

  “I need to speak to you.” A voice came from behind Philippe.

  He turned around. There was a Host, glowing with golden light.

  “Hello there
!” said Philippe. He turned back to George, delighted. “You brought an alien!”

  “Of course!” said George.

  “I’ve never met an alien before,” said Yoli.

  “He’s a little unusual—most of his kind are red, not gold,” said Philippe. “And they usually don’t glow like this.”

  “I think he put it on for the occasion,” George replied.

  They all admired the Host’s beautiful glow.

  “Philippe, it’s really important that we talk,” the Host said. “What do you know about physics?”

  “Nothing!” exclaimed Philippe, as the doctor and Yoli laughed.

  “That’s her department,” said George, pointing at Yoli, who playfully grabbed his hand.

  “Speak with her,” said Philippe.

  “She’s gone,” said the Host.

  And sure enough, Yoli and George had vanished.

  “Oh, this is a party!” said Philippe. “She probably doesn’t want to talk physics now—it would be a busman’s holiday.”

  “What do you know about energy?” the alien asked.

  “I wish I had more of it!” Philippe exclaimed.

  “I am talking about physical energy. The energy that powers these lights, for example.”

  “Not much,” said Philippe. “It can shock you. And there’s the right-hand rule.”

  “What is the right-hand rule?”

  “If you are in a predominantly Muslim country, always use your right hand—using the left is insulting.” Philippe laughed, but the Host was clearly not amused. “Diplomatic humor. I’m sorry.”

  A waiter came up with a tray of ice wine, and Philippe took a glass. “Would you like some?” he asked the Host. “It’s strong, but delicious.”

  “I’m not here to eat,” said the Host.

  “You must eat—this food is excellent! Look!” said Philippe, pointing to his left. “There’s a hand sanitizer.”

  “What is that?” said the Host, looking at the double-basined machine.

  Philippe gaped at him.

  “He’s not really a Host,” said George, again at Philippe’s side.

  “No, he’s not,” said Philippe.

  “I never said I was the host,” said the Host.

  “You’re having a dream,” said George.

  “It’s a nice dream,” Philippe replied.

  “Absolutely—I’m having a great time, and so is everybody else,” said George. “I’d keep on dreaming it if I were you.”

  “Oooh, look, an alien!” A very tall, somewhat overweight black woman with long hair pinned up in an elaborate bun flounced up in a ruffled aqua dress.

  “Kali!” said Philippe. “I mean, Kelly!”

  “Hi, Philippe,” she said, with just a hint of brittleness in her smile. “Is this your alien friend?”

  “Yes, isn’t he excellent?” said Philippe. “They’re so cute. And they can purr like cats!”

  “Oh, will you purr for me?” Kelly asked.

  The Host stared at them for a moment. “If you want,” he said, and began making the thrumming noise.

  “That’s so cute!” said Kelly, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. “You purr when you’re happy—just like a cat.”

  “We don’t purr when we’re happy,” said the irritated Host. “We purr when we want others to be happy. Fathers do it to soothe their children. It’s inherently manipulative.”

  “He’s so adorable!” said Kelly.

  “Could you please get rid of this woman?” asked the Host.

  “Shhh!” said Philippe, afraid that Kelly would be offended. But she was already gone, and Philippe spotted her waltzing out of earshot with an Australian diplomat he had worked with almost a decade ago.

  “I don’t like her, either,” said George. “She looks like a liar. You could tell she didn’t like being called Kali.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like her,” said the Host. “It’s that we need to talk. Philippe, I am real.”

  “Of course you’re real!” said Philippe. “Aliens are real! Everyone knows that!”

  “I, in particular, am real,” said the Host.

  Philippe and George looked at each other and smiled.

  “If you’re so real, why do you speak English?” asked the doctor.

  “You are not real,” said the Host to the doctor. “Philippe, I speak English because I am in your mind, and I am limited to what is in your mind.”

  “Exactly,” said the doctor.

  “Wait, wait, shhh. Stop for a minute.” Philippe hushed them as the music stopped. A ripple of anticipation went through the crowd.

  “It’s time,” George said, excited.

  The music began again as the ceiling dissolved into the night sky. Everyone started to talk and laugh again, the gaiety growing and growing. They turned to Philippe. “Start it!” someone exclaimed. Someone else shouted, “We can’t do it without you!”

