The Nebula Tales: The Nebula Tales

By Roger Alan Bonner

The Nebula Tales consists of three novels - Thirds, Thirds Rising, and Thirds Aflame, to be read in that order. As humankind expands across and explores the Galaxy, they reach the Orion Nebula, the most famous of star factories, where they encounter a humanoid space-faring society - Surana. The Suranans, though humanoid, are different: they are tri-sexual - three genders participate in procreation. Like humans, the Suranans have males and females, but there is a third gender - tris, or "Thirds" - which are sterile hermaphrodites exerting a powerful effect on procreation among Suranans. The three genders are very different. Tris are smaller and weaker, and many believe they are less intelligent. On Surana tris are second-class citizens, denied many of the benefits of that society. The physical and psychological differences result in widespread abuse and discrimination against tris, whose lives are usually brutal, miserable, and short. But the tris have their own sources of strength and resourcefulness. The day comes when the tris rebel against the other Suranans, and civil war rages across Surana with the heat and power of a forest fire. The war begins with physical violence, but the conflict moves into other arenas - politics and biology. Science becomes a weapon. And when the war has gone on for months, when a mountain of wealth has been expended and thousands of lives lost, a human and a tri engage in an act as small, mundane, and normal as any act could be. And yet, that small act - that littlest of little things - exerts a stupendous effect on Suranan politics, extinguishes the conflict, and completely undermines the motives to continue the war.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Frog Books Company
• Release date: Mar 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215192238

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

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, fresher, more viable, more entertaining, and more interested. An de La looked at La Na's grin. Can you shine light on this?

Perhaps she is part of a subtle conspiracy to couple you to death, murder with an erotic bait. Her gift would be the look of ecstasy crossing your face as you die.

An de La stared at her. That is simultaneously plausible, tragic, and funny. Well done.

Lad Na laughed. Thank you. I hoped you would like it.

An de La turned away in his chair, paused, then turned back to face Lad Na. But it makes no sense. If others wish to take over, I will gladly step aside. A conspiracy is unnecessary. His face wore a look of resigned amusement – Go Rid wants to go off with me and spend four days coupling. I bet she looks good naked. Probably superb. But this sounds idiotic. The younger husbands would have sounder genetics. They would make better offspring.

Okay, that is not a certainty. But it is likely.

I have done much in my life. Is that what attracts her? Many people know of my wins and losses... mostly wins. I am famous, hurrah for me. I am at the top of my family for a reason, for many reasons. Then... perhaps Go Rid suffers from hero worship. Is that possible?

That would explain things. What she is missing, what many miss, is that I used my youth, body, and mind to confront and overcome challenges. I won and won and won. That came with a price paid in degradation and decay. I was a better man back then. I do not mind; the sacrifices were worth it. But face-to-face, belly-to-belly, I will probably disappoint Go Rid.

So, what do you think? Lad Na said.

His mind briefly savored the past. For a moment he saw her as she once had been - ah, my sweet, my queen, if it were up to me, if I had my way, I would take off with you and no one else. We could go to the North Isles, stay at an inn, sleep late and eat whatever and whenever we wanted. We could fly geshab kites in the afternoons, soar above the cliffs and the waters and the beaches. We could spy on the young while they couple in the sand. In the evening we could hike the hills. Returning to the inn, I would spread oil on your body, soothe your tired muscles. We would dim the lights and pretend we were again deep blue. Then we would eat seafood and pears and drink wine. At night we would couple until we tired; that would come sooner than once it did.

I would try hard to show you ecstasy.

But I can do all that only when the Empire is in firm hands. I need two or three husbands or wives capable of protecting the family.

Her voice was musical. Sir? An de La?

He returned to the present and smiled at her. I was dreaming about what might be. It was pleasant.

It was lovely, I am sure, she said. Moving on, there is another item. Go Rid wants to breed with you.

An de La grunted. A sign of idiocy. We should monitor her; perhaps her condition can be treated.

