Trang Page 12

  Chapter 12

  Philippe gestured frantically to the soldiers, who ran up. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?” Bubba asked.

  “See that, that—” The Host’s glow was rapidly diminishing.

  “Never mind,” he said, and he went after the Host.

  The Host was now not glowing at all, although he still looked a little more golden than the others. He stopped at one of the hand sanitizers, and he and his two companions were cleaning their hands when Philippe caught up to them.

  “Hello!” he said. “I’m the human diplomat.”

  They seemed to ignore him, so he greeted them again. One of them noticed him and pointed him out to the others with a chirrup. Philippe realized with a start that, in all likelihood, none of them had translation devices.

  He smiled anyway and waved, which sparked a brief but animated discussion among them. He followed them to their table, where a serving Host brought their food. They all seemed rather baffled about what to do next—one of them spoke to the serving Host, but another appeared to interrupt him. The third began thrumming, and the other two quickly joined in. The serving Host left, and they all stood there, the Hosts not touching their food. They had another conversation, this one even more animated than the last.

  “Greetings, human diplomat,” said a translated voice.

  Philippe turned. It was Ptuk-Ptik.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” said Philippe. “I want to speak to these Hosts, but it seems that they don’t have translation devices. Do you think you could translate?”

  “Of course,” said Ptuk-Ptik. He walked up to the Hosts. “This is the human diplomat, and he would like to make your acquaintance.”

  The no-longer-glowing, now-dark-orange Host spoke. “He says he is honored to greet you and wishes you all good things,” Ptuk-Ptik said. “He would be happy to answer your questions and to share a meal—he does not eat our food, it is most likely toxic to him.”

  The last phrase was apparently for the benefit of the other Hosts.

  “Who are these people? I take it they are not priests,” said Philippe.

  “No, they are not—he thought you might be priests. No, this Host—” Ptuk-Ptik indicated the Host who had been glowing “—is a merchant who provides the food from our planet that the Snake Boys eat. He is not a priest, but his job furthers our divine mission as much as any priesthood. This Host—” he indicated the Host to the left, who was redder “—is his son, for he has the enviable fortune to have a wife. This Host—” indicating the one to the right “—is his nephew, for he has the enviable fortune to have a sister.”

  As Ptuk-Ptik made the introductions, Philippe looked the merchant over. No trace of a glow remained—in fact, the merchant really didn’t look at all like the Host in his dreams now. He was thinner and longer, he wasn’t gold anymore, and he had spots in the wrong places.

  “Is he the merchant who was robbed by that Cyclops?” Philippe asked.

  “No,” said Ptuk-Ptik. “He is a different merchant.”

  “OK.” Philippe sat in puzzlement for a moment. “May I ask you kind of an odd question?”

  “Please satisfy your people’s natural curiosity,” said Ptuk-Ptik. “I am accustomed to such questions because of my many conversations with Infant.”

  This will seem normal then, Philippe reassured himself.

  “Can Hosts change color, or glow?”

  “As the Magic Man does? No, we cannot.”

  Philippe bit his lip. I hope this doesn’t sound crazy, he thought.

  “Are you—are you telepathic?”

  Ptuk-Ptik looked at him, puzzled. “I do not think that translated correctly. Do we know thoughts? We know our thoughts.”

  “No, I mean—” How to put this, Philippe wondered.

  Then an idea occurred to him. “You know that we have a lot of fiction among our people about aliens. And often in our fiction, the aliens have mental abilities. And I don’t mean the ability to reason or to build, which of course you have, but very special abilities that my people do not have, such as the ability to know the thoughts in another person’s mind or the ability to put thoughts into another person’s mind. Not by speaking or anything, but just by projecting those thoughts there.”

  Ptuk-Ptik looked surprised. “That is a novel concept. We may discover other people’s thoughts through conversation and observation, and may influence them by our words and actions, but I do not believe that is your meaning.”

  “You are correct,” said Philippe. “I am speaking of a simple action of will, a special power or ability to—we say to read minds, but to know the thoughts of others or to control the thoughts of others directly with the mind.”

