Thirds

By Roger Alan Bonner

THIRDS is the first of THE NEBULA TALES, a space opera at the juncture of political science, biology, and fantasy. Reaching the Orion Nebula, humans encounter a space-faring society - Surana. Suranans are tri-sexual: there are three genders - males, females, and tris. The biology and interdependence among the three Suranan sexes result in pervasive and deeply seated discrimination against tris. Consequently, tris are excluded from much of polite society and therefore live lives which are often short, brutal, and miserable. On Surana, biology drives politics, violence descends, and Surana threatens to explode.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Frog Books Company
• Release date: Jan 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781948988155

Roger Alan Bonner

Roger Alan Bonner is a retired economist and ersatz mathematician, now busy creating works of fiction. He works primarily in science fiction because science is exploding these days.   He retired from Washington, D.C., spent time in waterlogged Florida, and then escaped to the Triangle are of North Carolina. It is a beautiful place, which the hurricanes often miss, filled with warm, bright, interesting people. He has two daughters and usually does not know where they are.  He likes baseball, the Outer Banks, chocolate cream pie, dancing, music, and is a huge fan of painter Vincent van Gogh, home run king Barry Bonds, guitarist Al DiMeola, and actress Minnie Driver.  Contact him at rogeralanbonner.com or leave an email at [e-mail].

Book preview

Thirds

A long story of social evolution

by

Roger Alan Bonner

Also by Roger Alan Bonner

NOVELLAS

Sentinel

The Vote Trader

PSYCHODRAMA

Red Night Revenge

THE BELT STORIES

Milky Way Tango

Milky Way Boogie

Milky Way Gala

THE NEBULA TALES

Thirds

Thirds Rising

Thirds Aflame

SERIES

The Nebula Tales

The Belt Stories

Thirds

A novel

by Roger Alan Bonner

© 2021 Red Frog Books Company

Copyright, disclaimer, and keywords

©2021 Red Frog Books Company. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations for critical articles or reviews, please reproduce no part of this story in any manner without written permission from the copyright owner.

My thanks to Enrique Meseguer and Pixabay for the beautiful image used in the covers of this book. Book covers ©2021 Red Frog Books Company. All rights reserved. Published by Red Frog Books Company.

This is a work of fiction, created to entertain the reader. All legal or natural persons, places, events, and institutions mentioned here are fictional elements of the story or products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to an actual person, place, event, or institution is coincidental and unintended.

Keywords: aliens, civil disobedience, civil rights, civil war, discrimination, genetics, hyper-fusion, nebula, oligarchy, racism, rape, space opera, sexual discrimination, thermonuclear fusion, telepathy, tri-sexual, violence.

Acknowledgments

More than words can say, I am grateful to Michael Klein and the other members of the Arlington Writers Group, of Arlington, Virginia, for their friendship, kindness, genius, and support. A great place to learn to write fiction.

Thanks also to Jonathan Giles and the members of the Durham Writers Group and to Nathan Berger and the members of the Raleigh Critique Group, both of North Carolina. 

Special thanks to Robin Lawrence, Joseph Cox, and Chris Becker for their insights and suggestions.

Throw a Damn Strike

John Allan hammered his fist on his chair and shouted towards the pitcher's mound, Crap on a cracker! Grit your teeth, hitch up your undies, and throw a damn strike, would you?!

Hey. Muriel was on his right, glaring at him.

He glanced at her. Sorry.

Several rows from the field, Allan stared at the big, blond, corn-fed hayseed standing atop the pitcher's mound; the young man peered at his catcher from under the bill of a cap that shadowed his eyes and hid a doe-in-the-headlights expression. Allan again glanced to his right; his daughter Denise sat beyond Muriel, out of sight.

He nudged his wife. I promised to clean it up, didn't I?

Muriel nodded, looked at the pitcher, and turned towards Allan. Yes, you did, and we appreciate it. There are children here, so be polite. I'm sure the young man is doing his best. We would applaud your support.