Lad Na laughed. Very amusing. Anyway, she wants it. Also, she wants Rold to do the conditioning. She hid her smile, but her eyes were wide and twinkling.

An de La turned towards Lad Na, his mouth open, his eyes narrow, wearing a troubled expression. Comprehension came slowly to his face. Rold? He looked away. The things we learn with time. He glanced at Lad Na. So... I take it, Go Rid likes it rough.

It could be a coincidence, but I doubt it, Lad Na said. She planned it. She wants Rold.

Great. That is just great.

You do not approve?

An de La rolled his eyes. By the light of stars, conditioning with Rold is like wrestling a breckle with less fur, smaller teeth, and no claws. If Rold had those things, we could put him in a zoo. And we would. He sat there shaking his head. May I pay someone to take my place? Rold and Go Rid. A match made in the darkest sewer of the Underworld.

He glanced at Lad Na, whose mouth was a neutral, straight line under dancing eyes. An de La said, I am glad you are enjoying this. But here is a formal order - if I do not survive this ridiculous stunt, I want the two of them shipped off to... he hesitated and put a finger to his lips, pondering the choices, then the finger pointed at Lad Na. ... the family territory closest to the Awkland Cloud. If an asteroid gets them, we can take that as a sign. Meanwhile, they can couple all day for all I care. He thought, she might even forget about breeding and throw herself into recreational coupling. Is that too much to ask?

I will record the order, Lad Na said.

An de La thought of Go Rid's reading the order. An image crossed his mind, and he smiled. Is that all?

One more item and I will let you go, Lad Na said. It is routine. We have had good retention among house tris, but a number are approaching old age, and their ability to work has declined and will continue to decline. I want to expand the Retire House and move them there to live out their lives.

An de La straightened in his chair, and displeasure crossed his face. Why care for tris who cannot work? It costs a lot of money. No other family takes care of old tris, so why...?

Lad Na nodded. "I hear that criticism too, even from my friends, from people who consider themselves friends. It is superficial. When you have thought further, you will agree. Why? Because tris prefer to work for Grobarra. We treat them better than others do, so we get the best workers. Once they are here, they work hard to stay. We need not outbid other Fels for our tris, since we are their first choice. Spending the money on retirement and good treatment, we get it back in lower wages and better workers. Our generosity and compassion make money for us.

Even old tris have value. They teach the young.

Lad Na paused for a moment. "If we do not care for our tris in old age, no one will. No one wants a tri child, and no one takes care of old tris, who are usually impoverished and miserable. That presents an opportunity.

We can exploit that; the only obstacle is financing it. As to that, we spend little. We put all the old tris in the same high density housing. We keep them comfortable. Their friends are there, and we care for them. We can afford it. As long as other Fels treat tris badly, we will make money on this. When the others wake up, we may need to reconsider. I will alert you when that happens.

An de La sat still for a long time, thinking. Then he looked at Lad Na and nodded. Shrewd. Very shrewd.

Lad Na smiled. Thank you. It is how I earn my keep.

Guiding the Empire

An de La sat down in the back seat of the ground car, glanced at his comp pad, then looked up and said, Okay, go, go.

The ground car passed through the forest, then the main gate, turned onto Elan Chass, and increased speed. Several kilometers later, they turned north onto Minka Chass, bound for the Park of Law and the Atrium, where An de La would speak later in the morning before the Assembly of Ministers. He was calm where few would be – I know what I think, what I want to say. Whether I can convince the Ministers is of no concern. They will agree or they will not. It is useless to worry. 

He stared out the window and frowned – that is another sign of age. I used to obsess about influencing people. Now, if I cannot convince, I will gladly hand the job to someone else if they are not too stupid. I once believed most people were not stupid. Now I am more experienced, more selective... and far more skeptical. 