  “I cannot think of any person who can do that,” said the Host. “Except—but this is not exactly similar to that of which you speak.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Magic Man, when he is in pieces, and his pieces are in different places, he appears to know what happens to all his pieces. But you are suggesting that one person could know the thoughts of another person, while the Magic Man is all one person.”

  “How does he do that?” asked Philippe.

  “He is very mysterious,” replied Ptuk-Ptik.

  Just then, the merchant began speaking with some irritation to Ptuk-Ptik.

  “I apologize, that was very rude of me,” the Host said to him. “I know this must frustrate you.”

  The three Hosts immediately began speaking energetically, talking over each other, while Ptuk-Ptik occasionally said things like, “It is very unfortunate” and “I am aware that your position is unenviable.”

  Finally the talked died down. “Why are they upset?” asked Philippe.

  “He wants to know why you are upset,” Ptuk-Ptik told the merchant. “I neglected to repeat your comments to them, and since they lack translation gear, they could not understand you.”

  The merchant piped in.

  “He wants me to point out that it is not only that they cannot understand you, they cannot understand any of the aliens, and since they work with the Snake Boys, this is a considerable handicap for them,” said the Host.

  “Why don’t they have translation gear?” asked Philippe.

  “He wants to know why you do not have translation gear,” said Ptuk-Ptik, eliciting yet another flurry of unintelligible and heated comments from the three Hosts before he turned back to Philippe. “There is a shortage of translation gear, and as a result, such gear is limited to the members of priesthoods. These are not priests, although I agree that since they provide necessary provisions to another people, they perform priest-like work.”

  “Well,” said Philippe, “if there’s a shortage, I believe that we have some extra Host translation gear.”

  Ptuk-Ptik looked shocked, and then excited. “If it would not offend you to answer this question: How did you come to posses such gear?”

  “It was a present from your people,” said Philippe. “We were given several, and I think the doctor could probably part with three.”

  The merchant said something to Ptuk-Ptik, who replied, “He is offering you the use of some translation gear his people were given as a gift from the Hosts.”

  The statement seemed to stun the table. All three Hosts were silent, until finally the merchant said something.

  “He offers his great thanks,” Ptuk-Ptik translated. “Such gear would be of extremely high value to him.”

  “I just hope it works,” said Philippe.

  “Can we go try it now?” asked Ptuk-Ptik.

  So Philippe, the four Hosts, and the two soldiers headed back to the human living area. Ptuk-Ptik said that, if the translation gear was operable, he could just put it on the other three Hosts himself, so Philippe left them all outside and went to see George.

  “Am I at least getting an examination out of this?” asked the doctor, as he sealed the gear into a bag with some reluctance.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I got sidetracked,” Phil
ippe said. “I’ll check on that.”

  He carried the gear out into the common area. Ptuk-Ptik looked at the devices and said they should be useable. Philippe broke the seal and Ptuk-Ptik took one of the devices and carefully tucked it into the joint of the merchant’s left forelimb.

  “Does it work?” asked Philippe.

  “Yes, by the sacred song of cannot translate, it does,” said the merchant.

  The cafeteria was transformed.

  There were streamers everywhere, and everyone was wearing colorful paper hats and cheering.

  “What’s going on?” Philippe asked Baby.

  “Don’t you remember? It’s Patch’s birthday!”

  “That’s right,” said Philippe, laughing at his lapse in memory. After all, he was wearing a hat, too, and carrying a paper horn. “Happy birthday, Patch!” he whooped.

  “Philippe! Guy!” exclaimed Patch. “Have a seat! Dinner’s almost ready!”

  Philippe sat—there was a china plate and silver before him. Somebody put down a mug of beer by his plate, then someone else handed him some sausages.

  The sausages were excellent—warm and spicy, they had a slightly tough skin so that they burst into your mouth when you bit into them.

  Philippe took a drink of the beer. It was rich and flavorful, hearty and complex.

  “This is so good,” he said.

  “Look at the cake,” said Bubba, pointing over his shoulder.

