Chapter 17: Diplomacy

“This is it,” Jules said, “are you ready?”

Zuki was walking beside him as they made their way along the torus, clad in her sharp suit, her camouflaged cloak draped across her shoulders. She was wearing her sunglasses, as it was morning, and the sunlamps were lit. They were making their way to the nearest spoke that would take them to the central hub of the station, where the council would soon be in session.

“I’m ready,” she replied, holding her head up confidently as they strode through the bustling crowds of people. Jules didn’t doubt her, she knew everything that there was to know about the different council members, and she had a game plan. “How do I look?” she asked.

“Professional,” he replied with a grin. “How do I smell?”

“Not of me,” she said, returning his smile. “You smell like a perfectly normal human, albeit with a rather strong cologne.”

“I’ll have you know that my cologne smells perfectly fine to humans, it’s not designed for Borealan noses.”

The curve of the station’s torus allowed Jules to see some distance above the throngs of pedestrians, and he spied their destination a short walk upspin. Two guards in black UNN body armor were standing to either side of a large pressure door, their rifles slung across their chests.

“We’re coming up on the spoke now,” Jules said, glancing up at Zuki. “This is the entrance to one of the walkways that connects the station’s torus to the central hub. It’s a high-security zone where VIPs and critical station systems are housed. Think of it as the heart and brain of the Pinwheel. Nobody gets in without sufficient clearance.”

“Do I need to do anything?” she asked, her tail flicking nervously.

“When we walk up to the guards at the door, they’re going to ask to see my ID card. I have access to the hub for today because of the meeting, and you’re my plus one. They might ask you some questions, and they’ll probably pat you down and search you for weapons or contraband. You didn’t bring any knives or anything like that, right?”

“No, I did as you asked,” she replied.

“Good, good. Now, when we get through that big door, things are going to get a little weird. The torus, the ring-shaped section of the station, generates its gravity through inertia because it’s just too large for an artificial gravity field. Have you ever filled a bucket with water and spun it around?”

“Yes,” she replied with a nod.

“The reason the water stays in the bucket is because of inertia. That same force is sticking us to the floor of the station right now. We’re walking on the inside of the spinning bucket, so to speak. The thing is, the hub is directly above the torus relative to us,” he added as he pointed at the painted sky. “The hub generates its gravity like the ships do, with an AG field. What that all means is that we’re going to be transitioning from inertial gravity to an AG field, and we’re going to be walking up a ninety-degree bend so that we’re level with the hub.”

“I ... don’t really understand,” she replied hesitantly, “what will I have to do?”

“Maybe I’m making it sound more complicated than it really is, but it throws a lot of people off. Just stay close to me and walk straight. Whatever your body tells you is happening, that you’re going to fall or that you’re off-balance, just ignore it and keep your eyes ahead.”

“I’ll do as you say,” she replied.

“Oh, and let me do the talking, at least until we’re in the meeting room.”

They reached the heavy pressure door, black and yellow warning stripes painted around its frame. It was large enough to let a Krell or perhaps a cart loaded with supplies pass through unhindered. In the event of an emergency, it would seal, either to prevent the atmosphere from escaping or to prevent boarders from accessing the hub. The two guards standing to either side of it turned to greet them, one stepping forward while the other hung back and kept his hands near the XMR that was slung across his chest plate.

“Please state your business,” the first guard said, his face hidden behind an opaque visor.

“My name is Jules Lambert,” he replied, “I’m a diplomat on my way to a Security Council meeting. We have an appointment in room thirty-six at nine this morning. This is Zuki, my charge. She’s here to represent her people during the proceedings.”

The Marine tapped at the holographic display on his wrist guard for a moment, seeming satisfied, then he asked Jules for his ID card. Jules handed it to him, and he scanned it, waiting a moment for the computer to confirm his identity.

“Very well, Mister Lambert, you’re cleared to proceed. As for your friend, we’re going to need to pat her down before we can let her through. It’s protocol.”

“Of course,” Jules said, gesturing to Zuki. “Don’t be afraid, he’s just going to check your clothes for concealed weapons or monitoring devices.”