At the end of the drive, An de La entered the Atrium, his favorite building in Surana City. Like a tourist or an off-planet visitor, on entering he paused and stared at a view of which he never tired. The Atrium, incredibly broad on the main floor, narrowed fast as it rose, its ceiling a curved funnel, reminding him of a seashell. Function dictated the design. Along the outer reaches of the Atrium, one could converse in small groups. But it was impossible to converse at a distance, since the funnel would direct sounds away from the speaker and listener. Conversely, in the middle of the space, the high ceiling reflected sound so that a normal voice would reach everyone. Thus, speakers to the Assembly always spoke from the dais in the center of the Atrium.

An de La entered the meeting area and began working his way through the crowd towards his seat. He greeted several dozen Ministers. This part of the job was pleasant. After meeting, the Ministers would often relax and trade stories and news items. They were bright, ambitious, and industrious. An de La admired many of them.

He stood with a circle of friends, listening and laughing at the occasional joke. Conversation from various groups drifted past. Waves of sound rose and washed across the area. 

At the center of the Assembly, the First Minister stood and raised his hands. The other Ministers noticed and moved into their seats, and the conversations dwindled to a trickle, then stopped.

Thank you, Esteemed Males and Females and Ministers. This drew a polite laugh, and An de La smiled.

The First Minister continued, "May the day reward you. There is a single item on today's agenda – An de La has a proposal regarding our foreign policy and diplomacy with a new species. They call themselves 'humans,' so we shall call them that.

We have known of humans for many years, but they learned of us only recently. The Great Cloud is energetic even on a quiet day, hiding us from others. Regrettably, when the humans arrived, our more energetic commanders feared invasion, and a brief battle resulted.

A buzz of conversation rose. The First Minister raised his hands, waited, and continued, We later learned the humans were searching for several lost ships. In the battle, they engaged only briefly, then withdrew. Shortly thereafter, our Diplomatic Service contacted them and worked through enough of their language to negotiate a cease-fire.

At this, the Ministers rose and applauded, slapping hands against their sides and calling in An de La's direction.

The First Minister continued, Yes, I speak for everyone in offering my thanks, An de La. Well done, well done.

An de La stood, bowed once, and sat down.

The First Minister said, I now yield to An de La, who has been the principal mover in this.

An de La stood from his seat and crossed the dais to stand next to the First Minister, who touched him on the shoulder and moved away to sit down, yielding the floor.

An de La began, Esteemed Ministers, thank you for listening. I propose that we establish closer relations with the humans, progressing as soon as possible to full and normal diplomatic relations.

A buzz of conversation erupted. An de La stepped back, folded his arms, and stood there waiting. Soon curiosity overcame surprise, and the Ministers quieted to hear what An de La would say next. The noise died out. "Naturally, I would expect that granting full relations rapidly would concern many of you. We have rarely done that. There is a process... a normal process, a slow process.

"You are not wrong to worry, but allow me to convince you. As you know, we have for years faced a single, dominant threat to our security and our existence – Anbar. Our futures seem tied to Anbar, but the security and diplomatic features of that relationship are troubling. We both live in a great cloud, its center marked by bright stars, the Seven Angry Sisters. We cannot live in that center; the heat, light, and radiation are too intense for us. We seldom venture there. So Surana has selected planets and other properties sufficiently distant to allow us normal lives, given our biology, customs, and technology.

"The Anbari are different. They can live nearer the Sisters but cannot go through. The Sisters separate us, impeding direct communication and commercial intercourse.

Thus, our environment protects Surana. I think – and I hope you agree – that Surana is peaceful; we threaten no one and desire only peaceful relations with our neighbors. Here too, the Anbari are different. They have developed in a much harsher environment, and perhaps as a result they are harsher – less civilized, less learned, more warlike, more aggressive, and far more acquisitive.

An de La paused, his eyes roving over the Ministers. Before continuing, I assume no one contests anything I have said.

A Minister, a Suranan female, stood. We could say more, An de La.

An de La nodded. Yes, my friend, and we will. He took a brief sip of water, then continued, For years, the Sisters protected us. While the Anbari spread out to conquer and colonize the most attractive planets and systems, they left Surana alone. Behind the Sisters, we were an unpromising target, thus a low priority. Unfortunately, that has changed. Now, the Anbari have exploited other alternatives, and their technology has advanced. As a result, Surana is now a more attractive target.