  Philippe looked. There was a massive black forest cake, with white glossy frosting and big red cherries heaped on top.

  “Do you want some potatoes?” asked Bubba.

  “Absolutely,” Philippe replied, piling them onto his plate.

  “Uh. Hi, Philippe,” said a voice behind him.

  There was that glowing Host again.

  “Do you see that?” Philippe asked Bubba.

  “See what?” Bubba replied.

  “That glowing Host,” Philippe said.

  “He’s not real,” said Bubba. “Hosts can’t glow. And he’s not the right color. They can’t change color, either.”

  “Philippe, I am real,” said the Host. “I need your help. I need to you talk to me.”

  “Maybe it’s the Magic Man playing a joke,” said Sucre, sitting across the table with a beer in his hand.

  “I’m not the Magic Man. I don’t even know who the Magic Man is,” said the Host.

  “He’s kind of irritable,” said Bubba.

  “That’s because you’re not listening to me!” said the Host. “Half the time, you won’t even let me speak!”

  Philippe stood up. “Let’s talk outside.”

  “I want to talk here.”

  “No, this is a party. I think we should talk outside.”

  “We’re not leaving this room,” said the Host. “Every time we leave a room we wind up—oh, hell.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Philippe, as the room became silent.

  The guards arrived.

  “I can’t move, Philippe,” said the Host. “You’ve got to make it so that I can move.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Philippe. The SFers were gone, all gone, he knew it without even looking around. There was no one to help, no help at all.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  One of the guards picked up a steak knife from the table and plunged it suddenly into the Host’s side. He twisted it as the Host shrieked.

  “Wait,” said another guard, obviously some kind of commander. He had a half-dozen steak knives in his hand. He passed them out to the guards. “Shallow cuts,” he said.

  They smiled and formed a circle around the Host. They began singing a hymn and slicing the Host. They sang about the love of Jesus and made long sinuous cuts on the alien’s sides and back.

  “Please, stop this Philippe,” said the Host. He was covered in a glaze of blood

  “I’m sorry,” said Philippe, shivering with his arms wrapped around himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Stop!” shouted the commander. The guards stopped and backed away from the Host. The commander walked up. He had two bottles in each hand.

  Philippe gasped. They were filled with brandy, four bottles of plum brandy.

  “I’m sorry,” Philippe said, as the commander poured the brandy over the Host’s cuts. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  The shrieking went on for a long time. Finally it stopped.

  “You will burn in hell, unbeliever,” said the commander. His men began to stomp rhythmically on the floor.

  The commander lit a match.

  Someone was pounding on Philippe’s office door, waking him up. God, I need more sleep, he thought, and then shivered. Sleep brought dreams. . . .

  The pounding.

  “Come—” he said, and Baby burst in.

  She looked frantic. “Trang, you’ve gotta do something! They got Ptuk-Ptik!”

  It took a moment to calm her down enough to get the whole story. Philippe had gotten permission from the Hosts to have the doctor examine a volunteer, and Baby had insisted on asking Ptuk-Ptik first.

  “I didn’t see none of him yesterday or the day before, so I thought that maybe he was on one of them retreats,” she said. “But today I ran into that merchant we gave the translator to, and he said Ptuk-Ptik got into trouble because of it. He’s back on their planet, and they’re gonna put him on trial! We gotta help him!”

  “Absolutely,” said Philippe. He pulled a jacket from his closet and slapped the mike. “Entourage. This is Trang. I need to go out right now.”

  “I’m going with you,” said Baby. She had a slightly desperate gleam in her eye.

  “Let me check it out first,” said Philippe, putting on his gloves. He stopped for a moment and grabbed a stimulant patch out of his desk, sticking it to his right forearm. He was going to need the energy. “You stay here for now, and let me see if it’s as bad as it sounds.”

  “Trang! You coming?” It was Ofay at the door. Five-Eighths stood beside him.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out as soon as I find out, OK?” he said, patting Baby’s shoulder.

  He and the soldiers went up to the level where the Hosts lived and started scanning the café area—half the time, whoever you wanted to meet was hanging out there. “I see Max,” Five-Eighths’ voice spoke in Philippe’s ear. “He’s alone.”