The Marine walked up to Zuki and retrieved a handheld scanner that was hanging from a loop on his belt. He ran it over her briefly, and it beeped, Jules surmising that it was some kind of metal detector.

“Not picking up any bugs or implants,” he muttered. “Please hold your arms out, Ma’am, I’m going to need to pat you down.”

He seemed hesitant. If he was a Marine, then he was probably familiar with Borealans, and he might be expecting Zuki to cleave his head off if he accidentally copped a feel. She held her arms out in a T-pose obediently as he reached up to feel around her torso, his search ending rather quickly.

“What the ... can you empty your pockets for me, Ma’am?”

Zuki obliged, opening the buttons on her jacket and showing the Marine the contents. Inside the inner lining were the pockets that she had requested the tailor sew into her suit, and she began to open them one by one. Jules couldn’t see the man’s expression through his helmet, but he liked to think that his eyebrows were raised. The Araxie handed the items to him one after the other, and he began to lay them out in a plastic tray that was sitting on a table beside the door. A length of rope, a roll of cotton bandages, a vial of salt. There was a packet from one of the Borealan MREs that she must have swiped at some point, probably back on the Courser, along with a flameless ration heater. She had her firestarter, a packet of salted chips, her alien coins, and her ‘I heart Pinwheel’ keyring.

“Can ... can she have a rope?” the Marine called to his buddy, who shrugged his armored shoulders and checked his wrist display for a few moments.

“It’s not on the list of contraband. I don’t see what she could do with it.”

“What’s this thing?” the first guard asked, turning her firestarter over in his gloved hand.

“That’s for starting fires,” she explained, “you strike the two pieces together to create a spark.”

“I think I’ll hang onto this for now,” the Marine said as he fished in his pocket for a ziplock bag and dropped the firestarter inside it. He then sealed it shut and placed it back in the tray. “Starting fires on a space station isn’t a good idea. You can come collect that on your way back out, alright?”

Zuki looked to Jules for confirmation, and he nodded.

“Don’t worry, Zuki, they’ll give it back to you when we’re done.”

“And what’s this?” the guard asked, brandishing the corked vial of salt. “What’s this white powder?”

“Just salt,” she replied.

“Hey, Biggs?” he said as he turned to his companion again. “Bring me the food scanner over, would ya?”

His friend passed him another handheld device, and Jules recognized it as the same one that Simmons and his Marines had used to test the Araxie food back on Borealis. The first guard held the vial under the scanner, the second taking a few steps back and standing with his hand resting on his rifle again, ever vigilant.

“Yeah, it just says sodium,” the first guard conceded, beginning to hand the items back to Zuki. “Alright, you two are cleared to go through. Mind your step.”

The two guards moved to either side of the pressure door and scanned their key cards on a pair of readers, both being required to open the way. There was a hydraulic hiss as the two interlocking halves of the door slid open, a red warning light flashing. On the other side was a wide hallway, the same white color as the station’s hull material, save for the carpeted floor that curved up and out of view. Zuki followed him through the doorway, and then it closed behind them, sealing them on the other side.

From where they were standing, it seemed as though they were facing a sheer wall, Jules’ stomach turning as he looked above him to see the hallway extending into the sky. Zuki seemed nervous now. It was one thing to have it explained to you, but quite another to see it in person. Gravity was an invisible force, after all, and the brains of terrestrial species were not adapted to such strange and unnatural geometry. It looked like something about of a damned M.C Escher painting.

“Here we go,” Jules muttered, “just keep walking. Try not to think about it.”

Taking his own advice, he kept his eyes firmly on the ground, walking up the gentle curve. There was a moment where the gravity shifted, his inner ear going haywire, insisting that he was about to fall. But he powered through it until he found himself on level ground once again. Relieved, he turned to look back, Zuki standing at a ninety-degree angle relative to him. She looked like she was sticking to a wall.

“See?” he said, spreading his arms to show that it was no big deal. “Everything’s fine, you can do it. Come towards me.”

