The Coverture Incident

Illustration by Randy Asplund-Faith

It was another warm and humid Marguy afternoon. Joe Swamp, the planet’s Bureau of Alien Affairs Station Chief, was whiling away the time in climate controlled comfort.

He was slouched back in his chair, sneakers parked on his desk and a cyberloupe worn like a headband, deep in a game of Bug Hunt. In the air before him a considerably more muscular and athletic version of himself glided soundlessly through an alien forest, the beaded leather strap of a quiver crossing his brown chest and a nanomic compound bow in his hands, an arrow already nocked. A faint rustling sound came from somewhere to his avatar’s right. He whirled smoothly toward it, his long braided black ponytail whipping through the air. That detail was one of the few where Joe and his simulacrum were exactly identical; some were idealized, others were quite the opposite. Joe would never be caught dead wearing a breechclout in real life.

His eyes narrowed in calculation. His avatar’s did the same. That sound had to be either a swordbeak or a hunny hiding there in the underbrush. He could call out. If it was a hunny it would answer, and he wouldn’t take the risk of shooting it. But the sound of his voice could make a swordbeak spring like a javelin. The real and virtual Joes remained tense and silent, waiting.

The leafy cover shivered. Something was about to—

“Joe! Bull is here to see you!”

At the very instant he was distracted by Mabel’s voice a blur of motion erupted from the greenery. Joe flinched, and his avatar swung his bow up, aimed, and loosed his bolt in one fluid, deadly motion.

“Aw hell,” Joe grumbled, staring at the hunny sprawled on the dirt, his arrow spiking it to the ground. The creature’s doelike brown eyes regarded Joe’s avatar with hurt surprise. “Why you shoot me, you?” it gasped breathlessly. “Why man why?”

There went a thousand points for hitting a harmless sentient. He shook his head and sighed. Some Indian he was. It was a damn good thing he didn’t have to depend on hunting for his survival the way his ancestors had; he would’ve ended up either starving or eating a lot of neighborburger.

“Joe?” Mabel’s voice blared again, its slightly freaked edge showing how nervous having Bull hanging around made her. Six months on Marguy and the Guys still unnerved her.

Joe snapped his fingers to make the game disappear. “Send him in,” he said, hauling his feet off the desk and sitting up straight. Bureaucrat on duty.

Bull ducked through the doorway a moment later. Joe watched the big alien approach his desk with his usual exaggerated caution, curved black toe-talons clicking against the permaplast tiles. Except for the pair of thick-framed spectacles hanging from a heavy chain around his neck, and bouncing against his massive chest with every ponderous footfall, he looked like some old time movie monster stalking lunch.

“Good to see you, Bull. What’s up?” Joe put a smile on his face with practiced ease. Losing all those points in the game still bugged him, even though he had just been wasting time with it. As for Bull’s appearance, which had no doubt sent Mabel, straight for the bottle of sherry she kept hidden in one drawer of her desk, that didn’t bother him at all.

The guymarguyimaranguyital—Guy for short—ducked its broad armored head, the fanged maw on the top front of its bony skull opening in his species’ somewhat unnerving approximation of a human smile. That mouth was big and toothy enough to eat something the size of a whole pig the way Joe would munch a hot dog, and its only function was eating.

When Bull spoke his voice issued from a narrow slit below the two big glassy black eyes protected by a horny crest at the center of his face. Below that, down where a human’s mouth and chin would have been, was the plated bulge of its braincase. Bull’s voice was soft and cultured, totally at odds with his fearsome appearance. Joe always thought of them as looking like tail-less velociraptors with a gorilla’s upper body shape and their heads on upside down, and sounding like a cross between a butler and a reference librarian.

“Good day to you, Mister Joe. As to what’s up, lamentably I must inform this is not a mere social call.” Although Bull was the Guy who conducted most of his kind’s diplomatic dealings with humans, they all talked that way. Their native language had been developed not so much as a means of communication—they were all moderately telepathic—but as an artform.

Humans had landed on their planet’s single small continent armed with heavy-duty translator progs and the wrongheaded expectation that a race which didn’t even use fire would be unsophisticated primitives with crude language skills and a simplistic approach to the creation of a treaty. Within two days of first contact the Guys were answering in perfect Anglish limited only by the number of words they had heard so far, and talking about codicils and mutually beneficial entente. The palm-sized cybotic dictionary Bull had been given led to their quite often using Anglish words the humans on Marguy had to look up.

“Please sit down. Take a load off.”

“Thank you.” Bull lowered his 250+ kilo body onto the sturdy hassock there to provide seating for his kind. “Regretfully I am again compelled to protest trespass by your machines on the Coverture.”

Joe wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t lessen his irritation at having to once again deal with this ongoing problem. In spite of himself he took some of it out on Bull. “They’re not my machines, Bull. You know that.”

“I do. Yet is it not your task, indeed your vocation, to see that the terms of our treaty with your kind are honored?”

“It is.” Joe knew he’d made a mistake taking that tack. Now Bull would go through the entire situation piece by piece.

“Was it not agreed by all signatory parties that no human machines were to be permitted inside the boundaries of the Coverture?”

“That was the agreement.”

Bull spread his sinewy, three-fingered, taloned hands in an entirely human gesture, the obsidian discs of his eyes unblinking and direct. “Then why do these infractions continue, Mister Joe?”

Joe knew it was because Frank Testa, BioCosmoTech’s site operations director, couldn’t resist trying to gather biologic materials from the huge protected area the Guys had named the Coverture. Because a KEEP OUT sign drew humans like road kill drew crows and flies.

“As I’ve told you before, the automated gathering machines have a hard time recognizing the border of the Coverture and make occasional accidental incursions.”

Bull toyed with the glasses hanging around his thick neck as if considering putting them on to better examine this lame excuse. “This happens too frequently to be an accident, Mister Joe. We are compelled to hypothesize that it is being perpetrated on purpose.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Joe replied, lying through his teeth. Testa kept saying it was one of those shithappens things, but he didn’t believe it any more than Bull did.

“I am sure I need not remind you that there is no honor in a willful breach of a sacred covenant. Nor can there be any real gain from such malfeasance, only loss.”

“I know, we’ve been over all this before.”

“Yet these incursions continue. No infraction can be considered inconsequential. These are not minor annoyances, but abrogations of the contract we have entered.”

Joe knew how Bull felt, and knew that there was no way to make him understand that these were minor annoyances compared to the raw deal some races got from dealing with BCT and their smaller ilk; that without a Bureau of Alien Affairs agent like him there to referee, Frank would be going wherever and taking whatever he wanted whether they liked it or not. Sure they deserved stricter compliance, but they could be getting one hell of a lot worse.

“I’ll talk to Frank and register your complaint. I’ll also see that you get some sort of compensation for these, ah, most recent lapses. Fair enough?” “I am sure you will ensure fair redress. At the risk of sounding tiresomely redundant, I must point out that such palliative measures should not be required in the first place.”

Bull stood up, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. “We have trusted you and your kind by signing a treaty which allows you to dwell on and take things from our home. We have most certainly gained from this arrangement.” He lifted his glasses to illustrate that point. “It would be in the best interests of both our races for this entente to continue. Still, for such a relationship to endure our trust must not be betrayed.”

“We’re doing just fine here,” Joe insisted. “We’ve just got a few problems to be worked out, that’s all.”

“Those are very nearly the precise words you used last time I came to lodge protest.”

Guys never forgot anything. “Because it’s true.”

The gigantic native stood there gazing at Joe, his expression unreadable. The faces of the Guys were too alien and immobile to offer clues as to their thoughts or mood, but sometimes their posture gave hints. Bull’s body settled into what Joe thought of as their pensive crouch. He could be thinking, or even communing with who knew how many other Guys. After a few moment he stood straighter and scratched the armored bulge of the braincase down below his gleaming black eyes.