  “Entourage, I see him,” said Philippe, as he walked over to where Five-Eighths was standing. “This is probably pretty sensitive, so I’d like you two to hang back. I don’t want him to feel threatened.”

  He slapped off the com mike and tried to look casual as he walked over to Max’s table. “Hello, Max,” he said.

  “Greetings, human diplomat,” said Max. “I am so delighted to see you here.”

  “Are you waiting to meet someone?” asked Philippe.

  “No,” said Max. “I just wanted to be in the common area, where I would more likely be of service to other people.”

  “Well, that’s just perfect,” said Philippe, sitting down on the floor while keeping his hands on the platform. “For I have heard something very disturbing, and I wanted to speak to you about it.”

  “How terrible,” said the Host, looking concerned. “If there is the least thing that I can do to make you less disturbed, I will most assuredly do it.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. You see, I heard that a Host is being punished for being of service to me, and it is greatly distressing to me to think of someone being made to suffer as a result of being a friend to my people.”

  Max looked uncomfortable. “I believe I know of which individual Host you speak, but in order for me to be certain, please tell me more details.”

  “A few days ago,” Philippe said, “I ran into a Host priest who has been very open to us—many of my people consider him a genuine friend. He was with three merchants who were unhappy because they did not have translation gear. They said there was a shortage of such gear, so because of the friendship th
at exists between our people, I offered to give them some of the devices you gave us earlier as gifts. I now hear that this Host has been recalled to your planet and may be punished because of what I did. Naturally, this news grieves me, and I am greatly concerned about his well-being.”

  Max hesitated, obviously thinking hard about what he was going to say.

  “This individual has been recalled to our planet by his priestly order, and they are conducting an inquiry into his actions,” he said. “Your friend’s well-being would not be compromised, however. Even if such an inquiry were to find that his actions were not appropriate, the worst that would happen to him is that he would not be allowed to return to this station.”

  “But why not?” asked Philippe. “Why did our friend’s actions trigger an inquiry at all?”

  “It is complicated, but I will try to explain it,” Max said. “There is a limited quantity of translation gear available, and as a result it is reserved for priests—that is true. But the shortage is not accidental, and the priest involved in this incident knew that. It is not typical for a merchant to have translation gear because merchants do not undergo the training priests undergo. As a result of this training a priest will understand the limitations of the translation technology and will be accepting of the mysterious behavior of other people. A merchant who has not had such training cannot be expected to behave in a manner toward other people that will benefit our divine mission.

  “Some merchants are accepting of this logic, but some are not. The merchant involved in this incident is not—he believes that it would benefit his business to have the translation gear. His business is not our mission, so he has been frustrated.”

  “So Ptuk-Ptik is in trouble because he helped out a merchant?” asked Philippe.

  Max looked puzzled. “I apologize,” he said. “That did not all translate correctly.”

  “Our friend,” said Philippe, realizing that the name would not have translated. “Our friend the Host priest is in trouble because he helped a merchant.”

  “There is not trouble at this point; there is an inquiry,” said Max. “This individual is a priest in an order that has taken the position that Hosts who are not priests should be given the opportunity to interact with other people. As a result, the issue is not that he helped someone who happens not to be a priest.”

  Max paused. He doesn’t think I’m going to like this, Philippe realized.

  “The issue,” the Host continued, “is that he performed an action of significant service to this particular merchant. The merchant who along with his son and nephew received the translators is part of a very wealthy family. His wife and four brothers-in-law run a very successful business that manufactures foodstuffs.”

  “Just to clarify, because this has been confusing me,” Philippe interrupted. “When you say, brothers-in-law, what does that mean?”

  “Brothers in a legal sense rather than a biological sense,” said Max.

  That didn’t help.

  “You and Moritz are brothers-in-law,” observed Philippe.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you become brothers-in-law?”

  “We married the same woman,” said Max.

  “I understand,” said Philippe. It’s different, but I understand.