Zuki didn’t think that it was so trivial, her ears flattening against her head in apprehension. She inched forwards, her tail held out straight for balance, crouching lower and lower as she walked up the steep incline. By the time she reached the halfway point, she was practically crawling on all fours, lurching as she passed the section where the gravity shifted. She sank her claws into the navy blue carpet for fear of falling, freezing up.

“Come on, Zuki. You can do it!” Jules said in an attempt to encourage her. Her ears slowly rose to point at him, Jules waving her forwards. “Come to me, there’s nothing to be afraid of. You climbed all the way up that tree back on Borealis, right? If you can do that, you can do this.”

She nodded, rising to her feet unsteadily, keeping her arms and tail outstretched like she was walking a tightrope as she cleared the last few feet. He took her by the hand as she cleared the incline, the alien turning to look behind her nervously.

“Nice job,” he said, patting her arm reassuringly. “The hard part is over, the rest of the hub is level ground.”

“Of all the things I’ve seen here, that was ... the strangest,” she breathed with palpable relief.

“Let’s keep up the pace,” Jules said as he guided her down the hallway, “we have a meeting to get to.”

The hallway was long, but not completely featureless. Every so often, there was a window spaced out along the walls, a view of the station’s torus and the starfield beyond visible through the thick glass. The way that the stars crawled past created the illusion that the station was standing still, and the universe was turning around it, the system’s star casting the outer hull in harsh light and deep shadow. With no atmospheric haze or points of reference, it was hard to gauge the actual size of the station, the donut-shaped habitat curving up and out of view. Zuki paused by one of the windows, admiring the vista, tracing the shapes of the frost crystals that clung to the outside of the glass with her claw.

“The people back home ... they wouldn’t believe me if I told them,” she sighed, watching the dusty planet that the station orbited rise from below the horizon. “How would I explain any of this to them? Some of them still believe that the stars are holes in a giant blanket, punctured by magic arrows, but I’ve visited them.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Jules said, sidling up beside her and admiring the craggy surface of the world as it ballooned to fill their field of view. “That’s what video recordings are for, right? In fact...” He rummaged in his pocket for the tablet computer, navigating the touch menu as Zuki turned her head to watch him curiously. He activated the front-facing camera, a video of them appearing on the screen. Zuki’s ears flicked as she watched herself on the feed.

“Hello, people of Araxie. I’m standing here with your first ambassador, Zuki. We’re currently on our way to a very important council meeting between several different alien species, and we thought we’d stop to catch the planetrise. Behind us, you can see the hull of Fort Hamilton, the orbital station where she’s been living for the last few days. Say hi to the folks back home, Zuki.”

She waved her hand sheepishly, and he angled the tablet so that the camera could get a good view of her suit. After a moment, he shut the recording off, stowing the device in his pocket.

“There you go. If anyone doesn’t believe you, show them that video.”

“I ... can take the tablet home with me when I go back?” she asked.

“Sure, I can pick up another one for like eighty creds. Now come on, it’s polite to arrive a little early.”

After walking for another couple of minutes, they arrived at the far end of the walkway. There was another pressure door, identical to the first save for the fact that it wasn’t guarded. It opened on its own, operated remotely. There must be a camera mounted somewhere nearby. They stepped through into the hub itself. It was more cramped and less lavishly decorated than the torus, somewhere between an office space and the interior of a spaceship. There were numbered doors along the branching pathways, reminding Jules of a row of cubicles. The ceiling was just high enough that Zuki could stand, and the corridors just wide enough that an average-sized Krell might be able to slip by. The walls were whitewashed, and the carpet was the same Navy blue as the one in the spoke. The only real decoration here were a few potted plants spaced out at intervals to add a little greenery to their otherwise spartan and functional surroundings.

“I was expecting something more ... impressive,” Zuki mumbled.

“The torus is designed to simulate a planet,” Jules explained, “but the hub is just where the station personnel work. Some of the rooms are more lavishly furnished on the inside, though, you’ll see.” He brought up his tablet and tapped at the screen for a moment. “Our appointment is in room thirty-six. Down this hallway to the left.”

As they made their way down the corridor, the only other people that they encountered were engineers in their yellow overalls, or clerks scurrying between the different departments with tablet computers or boxes of data storage drives clutched in their arms.