  Philippe threw his head back and started to laugh. His body rose up off the ground, slowly moving higher. Everyone else laughed, too, and they too floated up into the air. They laughed and flew, they soared and rolled, all because Philippe let them. He had the power, and they were all so, so happy.

  “Philippe!”

  Philippe looked down, and the Host was still standing on the floor. “You have to laugh,” said Philippe. “I can make it happen, but you can’t fly if you don’t laugh.”

  “I don’t want to fly. I need to talk to you.”

  “You have to laugh,” said Philippe, reaching out and making a tickling motion with his right hand.

  The alien began to laugh. It was not a natural noise. It sounded more like a barking cough.

  “Hek, hek, hek,” the alien said, and his body began to rise into the air.

  Philippe was still in the infirmary the next day, but he had slept well and was feeling relatively good. He wasn’t feeling quite as good as the SFers, though—they were feeling fine to the point of giddiness. Philippe didn’t know if they were in such high spirits because he had survived the attack, because they finally seen some action, or because the worst had happened and they had not been forced to seal themselves off from the station and blast themselves into space after all.

  In any case, people kept sticking their heads in to say hello, and Five-Eighths, bored while on guard duty at the no man’s zone, sang Philippe a merry song over his earplant extolling the joys of sibling incest. Whether the song was of Five-Eighths’ own invention or traditional among the SF was unclear because he had apparently not taken into account his proximity to Shanti’s office, so the song ended abruptly and with some violence.

  Philippe spoke with Shanti and George about how the aliens were responding to the attack. They were apparently quite concerned—the soldiers were practically mobbed whenever they went outside by aliens who wanted to express their sympathy and to know how the human diplomat was doing. Many of the aliens said they had also spoken to the Magic Man, “but apparently they can’t understand the freaky fucker either, so that’s not helping much,” said Shanti.

  “All right,” said Philippe. “Are you OK with letting some of the aliens in to visit me here?”

  Shanti thought for a minute. “Small groups, like one or two? That would be OK. But we can’t let everyone in.”

  They discussed it and agreed on three visits—Max and Moritz, a Swimmer drone that could broadcast Philippe’s comments to the rest of the station, and a small delegation from the Cyclopes. That last group caused Shanti the most concern, but Philippe argued that since the Cyclopes had officially condemned the attack, it was crucial to demonstrate that there were no hard feelings.

  “I have to meet them, and I have to meet them first,” he said.

  Shanti thought for a moment. “I’m gonna need some time to get ready for the party, but I’ll send out the invites as soon as I can,” she said, and left.

  “What does that mean?” Philippe asked the doctor.

  “Oh, you know, she’s going to put up st
reamers, bake a cake. Maybe some balloons,” he replied with a smile.

  Philippe was not reassured. “I mean, she’s not going to, you know, do anything—”

  “Anything stupid? No, no, if she said, ‘I’m going to throw a party,’ then you might have to talk her out of it.” George patted Philippe’s shoulder. “Aren’t alien cultures fun?”

  At Philippe’s request, George, who was in the infirmary because he wanted to make another go at the Host translation devices, left and brought him a camera and his comb. Philippe neatened up and recorded a quick video report for the DiploCorps detailing what was going on—normally he preferred text, but in this case he felt like the people on Earth needed to see that he was fine.

  “At the moment,” he said to the cameras, “the position of the Cyclopes is that this was a rogue act and that it does not indicate any hostile policy on their part. It is difficult to determine the truth of that statement—the Cyclopes have been impatient to meet with us, and they have expressed criticism of both the Hosts and our dependence upon the Hosts. The attack may have stemmed from those dissatisfactions. In addition, their history with the Magic Man is unknown to me, leaving open the possibility that the attack was aimed at him.

  “On the other hand, such attacks on the station appear to be quite uncommon. I have never heard anyone refer to one, and the attack on me has caused a great deal of concern among the aliens. Surveillance footage suggests that the attack was random. As a result, I feel that on an official level at least, we should accept the apologies of the Cyclopes and maintain friendly relations.”

  The door opened, and Raoul came in, his hands filled with small devices. “George?” he said.

  “Yeah?” George replied.

  “Here you go,” said Raoul, handing the devices to the doctor. “They should be here in about a half hour.”

  George put the devices on a table and began to look them over, pocketing each one once the inspection was complete.

  “You carry weapons?” asked Philippe.

  “Not usually, no,” said the doctor. “But everyone in the SF is combat able, no matter what their job.”

  Raoul laughed. “Combat able. You’ve scrambled more eggs than any us!”

