Dark Running (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 4) (17 page)

That got looks of profound respect from the newcomers. Making first contact with other worlds was The Big One for spacers, the ultimate adventure.

‘We will be discussing how best to approach Samart at a later date, once everyone has had time to study the briefing in detail,’ Alex said. ‘Though I can assure you we will
not
be dropping any wecips. That didn’t work, even back then – the Samartian response was to blow it up. Four of their ships then chased the Excorps ship for the next five days. The Excorps ship only just managed to stay ahead of them, and when they tried slowing down in the hope of opening a dialogue, the Samartians just fired missiles. After five days, for whatever reason, the Samartian ships turned back. Excorps rated them as estimated to be on a technological par with the League, but not ready to form a relationship. It was put on a ‘try again later’ list. Before they got around to it, though, another Excorps ship went to Marfik.’ A sober look. ‘I don’t need to tell you how
that
went.’

He certainly didn’t. It was taught in Fleet Academies; studying the most disastrous first contact in human history. The Marfikians had seized the Excorps vessel. Then they had back-engineered and built their own warships. They had no interest in any kind of diplomatic relationship, no concept of trade or cultural exchange. Their mindset was encapsulated quite simply in the statement, ‘You will obey our commands or we will destroy your cities.’

‘All we know of Samart, after that, is via third parties,’ Alex said. ‘Often contradictory, confused and unreliable. We know that their world is called Samart, also sometimes referred to as Zamat, and that they are a highly militarised culture with a reputation for ferocity and for high honour. There is convincing evidence that the Marfikians have attempted at least eight times to invade them but have been beaten back every time. Most recently, around sixty years ago, the Marfikians are said to have lost significant numbers of ships – estimates of how many vary between twenty and three hundred, but we
do
know that they pulled back a lot of other activity at that time and were quiet for around a decade, possibly having to rebuild their forces.

‘The best information we have is from Prisos.’ He indicated it on the star chart open on the command table. ‘Major industry, shipbuilding. Other worlds hate them because the Marfikians force them to send raw materials and goods to Prisos, but they are absolutely
not
willing collaborators. Prisos has a long, proud history, and they’ve lost seven of their cities in efforts to resist Marfikian domination. They hate them, passionately. Unfortunately they also hate
us
– long history to that which I won’t go into now, but you can take it that they won’t give us any help or information. Intelligence gathering there, though, confirms that the Marfikians have never been able to invade Samart. Prisos, obviously, wants to know how the Samartians have beaten them off, and they’ve tried to make contact with them themselves, many times. They get the same response, every time – an intercept by warships which signal a four word warning, ‘Kanta jay oris aballen’, understood as ‘Turn around immediately or we will destroy you.’

‘They mean it, too – the Prisosans have lost several ships. Frustratingly, the Prisosan ships don’t have great visual range and the Samartians never come up close enough for them to get visual footage. Their ships are said to be long and thin, like arrows, and they’re also said to have extraordinary manoeuvring ability, but we’re entering the realm of rumour, myth and legend, there. So, we know that they did not want to make contact with us eighteen hundred years ago. As far as we can tell they’ve never made friendly contact with anyone else. We know they beat off the Marfikians every time they try to invade, and we know that they see off Prisosan ships when they try to talk to them, too. That may be either because they are fundamentally hostile to all outsiders, or because they know that Prisos is under Marfikian rule and so consider them an enemy. If they are so hostile or isolationist that they won’t even entertain the thought of communication with any outsider, of course, we’re on a hiding to nothing. But the diplomats believe there is a chance they may be willing to talk to us – we too have fended off Marfikian invasion of our worlds, after all, through effective deterrent. The feeling is that they may perceive us as a power equal to their own, and if we can convince them we have something to offer that’s of benefit to them, on the basis that ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’, we may be able to achieve FEC. So...’ he looked around at them. ‘Questions? Comments?’

He did not mean, as they all understood, to invite them to express their opinions or for it to become a debate. He meant ‘questions to clarify anything I might not have made clear’ and ‘comments making productive operational points.’ Several hands were raised, just slightly. Alex looked at Martine Fishe, indicating that she had something to say.