Joe relaxed at seeing this. It meant Bull was reminding himself that he didn’t know all there was to be known about humans, and so may have been mistaken in his assumptions. Caution and deliberation were two hallmarks of Guy personality—thank the Great Spirit for that! A hotheaded Guy would be hell on wheels.

“If you tell me this it must be true,” Bull intoned.

Joe made himself smile. “It’s my job to protect the interests of your people, and I’m doing the best I can.” In other words I may be shading the truth a bit, but I’m doing it for your own good.

Bull nodded, a human habit the Guys had adopted early on. “Then I shall depart and cease being an impediment to the performance of your duties. Good day to you.” He headed toward the door, taking the cautious, almost mincing steps the Guys took around fragile human artifacts, moving with the focused care of someone trying to drive a tank down the aisle of a china shop.

This was manners, not a lack of coordination between the two separate entities of which Bull and his kind were made. The highly intelligent, eminently reasonable person who Joe knew as Bull was a cat-sized symbiote residing in that armored braincase. The body carrying him was that of a creature which when feral and unoccupied they called an imarguytnarguyakh or imar for short; a deadly predator which made the terrestrial grizzly bear look like a cuddly puppy in comparison. Bull’s control of his imar body was absolute and perfect. His kind had lived that way for thousands of years.

Joe let out a sigh of relief when Bull closed the door after himself. It wasn’t that the Guys were dangerous; for all their fearsome aspect they had never showed a single sign of violent or warlike tendencies. It was more a matter of them being like some of the tribal elders he’d grown up around back on the Rez. They adhered to a strict code of rules and expectations real people dealing with real situations in the real world could almost never meet. There were times Joe wished they were meaner. It would make his job a lot easier.

He got up and headed for the refreshment center at one side of his office, hoping he had time for a soothing cup of something before Frank Testa turned up. That was usually the way it worked. Not long after the rock left the hard place turned up.

He opened the wooden box he used to store his flat, a dried plant from Tefford II used to make a stimulating and yet centering tea. One of the thousands of alien biologies which were BCT’s stock in trade, it cost twenty times as much as the finest estate-grown teas and coffees from Earth. Frank had introduced him to the stuff, and in doing so given him a taste for a pleasure he really couldn’t afford.

The box was nearly empty. He wistfully eyed the small heap of purple leaves left in one corner, knowing he should just close the box and fix something else. He didn’t really need to drink tlat, and as long as he wasn’t out he wouldn’t need to think about how he really shouldn’t ask Frank for more. The site director was always doing things to make him feel obligated. Helping him would only make his situation more difficult.

Just as he was closing the box Testa came breezing into his office without warning. Time and again he’d asked Mabel to at least give him a “Frank’s here,” but somehow that never happened. Probably because she worked for Frank and not him.

“Hey there, Joe!” Testa boomed cheerfully. “You brewing up some tlat? Stunning.” He reached in his jacket pocket and produced a red and silver packet with the royal blue BCT logo on it. “Here, you must be getting bloody low, the way I keep drinking it up on you.” He tossed the pack toward Joe, who caught it by reflex.

“That’s OK, Frank,” he began. “1 really don’t need any.”

“What’s need got to do with it? Hell, it’s the least the company can do considering the great job you’re doing, Chief.”

Joe stood there holding the pack, his face giving away no more than Bull’s would. Sure he was chief—and only—BAA agent here on Marguy. But he always had the nagging feeling that Frank used the title in subtle mockery of his Native American heritage. The problem was Frank had one of those bluff, always grinning faces and superior attitude that made everything he said sound like a joke at someone’s expense.

Still, part of his job was to get along with the man. That was his place, to be caught between the simple black & white world of the Guys and the cunning, calculating corporate grey zone Frank represented.

“Two tlats coming up,” he said, turning to brew them.

Shortly afterward they were seated in the easy chairs over by the curved perspyl wall which made up one corner of Joe’s office. An office Frank had given him to use, one a hundred times roomier and better appointed than the cramped, stuffy prefab hut the BAA had provided. BCT’s onsite accommodations were in the upper level of a huge special purpose lander, and first class all the way, BAA’s something closer to steerage. The small sleeping compartment off his office was bigger than the entire hut.

Frank had taken off his hat, flopped into a chair and parked his boots on the table, making himself at home. He looked like the Great White Hunter taking a break between safaris—what with his sun-browned skin, sun-bleached hair, fussy white mustache and permanent hunter’s squint. All he lacked was an elephant rifle and native bearers. This was an image he cultivated; he also affected a lot of early 20th century British slang to go with his appearance. Joe knew Testa had actually grown up in Cleveland.

Testa took a slug of tlat, sighed with pleasure, then regarded Joe over the rim of his cup. “I hear my old chum Bull was just here to see you.” “How did you hear that?” Joe asked, not really expecting a straight answer. Testa always seemed to know everything, but treated him like a mushroom. He could see the shit-shovel coming, even in the dark.

The site director’s ever-present grin widened. “Oh, I hear things. You know how it is.”

“I’m learning.”

“That’s because you’re sharp, Joe. Damned sharp.”

Joe lobbed the compliment back. “So are you, Frank. That’s why I have to wonder why your gatherers keep trespassing on the Coverture.”

Testa chuckled. “I may be a grade A site ramrod, old boy, but those machines aren’t very bright.”

“Their onboards may be limited, but we both know they use the minisat for navigation and can plot their position to the nearest square meter. Bull and his people aren’t very happy about these incursions. I told him I’d lodge a complaint.”

“And now you have.” He stroked his mustache as if in thought. “But I bet he wasn’t as paffed about it as last time, was he?”

“No, not really,” Joe admitted before remembering that honesty wasn’t always the best policy. “Still, he’s very concerned about the treaty being broken.”

“It hasn’t been.” Testa waved his free hand as if shooing away the Guys’s concerns like annoying insects. “Oh, it might get dinged up a bit here and there, but that’s all. None of our gatherers have gone more than a klick or so onto their precious Coverture. You know that.”

“I’m not sure the Guys would understand the concept of their treaty just getting ‘dinged up a little,’ Frank,” Joe replied with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“Look, old chap,” Frank said in a paternal tone, pulling his feet off the table and sitting up straight. Joe knew this meant he was going into ‘fatherly advice given man to man’ mode, and would try to make him feel like an uncertain neophyte. Which he was. “I know this is your first time in charge and you want to do it up right.”

“I want to do right by my charges.”

“Well, you are. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for over twenty-five years now, both on and off Earth, and this is the way things always work out here in the field. We strike a deal with the natives to get the ball rolling, then we do a bit of adjusting for windage to make sure it’s headed toward our goal. Like here. I wasn’t happy about letting such a large tract be declared off-limits, but they didn’t seem to want to budge so I let it slide. The treaty says we can’t go in there to gather, so we don’t.” He lowered his voice to a conspirational level. “But if one of our ’chines kind of accidentally nibbles its way onto the edges of all that land sometime, well, what’s the harm?”

Again he was as much as saying it was done on purpose without actually stating it flat out. Testa was, as Joe’s mother used to say, slicker than snot on a mitten. “They see it as a violation,” Joe answered stiffly. “Which it is.”

Frank shook his head, his expression pitying. “Look, just because they yell about it doesn’t mean a bloody thing. This is all a game, Joe. They bitch. We slip them a few extra goodies to make nice. After it’s happened a few times we go to them and say, ‘Sorry chaps, but we just can’t seem to follow that line. Deuced nuisance, I know. What say we redraw it to save us all some trouble?’ By then they’re so used to us going over the line anyway, they’ll figure their best bet is to get a good price for letting us have what we’re already taking.” He spread his hands, blue eyes twinkling in triumph. “Everybody wins.”

Joe didn’t know if he was supposed to argue against this version of operating procedure, or how. This was only his third posting, and his first as something more than a minor underling in a large office on a heavily populated planet. His rather loosely defined mandate was to act as an advocate for the natives and a buffer between them and BCT, and the only enforcement power he had was the ability to write a strongly written censure that would take months to get back to the Agency.

