Chapter 3: Wine and Dine

The negotiations dragged late into the morning, Jules and Bozka sitting around one of the carved tables in his dwelling while Yuta and the Marines milled about outside. It wasn’t that they were prohibited from sitting in on the discussion, but the recent events and their strange new environs were of far greater interest than drawn-out political discussions. Not only was going through the conventions and ensuring that the Patriarch understood them all a difficult and time-consuming task in itself, but many of the concepts were entirely alien to him, requiring a more in-depth explanation than usual.

Defense spending must be five percent of the territory’s GDP, which due to both conceptual and language barriers, he had to explain was the total sum of the territory’s economic output. The Araxie supplying troops to the Coalition was simple enough, as was the pledge to tolerate diversity and inter-species cooperation. Based on Bozka’s outrage at the Rask raids, it was obvious that he understood what it meant to respect sovereignty. They went over the minutia of the charter for hours, everything from prohibited weaponry to sapient rights, until the sunlight finally began to peek over the jungle canopy.

“If everything is clear and you agree to the terms as laid out, the next step is the evaluation,” Jules said as he resisted the urge to rub his eyes. He had been staring at the glow of his tablet’s screen for so long that it left afterimages when he looked away. “I will require unrestricted access to your territory. I’ll need to interview people and make an estimate of your economic output, inspect your armed forces to determine if and how they might be incorporated into our own, and I’ll need to determine whether you can meet the stated requirements.”

“Your laws seem just as you have explained them to me,” Bozka replied. “I see a great reverence for life, which is something that your people and mine both share. But I worry that these laws are merely talk, that your Coalition states one thing, yet does another. The Rask too agreed to these same terms, did they not?”

“I can assure you that these laws are ironclad,” Jules insisted. “Anyone found violating them would face criminal charges, and any government found to be routinely infringing on these conventions would be expelled from the Coalition. We take it very seriously, but you have to understand the scale of the territory that we police. We have tens of billions of citizens spread out across dozens of planets, they live light-years apart, piracy and crime are a problem even in our own sphere of influence. We don’t promise a Galaxy free of injustice, but what we can promise is that all Coalition members will work towards rectifying injustice wherever they find it. We are stronger together, and if the Araxie face threats more dire than even the Rask, we will be required by law to protect you. Our Marines and our carriers will be at your disposal.”

“I do not fully understand much of this technology,” Bozka said as he drummed his claws on the wooden surface of the table. “These carriers, they are vehicles that can transport armies between the planets? So, if Araxie was threatened by an enemy, they would come to our aid?”

“That’s correct,” Jules said with a nod, “but it’s not just about protection. You’d be gaining access to an economy that spans known space. You could trade in technology and weapons, products, and materials that can help elevate the Araxie and make you the equals of the Elysians and the Rask. Medicines that cure diseases and make you live longer lives, amenities, and conveniences. There’s so much potential.”

“I fear for our way of life,” the Patriarch continued, “too much change happening too quickly could erase our culture. Yet I do not have a choice. If I do not ensure that the Araxie are brought into the fold, we will not be able to defend ourselves. Our territory will eventually be conquered or absorbed by another, be it the Rask or the Elysians or someone else. We need weapons and technology that only the Coalition can provide, all in service of countering a threat that your people had a hand in creating...”

“We’re going to be looking into this problem with the Rask regardless of whether you join or not,” Jules explained, “I can assure you that they will be dealt with accordingly if it’s discovered that they’re engaging in criminal activity. But if you want my opinion, I think you should talk to Yuta. She’s Elysian, the Rangers live in the jungles of their territory much as you do, perhaps she can give you some more insight into how joining the Coalition changed her society. If you won’t take my word that our intentions are good, then perhaps she can convince you. Do you have any other questions?”

“This process is ... complicated,” the Patriarch grumbled. He was probably used to alliances being formed and broken based on the whims of all-powerful leaders, but the Coalition did not function that way. There were councils, votes, hearings. Jules couldn’t even guarantee that the Araxie would be accepted when everything was wrapped up, he could only put forward a proposal, and the Security Council would then vote on it. It could be months yet before they had a definitive yes or no answer.

The Patriarch unfastened a small canteen from his belt and popped the cork, taking a quick draw before gritting his teeth and hissing. Whatever it was, it didn’t go down easy. Bozka offered the canteen to Jules, but he refused, returning his eyes to his tablet. Knives, little bottles of spirits, fire lighting tools, and who knew what else. Why did the Araxie carry everything on their person rather than storing it in their homes? Perhaps they tended to range further away from the village than he imagined?