‘You said this isn’t first contact, skipper,’ she observed. ‘And you just mentioned FEC – it lists FEC, FDC and FPC in the orders, so for those of us not yet familiar with exodiplomacy jargon...?’

She did not look, with that, at any of the newcomers who were trying so hard not to look overwhelmed.

‘Yes, of course,’ Alex gave a brief smile around at the Subs. ‘Exo-jargon 101. First contact is not an event, but a process. What we generally mean by ‘first contact’ is described by the Diplomatic Corps as FAC, First
Actual
Contact. That is defined as the first encounter in which greetings are transmitted and get a response. Firing missiles and blowing up the wecip was a pretty definite response from the Samartians, even if a non-verbal one, so that was the official FAC. F
E
C is First Effective Contact, defined as the point at which meaningful information is exchanged and understood, both ways. Like with Gide – the point of first actual contact was achieved when they responded to our broadcast with a greeting. As soon as we began exchanging signals we were in FEC. We then progressed to F
D
C, First Direct Contact, with a face-to-face in an encounter zone. That process, getting to that point, may take months, even years. With the Gide, of course, it was less than half an hour. And they had moved, within hours, into FPC, First Productive Contact, taking that relationship forward with further meetings, significant exchange of information and the opening of diplomatic dialogue. In this context that means that we’ll have achieved FEC if the Samartians give us any response at all beyond missiles and their four word warning. If we can persuade them to a face-to-face meeting we’ll have achieved FDC. If we want to score FPC we’ll have to establish some basis for ongoing communication, further visits or meetings at a neutral encounter venue. It goes on, after that, of course – the next phase is PDC, Primary Diplomatic Contact, in which a formal diplomatic agreement is reached, appointing ambassadors, which opens up discussion on visits to our worlds, exo-embassies and so on. We are not authorised to go that far – my remit stops at FPC, best case scenario, agreeing a process for future relationship building, like getting their permission for another ship to visit or for meetings at a venue of their choice. We will, of course, be giving exodiplomacy training to all our new personnel, but those are the basics.’

Martine gave a slight nod and ‘Thanks, skipper,’ and Alex moved on. This time, he looked at Shion. She was standing with the other Subs. There wasn’t room around the datatable for all of the officers, so when Alex called a briefing like this the senior officers sat at the table and the Subs stood behind them.

‘Comment, skipper,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have anything specific enough to be useful. Samart isn’t, you see, one of the ancient worlds. I believe it to be one of the Olaret Nestings – there’s a Zamarat listed amongst them, and though it’s hard to be sure on the basis of just four words, the language derivation would fit.’

Alex grinned at her. He was aware that what she’d just said had enough potential information for a doctoral thesis.

‘101?’ he requested, that being shorthand between them for a brief key-point explanation that would be understood by everyone aboard the ship.

‘Okay – the Olaret were an ancient civilisation that spanned eighteen worlds, known as the Olaret Archipelago. They didn’t have a capital world in the way that you do, but their oldest, highest prestige world was Perisos – now known as Prisos. When the plague came, they were prolific in their creation of survival species. The Cartash were the
first
to engineer a survival genome, but they only created one, as close to themselves as they could get while providing an immune system. The Olaret used a different strategy – they engineered a whole range of genomes, adapted for colony worlds which the Olaret set up for them with everything they’d need to go forward on their own, working on the basis that the ancient genome of the Olaret themselves would be entirely wiped out by the plague. Which, of course, it was. The colonies, though, known as ‘Nestings’, were spread far and wide, giving the Olaret heritage the best chance of survival. There were thirty eight Nestings altogether. The ones now in the League were Novatane, now called Novaterre,’ she smiled briefly at Alex, who looked intrigued at this revelation about the history of his homeworld, ‘Shanuk, now a subsidiary world in the Churin system, and Shayalle, now called Chielle. Another was Aquarine, now known as Quarus.’ She picked up on the ripple of amazement both amongst the officers and audible amongst the crew, and smiled more widely.