Most of his experience working in the bureau agreed with Frank’s assertion that treaty terms were to some degree mutable. It seemed the best he could do was continue on the way he had so far—trying to keep the aliens happy while trying to keep from alienating Frank. He had the feeling that as an enemy, Testa would be serious.

“Everybody wins,” he echoed. “I guess I can see that.”

Frank beamed at him. “Stunning. Like I said, you’re one smart chap.”

“But maybe you shouldn’t try to play the game so fast,” Joe continued, playing this round of the game to manage at least a draw. “Bull and the others are at least as smart as we are. What you see as clever maneuvering they may well perceive as an insult to their intelligence.”

Testa’s grin stiffened, a spark of irritation, maybe even anger lighting in his eyes and then being pinched out. Joe knew he considered the Guys to be little more than smart animals, and he didn’t like the implication that they might be smarter than he was. “Sure, Chief. I get the picture. Slow down the foreplay.”

Joe found that an odd turn of phrase. It seemed to imply that sooner or later someone was going to get screwed. “I suppose you could put it that way.”

Testa grinned and spread his hands. “Then call me Mr. Slow and Easy.” He stood up and headed for the door. Halfway there he stopped, snapped his fingers, and turned back. “Ah yes, I was wondering if you could do me a smallish favor.”

“Depends on what it is,” Joe answered cautiously. Now he’d see what kind of strings were attached to that pack of tlat.

“Oh, it’s nothing that’ll compromise your position, don’t worry about that. You know we have a supply ship coming, the Tahiti. It’s already insystem and should make orbit sometime this evening.”

“I knew that.” So far so good.

“Well, guess who’s aboard? It seems that Serena Caltefores herself is coming to check out our little operation.”

Joe frowned at the name. “Is she—”

Frank nodded. “That’s right, she’s the daughter of and heir to Ramon Caltefores, founder, CEO, and chief stockholder of BCT.”

“Why’s she coming here?”

Testa rolled his eyes skyward. “Probably to be an utter pain in the ass—boss’ darling daughter and all that rot. The thing is, I’m going to have my hands more full than a blind strip club owner auditioning topless waitresses, and was wondering if mayhaps you’d give her a tour. You know, keep her out of my hair for a while.”

Joe asked the obvious question. “Why me?”

“My people are going to be busy with incoming and outgoing shipments. You know this place as well as anybody, and a hell of a lot more about the Guys. All you have to do is squire her around a bit.” He leered and winked. “Hey, this may not be a hot date with a sure thing, but what the hell? I’ve heard she doesn’t look like much, but she is filthy rich. In my book a tart with that much jam in the bank could look like a bloody Guy—and I mean the kind that live here—and still be worth bush-hogging.”

While Joe found Frank’s tone and attitude offensive, it had been almost seven months since he’d spent any time with an unattached woman. He doubted that a rich, almost certainly spoiled rotten heiress like Ramon Caltefores’s daughter would find an underpaid civil servant like himself particularly interesting. Still, a woman in her position must have some clout, and maybe he could convince her to make Frank take the Guys’s borders more seriously—and wouldn’t that roast Testa’s ass? Besides, other than some paperwork, what else did he have to do tomorrow?

“Sure, I guess so,” he said with more reluctance than he felt.

“Stunning! I owe you, Chief. We’re supposed to get a full load of mail and supplies I need for prepping my shipments tonight. Her highness plans to descend sometime tomorrow morning. I’ll have Mabel give you a ding when I have an exact time.” He consulted his complet. “Speaking of time, I’ve got to run.”

“Sure, Frank,” Joe said, standing up and pretending that he too had just remembered something. “Oh yeah, don’t forget you owe the Guys reparation for violating the Coverture.”

Testa’s grin froze, his eyes narrowing. Then he chuckled mirthlessly. “Sure, Joe. Will a Tier One release make you happy?” Tier One was the lowest level possible.

Joe returned an equally insincere smile. “It’s the Guys we want to keep happy, remember?”

Testa let out a theatrical sigh. “Like you’d ever let me forget. OK, I’ll go Tier Two. Will that repair the terrible damage I’ve done?”

Joe figured he’d pushed Frank as far as he dared. “That’ll be fine. Send Petra the authorization and I’ll check with her on the specifics.”

“Will do, Chief.” Testa went on out the door without even a cheerio or toodle-oo.

“Must be the foreplay is over for now,” Joe said softly, finally taking a sip of his tlat. It had gone cold, which made it bitter and undrinkable. He went to dump it out and brew another cup.

After all, he did have a fresh supply.

It was delicious. He probably would have enjoyed it even more if he’d known precisely what it was costing.

Petra Davidovitch looked up from her design table when Joe stepped into the cool shade of the domed structure everybody called the Shop. A mischievous smile lit her pale face as she pulled her loupe off her head, leaving her curly, whitish blond hair corkscrewed in all directions.

“Hiya, handsome,” she purred, tossing her head and adjusting the tab of her coveralls slightly downward to reveal more of her cleavage. “You here on business or pleasure?”

“Hi Petra,” Joe answered with a shy smile. “Did Frank get hold of you?” Although happily married to Hakim Khassa, who ran the site testing lab and doubled as medic, she always greeted Joe like a femme fatale looking for a fling. He always pretended he didn’t notice. Although she was fairly attractive in a wiry, flat-chested, tomboy sort of way, he wasn’t going to let himself get into the double trouble of messing with someone who was married and worked for BCT. He even had BAA guidelines to back him up on this sensible course of nonaction.

“Business, huh?” she said with a rueful grin. “Yeah, he authorized a Tier Two release. Was he being bad again?”

“Same old thing, letting his gatherers stray onto the Coverture.”

She shook her head. “Ah, greed, thy name is Testa. You must’ve had him over a barrel to get a Two.”

Joe stared at her, realizing she was right. “I guess so,” he muttered. The fewer and lower value the releases Frank made the better his balance sheet looked. That Two had come awfully easy.

Petra grinned and shrugged. “Hey, his loss is your gain. I’d been hoping a Two would come up and tinkered together something I think the Guys are going to love. Check this out.” She led him back to a tarp-covered worktable. “The Guys are nuts about glass, right? It’s a tech they never discovered, not being fire users. Corrective lenses were like a revelation to them.”

“They sure were.” One limitation of the imar bodies the Guys inhabited was that they were farsighted. The big predators’ eyes were designed for spotting prey at a distance and were uncannily acute in that range. But once things got within a meter or so fine detail was lost—anything that close was as good as eaten anyway. The Guys had never considered the possibility that good near sight was even possible; outside an imar their sight was even worse than that. Joe had been the one to figure out their vision problem, and big tough reading glasses for every Guy had been the trade on which the treaty had been founded.

Petra laid her hand on the tarp. “Their distance vision is several times better than ours. But I got to thinking, what if they could really see far off stuff. So—” She whipped the tarp off with a flourish.

On the table were two heavy-looking, meter-long tapered tubes offset in the middle and connected by some sort of lever mechanism. He stared at the thing a moment, then laughed. “Petra! You made them binoculars!”

She buffed her knuckles on her coverall. “Dead on. What do you think?”

Joe looked her creation over more closely. As with everything she fabricated, it had been designed with care and precision, and crafted to be both sturdy and beautiful. “These are great! But they’re so big! How much do they weigh?”

“About twenty kilos. Cybonic ones would have been lighter and easier to produce, but I know the Guys are fascinated with glass and lenses. The prisms alone weigh two kilos each. Fortunately weight isn’t much of a problem with this crowd. A Guy can handle these babies like they weigh nothing at all.”

Joe shook his head in amazement mixed with increased respect for her skills. “The Guys already have a fairly sophisticated astronomy. Do you realize what these will do for them?”