He thought, and I would appreciate a damn strike. As Allan's mouth opened to deliver a crushing retort, he reconsidered and clamped his mouth shut before any sound emerged. He glowered at the pitcher, who stood out there peering at the baseball as if it were the Maltese Falcon, an object of mystery.

Good, she said. That's better.

Allan glanced at her, then watched the pitcher – come on, have a little confidence, my slope-shouldered friend. Think about it for only a moment; use your head for a change. I know, I know – everyone talks about being tricky, upsetting the batter's timing, changing speeds. But your arm is a thunderbolt – 160 kph and up. The old fart with the bat is hoping you throw him slow cheese, breaking stuff, the slower the better. That, he can still hit. But he cannot hit heat, and he knows it, so he doesn't even try. He sits there, an old rattlesnake waiting for something slow to pass by and volunteer to be today's lunch.

Don't cooperate. Give him what he doesn't want, what he can't hit. Give him heat. He cannot catch up to your fastball; he might not even see it. So trust your arm and hit the gas.

The pitcher wound up and threw the next pitch, a slow curve. Ball, the umpire called out.

Allan buried his face in his hands. For the love of the Gods, I cannot watch this.

Muriel squeezed his shoulder. Have a little faith. The young man is doing fine.

Allan did not look up – faith. Right. I'm short on faith, always have been. Some people have it; they like to brag about that. Well, hurrah for them. But I know a few things, been around the block a few times. Faith and a one-credit coin will buy you a cup of translucent coffee at a cheap kiosk. Faith alone won't get you the cup.

He turned to Muriel and nodded towards the pitcher. This is about to get ugly. Junior has two balls and no strikes on an old guy. Soon, we will see a tentative fastball in the strike zone, and the old guy will hit it off the center field light tower. 

Muriel leaned towards him. Yes, but don't you love the suspense? Can't you feel it?

Allan did not look at her – this is phony suspense, fueled by stupidity. It cannot end well. A new thought occurred, and he looked at his wife – rather than argue, could I interest you in a small wager? But the next thought stopped him – betting against the wife is bad strategy; it is lose, lose.

Allan felt a hand on his shoulder, a gentle shake. A young male voice said, Sir? Pardon me. May I interrupt?

Allan looked up. What's up? His eyes focused on a young, unmarked man built like a large refrigerator. Allan surveyed the refrigerator in time to swallow a wisecrack – let's not be hasty here.

The man's blond hair was closely cropped in a military style – why do military guys always shave their heads? 

The young man looked serious. Allan glanced at the other end of the row and saw a larger twin wearing the same 'business casual' - blue sports coat and gray slacks. Geez, the twin looks like he's wearing a fifty-eight long. And he is not fat. Do they recruit these guys or trap them?

Oh. Uh... sorry, Allan said. What can I do for you?

I am sorry to interrupt, sir. I believe you are John Allan. I have the Secretary of State on a secure line. The young man offered a small phone between his thumb and forefinger. Allan reached out and accepted the phone.

Thank you. He put the phone to his ear. This is Allan.

A booming, jolly-good-fellow voice, that of a large man determined to be Everyone's Friend, emerged. Those nearby could hear. John, how you doing? Are you enjoying your break?

Allan said, in professional voice, Hello, Mr. Secretary. To what do I owe the pleasure? He winced for a moment; am I too direct? Well, screw that. Rather than pretend we're friends, let's just get on with it.

Listen, John, before you get all mad at me, I admit I'm interrupting you, and you're on break, and I shouldn't be bothering you, and I promised not to do any of that. But I have a good reason.

Allan's face was impassive. So what's the crisis this time? Sir.

Well... The Secretary chuckled like a clever kid caught stealing cookies. We have a situation, and yes, that's why I'm calling. It is not a crisis; it's an opportunity, which we can exploit if we move fast enough. It would promote our interests, and it could be fantastic. That is why I'm calling you. Notice how I worked 'you' and 'fantastic' into the conversation.