“All of the comms equipment and station computer systems are housed here,” Jules explained, “those big radar dishes on the outside of the hull are hooked up to the mainframe in the hub. There’s all kinds of other shit here, too. I’m not a Navy guy, so I couldn’t tell you what kind of gear they need to coordinate all the spaceships that come through here, but this place is basically the headquarters of the Coalition. All of the intelligence gathered around the Galaxy ends up here.”

“And your leaders live here?” Zuki asked. She was glancing around nervously, she looked lost. It was hard to get your bearings in the hub, everything looked the same, you had to keep track of the door numbers if you didn’t want to get turned around in the maze.

“VIPs stay here, yeah. High-security personnel and the like. There’s always at least one Admiral on the station, and they’re usually here. I’ve never seen the Admiral’s quarters, but I’m sure they’re the size of a damned condo. The hub is a lot bigger than it looks, and there are multiple levels to it.”

A Marine in black armor rounded a corner and made his way towards them, stopping Jules and asking to see his ID card. Jules passed it to him, and the guard ran it over his wrist computer, then waved them on. Security was tighter than usual, it must be on account of the council meeting.

They finally reached the correct door, and Jules paused outside, reaching up to straighten Zuki’s collar.

“Here we go,” he said, “moment of truth.”

He scanned his ID card in the reader by the door, and it opened with a whoosh, the panel sliding out of the way. Jules and Zuki stepped through into an expansive conference room, illuminated by light panels that were embedded in the ceiling, carpeted once again in UNN blue. This room was a little more tastefully decorated, with faux wood panels breaking up the white of the walls. It was all very upscale. Taking up most of the right wall was a large monitor, currently turned off, and there were the expected decorative plants occupying the corners of the room. There was a single wooden table towards the back, and there were four leather chairs placed behind it. They were oddly shaped and sized. Two of them were clearly for Borealans, a third was human-sized, and the fourth was more of a stool with no backrest. That one must be for the Krell councilman, and there was a space at the end that had no seating arrangements at all.

Nearer the entrance was a smaller table with seating for a human and a Borealan, more of a desk, really.

There was one man already milling about by the table, scrolling through something on a tablet computer with a gloved hand. It was an Admiral, his crisp uniform the same pristine white as the station’s hull, his breast adorned with colored ribbons and UNN insignias. He was wearing a matching hat with the organization’s logo emblazoned in gold above the rim, a globe contained within a wreath. He turned his weather-beaten face towards the new arrivals, setting his tablet down on the table.

“You must be Mister Lambert,” he said, walking over and extending a hand. Jules shook it, noting the quality of the glove’s fabric. He was an older man, maybe late fifties, and his Australian accent complimented his tanned complexion well. “I’m Admiral Murray, and I’ll be sitting in for the UNN during today’s meeting.” The Admiral then turned to Zuki, looking her up and down, his bushy eyebrows raised as he examined her suit. “And this must be the Araxie representative. I have to say, it’s a better first impression than we’ve had from the other territories.”

“This is Zuki of the Araxie,” Jules said as he introduced the two. “She’s traveled all the way from Borealis to plead her people’s case before the council.”

Murray offered her his hand, too, her furry fingers encompassing it entirely.

“I’d welcome you to the Coalition,” he said, “but that’s what we’re here to decide. You two are a little early, the other council members should be arriving any minute now. Feel free to take a seat while you wait.”

The Admiral returned to the table and sat down in his leather chair, picking up his tablet and resuming his work. Jules and Zuki sat down at the desk, but they didn’t have to wait long before the other council members began to arrive.

There was a whoosh as the door slid open, and through it stepped a Borealan who’s regal outfit immediately gave him away as an Elysian. It was Torza Elysiedde, the nephew of the Patriarch. He was tall for a Borealan, eight feet and change, with broad shoulders and rust-colored fur that was patterned with faded tiger stripes. He was wearing what looked like a cross between a suit of armor and an outfit made from light, billowy fabric, extensively decorated with vibrant patterns and colors. He wore a tunic made from flowing red material that was secured about his waist with a leather belt, a golden buckle standing out against the tanned hide, along with a pair of knee-length shorts in the same style. Sewn into the fabric of his tunic was a scene like a tapestry, figures of hunters wielding long rifles woven from golden threads, warring with one another and chasing down alien animals. The depictions were crude, and the perspective was odd, almost medieval in style. Still, it did little to detract from the overall presentation.