  “This merchant,” Max continued, “is married to a woman who is a very successful business owner. As a result, he is sufficiently influential that his family received the duty to provide the Snake Boys with provisions, which is a duty that contains an extremely high status. It is obvious that he is very successful, for his nephew works and lives with his uncle’s family and not his mother’s family, which is very unusual among our people.

  “The priest who obtained the translation devices for this merchant, his son, and his nephew is also married, and his wife is a maker of policy. She has many ties with the merchant’s family. The concern of this priest’s order is that there is a possibility that this priest arranged for this incident to take place in the hopes that it would benefit his wife.”

  “So, um, I just want to make sure I understand this correctly,” said Philippe. “You’re saying that the merchant is married to a businesswoman.”

  “Yes.”

  “And our friend the priest is married to a politician.”

  “To a maker of policy, yes,” said Max.

  “To a maker of policy,” said Philippe, wondering briefly what the difference was. “So the concern is that the priest did a favor for the merchant in hopes that the merchant’s wife would somehow repay the favor to his wife.”

  “Which would be a betrayal of his sacred responsibilities,” said Max.

  “A conflict of interests—one hand washes the other,” said Philippe to himself. There was certainly a lot more going on here than he had suspected.

  Max started. “What did you say?”

  Philippe was pulled out of his reverie. “Um, it’s an expression on my planet, one hand washes the other. It means an illicit exchange of favors,” he said, miming hand-washing.

  Max was looking at him like this was the most brilliant piece of wit he had ever heard, but Philippe did not want the conversation to get sidetracked into a discussion of human clichés. He dropped his hands, almost touching them to the floor before he realized what he was doing and stopped himself.

  “That’s what the expression means. But that’s not what happened here,” Philippe said. “This friend of ours never asked me to provide translation gear to the merchant and his family.”

  “He may not have asked you explicitly,” said Max. “But his order is disturbed that you were attempting to hold a conversation with a merchant who badly wanted translators and whose family is in a position to benefit the priest’s family.”

  “Our friend the priest did not introduce me to the merchant,” said Philippe. “I initiated that conversation on my own.”

  Max looked surprised and a little skeptical

  “You initiated a conversation with people who you could not understand and who could not understand you, without any direction from anyone else,” he said. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “It’s true—I’m not just saying this to protect my friend,” said Philippe. “My reason for doing it is actually pretty silly. I had a dream about a Host who looked like that merchant, so I when I saw him, I wanted to speak to him.”

  Max looked shocked. “Cannot translate,” he said, then collected himself. “I apologize for that remark, but I am utterly amazed. You had a vision?”

  “I had a dream,” said Philippe. “Everybody dreams.”

  The stunned expression on Max’s face indicated otherwise. “Your people, you all have visions when you sleep. Cannot translate. You see the future?”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” said Philippe. “No. They’re not visions or prophecies. They’re dreams. We see stuff when we’re asleep, but it doesn’t mean anything. They aren’t visions of the future or anything like that.”

  “But when you sleep,” said Max, “you see things.”

  “And you don’t, apparently,” said Philippe. “But among humans, dreaming is a normal part of life.”

  “This is mysterious,” Max said. “When you sleep, you see things that are not what is there.”

  “Yeah, that’s a pretty good description of it,” said Philippe. “For example, I had a dream that we were having a party in our living quarters, and a Host was there. That doesn’t mean that we will have a party or have had a party or are having a party—it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a dream. Everyone has them on my planet—I think even animals have them. You can’t see the future in a dream or anything like that. They’re usually about things that are worrying you or things that you wish were true. It’s how the brain takes out the garbage.”

  “But you had a dream where you saw a Host, and then you met that Host,” said Max. “Is that not a vision of the future?”

  “Not really,” said Philippe. He thought for a moment about how best to explain it. “The m
erchant just sort of reminded me of the Host I saw in my dream—he didn’t really look like him. The Host in my dream looked quite different from any Host I’ve seen here, actually. He glowed, you know, which is pretty funny, and he wasn’t the same color as you guys, he was more yellow.”

  Max looked, if possible, even more dumbfounded.