Conversation exploded throughout the hall, and many Ministers stood and approached each other to talk in small groups. Suddenly, everyone was talking; everyone was bathed in sound.

An de La waited well past politeness, then raised his hands. Ministers, please sit down. May I continue? A minute later, everyone was sitting; order was restored.

He said, "Over time, as Anbar has developed its military, Surana has developed its society. Consider our budgets. The arts, sciences, and the infrastructure of civilized living – roads, parks, housing, spaceports, hospitals, libraries – have received a growing portion of revenues, especially from the major Fels.

But our defense budgets have declined. We have become more peaceful and more civilized, yet less able to defend ourselves.

The reaction frightened him – not the riotous explosion of angry voices that An de La expected, but dead silence. No Minister rose to argue with An de La's summation of their situation. Each sat, silent and grim, staring back at him.

An de La looked around the hall and nodded. I see everyone agrees with that. That is unfortunate, but we all admit we have a problem. That is progress. He paused, then continued, "Now, I talked about the humans, so let me bring them into the discussion. First Minister mentioned our brief battle with them. It resulted from confusion and inability to communicate, not unusual for two species meeting for the first time. It quickly resolved in our favor, as the humans withdrew at first opportunity.

Let us consider that battle. The Suranan fleet comprised several hundred military space vessels. The humans – remember, they were only looking for a handful of lost ships – had fewer than thirty military vessels. Everyone got the picture? An de La looked around the hall – many delegates wore amused or incredulous expressions as if to say, several hundred against thirty? And they elected to fight, not flee?

An de La continued, We had an overwhelming advantage. Or so we thought. But know this: the humans withdrew after destroying eighteen of our ships for every one of theirs lost.

Predictably, an explosion of sound followed, stronger than before. The Ministers were surprised and saddened by the news of what they had thought was a minor skirmish. No few were frightened.

An de La stood there and did not try to speak. He listened as the collective shock ran its course.

A Minister, an old male soon to retire, stood up and exclaimed, Eighteen to one? How is that possible?

An de La said, Ministers, we have the Fleet Commander with us. Perhaps he will now speak.

A military man, the Seven Stars emblem on the breast of a black jacket, stood and approached the dais, then turned and faced the crowd. Ministers, it pains me to discuss this battle. I witnessed it from a distance, which is why I still live. In short, the humans completely outclassed us. We are still trying to understand the data, but our belief is that the humans have learned to incorporate micro-jumps into their fleet maneuvers. That is the biggest difference between us, one of many.

He paused for questions, but there was only dead silence.

The Commander continued, "Does everyone understand? Fighting a fleet of ships capable of micro-jump is like trying to fight a cloud with your fists. We can shoot our weapons at their fleet, but by the time the warhead or light pulse arrives, our target will have changed location. The humans face no such problem since our ships cannot micro-jump. This means the humans can temporarily concentrate their forces on a small section of our fleet and overwhelm it. By the time we react, they have shifted to attack us at a different location.

We need to learn this kind of warfare. This time, we were lucky. Had the humans not withdrawn, it would have been worse than eighteen-to-one. In my opinion, they would have smashed us to the last sailor and the last ship.

The Ministers, both males and females, sat back in their seats, stunned and silent as they tried to absorb the news. An de La looked around the Atrium, ignored the crowd, and focused on the individuals – I need to be patient. They are seeing this for the first time. Understanding and acceptance will come later.

But I do not have time. Nor does Surana.

One Minister, a female sitting with a crestfallen expression, threw up her hands and cried, How is this possible? Humans are small, are they not? Why, they are no bigger than tris. How could they beat us so badly? A few other Ministers nodded.

An de La looked at her, then looked away – some of them will never understand. Combat depends on the size of your mind, not your body. He frowned – I have no time for fools. He spoke over the noise, "Ministers, this might upset you, but consider this. The humans beat us badly. How they did it, is not important. That they did it, is.