Yes, sir. Well done. Allan relaxed, settled into his seat, and listened. Without looking, he felt Muriel staring at him, reading him.

The Association of Worlds needs you again, John. No one else will do.

Allan nodded – and when I retire? What then? You'll probably give this speech to some other silly schlub.

A new thought occurred – will I retire someday? Not everyone does. Some topple face-first onto their desks, an ugly and ironic way to go. Okay, I am listening, Mr. Secretary.

Good. I assume you've read the news. Have you followed the developments in the Orion Nebula? This Surana incident? That ring a bell?

Allan thought for a moment. Yes, sir. I saw something... I'm familiar with the nebula, but not with Surana.

Okay, what I'm about to tell you is not public knowledge, so keep it to yourself. Our explorer units arrived at the Orion Nebula a couple of months ago. At first it seemed like any nebula – lots of gas, radiation, and stars. But the explorers ran into another party, an alien species. Despite that, they kept pushing. You know explorers.

Yes, sir. Allan smiled. Explorers want to know everything. They like to barge into alien cultures and start asking questions. A half-smile crossed Allan's face – why would any sentient race object to that?

Yes, well, they kept pushing, and later a couple of our ships failed to report in, so the fleet went looking for them and stumbled into a fistfight with the locals.

I've heard none of this, Mr. Secretary.

That's right. We've kept a lid on it. Anyway, after the fight, we collected our survivors and withdrew from the nebula. I mean, we're interested in exploring, but we're not looking for a fight, certainly not with space-faring aliens.

Allan said, I see. His eyes aimed at the baseball field but did not see it – so, why me? Why are we talking? We pushed into a nebula, got into a fight, and discovered the opponent might be as big as us. Rather than piss them off or get beat up, we withdrew. Okay... problem solved.

Where do I come in?

The Secretary continued, Well, here's where it gets interesting. It turns out, the other guys – they call themselves Suranans – weren't looking for a fight, either. They sent out their version of a xenophile crew, and contacted us, and a couple dozen of their people and ours figured out how to communicate.

The line went silent long enough to surprise Allan. So... what happened next? Are we talking to them?

The Secretary laughed. That is where you come in, my million-light-year friend. Yes, we're talking, but it needs to go from the sandbox to serious negotiation. I need a pro out there, John. We know the Suranans are big. Not only are they tall, but their empire occupies much of the nebula. We don't have details, population, number of planets, any of that. The Suranans seem relatively friendly. We have not met the other species in the nebula. We know nothing of the local politics. Hopefully, the nebula is peaceful, but it could be a kill zone.

A yawn came through the phone. The Secretary continued, Sorry, I've been missing sleep for a few days. Memory fails. Allan wondered, should we continue this later?

Anyway, my friend, your assignment, should you accept it, is to lead a delegation to Surana, evaluate the place for negotiation, cultural exchange, and trade, learn as much as you can about Surana and Suranans, learn about any local politics that seem relevant, and figure out where in the Orion Nebula, if anywhere, humans might fit without making a mess.

When do you need an answer? Allan said.

Think it over... for a day. I know that's not enough, but if I can't have you, then I have to contact somebody worse and hit my knees, begging them to help us out. So the practical deadline is short. Sorry, my friend. We're full speed ahead on this one.

Okay, Allan said. He broke the connection and returned the phone to refrigerator number one. The man moved away.

The loud crack of a wooden bat meeting a poly-plastic baseball rang out, and the crowd shouted as one, a crashing wave mixing excitement and dismay like oil and water. Allan neither saw nor heard it. He sat there, his mind a thousand light years away. He sensed Muriel staring at him but did not meet her eyes.

His daughter said, Hey. Allan looked to his right and saw Denise leaning forward to talk around her mother. Okay, Dad, give it up. What dusty lizard ranch are we headed to this time?

