John Scalzi - The Observers

“Greetings, Earthlings,” Wilson said.

Liu looked politely puzzled; Lowen smiled. “How long have you been waiting to use that?” she asked.

“For at least a dozen years,” Wilson said.

“Was it everything you wanted it to be?” Lowen asked.

“It really was,” Wilson said.

“It was an interesting trade session you had today,” Liu said, diplomatically.

“That’s one way of putting it, yes,” Wilson said.

“So what happened back there?” Lowen said.

“You mean, why did a routine trade agreement fly off the rails, embarrassing the Colonial Union in front of the observers whom it wanted to impress with its diplomatic acumen?” Wilson said. He noted Liu’s expression to his summation of the day’s events, discreet though it was.

“Yes, that would be the event to which I was referring,” Lowen said.

“The answer is implicit in the question,” Wilson said. “You were there. The Burfinor know something of the Colonial Union’s predicament with Earth. I suppose they figured that we would be motivated to make a deal of any sort in order not to embarrass ourselves in front of you.”

“It didn’t work,” Lowen said.

“Yes, well,” Wilson said. “The Burfinor don’t know Ambassador Abumwe very well. She’s persistent, and she doesn’t like surprises.”

“What will happen now?” Liu asked.

“I expect that Ambassador Abumwe will go back tomorrow, inform Doodoodo that any new terms are entirely unacceptable and as politely as possible threaten to walk out of the negotiations,” Wilson said. “At which point our Burfinor friend is likely to walk back the request for new terms, because while it would be nice for the Colonial Union to get our hands on some sweet new biomedical scanners, the Burfinor have a low-grade border war simmering with the Eroj and are running low on ships. So they need this trade agreement more than we do, and if it fails, they lose more.”

“Interesting,” Liu said again.

“We didn’t want you to be bored,” Wilson said.

“You also didn’t want us to see a diplomatic negotiation where the Colonial Union would be at an actual disadvantage,” Lowen said, looking directly at Wilson.

“And you’re surprised by this?” Wilson asked, looking at both Liu and Lowen equally.

“No,” Liu said. “Although I’ll admit to being mildly surprised that you admit it.”

Wilson shrugged. “I’m a glorified tech support, not a trained diplomat,” he said. “I’m allowed to say obvious things.”

“Your boss might not be happy with you saying ‘obvious things’ to us,” Lowen noted.

Liu opened his mouth before Wilson did. “On the contrary, I think Ambassador Abumwe knew exactly what she was doing when she assigned Lieutenant Wilson as our liaison,” he said.

“She’s the opposite of stupid,” Wilson agreed.

“So I am learning,” Liu said, and then yawned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Space travel is still new to me and I’ve discovered that it wears me out. I believe I will get some rest.”

“How are you finding your quarters?” Wilson asked.

“They’re cozy,” Liu said.

“What a diplomatic way of putting that,” Wilson said.

Liu laughed. “Yes, well. That’s my job,” he said. He excused himself and exited.

“Nice fellow,” Wilson said, as he left.

“An excellent fellow,” Lowen said. “One of the best diplomats in the world, and one of the nicest people you’d want to meet. He even gave up his private berth for Franz to use and roomed with Thierry. Franz got a bit claustrophobic. Said he’d seen prison cells that were larger.”

“It’s probably true,” Wilson said.

“The irony is that the person who is going to suffer most for it is Thierry,” Lowen said. “Liu is brilliant and wonderful, but he also snores like a freight train. Thierry’s got to suffer through that now. Don’t be surprised if for the next few days you see him look very, very tired.”

“You could prescribe him something to get to sleep,” Wilson said. “You’re a doctor, after all.”

“I don’t think my scripting privileges extend past Neptune,” Lowen said. “And anyway, Franz travels with a white noise generator to help him get to sleep. He’s already given it to Thierry for the duration. He should be fine. Should be.”

“Good,” Wilson said. “And you? How are your quarters?”

“They suck,” Lowen said. “And Luiza already claimed the bottom bunk.”

“It’s a hard life you lead,” Wilson said.

“If people only knew,” Lowen said. “Speaking of which, who do I have to kill to get a drink around here?”

“Fortunately, no one,” Wilson said. “There’s an officers lounge three decks down. It offers a regrettable selection of terrible light beers and inferior spirits.”

“I can fix that,” Lowen said. “I travel with a bottle of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig in my case.”

“That’s not necessarily healthy,” Wilson said.

“Relax,” Lowen said. “If I were genuinely an alcoholic, I’d take along something much cheaper. I brought it on the off chance I might have to butter up one of you folks and pretend to be friendly and such.”

“Thank God you didn’t have to do that, ” Wilson said.

“Before we arrived, I thought I might ask Ambassador Abumwe if she’d like a drink,” Lowen said. “But I don’t really get the sense she’s the sort to appreciate a good buttering up.”

“I think you’ve accurately assessed the ambassador,” Wilson said.

“You, on the other hand,” Lowen said, pointing at Wilson.

“I am all about the buttering, Dr. Lowen,” Wilson assured her.

“Wonderful,” Lowen said. “First stop, the crawl space you folks laughingly call officers berths on this ship. Second stop, officers lounge. Hopefully, it is larger.”

The officers lounge was larger, but not by much.

“Does the Colonial Union have something against personal space?” Lowen asked, hoisting the Laphroaig onto the very small table. The officers lounge was empty, except for Lowen, Wilson and the Laphroaig.

“It’s an old ship,” Wilson explained while selecting a pair of cups from the lounge’s cupboard. “In the old days, people were smaller and appreciated a good snuggle.”

“I am suspicious of the veracity of your statement,” Lowen said.

“That’s probably wise,” Wilson said. He came over to the table and set down the cups. They made a click as they connected with the table.

Lowen, puzzled, reached for one of the cups. “Magnetic,” she said, lifting the cup.

“Yes,” Wilson said. “The artificial gravity doesn’t frequently cut out, but when it does it’s nice not to have cups floating about randomly.”

“What about the stuff in the cups?” Lowen asked. “What happens to that?”

“It gets slurped frantically,” Wilson said, picking up his own cup and waggling it in front of Lowen. Lowen eyed Wilson sardonically, opened the Laphroaig, tipped in a finger and a half and gave herself an equal amount. “To artificial gravity,” she said, in a toast.

“To artificial gravity,” Wilson said.

They drank.

Drink two, some minutes later:

“So, is it easy?” Lowen said.

“Is what easy?” Wilson asked.

Lowen waved at Wilson’s body. “Being green.”

“I can’t believe you just went there,” Wilson said.

“I know,” Lowen said. “Jim Henson and several generations of his descendants are now rolling in their graves, many dozens of light-years away.”

“It is a funny joke,” Wilson said. “Or at least was, the first six hundred times I heard it.”

“It’s a serious question, though!” Lowen said. “I’m asking from a place of medical curiosity, you know. I want to know if all those so-called improvements they give you Colonial Defense Forces soldiers are actually all that.”