  “Come with me,” he suddenly said, taking off toward his living area.

  Philippe trotted after him. The Hosts could really move when they wanted to, and he and Max had already reached the doorway of the Hosts’ living quarters when Five-Eighths caught up with them. The soldier and Philippe jogged along for a little bit after Max until he reached a door. The Host turned around and noticed Five-Eighths.

  “This is a very delicate matter,” he said. “I would prefer if the human diplomat came alone.”

  Five-Eighths looked quizzically at Philippe, who shrugged.

  “I apologize, but I must insist that the security expert not enter this room,” said Max. “I swear by the sacred song of cannot translate that I intend no harm to the human diplomat.”

  “One minute,” Five-Eighths said to Max. He pulled Philippe back down the hall, away from the Host. He hit his own translation mike and Philippe’s, turning them off, and began scratching his chest where his suit’s camera was—something the SFers did when they didn’t want their surveillance equipment to record very well.

  “What should we do?” asked Philippe, in a whisper.

  “We can do this,” Five-Eighths whispered back. “Here.”

  He slipped something heavy out of one of his own pockets into Philippe’s jacket pocket.

  “What is it?” asked Philippe.

  “It’s a knife.” Five-Eighths was fiddling with his communications mike.

  Philippe’s eyes flew open. “I can’t knife anybody!”

  “Relax,” said Five-Eighths, finishing with his mike. “I’m in monitor mode. Anything goes wrong, you take that knife, and you stab yourself.”

  “What?” asked Philippe, incredulous but still whispering.

  “You stick yourself, or cut yourself, whatever. The lonjons will protect you, and it will set off their alarm.” Five-Eighths looked out toward the common area. “I’ll get Ofay in here. If your alarm goes off, we’ll bust in and blow the shit out of these motherfuckers. All right?”

  Philippe stared at him for a moment. It was, of course, totally against the rules for a member of the DiploCorps to carry a weapon of any kind. On the other hand, Five-Eighths was certainly bending a few rules to accommodate Philippe. . . .

  “OK,” he said, turning toward Max. He turned back to Five-Eighths. “Maybe it would be best if we didn’t let Shanti know we did this.”

  “No shit,” said Five-Eighths, slapping his com mike. “Ofay, get your ass in here.”

  Philippe turned his translation mike back on and walked over to Max. “My security experts have agreed to remain outside the door,” he said.

  “I very much appreciate their cooperation,” said Max.

  He slid open the door, and they went in, with Max closing the door behind them. Philippe realized with a start that the room was an office, much like his own. Moritz was working at a platform that bore a strong resemblance to Philippe’s desk, and there was another platform, which Philippe thought was probably Max’s desk.

  “Greetings, human diplomat and Max,” said Moritz. “This is most unexpected. Of course it is a pleasure always to see you, human diplomat, regardless of the time or the lack of warning.”

  Max ignored him, and walked across the room to a panel on the wall. It was made of a different, lighter material than the rest of the wall, and Max purposefully pushed on one side of the panel.

  “Max, what is the purpose of this action? You are not supposed to do that,” said Moritz, clearly upset.

  The panel turned on a pivot to reveal a portrait. It was of a familiar-looking Host, who was a particular golden color. He had a glow about him.

  “That’s him!” said Philippe. “That’s the guy!”

  “What did he say?” asked Moritz.

  “What you heard. He said, ‘It is him. It is that person,’” said Max. He turned to Philippe. “You recognize him.”

  Philippe was examining the image. At first he thought it was a video still, but looking closely at it, it looked more like an extremely detailed, very life-like painting. The glow came from some luminescent quality in the paint—or, Philippe thought, maybe it was painted on glass and there was a light behind it.

  However it was made, the likeness was excellent, and the face was quite familiar.

  “Yes, I do know him, how funny,” said Philippe. “It’s not just the glow—that’s exactly the Host I saw in my dream! The markings are the same and everything. It’s him, for certain! Who is that?”

  He looked at Moritz, who was utterly flabbergasted. Max, in contrast, looked very grave.

  “That is our messiah,” he said.