But there is good news, excellent news. The humans are not our enemies. They withdrew from contact and did not pursue us. Later, when we searched for them, instead of attacking us, they tried to talk to us. They did not act as conquerors or heroes; instead, they expressed a desire for normal, peaceful relations. He paused – it is time to close the deal, to nail down a consensus. This is a gift, which we have done nothing to earn, but we should accept it and embrace it. We should act with all due speed to establish normal, peaceful relations with the humans. And if we are lucky, when the Anbari come pounding on our door, the humans might help us defend ourselves. That is what I offer the Assembly today.

An de La sat down – they will understand now or never. If never, I need to find a safe and distant place where my family and friends can live.

The empire might die, but I want our species to live.

DENISE STOOD WITH HER back against a bulkhead at the junction of two corridors. Her eyes darted between them; a curving corridor, one hundred meters long, stretched before her, a long transparency on the right, a starfield beyond that. A companion bulkhead, a monochrome gray, stretched along the left.

She looked out at the starfield and a small slice of Earth – we're slowly leaving the satellite cloud. We will maneuver through the satellites, the orbitals, and the ships. In a day, from open space, we will jump. Meanwhile, this is the best part of the flight. Earth is beautiful from high orbit. And the news gets better; Surana's gravity is point eight five. That means gravity aboard ship will be zero point eight five.

We all need to acclimate, right?

So, two hundred workers aboard, many with families, probably fewer than six hundred people. The ship can hold five thousand. That means, if I wait a bit, the corridor in front of me will clear.

The magic moment arrived. Denise took two skipping steps, broke into a run, and increased speed. Soon she flew, arms and legs stretching and springing and pumping in long strides, hair flying behind her. At the end of the corridor, she ran out of room. Her shoes shrieked as they skidded along the floor, grasping for traction.

Bent over, hands on knees, she gasped for breath. She stood up grinning, leaned against a bulkhead, and waited for the corridor to clear so she could run again.

Denise chuckled. When you weigh fifteen percent less than you're used to, you can fly.

Two dozen people were in the corridor, moving in both directions. Denise frowned, then sidled up to the transparency and stood there staring at Earth, a blue and green ball partially shrouded in the whitest white. She squinted – there was a circular mass of bright cloud in the Pacific Ocean. She shrugged – the Pacific will swallow that storm.

She glanced down the corridor and saw five people, then realized she knew one of them, a boy whose parents had worked in Alpha Centauri. What was his name? Cory or Corwen, something like that.

He walked past with his mother, smiled at Denise, and said, Hey.

Denise nodded and replied, Hey.

The two did not stop. Denise stared at Earth – take a long look, kiddo. You will see it in a year, maybe.

THE SWITCH WHISTLED as it cut through the air and sliced across Jot's upper back. The tri jerked with pain – Fiend's Penis, why does the idiot have to hit us? We are working here, making money. We expect to work. We are willing to work. If it wants us to resume, why not simply say so?

Jot looked sideways at the foreman and grinned. Perhaps the idiot is compensating for a well-earned inferiority complex. The better Suranans do not supervise tri work crews. Though the idiot knows little, it does know that. 

It must be awful being the dumb kid in a family of achievers. Jot chuckled.

A male voice called out, Asses up! Break time over, girls. Get back to work; that wood will not move itself. The voice chuckled.

Jot winced at the unclever attempt at humor, then struggled to its feet. It glanced quickly and secretly at Bal le Tac and his switch – by the Blackest of Stars, that one is so stupid, he should sell tickets. Jot frowned, reached into the pile of wood and wrapped its hands around a piece, which it lifted and tossed into the cart. It glanced again as Bal le Tac walked away.

For reassurance, the tri's hand felt in a pocket for the knife, closed, hidden, and safe. Jot smiled – nothing makes you feel so warm and safe as a sharp knife, available but concealed. It took a breath, withdrew its hand, and glanced at another tri, Dar, working nearby. Dar was quiet, friendly enough, but not overly friendly. It was holding a blower, the business end pointed directly at Jot.