Allan briefly considered scolding her for rudeness, then dismissed that thought; it would accomplish nothing. Besides, she's not exactly wrong. Surana. It's called Surana.

Never heard of it.

It's in the Orion Nebula.

Oh... great. Surana, eh? The Orion Nebula? Sounds colorful. I can hardly wait.

AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, Allan sipped his coffee, burned his tongue, grimaced, and put the cup down. He looked around at the kitchen, at the new appliances, a reward for their last posting on Beta Centauri 6 and 7. The house, sitting on a square kilometer of green grass and tall trees, was new and larger than the old house. There was a pond, flowers, and a glass hummingbird feeder. Denise had asked for a pony; so far, Allen was stalling on that.

They were sitting in September presents bought by performance bonuses and awards.

Allan glanced at the new stove. Damn, I was looking forward to learning to use that. It would be nice to live on Earth again. I could cook, walk the grounds and the woods, meet the neighbors. I could live quietly and read for fun, novels or plays. Shakespeare. Or Bukowski. Or a pot of coffee and Dickens. I could show up at nine and leave work at five. When did I last do that?

Denise entered the kitchen and sat at the table. Muriel opened a cabinet, caught her eye, and said, Chocolate or white?

Chocolate.

A minute later, Muriel passed a tall glass of chocolate milk to Denise and poured herself a cup of coffee. She sat down and said, Okay. We're all here.

Allan nodded. Well, what do you think? They want to ship me to the Orion Nebula.

I think that idea sucks. Like that matters, Denise said.

Muriel said, It matters.

With her chin up, Denise looked at Muriel. Okay, but we've had this conversation before. Dad's a big shot. He does important stuff, so you're going to say, if they send Dad somewhere and he gets a treaty signed, that might save, like, twenty million lives. So, Denise, what's important? That, or being comfortable for a change? That, or having a boyfriend, or losing your virginity, or going to your prom? I'm getting déjà vu... again.

Allan thought, ah ha, so that is why she wants to go to the prom. He shrugged and looked away – there are worse reasons.

Muriel looked at Denise and shook her head. It's less obvious than you think.

Allan sipped his coffee – this posting is dicey. It is far away, even for me. And let's recall, though Beta Centauri was a win, though everything worked out, my friends thought I was nuts to go there; they weren't exactly wrong. We lost a few people. Face it, young man, you're not too young to die; you've had some close calls. On the other hand, Surana and the Orion Nebula are brand new to us. Though we're not at war, a treaty could be valuable. Or... the Association could distance itself from Surana; they could say, we don't like radioactive neighborhoods... including yours. See you later. If you're ever in our neighborhood, feel free to visit... after a shower. No... really.

We won't do that. No way. If that planet were radioactive, we wouldn't be having this conversation. At least, I hope not.

What's at stake here, except that the Orion Nebula is brand new territory? First human contact, so it might be a kick-ass opportunity. Or it could be awful. It could be unlivable, even dangerous. Do I want to take my wife and daughter there? Will I end up regretting this?

Then he thought, calm down, John. If it's awful, you can quit and go home. Or you can send the girls home.

Denise said, You know, I understand Dad's important to the Worlds. But why do I have to go? It's not my mission. Why can't I stay here? I'll be okay.

John Allan looked at his daughter and nodded. We can talk about that. He thought, I watched you grow from an infant whose diapers I changed into a bright, beautiful young woman. Every year you changed, and with every new year you'll change again. And sometime soon I will lose you. You'll become an adult, and you'll leave and live your life on your own. Then I'll get ping pongs on the holidays, which I will no doubt save and watch over and over. Face to face, I'll see you occasionally if I'm lucky.

He looked through a window; it was a sunny day, full of promise. Half a frown crossed his face – if I had a brain, I would forget about another mission. I'd love to take my girls for a walk around the grounds. I'm losing Denise, and all I can say is, so soon? I hoped for two more years to watch her graduate, to see what kind of guy she brought home, to help her pick a college or trade school. I hoped for more photos and videos. Don't I get any of that?