“That’s why I made ’em. Now these babies are Tier Two material, sure as shit. I couldn’t show them to any of the Guys until I got a release. Now I need one to help me make final adjustments. I sort of had to guess on collimation and focal length—again, cybonics would have been easy to make self-adjusting, but these just seemed somehow right.”

“They are. They’re perfect.”

“Almost worth having your borders violated for, huh?”

Joe gazed at her a moment, but saw no sign of that having been the sort of sly, insinuating remark Frank might have made. She was simply stating her belief that what she’d built would redress the violation in spades. And it would.

“Pretty close, anyway. I’ll ask Longo to come give you a hand. He’s one of their oldest sky-hunters, and already worships you for fixing it so he can see to make smaller charts.”

“Send him around any time this afternoon. We’ll get these tuned up and I can have a second pair made by tomorrow.” She winked. “The way I figure it, Tier Two means we owe ’em two pair.”

Joe took her hand and kissed it, both to express his admiration and to keep her guessing as to whether her flirting was making a dent. “Petra, you’re a wonder. I can’t thank you enough for taking the time and trouble to think up something that will actually enrich these peoples’ lives.” That last sounded like mushmouthed diplomatic boilerplate, but it was true.

She ducked her head modestly, almost shyly. “No big deal. It’s just as much a treat for me to be fabbing something other than weapons and tin mirrors and cooking pots and crap like that. The Guys are good people. They deserve nothing less than the very best we have to give them.”

Joe kept his smile, but his pleasure faded. “Yes they do,” he agreed.

It was late, but Joe was still up, slouched in one of the office easy chairs, drinking tea and gazing moodily out at the night-shrouded landscape. Three of Marguy’s five tiny moons were in the sky, providing a soft, somber light. Off in the distance a faint reddish glow marked the place where the Guys had a fire going. Fire was a new thing to them, and they still hadn’t come to a consensus on what sort of terms it should be accepted. Most nights Nab, the Guy who had taken it on himself to study this strange human import, lit a small blaze. Others would come and go, studying it, contemplating it, communing on it and its implications. These deliberations—and there was no better word to describe this slow, cautious process—might go on for several more months before a decision was made.

He knew he should be able to consider the day a success. Frank’s violation had been fairly redressed. Soon, if not already, Longo and his fellow skyhunters would be seeing things until now hidden from them, and so coming that much closer to understanding the cosmos around them. That was no mean gift.

Yet a sense of unease alloyed with his usual nagging self-doubt had been shadowing him since Petra’s parting comment that afternoon. When his day’s work was done he’d tried to lose himself in playing Bug Hunt, but his concentration had been so bad he’d made himself quit before he got even further behind.

He knew that playing it and pretending to be the sort of warrior/hunter his ancestry might have made of him was dumb. He wasn’t that kind of Indian. Outwardly he might look like a full-blooded Mohawk, but inside he was a mutant his family had somehow produced. Not a sacred creature like a white buffalo, but the human equivalent of a rubber tomahawk or plastic dreamcatcher. Sometimes he wondered if maybe his mother had eaten too many Twinkies or TV dinners when she was carrying him.

He sipped his oolong tea, watching the distant bonfire, watching his own reflection in the perspyl.

He knew better than to romanticize the life his family led. There they were, living on the Rez, keeping themselves apart from a world they could not and would not adapt to. Making part of their living by being living anachronisms, caught in a peculiar temporal eddy that contained both traditional ways and 100-inch Hitachi HDs, wearing feathers in their hair while driving fusion-powered Fords, spearing salmon and sending out for pizza.

By age seven he’d known he didn’t want to spend his life working in a Rezedge casino, or pounding drums, reenacting dances, and hawking baskets to tourists; painting his face and dressing up in the tattered and faded remnants of his tribe’s culture. He wanted to go places, see and do things that had nothing to do with the world into which he’d been born. Teaching stories bored him, SpaceNet was what absorbed his every free moment. The first FTL ships were heading off to find other worlds around other suns! How could he know that and stand to spend his whole life within the same few hundred square miles?

“So here I am,” he whispered to his reflection. “Over 700 light-years from the Rez, and I haven’t touched a drum in years. The youngest BAA Station Chief ever. I’m my own man now.”

Your own man. Using an office and living space provided by the company you’re supposed to be watching, playing games on their cybonics, drinking high-priced that you get tossed like a bone to a dog, making excuses for them, letting yourself—

Joe flinched in surprise when his comm chimed. “Yeah?” he called, hoping it wasn’t another Frank versus Bull bout.

“Joe? It’s Jubal. Have you got a minute?”

“Sure, what’s up?” Joe sat up straighter, glad for the interruption. Jubal Atkins was the site factor, in charge of handling shipping and inventory. A middle-aged, quietly aloof black man who gave classes on fencing and classical guitar in his off hours, he was probably Joe’s closest friend on Marguy. Joe had started out trying to keep from getting too chummy with BCT staff, but five months of lessons and a shared outsider status had created a surprisingly warm friendship. Joe was doing all right with the fencing, but was an absolute disaster as a guitarist. The two men were also the only teetotalers.

“I just got a shuttle load from the Tahiti sorted out, and there’s some stuff here for you. I saw you hadn’t logged off for the night, and figured I’d see if you wanted it sent up.”

Joe glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight, but he couldn’t say he felt much like sleeping. “Sure, that’d be great. I can come down and get it.”

“Stay put. George is here and he’s bringing some other stuff up your way shortly. Figure five minutes. That OK?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“No problem. Jubal out.”

Joe realized there would probably be mail from his family. Maybe that was why he’d been thinking about them, unconsciously knowing he’d be hearing from them soon.

The agency had sent him a cybotic Kube no doubt stuffed with forms, and informed him that he’d gotten a 5 percent raise. The rest of his mail was from his family and pretty much what he’d expected: small talk, bits of gossip, reports on who’d gotten pregnant, married or divorced, tales of that winter’s record-breaking snowfall; dispatches from their insular world. One benefit of his job was that the BAA would bear the cost of shipping small parcels to their agents. His family had taken advantage of this offer. His mother had made and sent a pair of beaded shearling moccasins and a knit sweater far too heavy to ever wear on Marguy. His uncle John had sent a kilo of venison jerky and a kilo of smoked dried salmon. His female cousins had sent StaPax of homemade blackberry and huckleberry jam, a packet of birch gum, and wintergreen leaves and sweetgrass for tea.

The package he left for last was. the one from his grand-father, Samuel Swamp. Grampa Sam had been the one to whom he’d first confessed his desire to do the things he never could if he stayed on the Rez. He had seemed the most likely to understand such feelings since he himself had gone off to take a doctorate in mathematics and spent years teaching at Caltech. Only in his late forties had he returned to his roots, coming back to the Rez, taking over the teaching of math at their own Reservation School and eventually becoming principal.

Grampa Sam had listened soberly to the young Joe pour out his hopes and fears and space-filled dreams. Then he had said that this was a most important matter, one which would take much thought before he could speak to it. He sent Joe home, telling him that he would have his answer in the morning. That night had been an agony for Joe. Samuel Swamp was one of his tribe’s most respected elders. What he decided might as well be law because of the weight everyone else would give it.

When Joe awoke that next morning he found Grampa Sam sitting there beside his bed, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. He told Joe that he had thought long and hard on this matter. He had consulted with his ancestors and sought guidance from the spirits. What they told him led him to spend the rest of the night netrifying, racking up one ball-buster of an infobill.

Joe’s path was clear. He was being Called to be a new sort of warrior. There was a need for him in the wider world outside the Rez, and on the distant worlds as yet unseen. Men were going to these other worlds now, and soon they would be meeting the other Peoples who dwelt on some of them. This was good, and yet implicit in such a meeting was the possibility of great wrongness. Their own people had come in contact with people from another world, and had nearly been destroyed in the process. Some of that came from prejudice, some from greed, some from indifference to the welfare and ways of others, and much of it could have been avoided if only there had been less ignorance on both sides of this collision of worlds.