Jot stepped to the side in time to avoid a blast of warm, sooty air. Dar looked up at Jot, realized its mistake, and shut down the blower. I am so sorry. I was not paying attention. It grinned. I was waiting for the next morsel of wisdom from our supervisor.

Are you being funny? Jot said.

You cannot tell?

I do not know you well. But I know one thing – you are smarter than our supervisor. Funnier, too.

Thanks, that is a relief. I apologize for my mistake.

No harm, Jot said. The tri looked across the grounds and found Bal le Tac. Though not admired for intelligence, few tris were as stupid as Bal le Tac. He was a male, bigger than normal – much bigger. He towered over Jot and the other tris. As further proof that the Gods had a sense of humor – and a rough one – Bal le Tac was dumb as a rock. He was proud of his size and strength and used those qualities whenever he could. If smarter, he would have attached himself to someone with a functioning brain. There were many candidates; Jot knew of several. But no, Bal le Tac was a big, potent male who could handle anything. He needed no partner or helper. Or a brain. He had muscle. That was all anyone needed. He was a hammer; every problem, a nail.

That explained Jot's status: stuck in a yard work crew, swimming in sweat and dirt, paid in small quantities of credits and brief, ineffective whippings. For the hundredth time, Jot chided itself – you believe you are so much smarter than others. So why work under an idiot like Bal le Tac? Hauling wood, digging holes, and scruffing around for a place to sleep and food to eat?

I should have stayed in that school. It was a waste of time, of course it was. The teachers were idiots, and the students were worse. Unbelievable! But do not complain. You are sweating, and you hurt. They pay you next to nothing. But your classmates, most of them, are dead, so matters could be worse.

You are drifting. You ask, how does a bright young tri end up here? The answer is, you end up here by giving your honest opinion, when asked, of the school, its teachers, its students, and its curriculum. Though they asked for your opinion, they did not in fact want it. Pity you did not figure that out.

If you are so smart, why did you never learn to lie? There is no need to be informative. Morons need kindness, not information. Instructing a moron is like squeezing water from a stone. Do not do that, it is tiresome and useless. Instead, tell them what they want to hear – that they are young, attractive, brave, handsome, and bright. Yet you could not do it. You are not an idiot, but you are doing an idiot's work. You can do better. 

So learn. Do not repeat that mistake.

Jot bent over and reached for another piece of wood. Look on the bright side – I might be stupid, but I am not dead. The students in that school were anuses, but their real sin was gullibility. That might be worse than stupidity.

The teachers praised them. Whereas I failed to graduate, they all succeeded, graduated, and went straight into the navy. Serve the empire, see the nebula, live an adventure! I went into lawn work. A year after that – was it already eight months ago? - the fleet threw them into combat against the humans at the Lovian Separate. The reports said their ships fired off their missiles. Then, without warning, the neighborhood blew up. 

Just like that – BOOM.

Jot stood up and grinned. Then it shrugged – well, they were idiots who wasted their lives, but they did not suffer, and their deaths were not in vain. Now everyone knows, a fight with humans is a good time to flee. You can fight another day. No one knew that then; we certainly know it now. 

Yes, now everyone – heroes and cowards – knows that. 

Jot laughed.

Next to him, Dar said, What is so funny?

Jot smirked. Everything. The tri laughed aloud.

From thirty meters away, Bal le Tac looked in Jot's direction and yelled, Get to work, asshole. 

Jot nodded, and Dar laid a motorized tool on the ground, stood up straight, and stretched its back. It glanced at Jot, then at the clock face on a nearby building.

Twelve minutes to go, Jot said.

Yeah. Say, you have plans for dinner?

Jot shook its head. No, I am saving up to eat on the weekend.

Dar looked around, concerned with being overheard. Listen, I heard a rumor – a kitchen was planning a big dinner when they got hit with a health complaint, so they will have to give the food away. I might go.

Yeah? Which kitchen?

Dar rubbed a thumb and finger together.

Jot almost rolled its eyes. Okay... how much for this rumor?

A credit.