“The suns rise,” the Patriarch said. “Soon, the village will sleep. But before that, we should eat. Will you and your people join us?”

“Oh, your people sleep during the day?” Jules asked. “I suppose that makes sense, it explains why you don’t need much light to see by. We should adjust our schedules accordingly. And, of course, I’m sure everyone would be happy to eat with you.”

That seemed to please the Patriarch, and he stood up from the table, clasping his furry hands together with a muted clap. He was no doubt glad to escape the proceedings for a while, even Jules was happy to take a break.

They exited through the large door, the dark sky turning a shade of deep blue above their heads as the twin suns rose. Edwards and Velez were sleeping, the latter using his rucksack as a pillow, while Simmons and Yuta were chatting nearby. They were probably discussing the situation with the Rask. They halted their conversation as Jules and Bozka approached, Simmons turning to greet them.

“How are the negotiations going?”

“We’re making progress,” Jules replied with a grin. “The Patriarch has invited us to eat with him, I thought that you and the others might join us?”

“Sounds very diplomatic,” Simmons replied, “I’m game.” He walked over to Velez and gave him a kick with his boot, the swarthy Marine jolting awake. “Grub’s up,” Simmons said. Velez roused Edwards, and the two stood, yawning and blinking their eyes groggily.

“By the way,” Jules began as they trailed behind Bozka, “we’re going to have to change our sleep schedules. Looks like the Araxie are nocturnal, so we’ll need to be awake at the same times they are.”

“Not a problem,” Simmons said, “we’re used to catching some shut-eye whenever the opportunity presents itself. We’re rarely on a set schedule when we’re out in the bush.”

The Patriarch led them through the village until they arrived at a giant felled tree. One of the larger examples had toppled over at some point in the past, the massive network of torn roots extending out like skeletal fingers. Jules wasn’t sure what force could have brought this massive behemoth down, it was at least fifty or sixty feet in diameter and maybe two hundred feet long from what he could see. It was covered in moss and plant growth, carpeted in a blanket of greenery that made it look like the jungle was slowly reclaiming it.

As Bozka made his way towards the tangled roots, Jules realized that there was a massive door built into them. The alien opened it and ushered them inside.

The humans looked about in awe as they emerged into a truly gigantic, hollowed-out tree. The Araxie had carved away the dead wood with an expertise and finesse that could only have been attributed to a master woodworker. The curved ceiling was at least forty feet above their heads, the same hanging candles suspended on ropes present here, too. It was far better lit than the Patriarch’s dwelling, and the heat was stifling due to the fire pits that were spaced out along the structure’s length, casting the hall in their flickering glow. The floor beneath their feet was level, not made from planks, but actually carved from the wood of the dead tree itself. The growth rings were still visible, serving as a kind of natural decoration.

It seemed as though they had carved holes into the trunk to expose the earth beneath it, then they had filled those holes with stones, transforming them into fire pits that were presently being used for cooking. They burned without smoke, stocked with what looked like charcoal or something similar, their heat adding to the already sweltering temperature of the jungle.

Long tables lined the center of the hall, spaced out between the fire pits. They appeared to have been carved from the wood of the tree as well, along with the benches to either side of them. Their legs transitioned seamlessly into the floor, the same growth rings visible in their varnished surfaces. It must all have been treated with some kind of stain to prevent it from rotting, especially in this excessively humid environment. Everything was one seamless piece of wood, a single engineering project of massive scale. They must have known exactly what they were going to make from the tree before they had started cutting away the excess wood, carving it from the inside out, every bench and pit carefully planned.

The curved walls were decorated with trophies from hunts, there were the horns and antlers of truly massive animals, and pelts that sported exotic patterns and colors. The hall was packed with Araxie. They were sitting at the long tables, and eating from a buffet of strange foods, others rotating spits over the fire pits that were laden with the carcasses of native animals. The smell of cooking meat was enticing, it was like the scent of a barbecue wafting over from a neighbor’s yard, but the heat was making Jules sweat buckets. It was like a sauna in here, he didn’t know how long he could tolerate it.

Bozka led them over to one of the benches, and they all sat down in a row. Jules found himself sandwiched between Yuta and the Patriarch, their size making him feel minuscule. Just like the stools back in Bozka’s dwelling, these benches were far too tall for a human, his feet swinging a clear foot off the floor. The table was a little high too, but not so much that he couldn’t reach it.