Worlds were funny things, his grandfather mused. Sometimes they rejected you, sometimes they never let you go, and sometimes they did both. As a young man the world and ways of the Rez had pinched him like a bad shoe, so he had gone into a whole other world off the Rez, and lived in a world within a world called Academia. It was a good place, yet for all the honor he had found there, in the end he had known that it was not really where he belonged. Returning to the Rez he found that it still did not quite fit him either, but it was where he was supposed to be. So he had remained there as one who dwelt between two worlds, with one foot in each. Maintaining your balance in such a position was quite often hard, but it could be done without falling on your ass too often.

This was to be Joe’s lot as well, only in his case the worlds would be literal as well as figurative. There were people out there groping toward the creation of a means to provide people who would act as a buffer between this world and its ways and those of the Other Peoples waiting to be met; to act as spokesman for these far-flung tribes, to be their friend, ally and guardian. Joe’s task was to prepare himself to join this as yet uncreated agency and become a speaker and warrior in these other Peoples’ behalf, a task for which he would have his grandfather’s help.

The BAA had been officially founded when Joe was a junior in high school—first in his class thanks to his grandfather’s tutoring. He applied to join just before finishing his masters degree. Attached to his application had been letters of recommendation from Indian Chiefs and world-renowned physicists, mathematicians and philosophers—again thanks to his grandfather.

Joe made a cup of fragrant sweetgrass tea before opening that last parcel, expecting one of Grampa Sam’s usual dense, multipage, borderline textbook letters filled not with small talk but large ideas; letters which proved the old man was still dedicated to helping educate him.

The tea smelled of his childhood and tasted of nostalgia, making him feel like the little boy he had been again approaching his grandfather’s knee. Yet this time the old man surprised him. The parcel contained only a small flat package with a short note attached. The note read: My son, now your are in charge of a mission to a new People and have become an elder in your own right. A warrior for the Sacred. If you can only remember the lessons of history, and how they teach us the fragility of treaty and trust, you will be wise indeed. You do us proud.

Inside the package was a hand-stitched doeskin vest, the leather the color of caramel and softer than velvet, the buttons slices of antler. Designs he did not recognize were painted on the breast and back. It was not newly made but very old, and had the feel of a well-cared-for relic.

He stood up and put it on, feeling slightly foolish, like he was playing dress up. The whole buckskin and feathers thing had never appealed to him. Yet the vest settled onto his shoulders and felt oddly right, like a lost belonging only now returned to him.

He fell asleep in his chair not long after, still wearing the vest. His dreams were of the hours he and his grandfather had spent huddled over one of the old man’s many computers, stalking wily and elusive bits of information in the trackless cybotic wilds. In those dreams he smiled, for on that ground he was a hunter and warrior equal to any but the one who taught him.

Joe got up early the next morning, made coffee, and settled down into being a full-out flatbutt bureaucrat. The Kube the BAA had sent was indeed a daunting mass of cybotic forms which had to be filled out and sent back with the supply ship. Among other things he was expected to list every transaction, infraction and redress that had occurred during his tenure. That wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d just wanted the dry bones of facts and figures. As station chief he was also expected to give his assessment of the gravity of each instance where BCT had exceeded the bounds granted them by the natives, and his opinion as to whether it was accidental or a calculated attempt to infringe on their rights.

Sighing and cursing Frank under his breath with every third entry he filled out that part, struggling to maintain a balance between shooting straight and shooting himself in the foot—dancing around the facts like someone from an old Western dancing around the bullets fired at his toes.

The next part did give him some comfort. He was able to enter big beautiful None’s in the section labeled NATIVES ACCIDENTALLY KILLED, WOUNDED OR MURDERED AND HUMAN PERSONNEL ACCIDENTALLY KILLED, WOUNDED OR MURDERED. Human/Guy relations had been blessedly peaceful. He probably couldn’t take too much credit for that, but it did prove he wasn’t a total disaster at his job. Massacres on your watch didn’t look good.

He was laboring over the section titled Recommendations when his comm chimed, that sound closely followed by Mabel’s voice.

“Mr. Swamp?”

“Yeah?” he called, wondering at the sudden promotion to Mister.

“You have a visitor, sir. It’s—” A hushed pause. “It’s Madame Serena Caltefores.” This last was spoken in the voice of someone announcing visiting royalty.

Joe closed his eyes and hung his head. He’d clean forgotten about his promise to play tour guide to the crown princess of BCT. Having spent much of the morning trying to justify their actions and his responses to them hadn’t put him in the best of moods to deal with this.

But a promise was a promise, and there was no telling how someone like her might react to disappointment.

“Send her in, please.” OK, he’d give her a whirlwind tour and hope she found it boring enough—or the Guys frightening enough—to want to go back to her nice comfy ship as fast as her high heels could carry her. He stood up and put a smile on his face.

The door opened, and the woman who entered was so unlike his expectations that his first thought was that she was some sort of aide or flunky. But the woman looked him in the eye, nodded, and said, “Hello, I’m Serena Caltefores,” in a low husky voice as she headed toward his desk.

“Uh, hello,” he responded lamely.

She reached his desk and offered her hand to shake. “You’re Joe Swamp, right?”

“Joe Swamp. Yes ma’am. That’s me.” He gingerly shook her hand, then gestured toward a chair. “Please sit down, ma’am. If you want to, I mean. You don’t have to or anything.”

“Thank you, I will.” She looked around, and oddly enough chose the hassock there for visiting Guys to use. The only reason he sat down was because of manners his mother had hammered into his head as a child. It wasn’t really a conscious act; one moment he was standing, then next his chair was under his butt.

She regarded him solemnly. “I’m not quite what you were expecting, am I, Mr. Swamp?”

“Uh, no ma’am,” he answered, his mouth seemingly on some sort of weird autopilot.

“You can dispense with the ma’ams. Please, just call me Serena. I’ll call you Joe if that that’s all right.”

“All right, ma’am. Sure.”

“You seem quite taken aback, Joe. Maybe even poleaxed. You aren’t disappointed, are you?”

He shook his head hard enough to make his braided ponytail whip around. “No ma’am. Just kind of, um, surprised I guess. I’d kind of thought you’d be, well…”

“Fancier?” she supplied with a raised eyebrow. “Younger? Prettier?”

“Yeah—I mean, no—” He made a helpless gesture. “I just thought you’d be, well…”

“I’m quite well, thank you.” She chuckled, a smile creeping out onto her face. “I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t tease you like this. It’s not fair, but it is fun. You look like someone who was expecting a visit from Cleopatra the Queen of the Nile and got a drag queen instead.”

She sketched an ironic bow in his direction. “Yes, I’m Ramon Caltefores’ daughter, heir to a gigabillion dollar business that spans entire star systems. No, I’m not exactly the pampered, fluffy little rich bitch you seem to have been expecting.”

Her smile grew wider and a challenging note entered her voice. “I may be rich, and I’m sure there are plenty of people who think I’m a bitch, but I am not, nor have I ever been fluffy. I’m built like a truck and couldn’t fit into anything under a size sixteen at gunpoint. I don’t wear makeup or heels, I cut my own hair, and the only way I could win a beauty pageant is by bribing the judges.”

She wasn’t the glamorous young debutante he had pictured, but a woman his own age who looked like she could have come from the sort of place where he grew up. Short, straight, glossy black hair framed a wide brown face that could only be called plain, with heavy dark eyebrows, a snub nose, and a wide mobile mouth. Her eyes were dark, short-lashed, and glittered with merry intelligence. Her build was widehipped and sturdy, maybe even chunky, her hands large and capable looking, her nails short and unpainted. In her baggy jeans, plain red T-shirt, worn multi-pocketed vest, and scuffed boots she could have easily passed for a farm wife or some other type who spent a lot of time outside, a park guide or naturalist maybe. One look and you knew she was solid, self-reliant, and utterly self-possessed. Her rugged appearance did nothing to detract from the air of earthy femininity he felt coming off her.