What a bargain, Jot said. It groped in a pocket, extracted a small brown coin, and gave it to Dar.

The one up on Diro Chass, beyond Park of Law.

Diro Chass! That is a Freela kitchen, Jot said. Freela, right?

Dar thought for a moment. Yes, it is Freela.

I would not feed that shit to my pet gruk, even if I had a pet gruk, Jot said.

Dar looked disappointed. You want your credit back?

No, keep it. It will remind me to be more skeptical next time.

KAKIKANI SLOWLY MOVED around the bridge of his ship, the Blood Mother. Occasionally, he would stop and look over the shoulder of a crewman; there were six on the bridge. Most crewmen found that unnerving, since any information from their station was already summarized in one of the dozen colorful holograms aloft on the bridge.

Kakikani thought, if you are unnerved, is it because you doubt your performance of your duties? In that case, you need to study harder. I do not care how hard you must study, but I will have good performance, one way or the other.

Kakikani said, Navigation, status.

Several holograms shrank and moved to the side of the bridge while a 3D spatial map of the neighborhood enlarged and moved to the center.

The reply was crisp. Route and destination displayed, captain. Arrival in three minutes.

I see, Kakikani said. He turned – so here we are, after several weeks of sailing through the clouds, past the heat and light of Til La, through the hazardous cloud known as the Drift, to the periphery of the Bubble Vacant... right to the edge of Surana. We stayed in the clouds in sub-light to avoid emitting the blue flash of a jump, which no cloud can entirely conceal. That brought us this opportunity. And now the hologram shows us a Surana property – Turgay, a crappy little planet orbiting a crappy little star - six light days away. This stunt is dangerous because Turgay has probably peppered the surrounding space with sensors.

When will they see us?

From navigation he heard, Captain, we have arrived.

All stop. Shut down the primaries.

The bridge went nearly dark, lit only by the holograms. Kakikani stared at the spatial hologram as the Mother's passive sensors strained to penetrate the distance and the clouds and the darkness.

For twenty-eight hours nothing new showed on the hologram. He thought, how good are our sensors? Let us find out. Proceed, one tenth.

Propulsion called out, Ahead, one tenth.

Kakikani walked to the captain's bodyboard and leaned back into it, relaxing, the navigation hologram floating in front of him. He thought, this is when many Anbari fail, if they must wait in silence. He grinned, we are neither patient, nor silent. Most of us never learned patience.

But I did. I can do both.

He leaned back against the bodyboard and relaxed. How far can I go before detection? Of course, it is difficult to judge the situation. If they see me, they might be inclined not to react, especially if I pose no immediate danger. Right now, we look like an asteroid, so no problem.

When they left port, he had not expected to come this far. The mission called for an extended journey without resupply. But then a radiation accident – a silly fumble, really – injured a crewman. Kakikani ordered him to space himself, saving his rations for everyone else and allowing the ship to extend its journey.

Kakikani smiled – so here we are, drifting right into Suranan space. If I flip a missile at Turgay, it will force them to respond, which means they must activate their targeting radars. That might be informative. They could prevent that by activating targeting radars and firing at me.

So why wait to activate? Why wait and study us?

Fear, perhaps?

Kakikani called out to the bridge crew. We are drifting in low energy towards a planet, Turgay, part of the Suranan Empire. Anyone care to bet how close we might come before being detected?

Several grins showed among the crew, and four markers appeared on the hologram, displaying the points at which each bridge crew member thought Turgay's sensors would find them.

Then a fifth marker appeared on the ship itself.

Kakikani turned to the sensors station. Sensors, you think they have detected us?

Yes, sir.

You display a troubling lack of confidence, crewman.

Yes, sir, but I have my reasons. At that moment, a missile icon appeared on the hologram, and a harsh alarm echoed throughout the bridge.

Kakikani grinned. I see. I am forced to concede your point. Time to lethal detonation?

Sensors replied, In thirteen minutes, from this location, we will be in danger.

Very well, Kakikani said. Track the missile, record the information, and jump in eleven minutes.

You don't want to stay as long as possible? sensors said.