  George smiled. “Well, I’m older.”

  The two of them folded the infirmary beds that were not currently supporting Philippe or inside the isolation unit into the floor to make space for the aliens, and then Philippe sent Raoul to get his translation mike. When he returned, Feo and Patch entered the room with him. Philippe started—they were carrying some very large, very intimidating-looking weaponry.

  “Hey, you’re ready for the party!” said George.

  “We went with a festive look,” said Raoul.

  Patch must have noticed Philippe’s concern, because he asked, “You OK, Trang?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess,” Philippe replied. “I just wasn’t really expecting you to be carrying all that stuff where everyone can see it.”

  “We’re not in the common area,” said Feo.

  “I understand that,” said Philippe. “Just keep in mind that the Cyclopes visiting me today are not the Cyclops who attacked me.”

  Patch asked the doctor about the Hosts’ translation devices, which were visible through the clear walls of the isolation unit. George launched into an explanation that, Philippe could see, was making about as much sense to Patch as it had to him a few days before.

  Feo took a position next to Philippe’s side. “They’re not gonna talk, are they?” he asked.

  “Who, the Cyclopes?” asked Philippe. “I hope they do.”

  “What kind of dumb question is that?” asked Raoul.

  “Hey, fuck you,” Feo snapped. “They’re fucking boring, man, when they talk. They’re always, like, ‘extremely’ this or ‘extremely’ that. I hate it.”

  “‘Emphatically,’” corrected Philippe.

  “Whatever,” said Feo. “They need to, like, learn other words or something.”

  George and Patch had stopped talking and were both trying to keep from sniggering, without much success.

  “You are so fucking stupid,” said Raoul.

  “Keep talking, dick—” Feo began.

  “Fellows, please,” said Philippe. He glared at George and Patch, who composed themselves. “Feo, anything weird or repetitive that you hear like that is probably because the translation technology really isn’t that great. I mean, for all we know, we could be talking to the Winston Churchills of the Cyclopes—”

  “You don’t honestly think he knows who—” Raoul interrupted.

  “Please, Raoul, you’re not helping” Philippe interrupted back. “You just have to keep in mind, Feo, that you’re not hearing what they’re really saying, you’re just hearing the translation, and frankly, I think the translations here could use some work. You probably sound just as stilted to them.”

  “I don’t sound stupid,” said Feo, heatedly.

  “Fuck, you sound stupid just in English, what do you think you sound like in some alien language?” Raoul asked.

  “You’re stupid!”

  “Everyone in the infirmary,” Shanti’s voice sounded in Philippe’s ear, “stop the circle jerk. Our visitors are about to come through the front door.”

  Philippe turned to Feo. “Make sure she remembers to turn off the no man’s zone!”

  Feo looked at him, horrified. “Man, I am not going to tell her that!”

  “Please! I don’t have my com mike. Please, please tell her.”

  Feo made a face and hit his com. “Philippe wants me to tell you not to forget to turn off the no man’s zone.” He paused for a moment, and then he, Patch, George, and Raoul burst out laughing.

  “You don’t want to know,” George told Philippe.

  “They’re in the no man’s zone, and holy shit! They’re not dead!” Shanti’s sarcastic voice came through his earplant. “The outer door is closed, and the inner door is opening.”

  Her voice cut off. Philippe heard footprints.

  The door opened and two Cyclopes entered the room. Philippe crossed his fingers under the covers.

  “Greetings, human diplomat,” one of them said.

  “I take it this is Endless Courage and Brave Loyalty?” he asked.

  “It is,” said Brave Loyalty.

  “I am so happy to see you,” said Philippe. “It is very kind of you to visit.”

  “We must visit,” said Endless Courage. “We must assure you that your attacker was not representing the Cyclopes in any official capacity when he attacked you.”

  “What he did was a very emphatically criminal action,” said Brave Loyalty. “Deception, attempted theft, attacking an unarmed alien: These actions are very emphatically shameful. I feel immense shame that a Cyclops would believe that engaging in such actions is within the structure of the fields. It was shameful, emphatically shameful, and very emphatically shameful.”

  “He was not representing the Cyclopes in any official capacity,” said Endless Courage.

  “I would feel very emphatically shameful were he acting as a representative of my people,” said Brave Loyalty. “I have always thought that as a people, we should do better things than such emphatically shameful actions.”