Joe wanted to tell this billionaire’s daughter that she’d get his vote if he were judging any contest she entered, but was far too shy for that. Instead he tried to bootstrap himself up from being a mumbling idiot by playing host.

“Can I get you something?” he asked hopefully. “A soda? Some coffee or tea? I don’t drink so I don’t have any alcohol here, but Mabel could find you some beer or wine if you wanted.” He hesitated, trying to guess what someone like her might want. “I kind of doubt they’ve got any champagne, but I do have some tlat if you’d like a cup of that.”

At first his nervous stab at hospitality seemed to amuse her, then suddenly she gazed at him harder, her smile fading. “Tlat, huh? The BAA must be paying you pretty damn good if you can afford to drink that stuff.” Joe swallowed, fairly sure the knot going down his throat was his foot.

She sighed and shook her head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be so rude. I know that our site managers customarily give goodies like tlat or good whiskey or whatever to the BAA agents they work with. Grease for the wheels of commerce, right?”

“I guess,” he answered miserably. Why hadn’t he just come right out and said Oh, by the way, I take bribes from your company. Would you like some?

“I can’t even blame you folks for taking them. You’re underpaid, underequipped, outnumbered, and all on your own. Small luxuries like this office I assume we’re providing make your job more bearable. But I hate seeing it. The BAA and BCT have to get along, but getting too cozy opens the door to abuses on both sides.”

Joe could only listen in abject silence, feeling guiltier by the second. She was right. He was pond scum.

She grimaced, then gave him an apologetic look. “And now I’m making you think I’m a bitch, too. Sorry, sermon’s over. I’m not condemning you, Joe. You seem like a very nice man and I’m sure you’re doing a good job here. Pretend I’m as nice as you, not some pushy broad with a chip on her shoulder.” She stood up and smiled sweetly. “Could we pass on the tlat and get right to the tour? What I really want to do is meet the guymarguyimaranguyital.”

This woman was full of surprises. She’d used the name the Guys used for themselves and pronounced it perfectly.

“Uh, sure,” he said, relieved that she’d let the other matter drop. “I’m ready if you are.”

“So, Joe,” she said as they exited the elevator and headed for the combination door and airlock leading outside. “You’re Mohawk, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” he answered, taken off-guard by this sudden conversational turn. “How did you know?” To most everyone else all redskins looked the same. He had that same problem himself with Orientals. Even though he’d grown up seeing plenty of Chinese, Japanese and Korean tourists he still got them confused.

“I read your file. But even without that I could have told by your body type, your accent, and by that vest you’re wearing. Which, by the way, is a really wonderful piece.”

He’d forgotten he still had it on. “Thanks. My grandfather gave it to me.”

“I’m sure you know that it’s a sign he holds you in very high esteem.”

“I guess,” Joe answered unenthusiastically, knowing the old man didn’t understand that his job wasn’t the noble pursuit he thought it would be.

“The emblems painted on it tell me it belonged to one of the Salmon Warriors of the early twenty-first. They were a small pan-tribal group that dedicated itself to ecological preservation and renewal, beginning with their ancestral fishing waters and hunting lands. His giving it to you means that he considers you to be a warrior for and protector of the sacred.”

He stared at her. “How do you know all that?” When I don’t.

She chuckled. “I could have had myself announced as Doctor Serena etcetera, but I don’t like sounding too imposing.”

That made him snort. “Right. As if being the daughter of one of the richest men alive wasn’t imposing. So you’re a doctor, too? What kind?”

“Anthropology. I also hold degrees in Ethnobotany, Exobiology, and Exoanthropology.”

So much for her being impressed with his measly MBA. The steel and perspyl door slid open in front of them and they went on out into the bright sunshine. The tropical heat and humidity rolled over them in a wave, carrying the scent of exotic flowers and rotting vegetation, the buzz of insects, the calls of Marguy’s version of birds. Wrapped greenly around the clearing where BCT’s operation was based was a jungle equal in fecundity to any Earth had ever produced. He watched her sniff the air and smile in anticipation.

“Those must be useful, um, disciplines for a woman in your position.” There, he didn’t always have to sound like a moron.

“They help, sure. But I didn’t go Anthro because it would be a good career move—some stupid MBA would probably have been a better bet. I really love learning about new places and people and customs. It’s a lot more exciting than shopping for the right clothes to wear to the right places so you can fit in with the right people.” She looked around, obviously finding her surroundings more interesting than the topic of conversation. “Enough about me. Tell me about the guymarguyimaranguyital.”

“Well, to begin with, we call them Guys for short.”

Her brow furrowed in a scowl. “Isn’t that kind of demeaning?”

He shook his head. “No, that’s what they told us to call them. You see, they understand that our language is much different from theirs, and we generally use a lot shorter words. They also told us shorter names to use for them as individuals. One Guy we’ll probably meet is called Bull. His full name is,” he took a deep breath, “Bulaguymarguyhabulliskabullimarguydamar, which even he admits is a pretty big mouthful.”

She laughed. “I think he’s right. I’ll call the Guy Bull.”

Joe headed them out along the eastern path which would lead to the place where Bull could be usually found, a small glade by a bubbling spring and pool. “So what do you want to know?”

“Everything. The dossier I was expecting on the natives and our arrangement with them somehow never made it to me, so I’m starting almost from scratch. Is it true that each Guy is actually two separate biological entities?”

“Sure is. When we see Bull we see the body of an imarguymarguyakh, the dominant land predator on this planet’s single continent. But the, um, person we talk to is a soft-bodied parasite that lives in a bony cavity on the underside of its head. I guess you could call that part the real Guy; alone, an imar is about as smart as an alligator and a lot nastier. Guys have certain telepathic abilities. In the beginning—or at least way back when—they used to survive by calling small animals to themselves, entering their bodies and scrounging what they needed to survive from their systems. Over time they got bigger and smarter, able to not only enter but control larger animals. Eventually they evolved to the point where they could take command of the imars, entering their bodies through the breathing slits just below the eyes and taking up residence in that cavity I mentioned. That puts them in contact with the imars’ fairly primitive nervous system, and they control it like it was their own. That made them the dominant species because wild imars were no challenge to ones controlled by a serious intelligence.”

“Do they still call imars like that?” she asked as they left the clearing and stepped into the leafy shade.

The Guy-made path they followed was wide and winding, the ground hard-packed and smooth. Because of his kind’s preternatural awareness of their surroundings, Bull probably already knew they were on their way to see him. Everybody thought it was hard to sneak up on an Indian. Sneaking up on a Guy was just plain impossible.

Joe did his best to answer the question. “Yes and no. Guy offspring are born in nests now, and kept in domesticated brooders until they’ve grown enough to take an imar of their own. They maintain a stock of imars bred for biddability and more useful hands, but rebreed them with wild ones to keep the line strong. See, they have two kinds of sex: imar sex, to continue that breed; and Guy sex to make more Guys. Imars come in male and female, mate once about every two years, and the female lays a clutch of eggs. Usually only one offspring, the nastiest one, survives—its brothers and sisters become baby food. Guys mate only once or twice in their whole life—and they live to be well over a hundred. It takes two to mate, each Guy forming and finally producing a small blob of protoguy. The two blobs are put together, then the pair work together to shape its development. They’re real deliberate about this. Humans put less time and thought into building a starship than Guys put into making a baby. Their population remains quite small and stable, with just under a thousand Guys alive at any time. Guy sex is—”

Serena put her hand on his arm to interrupt him and grinned. “Tell me, do you always talk about sex right after you meet a woman?”

Joe blushed. “No, I only, well…”

She patted his arm. “I’m only teasing you again. All this is fascinating, and I really do want to know everything. I don’t believe you can treat another race with the proper respect, and do what is in their best interests, unless you understand as much as you possibly can about them.”