I want them to overestimate our fear, Kakikani said.

Sensors nodded and turned back to her station.

Minutes later, no longer needing to conceal, Blood Mother jumped back across the Drift towards Anbar.

JOHN ALLAN SAT AT A computer/VR station. A bulky helmet covering his eyes and ears showed him two hundred words translated between Suranan and Standard. Drilling vocabulary from another language, particularly one as different as Suranan, was mind-numbing. Allan reminded himself, for the hundredth time, do not complain.

He fought the urge to grind his teeth, then leaned back and took a deep breath. I'm good at this, at languages, everybody says so. So I can do this. And it lets me show off a bit. That's a good thing, right? I've learned thirty-six languages... at least, I think that's right. But you get tired. And what's worse, the languages in your head mix like ratatouille, so instead of the educated Russian spoken in Moscow, you end up with a malodorous linguistic stew, rather like dropping the birthday cake into the punch bowl, or speaking Russian like a Kazakh or, the Gods forbid, a Centaurian.

John Allan leaned back and thought, okay, get a grip. I need a break, that's all. His helmet showed him a cyber-keyboard. In VR, he reached for it. Two commands later, he had a 3D photo of someone named An de La.

Allan read the bio and scanned the photographs. He stared at one photo in which the Suranan male towered over a human admiral, an acquaintance, a man who was not small. Damn, he's a big bastard. An de La was well over two meters tall, a High Minister of Surana, one of several hundred, with portfolios in diplomacy, security, and treaties. An de La and the other High Ministers reported directly to the First Minister. Allan was not short at one point eight meters, but An de La, at two point two meters, was huge.

Allan grunted – contacting a new alien would be right in An de La's wheelhouse. And the man is blue. He's an alien, so why not? Blue's okay. At least he's not orange or yellow. Allan grinned. I wouldn't mind being blue. He laughed – I could do it too; I could be blue. I'm sure we could arrange it. We could dye me. He laughed again. Maybe I'd fit in better, and it might promote good relations with An de La. We could be Two Blue Guys. Someone could write a song, or maybe we could market a line of bath soap.

My family will stay at his house. That's kind of him. I need to befriend this guy.

As to turning blue... I'd better ask Muriel first. I'd look weird naked if I were blue. But then again... she might like it. She's comfortable with weird, which is why I can take her on missions. And why do that? Obviously, because I like having a brainy, buxom, blond bombshell in reach. 

Allan laughed out loud.

He continued reading – An de La lived a busy life. There were many entries regarding contacts and treaty negotiations between Surana and other political entities, none familiar to Allan. An de La led each effort; his name was on many documents, in the margins or on the signature page of final agreements. 

Allan leaned back and closed his eyes, shutting off the displays. This mission is a minor mess, with potential to turn into a grand mess. We are launching ourselves into the Orion Nebula, which sounds great, but we're babes in the woods out here. We have no clue about the layout, who lives here, and where the dangers lie.

We know it's a nebula, therefore it is dangerous. 

He shrugged – so? Situation normal. Try not to worry, John boy. If the whole thing goes south, we can jettison the effort and walk away. We'll have people on Surana, but no assets. We can walk away without losing much.

I should keep that thought to myself. It might frighten the worker bees. 

He sat there for a moment, enjoying the quiet, enjoying the insides of his eyelids – the Suranans translated our material in a big hurry. I wonder how much of it is absolute gibberish, complete crap – probably no less than half. We must be ready for anything. It will surprise me – no, it will stun me – if there are no surprises.

That too is one of my gifts. Better than most people, I can handle a complicated, fluid, changing environment. That's why they keep shipping me out. That is why I have never lived in my house... my shiny, brand new house with its grounds and trees and hummingbirds. And its new stove.

Allan realized his mind was wandering, so he thought to take more of a break. He removed the VR helmet and set it aside and looked around – I'm not yet used to this compartment. It is nice enough, as starship compartments go, a bit better than average.

Muriel was sitting at a table near the tiny kitchen area, idly fingering a