Mike Resnick - Birthright

There had been a lot of stipulations. The aliens must be informed that Man's presence should not be

construed as any form of weakness or surrender, but merely a willingness to discuss the situation across a

conference table instead of a battlefield. The aliens must realize that paltry as Man's armaments were, the race was in no way willing to leave itself totally defenseless. The aliens must understand that the use of a Galactic T-pack was only a temporary affectation, not a permanent reversal of long-standing human policy. The aliens must understand this, the aliens must do that, the aliens must yield on such-and-such a point...

Thome smoothed over as many points of disagreement as he could, then returned to the aliens with those demands which were not negotiable. The aliens gave in on a number of points, and he finally persuaded Man to yield on the remainder.

It had taken almost three years to set up the conference, years during which Man had lost seven more worlds, years during which Thome despaired almost daily of bringing the project to fruition, but at last the appointed moment had arrived. He looked around, smiling at the humanoid delegation from Emra, nodding to a passing Torqual, bowing low to a crystalline being from far Atria. “It's going to work!” he whispered excitedly to his companion. “I can feel it in my bones. Look at them, Lipas. They're not out for blood. They want an end to the killing as much as we do.” Lipas surveyed the room. “It's possible,” he admitted. “I shook hands with one of those Leptimus V creatures, and it didn't even flinch. A couple of years ago it would have raced off to its equivalent of a bathroom to wash away the taint of a Man's touch.” A three-legged Pnathian lumbered over to Thome, an unbelievably complex T-pack arrangement attached to its helmet.

“I have been here for almost half a day,” it said. “When will the conference begin?” “There are almost eighty races that have not yet arrived,” said Thome. “Once all are in attendance we shall proceed with our business, Ambassador.” “And your delegation?” asked the Pnathian. “Is it here yet?” “No,” said Thome. “It is one of the delegations we are waiting for.” The Pnathian stared at him for a moment, then walked off to join one of the Lodinites. In another two hours all but fourteen races had arrived, and Lerollion of Canphor VII, the leader of the Canphor Twins, approached Thome.

“Where is your delegation?” he said, and even the T-pack seemed to resonate with anger. “They'll be here,” said Thome. “They are coming from almost half a galaxy away. I don't think being a few hours late constitutes a breach of trust.” “Nonetheless, we cannot delay the conference any longer,” said Lerollion. “Have you any reason why we should not begin without your delegation?” “Absolutely,” said Thome. “My delegation is the whole reason we're meeting here today.” “Just the same,” said Lerollion, “it is time to begin.”

The Canphorite walked to the rostrum and, turning on the amplifier, requested the delegations to take

their seats.

“Delegates,” he said, “I, Lerollion of Canphor VII, now declare this conference to be in order. The clerk will read the roll.

The clerk, a squat little being from Robel, began calling out the names of the worlds, from hot, dusty Aldebaran II to Zeta Piscium IX. Only six delegations were absent. “I had written an introductory speech,” said Lerollion, “a speech of friendship and conciliation. With no offense to these assembled delegates, the speech was not written on your behalf, for you are all my friends, as well you know. It was written for one particular race of beings"—here he paused long enough to cast a hostile look at Thome—"a race from which I perhaps expected too much.” “And yet,” he continued, “if I am to be disappointed, the fault is undoubtedly my own, for nothing in that race's history has given me any indication that it would either seek, recognize, or appreciate the words I had prepared. It is a race of barbarians, a race that is being given one last chance to join our peaceful community of worlds. I do not know why, under the circumstances, this race was not the first delegation to arrive. I do not know why it has not arrived yet. But I do know what the inevitable result will be should this race offend us this one last time.” He paused. “I see that Thome of the race of Man is requesting the floor. It is given.”

The Canphorite sat down, and Thome walked up to the amplifier. “I am aware that the regrets and impatience Lerollion has expressed echo the sentiments of many of you,” he said. “This is understandable, and perfectly justified. The race of Man has indeed brought most of its current sorrows upon itself by its actions over several millennia of galactic rule and misrule. But it is for precisely that reason that this conference has been arranged. We come to you with new insights, new humility, new—”

“But you don't come to us at all,” said an Emran “Where is your delegation?” demanded a Domarian. “They will be here, I assure you,” said Thome. “Characterize our flaws and faults in any way you wish, but grant us a certain degree of intelligence and self-preservation. My delegation will be here because there is no viable alternative.”

“In that you are correct,” said a Castorian. “There is no viable alternative.” “Then let us proceed in a spirit of brotherhood,” said Thome. “I wish only to assure you of our sincerity. I now return the floor to Lerollion of Canphor VII.” He walked back to the empty area reserved for his delegation, and seated himself next to Lipas. “Any word from them yet?” he asked nervously. Lipas shook his head.

“Well, damn it, they'd better get here soon!” snapped Thome. “Did it ever occur to you that Lerollion might be right—that they're not going to show up?”

“They've got to,” said Thome firmly. “If they don't make an appearance, it's the end of everything.”

One after another, the alien delegations took the floor. Some of the speeches were conciliatory, some were noncommittal, some were overtly hostile. For hours they droned on, as Thome waited for his delegation.

Darkness fell, and Lerollion rose to speak once again. “Several of the assembled races must indulge in a recess for purposes of sleep and nourishment,” he said. “However, if Thome of the race of Man will still offer his assurance that his delegation is expected to arrive, I am prepared to wait for them.” “I don't know what has delayed them,” said Thome, “but I know they will come.” “I understand that the psychology of your race is such that their appearance here will be extremely painful and humiliating to them, which is why I offer to wait,” said Lerollion. “However, if they are not here by sunrise tomorrow, I have orders to return to my home world, regardless of whether or not the conference continues.”

With that, he recessed the meeting and took his seat. As night fell, Thome dozed sporadically. From time to time he awoke with a start, expecting to see his delegation entering the huge hall, but except for Lipas, Lerollion, and ten or twelve other beings, it was empty.

At daybreak Lerollion left, and most of the other alien delegations walked out with him. A handful remained until midday, and the ambassador from Quantos IX stayed until twilight. Then Thome found himself alone with Lipas. “Come along,” said the smaller man gently. Thome shook his head vigorously.

“But it's obvious that they're not going to come,” said Lipas. “Go ahead if you want,” said Thome. “I'll wait here by myself. Somebody should be here to greet them.” Lipas looked at his friend, then sighed and walked out of the hall. “They'll come,” said Thome softly, staring at the door through which no one would ever enter again. “They must come.”