He gave her a sidewise look. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but that’s a kind strange philosophy for someone from BCT.”

“It shouldn’t be,” she said heavily, taking her hand away and staring straight ahead. “But it is. I lived with tribes in Southeast Asia, South America, Africa, and Arizona. I learned a lot about how other races have been treated both rightly and wrongly—mostly wrongly. I’ve had an uphill battle since I joined the family business. BCT has to change how it does business, and I intend to see those changes made.”

“Does your father know how you think?”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Oh yeah. We’ve got an odd kind of relationship. He knows I think BCT cuts too many corners, bends too many rules, and treats the more primitive races no better than we absolutely have to. He knows I think things should be done differently, but figures working out in the field will make me see that the get-bys and sneak-arounds are what get us anywhere and bring in those profits.”

She shook her head, her jaw set. “Well, he’s wrong. The more of that sort of stuff I see, the more determined I am that BCT will change. I’ve even started privately lobbying the BAA to tighten up its rules and regs.”

“The company bigwigs must really hate you.” Joe blurted it out without really thinking.

She laughed again, sounding both amused and bitter. “They don’t love me, that’s for sure. They know that sooner or later I’m going to be in charge, and when things are done my way profits are bound to take a hit.” She shrugged, as if being on the shit list of some of the most powerful people alive were an everyday thing. Which it must have been. “The way I figure it, once you’ve got a few gigabillion in your pocket being too ruthlessly greedy trying to grab more is just bad taste.”

“That’s sure the way I’ve always felt,” Joe agreed, trying to keep a straight face.

She peered at him slantways, the corner of her wide mouth quirking upward. “Now 1 think you’re teasing me.”

Joe took her to meet Bull. He couldn’t help but remember the first time he’d met a Guy. Although he’d been cloaked by a forcefield that could have protected him from anything short of a small tactical nuclear weapon, coming face to face with a 2 1/2 meter, 250 kilo, vaguely dinosaurine creature with hunting knife talons and a saber-filled mouth at the top of its head had been somewhat taxing to his toilet training. Some of that came from what the experts called exoanxiety, an atavistic fear from being in the presence of the truly alien. A lot of it came from another deep wired human response; the habit of judging if the Other was more dangerous than you, and by how much. One look at a Guy and he’d instantly known that he was outclassed. It could obviously go toe to toe with the biggest baddest predator his planet had produced in the last ten million years or so, and win the bout in about five seconds flat.

Serena had to be brave because she certainly wasn’t stupid. She’d unhesitatingly walked right up to Bull, introduced herself like he was just some interesting looking person at a party, and within a very few minutes had him explaining how the Guys’ loosely structured society worked. Her questions managed to be tactful and respectful, yet at the same time probing. By the time they moved on an hour later he’d learned things he’d never picked up during six months of dealing with them on a daily basis. Gentleman that he was, Bull never once brought up any of his race’s complaints against her father’s company.

Next he took her to meet Ard, a practitioner of an art the Guys called by a name that was exceptionally long even for them. Humans called it morfing.

The range of lifeforms on Marguy’s single small continent was bewilderingly diverse, far more so than the standard models would predict. That was because there were jokers in the evolutionary deck, namely the Guys. Using some as yet unquantified ability certain individuals possessed, the genetic makeup of existing flora and fauna were altered to create entirely new species. Some were created on purpose as pieces of self-replicating biological technology, others simply because their creator thought they might be interesting or beautiful.

This suggested the tantalizing possibility that at some point the Guys might be willing to create custom biota exclusively for BCT. Joe couldn’t understand why, with this at stake, Frank seemed so willing to risk alienating them. He could only assume Testa smugly believed that because of his natural superiority the wogs or whatever he privately called the Guys would sooner or later give him what he wanted anyway.

Serena had sat with a stillness which would have made an Indian hunter proud for almost an hour, her entire being focused on watching Ard work, even though there was really nothing to be seen because the changes were being made at the chromosomal level. In spite of that she found the experience as exciting as a game of polo or whatever it was her people watched, and was in high spirits as they went back to the BCT site for lunch.

The hour Joe had planned to give her had already turned to almost three, and he was willing, even shyly eager to spend the rest of the afternoon with her as well. Sure, she kept saying things that made him and the BAA look bad, but it wasn’t from some rich snotty viewpoint. She genuinely accepted the Guys as equals and felt that they deserved, like Petra had said, nothing but the very best her race had to offer.

He figured that after lunch they could do a bit more touring, and when the time seemed right he could bring up the matter of Frank’s continuing violations of the Coverture. He had a feeling that she’d land on Testa like a ton of bricks. He could have told her then and there, but he couldn’t help wanting to stretch out their time together as much as he could first.

But halfway through their meal she got paged by Frank and he got a call from Mabel saying Petra wanted to see him ASAP. So they went their separate ways with an agreement to get back together later.

The way that had come about was her simply saying, We’ll get together later, while Joe was still figuring out how to suggest that very thing. She seemed to take his saying yes for granted. So that’s what he said, feeling both relieved and unnerved that she seemed almost as interested in him as the Guys.

It was probably professional interest anyway.

Petra was in a foul mood when Joe arrived. He found her storming around the Shop in a fury, rifling through the shelves and cursing in at least three languages. She had a hammer clenched in one fist and seemed intent on finding something to pound to smithereens.

“What’s up, Petra?” he called from what he hoped was a safe distance.

She whirled toward him, her face contorted with rage. “Thanks a lot, you bastard,” she snarled, brandishing the hammer.

Not only was she royally pissed, it was at him. He walked toward her as if he had nothing to fear, but did keep one eye on that hammer. “What did I do?”

“What did you do?” she mimicked. “Don’t bullshit me! If you didn’t think the Guys should have those binoculars you should have said something yesterday afternoon!”

He figured he was as close as he dared get. “Petra, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come on!” She flung the hammer like it was a war-hatchet, but at least it hadn’t been aimed at him. Instead it crashed into the wall on her left, destroying her very first prototype for Guy-adapted spectacles. She stared at the shattered memento, her hands curling into fists, then her gaze swung back toward him.

“Petra,” he said soothingly, “Please calm down. Tell me what the problem is. I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought the Guys would have those binoculars by now, and I don’t know one reason why they shouldn’t.”

He watched her try to rein in her anger. “OK,” she growled, “You tell me what’s going on. Longo came in yesterday afternoon to help me fine tune ’em. I thought he was going to bust when he understood what it was they did.”

She grimaced and ran her fingers through the stiff springs of her hair. “I found I’d made one small design error. Their eyes are a lot more light sensitive than ours are, and don’t react to too much light very quickly. Those binocs have big efficient lenses, and there was no way they were going to be able to use them safely in the daytime. So I rigged a set of temporary filters to use while we made the other adjustments, then told him to come back around noon today and I’d have two pairs with photoreactive lens coatings ready for him to take.”

Talking tech had seemed to calm her some, but now she glared at him and thrust out her jaw in challenge. “Just after he got here Frank called and said you told him I wasn’t to let him have them after all. Longo got real upset. I didn’t think Guys could cry, but I swear to God that’s what he was about to do. So I told him to give me some time to straighten this mess out, and he’d get his binoculars one way or the other.” She put her hands on her hips. “Well?”

Joe shook his head, baffled by Frank’s actions. “This is all news to me, Petra. I’d be willing to let the Guys each have a pair if BCT was willing to foot the bill.”

She scowled. “You’re saying Frank’s jerking my chain with this crap? But why?”

That was a very good question, and one he intended to have answered. “No idea. But I intend to ask him wh—” He stopped midword, listening intently. “Do you hear that?”

Petra cocked her head, then nodded. “Yeah, it sounds like the flitter taking off.”