‘I’ll do a talk,’ she promised, which got a buzz of pleasure and a nod of thanks from Alex. ‘And I’ll give you a full briefing on the Olaret, if you think it would be useful. But the point is, the Nestings were never part of the Olaret culture – they were created, adapted for best chance of survival on their worlds, and left to their own devices. Zamarat is on that list – best guess, which I’d estimate at ninety nine per cent probability, is that that is Samart. What little we know of their language has apparent shared-root similarities with Prisosan and with Quarian, though it should be noted that the majority of exo-linguists regard drawing links between Prisosan and Quarian on the basis of four words as academically dubious. Most, in fact, would dismiss it as a nutter theory. But that, I’m sorry, is really all I know about Samart itself – there are no statues of the Zamarati in the Gardens of Memory because they commemorate the ancient peoples, not the genomes they created. There’s nothing specific about them in the archives – I read all the ancient archives as a child, and there’s nothing more in them than mention of Zamarat as one of the Olaret Nestings. And whatever culture they have evolved in the last ten thousand years, it isn’t anything like the Olaret, I can tell you that. The Olaret were never anything
like
militaristic; they are remembered as a very calm, tranquil people.’

‘Still, it’s helpful to know about origins, thank you.’ Alex said. ‘And if there is that shared heritage, perhaps, some potential for relationship building between Samart and Prisos in the future, too.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it, dear boy,’ said Buzz. ‘Shared heritage tends to make worlds more inclined to fall out than bring them together.’

‘I’m indulging in optimism, there,’ Alex admitted. ‘I know it won’t happen in my lifetime, but I have to believe that someday, somehow, we
will
succeed in driving the Marfikians back, liberating the worlds they tyrannise over and forging peaceful alliance with them ourselves. Yes, okay,’ he conceded as Buzz raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘But if we don’t believe it
can
happen, there’s no chance it ever will. And right here, right now, at least, we have a chance to help make a tiny step in that direction. We mustn’t get carried away, of course – the best we can hope for, really, is that the Samartians are willing to give us some technology that will make our own worlds safer. Realistically, on form to date, we stand much more chance of being chased off without even the possibility of establishing a dialogue. But we will, as always, plan for the best and train for the worst.’

He looked at Davie, who was sitting with his legs outstretched, arms folded, in a pose of ostentatious boredom.

‘I don’t have anything to add at this stage,’ he said, ‘other than to comment that whoever is responsible for that so-called intelligence report...’ a derisory finger indicated the Diplomatic Corps briefing, ‘needs a rocket up the backside.

‘I know this is a scratch job,’ Davie continued, in withering tones, ‘But it looks like something put together by a high school kid on work experience, copying and pasting out of datanet.’

Those remarks were being made on record which would inevitably get back to the senior diplomatic personnel involved. They were typically brash, Davie not being inclined to suffer fools at all, let alone gladly.

Alex rather envied him that. Professional decorum meant that he couldn’t say things like that himself, however much he might want to. Lacking Davie’s super-fast reading ability, he had not yet been able to go through the briefing in detail. What he
had
seen, though, from the contents and a flick-through, had been less than impressive. It had looked to him, too, as if someone had put together the briefing on the standard format, copying in all the usual exodiplomacy policies and advisories along with appendices containing everything that had come up in an archive and intelligence-file search on Samart. There was no real analysis, only the kind of bullet-point summary that any PA software could generate, and some concluding remarks that read like the wrap-up to a student essay.

‘I’m sure they’ve sent us all the information that they have,’ Alex said. ‘On the expectation that we will evaluate and analyse that for ourselves.’

‘Then it should have come as a data-pack,’ said Davie. ‘Not labelled as a briefing.’

Alex couldn’t help laughing, as Davie’s tone was as censorious as a grumpy old man doing a ‘Why oh why!’ about some aspect of society today. Davie laughed too, at that – one of the things that made them friends was that wordless understanding. Alex’s splutter of mirth made Davie laugh at himself, too.