Upon his shoulders, he wore two large pauldrons. The shining metal was colored red with gold trim, Jules recognizing it as a component of an Elysian Royal Guard’s armor. They were strapped to him with more leather belts that formed an X pattern across his barrel chest, golden studs and badges that might be the Elysian equivalent of medals adorning them. There was gold on his fingers too, ornate thimbles that covered his claws, attached to rings on his thick fingers via delicate chains. The most eye-catching component of his outfit was the cape that trailed from his shoulders to the ground, however. The fur shifted hue beneath the light as he moved, sparkling and iridescent. It was rainbow spider pelt, the same as Yuta had worn.

Torza swaggered into the room, Jules finding himself intimidated by the alien’s sheer mass, stopping beside their desk to examine Zuki.

“So it is true what they have been saying,” he began, his booming voice coarse and gravelly. “I had to see it with my own eyes to believe the rumors. The Araxie are proven to be flesh and blood, not vengeful phantoms lurking in the branches of trees.” Torza’s pink, feline nose twitched, he seemed to be sniffing her as he looked her over. “You are smaller than I would have imagined, and furred like a kitten.”

“You are Torza Elysiedde,” Zuki replied, glancing up at him meekly. “I recognize the armor of a Royal Guard.”

“You know of me?” he asked, cocking his head curiously much as Zuki did when she was confused.

“Your reputation precedes you,” she replied with a deferent bow of her head. She was remembering what she had learned about Equatorials and their social interactions, making herself as inoffensive as possible. “You are an accomplished soldier and a trusted guard of your uncle, the Patriarch.”

“And what might your name be?” he asked, clearly pleased by her words. “I fear that you have me at a disadvantage.”

He was certainly eloquent, Jules would give him that. His uncle hadn’t appointed him to the role of councilman without good reason, but he seemed just as proud as any other Elysian.

“My name is Zuki. I was chosen by my Patriarch to speak on behalf of my people.”

“You are well informed to hail from such a reclusive territory, Zuki.”

“Word of Elysian fighting prowess has carried even to my village,” she explained, “and I see that the humans favor your soldiers also. They are everywhere on this station.”

Torza puffed out his chest proudly. Zuki’s flattery was insincere, she was buttering the Elysian up as they had discussed. But if there was one thing that Elysians responded well to, it was a little ego stroking.

“The Elysians know of your people too, Araxie, if only as myths and superstitions. I would be interested to know which of the stories about your territory are true, and which are exaggerations. Perhaps this meeting will shed some light on that.”

With that, Torza greeted Jules briefly, who was admittedly far more mundane than the exotic Araxie. He then proceeded over to his seat at the table, where he began to chat with Murray. Jules couldn’t tell if they were already acquainted, the Admirals were cycled in and out of the Security Council based on simple availability, after all.

When the door opened again, a long, reptilian snout emerged from the corridor beyond. It was the Krell councilman, and Jules found himself wondering how the beast could even fit in the hallway. He had to duck through the eight-foot-tall door frame despite his hunched posture, he was a hair taller than Torza and even broader. Krell never stopped growing. The longer they lived, the larger they got, and the darker their complexion became. This individual was sheathed in a layer of hard, thick scutes and overlapping scales like medieval armor, a dark green in color that faded to a lighter beige on his leathery underbelly. His long, oar-like tail dragged along the carpet behind him, his many-toed feet slapping on the floor with each lumbering step.

Unlike the other Krell that Jules had seen around the station, he was more elaborately dressed. He wore the traditional poncho that was draped across his massive shoulders, more for the utility of its pockets and pouches than for modesty, as the Krell had internal genitalia. It was made of brown leather that was sparsely decorated with geometric patterns, but beneath it, the creature’s hide was covered in some kind of paint or dye. There were multicolored handprints and alien sigils staining the smoother scales of his underside that looked as if they had been drawn there by other Krell, almost like tattoos. He looked like he had just returned from a color run.