  “I am certain that you are an honorable people, and that this individual is not representative of the Cyclopes. We have criminals, too, humans whom I hope you never meet,” said Philippe. “Surely I would not want to have humanity judged by the actions of such people, and I see no reason why the actions of a single criminal should damage the budding friendship between the humans and the Cyclopes.”

  He looked again at Brave Loyalty.

  “Did you say that my attacker was a thief?” he asked.

  “He was apprehended in the personal living quarters of a Host merchant,” said Endless Courage. “The Host merchant had not invited him, and when the Host merchant saw him, the Cyclops escaped and made that regrettable attack.”

  “It was an emphatical
ly shameful attack and an emphatically shameful series of actions, outside the fields,” said Brave Loyalty. “I am profoundly shamed by the entire series of events.”

  “That is as it is,” said Endless Courage. “This individual was not in the Host quarters as a representative of our people. As a result, we do not know why he was there, although his deception and his subsequent action indicate thievery.”

  “And I understand he was killed by my security experts,” said Philippe. If they had lied about that, they would doubtless keep lying, but he wanted at least to eliminate the possibility of accidental miscommunication.

  “Yes, he was,” said Endless Courage. “Your projectile weapons are very advanced.”

  “But he was able to run,” said Feo.

  “He was dead by the time he entered our living area,” replied Endless Courage. “Our people can continue running after death. We are not bipeds, so our balance does not require as much active thought.”

  “When he attacked me,” asked Philippe, “did he use a weapon?”

  “Not even a small amount,” said Brave Loyalty. “Our people can produce electrical discharges as a natural defense mechanism, as the Pincushions can produce poison.”

  “But it is very emphatically not poison, it is an electrical discharge,” said Endless Courage.

  “That is interesting,” said Philippe. “We have fish on our planet that can produce electrical charges.”

  “They can’t direct the charge, though,” George interjected. “They just produce an electrical field.”

  “It takes practice to direct electrical discharges with accuracy,” said Brave Loyalty. “Your attacker was adept.”

  “Are you immune to the charges?” asked George, clearly intrigued. “Or can they hurt you?”

  “Cyclopes can be hurt or killed by such an electrical discharge,” replied Brave Loyalty.

  George was obviously fascinated and was about to ask another question, but Philippe didn’t want the conversation to turn into a forum on comparative anatomy, so he jumped in.

  “Who was the Cyclops who attacked me?” he asked. “What was his name?”

  “His name was Limitless Sacrifice,” Brave Loyalty said.

  “That is as it is. He was not an important person,” said Endless Courage. “His family is not an important family, but even they will be happy that he ran as he died and that he died from a projectile.”

  “Even so, please pass my regrets on to his family,” said Philippe.

  “Death creates life,” said Endless Courage.

  “Shame creates nothing,” said Brave Loyalty, hastily.

  “That is as it is,” replied Endless Courage, equally hastily.

  The two lapsed into silence.

  “In any case,” Philippe resumed, “while Limitless Sacrifice’s death may have been somewhat more acceptable in your culture, I’m sure his family is still saddened by their loss. I would appreciate it if you would be sure to let them know that I am sorry for what happened.”

  “Shit, I don’t believe this,” said Feo quietly, in Spanish.

  “Is there a problem?” Philippe asked him, also in Spanish.

  “What are you apologizing for?” said Feo. “We killed that sorcerer because he attacked you, and you can’t be a weakling about it. Tell them that if it happens again, we’ll kill them again.”

  “What do you know about it?” said Raoul, in Spanish.

  “He has turned off his translation device,” said Endless Courage to Brave Loyalty.

  “No, I haven’t turned it off—” said Philippe in Spanish. He stopped himself and switched to Union English. “No, I have not turned off my translation device—communicating with you is far too important for me to do something like that. It is simply that this security expert is more comfortable expressing himself in a language that is too obscure to be programmed into the translation devices.”

  “Spanish isn’t obscure!” said Feo.

  “For the love of God, will you shut your mouth!” said Raoul.

  “Fuck your mother!”

  “What my security expert is saying,” Philippe interrupted, “is that while we all regret the death of Limitless Sacrifice, from a security point of view, the situation was handled very well. Were the situation to reoccur in the future, our response would be the same. We were attacked without provocation, and the attacker was neutralized, which was appropriate and desirable. I agree with that evaluation, as I am sure all humans do.”

  “We agree with that evaluation,” said Endless Courage. “We would respond in the same manner if such an attack were conducted against a Cyclops.”