He looked at Muriel, who was shaking her head. She stared at Denise. No. We are not leaving you here. Forget that; it is not an option. I am John's wife. You are our daughter. This family will stay together, no exceptions. If he goes, we go.

Otherwise, we stay? Denise said.

Muriel nodded and looked at Allan.

He frowned. I need to think this through.

AN DE LA STOOD UP, stretched, and turned his back on the images floating above his desk. He had been working for several hours, frozen and staring over layers of text and data. His body was complaining. He grimaced – the Great Cloud knows, I miss being young. It was so easy to be young and blue. Nothing hurt, even when it should. I was beyond injury, indestructible. I could fall off a roof, or from a tree, and pick myself up, ready to go. I have done it more than once.

By the Seven Sisters, I miss being indestructible. 

He sighed and turned towards a window. Several stories below, the planet and its capital city filled the view. Bar So, a red giant, sat low on the horizon, and blue Bar Se – hotter, more intense, but more distant and smaller – burned above the opposite horizon. An de La's home, his family's ancestral home, sat in a clearing surrounded by a forest which concealed many buildings above and below ground. Level with his window, the upper branches of alde trees swayed in the wind. Further away, shorter, broader trees clustered into a thick, green, woven carpet that looked like the fur of a winter creature, especially in a brisk wind. An de La loved watching the trees dance in the wind. Beyond that, a dusty plain interrupted the forest in splotches of brown. Behind him, the city's aerodrome was not visible. 

He stood there, his hands behind his back, marveling at the view and enjoying the glitter and the colors of the city. To the north, Gel Dri Chass was a broad, bright artery of light and movement running from left to right. It seemed to pulse; it almost looked alive. Further out, Gel Dri crossed Cri Ti Chass. At that location in all directions, the neighborhood was lit like a holiday ornament, a glittery explosion of white and blue light. Traffic flowed south out of the city, and to the east, Elan Chass bore sporadic traffic to the aerodrome and the forests surrounding the city.

He heard a quiet noise behind him – Lad Na, the senior wife, his favorite wife. He continued to admire the view, and Lad Na approached and briefly touched him on the shoulder – not a demand or a question, merely a hello.

An de La turned, looked at her, and returned the touch. Good afternoon. How does the day treat you? Years ago, he tried to fool his wives (and himself) by treating them all the same, downplaying his favorites. But as he and Lad Na grew old, they stopped hiding the truth. An de La smiled – as we age, death approaches, and we pay less attention to social pressure. Those who nod at Death when they awaken every morning are not easily intimidated by social convention.

Good afternoon, she said. Might we discuss our Fel?

He chuckled. How many conversations have followed those words? Of course. May I offer you some refreshment?

Thank you, no. But I would prefer to sit.

An de La returned to his desk and sat down. Lad Na sat opposite him. First things first. Another wife will soon join us. Go Rid has applied, and we have accepted her into the family.

An de La nodded. Yes, of course. I remember.

Yes. So you need to set time aside for the Joining, Lad Na said.

All right, we can do that whenever you wish, whenever is convenient.

She looked at him with a smile that threatened to become a laugh. For your information, Go Rid wishes to do the full Joining with you and you alone. The Greeting and the entire ceremony.

An de La stared at her. Oh, now that is hilarious. I have always liked that about you. You can be funny when you put your mind to it.

I am not joking. She was very clear. I checked.

An de La's eyes grew wide. I am... how much older? He leaned back and studied the ceiling. I am... seven decades older than Go Rid. Is that not so? An de La sat there and stared at Lad Na past his fingers, which had ticked off the decades.

Yes, Lad Na said. Seven and three, in fact.

An de La mumbled, Seven and three. He looked off into space. "What could she be thinking? What reason could she have for staying with me through the entire Joining? Any of the others would gladly join with her and mate with her. And my dear, you know and I know, they are – without exception – younger,