Around his neck, he wore a burdensome number of crude necklaces that were made from rope. They were decorated with seashells, colorful beads, and carved pieces of wood. They looked heavy, but then again, the Krell was massively strong. Jules couldn’t help but notice that he was also wearing a wristguard with a built-in screen, much like those that the Marines wore as part of their armor. It wasn’t of Krell origin, and it looked quite out of place.

The Krell opened his toothy maw and emitted a series of resonating calls that shook Jules to the bone. It was like standing next to a trombone, the subsonic frequencies making his teeth chatter, Zuki flattening her ears against her head in alarm. After a brief delay, a halting, synthesized voice came from a speaker on the wrist computer, translating the alien speech.

“Greetings, friends. I came to the parliament for deliberation. The Elders pay tribute.”

The other occupants of the room returned his greeting, and more low, resonant tones were emitted by the translator. Seeming satisfied, he lumbered up to his stool, taking a seat behind the table. It must have been made from the same stuff they used to build Martian battleships if it could support his weight without buckling.

“That is ... a large Krell,” Zuki whispered. “I wonder how big they can grow?”

“About sixty feet, I heard,” he whispered back to her. “That’s nearly as long as your village’s great hall.”

The conference room was filling up, there were only two vacant seats now. Jules set his tablet on the desk and began to review his report, whispering to Zuki and pointing out some of the details to her. Everyone in the room was occupied with their own work, perhaps going over what intelligence each respective faction had been able to gather leading up to the meeting.

A few minutes later, Zuki’s ears swiveled towards the door, her head following shortly after as she listened to something that Jules couldn’t hear.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Some kind of banging sound,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the entrance. It wasn’t long before Jules started to hear it too. It sounded like someone was hitting a hammer against the deck. It got closer and closer, approaching the door, Jules watching the fur on Zuki’s tail puff up in alarm. She must know that there was nothing to be afraid of, but she couldn’t shrug off a lifetime of jungle instinct in only a few days.

The door opened once again, revealing what looked like a squat refrigerator standing on a pair of skeletal legs. The boxy chassis had rounded corners, white in color, featureless save for a dozen lenses and cameras that protruded from the forward face. The sensory equipment zoomed and focused, pointing independently at each occupant of the room. Protruding from the sides of the cube were four segmented arms made from shining, chrome metal, flexible like tentacles. Each one was tipped with some kind of grasping claw or attachment, the limbs retracting into the body as it passed through the doorway, then extending again to hang frozen in the air in unnatural positions. The door almost seemed made to accommodate it, clearing its metallic body by an inch on all sides. The chassis was propped up on a pair of robotic legs with backwards-facing knees, like a giant chicken, silvery pistons and exposed machinery visible in the spaces between the protective covering. The feet were cup-shaped, with no toes or any real detail to speak of.

Few had ever seen a picture or a video recording of a Broker, and fewer still had seen one in person. Calling them elusive was an understatement, they almost never made public appearances unless they were attending a very important official function, and their ships were rarely seen in UNN space. They had their own small empire that occupied several worlds on the fringes of Coalition territory, and nobody knew which one they had originated from.

“What is that?” Zuki asked in awe, watching as the construct marched into the room. It didn’t greet anybody, it simply walked up to its place at the table and locked its mechanical legs in place.

“That’s a Broker,” Jules replied, “at least I think so. Nobody knows if they’re robots, drones being controlled remotely, or if there’s an alien using that thing as a suit.”

“Is it made of metal?” she wondered, “it doesn’t smell of anything. Just hot metal and ... salt.”

“Salt?” Jules repeated.

“It smells like salt water,” she clarified.

“Strange...”

The Broker kept moving its litany of cameras. Some of them were on a kind of ball joint that allowed them to swivel in different directions, others extending like a telescope to get a closer look at objects of interest. Jules felt one of the robotic eyes scrutinizing him, a red-tinted lens reflecting the light, and he turned his attention back to his tablet uncomfortably. A robot didn’t have body language, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it resented being here.