  “Let me explain your comment to our security expert, since he is so limited,” said Raoul. “You stupid pussy, the next time I get you in this room, I’m going to shove an enema up your ass with such force that your eyes will fall out of their sockets.”

  “You’re making me horny! What a big train!” sneered Feo.

  “Not another word, either of you! You are idiots, the two of you, and I am going to have you shot by your boss if you don’t shut your mouths!” snapped Philippe. He turned to the Cyclopes and smiled. “I am so pleased that we have reached an understanding on this issue. I wish to assure you that since the attacker was killed, my people consider this unfortunate matter settled and look forward to having a friendly relationship with your people.”

  “We do not consider this incident settled,” said Endless Courage. “I wish to give you a gift as a gesture of our regret and as a testimony to the capability of your security experts. I did not bring it here because I was concerned that you might view it as a security threat, but since you wish to have a friendship with us now, I wish to retrieve it and to bring it to you.”

  “Please do,” said Philippe.

  Endless Courage moved to leave, and Patch opened the door.

  “I will remain and converse with the human diplomat,” said Brave Loyalty.

  “That is as it is,” said the departing Cyclops.

  He left, and Brave Loyalty turned to Philippe. “May I ask you two questions?”

  “May I ask you a question first?” replied Philippe.

  “That is a permissible course of action,” replied the Cyclops.

  “Why would someone’s family be glad that they were killed by a projectile?”

  “That is an easy question. We have a hierarchy of ways of dying. Active ways of dying are desirable—the expression is that they allow you to die while running. Methods that render you passive, such as poison or illness, are not desirable but are instead shameful.”

  “What about dying of old age?”

  “That is necessary for life.”

  “Thank you. With our people, there is an objection to people dying young, and dying of old age is considered preferable. Please ask your questions.”

  “My first question is: Do you ever function as a security expert?”

  “No,” said Philippe. “I never function as a security expert; I am always a diplomat. I was a diplomat on Earth before I came here, and when I finish my service on this station, I will return to Earth and be a diplomat there.”

  “That is different,” said Brave Loyalty. “On my planet, when we finish our service here, we are expected to provide security to the Cyclopes in order to demonstrate our continued loyalty.”

  Philippe smiled. He had answered his own question in hopes that the Cyclops would follow his example, and Brave Loyalty had.

  “My second question is, how many languages are there on Earth?” the Cyclops asked

  Philippe thought for a moment. “You are going to be disappointed in me, because I do not know an exact answer. A few thousand, I would estimate.”

  “That is remarkable. We once had multiple languages, but that was long ago,” said the Cyclops. “Now we all only speak one language, the language.”

  “There are fewer languages on Earth now than there once were,” said Philippe. “Most people on Earth speak two well: The language on our translators, and anoth
er language. But as more people speak the language on our translators well, the fewer choose to learn another language.”

  “You speak at least two,” Brave Loyalty noted.

  “I speak eight well.”

  “Is learning languages a pleasurable activity for you?” Brave Loyalty asked.

  “Very much so,” Philippe replied.

  “You should learn another people’s language.”

  Philippe jumped at the opening.

  “I want to very much,” he said. “The Cyclopes seem to speak within the range of my hearing. Perhaps you should try to teach me your language, if that is not too much of an imposition.”

  Brave Loyalty stared at him for a minute.

  “Of course I understand if you do not have the time,” Philippe continued, wondering if he had said something offensive. “I would not wish to inconvenience you in any way.”

  “I would be emphatically pleased to help you,” said the Cyclops. “It would help ease the sense of shame I feel as a result of your attack.”

  “I thank you,” said Philippe.

  “I feel your attack was a very emphatically shameful event,” said Brave Loyalty. “It was very troubling to me in a personal way.”

  “Did you know the attacker?” Philippe asked.

  “Not even a small amount.” The Cyclops paused again. “I have a third question, if I may be permitted to ask it.”

  “Please do.”

  “With your people, when you see a competitive event, must you participate? Must you try to win it? Are you capable of choosing to not participate?”

  Philippe thought for a moment. “I think all humans are competitive, or can be competitive. But I think it would depend on the event—whether it looked enjoyable—or what the prize was.”

  “I understand,” said Brave Loyalty. “Our people would participate and try to win, in all cases. That is the only permissible course of action for a Cyclops, it is said. One never decides not to participate. One always competes. To compete is what one wants to do during the entire time one is alive.”