The Araxie sitting across from him scrutinized him curiously. They all looked very similar to the Patriarch, with a full coat of black fur that seemed to shine in the light and a pair of striking, emerald eyes. They were dining on the legs of some kind of local animal that was analogous to a deer or a cow. It had muscular thighs, the hooves still attached, the skin crisped like roasted chicken. They didn’t use cutlery, they dug their hook-like claws into the meat like knives, their sharp teeth shearing away chunks of flesh. When the sauces and juices matted their furry hands, they extended long, rough tongues to comb their fingers like a cat grooming itself. They were so flexible, almost like tentacles, coiling around their digits and leaving the fur shiny and clean in their wake.

“We Araxie pride ourselves on our dishes,” Bozka explained, waving his long arm across the table. There were earthen jugs that contained what looked almost like gravy, and there were massive, wide trays that were piled high with veritable mountains of meat. There even entire animals the size of wild hogs. There were drinks too, including water, and other colored liquids that Jules couldn’t identify. “Freshly killed meat roasted over open flames, flavored with oils and sauces. Take your pick.”

“Hang on,” Simmons said, pulling a device from one of the pouches on his uniform. They had removed their black armor for the time being, but the suits that they wore beneath were covered in pockets and small bags. “While we appreciate your hospitality, humans have different nutritional requirements to Borealans. We need to scan the food first to make sure that it won’t make us sick.”

“This tool can tell whether food is safe to eat?” Bozka asked, looking over at the handheld scanner.

“That’s right, think of it as a kind of ... electronic nose.”

Yuta reached across the table and hooked a large hunk of flesh in her claws, bringing it into range of the Marine, oils raining down onto the wooden table. He ran the scanner over it, reading from the small display that was mounted on the tool.

“It’s basically just animal protein and fat. It’s cooked properly, if a little on the well-done side. It should be alright for humans to eat, but I’m going to recommend that Mister Lambert abstain. If you get food poisoning or you react badly to something, you won’t be able to perform your duties. You’d do better to eat one of the MREs instead.”

Yuta had no such concerns, raising the chunk of flesh towards her mouth and sinking her teeth into it gleefully. It seemed almost relieving for her to be able to tear into something, stripping away meat with her pointed teeth and chewing contentedly. After a few bites, she set the meal down on the table and reached into one of her pouches, withdrawing a glass vial of brown liquid with a screw-on cap. She opened the container and upended it onto the meat, some kind of grease or oil spilling forth. When she was done, she put the bottle back in the pouch and took another bite, nodding as if to indicate that the taste had been improved.

“What was that?” Jules asked, looking up at her.

“Fish oil,” she said over a mouthful of her food, “it’s a seasoning.”

“Oils are like ketchup or mustard to Borealans,” Edwards explained, leaning forward across the table so that Jules could see him. “They all have their preferred flavor, vegetable or fish oil, usually. They carry it around with them wherever they go.”

Bringing a bottle of your preferred brand of ketchup to a restaurant with you would be in extremely poor taste, but the Patriarch didn’t take offense, Yuta tearing away a piece of meat with her claws and passing it to him. He seemed to like the taste, giving her an approving nod.

Jules was handed an MRE packet from one of the rucksacks. He was a little disappointed that he couldn’t sample the alien food, but Simmons was right. It was best not to take risks, he couldn’t negotiate the Araxie’s entry into the Coalition if he was vomiting his guts out in the jungle. Edwards was also forgoing the meat, choosing an MRE for himself as well.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Jules said, Yuta pausing her chewing to glance down at him as he began to cook one of the self-heating rations. She was most of the way through the leg of who-knows-what that she had been eating. Jules found himself marveling at how much meat she could put away in one sitting. She required a ludicrous quantity of food and protein to maintain her gigantic, muscular body. He thought back to the Borealan MREs that they had found amidst the stash recovered from the Rask. Ten thousand calories apiece, enough to feed the average human for four or five days.

“What is it?” she asked.

“That Rask back there ... why was he speaking English? Was it just for our benefit?”

“Many of the territories are at odds, or otherwise isolated from one another,” Yuta explained. “I do not speak Rask, the Rask likely does not speak Elysian, but any Borealan who deals with humans knows English by necessity. It has become somewhat of a common tongue as of late.”