  “I think that there is a competitive instinct innate in all beings, certainly in all humans,” said Philippe. “But there is also culture and civilization. The competitive urge can be reined in, turned away from destructive channels and into productive and peaceful ones. I realize that I am new to this station and know little of the people who live here, but when I see the Hosts and the Swimmers, I think that these are people who have controlled their competitive urges and embraced cooperation.”

  “I cannot agree with that evaluation,” said Brave Loyalty. “The Hosts and the Swimmers do not believe that they do not have to compete. They believe that they have won the competition.”

  “Is that why Limitless Sacrifice was in the Hosts’—” A noise outside the door interrupted Philippe’s question.

  Shanti opened it. “Your friend is back,” she said, letting in Endless Courage, who was carrying a gold tube a little less than a meter long. She stepped in after him, alert.

  “I am sorry to have taken so long,” he said.

  “It was no trouble at all,” said Philippe, silently wishing that the alien had taken even longer. “How generous of you to give me a gift.”

  “This is a traditional gift among the Cyclopes to one who has been wrongfully attacked,” said Endless Courage.

  Raoul stepped over to Philippe’s bed. Glaring at Feo, he swung down a tray from the ceiling. Endless Courage placed the gift on the tray.

  “He would not know how to open it,” remarked Brave Loyalty.

  “I will do it,” said Endless Courage, pinching and pulling the package until the gold covering lost its stiffness and fell open.

  Inside was a long, thin, gray-brown object. The end of it branched into six curling fingers. It had a shiny but textured surface, like someone had lacquered a short-hair dog.

  “It is the offending appendage of the attacker,” said Endless Courage.

  “Ohhh, let’s not pay any attention to those biosafety protocols,” said George, quickly stepping forward.

  “It has been sealed,” said Endless Courage.

  Philippe waved off the doctor and smiled up at the Cyclopes. “It is a wonderful gift,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

  The meetings with the Hosts and the Swimmer drone went roughly as expected, with Philippe delivering the message of continued friendliness and the Hosts and Swimmers delivering apologies aplenty.

  “Has this happened before?” asked Philippe, during his meeting with the Hosts.

  “On occasion there are disagreements that result in violence,” said Max. “They are not common, especially not between members of different people.”

  “They are great failures on our part,” said a visibly agitated Moritz. “Once we finish this conversation, I will immediately go to the portal in hopes that contemplating it will assist me in discerning how our people failed both the humans and the Cyclopes at this time.”

  Philippe didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he changed the subject. “Do you know what Limitless Sacrifice was trying to steal?”

  “The merchant who discovered him in his living quarters says that nothing was taken,” said Moritz. “I do not know if I consider his account reliable, however.”

  “Moritz,” said Max, suddenly looking exasperated.

  “You think that something was taken?” asked Philippe.

  “That part of the account I have no reason to not believe,” said Moritz. “But I think the merchant might have done something or said something that made the Cyclops violent.”

  “What could a merchant say that a Cyclops could understand?” said Max. “He did not have translation gear.”

  “There is a possibility that it was his physical manner,” said Moritz.

  “He has provided goods here for years without incident,” said Max.

  Philippe was bracing for another argument between the two when Max’s attention was suddenly caught by something. He walked over to the isolation unit, where the doctor had place the Cyclopes gift, covered by its erstwhile packaging.

  “I see they gave you the offending hand,” Max said.

  “Yes, they did,” said Philippe.

  Max and Moritz looked at each other, amused.

  “Do you find that an impressive gift?” asked Moritz. “This hand?”

  “It is not a traditional gift on Earth,” Philippe replied. “I’m sure they meant well.”

  “Among the Cyclopes, they are often speaking of hands that were cut off either the living or the dead and handed to the wronged party after an offense,” said Max. “It is comical.”

  “Why?” asked Philippe.

  “It is simply ridiculous,” said Moritz. “It is a tale that no one believes.”

  “No people are that barbaric,” said Max. “No people would cut off hands in such a cavalier manner.”

  A picture flashed into Philippe’s mind of a buzzing basement room in Guantánamo.

  “That hand is a fake,” said Moritz. “It shines, and the Cyclopes are dull.”

  “Either they are invented tales, or the Cyclopes can re-grow their hands and the removal of their hands is not a traumatic operation,” said Moritz. “I have never seen a Cyclops on the station without hands, and they rotate their staff through here at a rapid rate.”

  “I am so pleased that you are willing to share your insights with me, especially considering how new I am to this station,” Philippe said.

  And what he thought was: Naive children. You have no idea.