Now it was Joe’s turn to get mad. “What the hell is that doing going up? Everybody knows the Guys hate the damn thing.” The Guys weren’t particularly fond of human vehicles in general. The small VTOL flyer BCT had brought along had been banned from use because its turbofans made a high-pitched whine they found physically painful. People couldn’t hear it, but Guys couldn’t shut it out.

Petra shook her head. “I don’t know why anyone would need it. I thought it was locked up tight.”

“It’s supposed to be. I better go find out what the hell is going on around here.” He headed for the door planning to kick someone’s—namely Frank’s—ass up around their ears.

“What about Longo?” Petra called after him.

He paused by the doorway. “Give him the two pair you made and promise him a third for the racket. That OK?”

Her face lit with pleasure. “All right! Thanks, Joe!”

He waved and hurried on out the door. At least she was happy. The Guys—except maybe for Longo—were going to be another matter. Whoever took that flitter up was going to be one sorry puppy.

By the time he got outside the flyer was a dwindling silver spark above the treeline.

A spark headed straight for the Coverture.

Joe broke into a run.

The operations shack was locked up tight and Frank was nowhere to be found. Joe tried calling him but got no answer.

He did find Jubal in the warehouse next door, using a telelift to place racks of stasis-fielded specimens in a shipping container to ready them for loading in the shuttle parked outside. He had his nimble guitarist’s hands in a pair of control gloves, a loupe on his head and a pair of headphones over his ears. Knowing that he’d never make himself heard over the loud classical music Jubal customarily listened to while working, Joe tapped the thin black man on the shoulder to get his attention.

“Have you seen Frank around?” he asked when Jubal powered down the lift and pulled the headset off.

He shook his head. “Not in a while. What’s up?”

“I’m trying to find out who took the flitter up, and why.”

Jubal scowled and began shucking the gloves off his hands. “Dammit, everybody knows that thing’s supposed to be off limits, and I mean…” His voice trailed away and his face took on the look of someone who’d just had a very bad thought. “Oh hell,” he said sofdy.

“What?”

“The last I saw Frank he was with Ms. Caltefores. They were, well—”

“No, don’t tell me,” Joe begged, already able to guess what he was going to say next.

Jubal nodded soberly. “Yeah. They were headed toward where it’s kept parked. But—” Before he could say anything more the complet strapped to his wrist erupted in a shrill beeping. The factor whipped his arm up and stared at its small screen. What he saw made his dark complexion pale. “We’ve got a problem, Joe,” he said heavily as he pushed a button that silenced the noise.

“What happened?” The look on his friend’s face made him brace for the worst.

Jubal looked him in the eye. “That was an emergency signal from the flitter. I think it just crashed.”

The two men raced to the operations shack only to find it still locked up and Frank nowhere around. Jubal tried to open the door with his keycard but it was refused.

Just as he was about to try a second time they both became aware of a sound like distant thunder, a low subterranean rumble they could feel through their feet. It rapidly grew louder, and moments after they turned in the direction it seemed to be coming from, Bull burst from the solid wall of jungle and into the clearing.

Everyone knew the big aliens could move fast if they wanted to, but neither man had ever seen one in a real hurry. It was a fairly daunting sight. Bull thundered toward them at a good sixty kph, massive lower legs pistoning and the toe talons on his feet throwing head-sized clods of turf three meters into the air behind him.

“I sure hope he’s calmer than he looks,” Jubal breathed. In spite of themselves they stepped back and closer together.

Bull came to a halt before them with a deadly speed and surprising grace, and when he spoke his voice gave no hint that his high-speed dash had cost him any particular effort.

“I must inform you of an extremely grave situation, Mister Joe,” he said. “Our treaty has been most grievously broken.”

Again there seemed to be a sort of grim inevitability to what Bull said next. Joe could hear it coming and do nothing to change or stop it.

“Your nasty-noisy flying machine has not only violated the border of the Coverture, it has landed in a most inconsiderate and destructive fashion, causing dreadful harm.”

Joe was fairly sure Bull didn’t understand that it had crashed. “I accept your protest, Bull,” he said in the most even tone he could manage. “I assure you it was an accident. The machine did not come down on purpose, but fell from the sky. Redress for the border violation will be made, I promise you that. But first we must find out exactly what has happened, and who is involved.”

Bull regarded him solemnly, then nodded. “That is both fair and reasonable.”

“To do that we have to raise the flitter.”

The Guy cocked his head. “Raise the flitter? Make it go up into the air once more?”

“No, I mean speak to it with our communications equipment. To do that, we have to get inside this building.” He could feel time flying by, but there was no hurrying a Guy.

“Pardon my misapprehension of your meaning, Mister Joe. Am I constituting an impediment to your going inside?”

Joe shook his head. “No, the door is locked. We can’t get in.”

Bull pondered this a moment. “So you are saying that this door presents an hindrance to an expeditious resolution of this situation?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Then it must cease.” Bull turned toward the shack, took hold of the door by burying his finger talons in the ceramaplast panel, then wrenched it off the building frame and all.

Joe made himself smile. “Thank you, Bull. That was, um, very kind of you.”

“It was nothing,” the big alien answered without a trace of irony. He turned toward Jubal. “Mister Jubal, I believe this is property of your company. Where would you like me to put it?”

Jubal gave Joe a wide-eyed glance, then gestured vaguely. “Oh, anywhere is fine, Bull. Really.”

The Guy laid the twisted, punctured panel carefully aside. “May we proceed now that our way is no longer barred?”

“We sure can,” Joe answered, motioning Jubal to go in first.

Jubal had gone immediately to the site operations communications base station and started trying to raise the flitter. After a minute or so with no results he turned the chair over to Joe and seated himself at the workstation across the narrow aisle. Slipping on a combination headset and loupe he began the process of instructing their commnav satellite orbiting overhead to locate the downed craft.

Joe had slid into the comm center chair after him, pulled on the headset and begun trying to raise the flitter. He had begun with a standard Base to flitter, but a fearful certainty as to whom he was trying to contact soon changed that to a more direct and fervent approach.

“Joe to Serena,” he called, “Come in please! Can you hear me? Please answer!” He repeated that over and over, trying to will a response. None came.

Either three minutes or three hours passed, probably the former but it felt like the latter. Just as he heard Jubal mutter, “OK, I think I’ve got you now,” a crackle of static lanced into his earpiece and came over the speaker. On the heels of that noise came a moan.

“Serena,” he said tightly, trying to remain calm. “Can you hear me? Please answer.” There was no picture on the comm’s display, but he could hear breathing. He could hear breathing!

Another moan, then a cough. “Hi, Joe.” More coughing, then the sound of her hawking and spitting. “Sorry.”

“It’s OK. Are you hurt?”

A few seconds hesitation. “ ’Fraid so,” she admitted at last.

He swallowed hard. “How badly?”

“Bad enough. One leg is broken in a couple places and the other one is really messed up. I had kind of a rough landing. Me and this crate both got pretty trashed.” She coughed again. There was a wet, bubbling undertone to it that made his shiver. “I think maybe I’ve got a couple broken ribs jammed into one lung, and I can’t feel much of anything from the waist down.” She spat. “But that’s not what’s really worrying me. It’s that other thing.”

“What’s that?” he asked tonelessly.

“The imar staring at me through the canopy. I figure it’s an imar because a Guy would’ve said hi. Now I’m no expert, but I’ve got this bad feeling that he might just be looking me over and thinking about lunch.”

“Hang in there a minute,” Joe replied in a flat voice. “I’ve got to go off, but I’ll be right back. OK?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she answered with a phlegmy chuckle. “I’ll see if I can get the pictup working.”

“That’s great, Serena. You do that.”

He covered the headset’s mike with his hand and turned toward Jubal and Bull. “Now what?”

“Human flesh is inedible to an imar,” Bull answered in a serious tone. “Eating any will make it sick.”

“That’s a relief,” Joe breathed.

Bull shook his head. “Regretfully I must inform you that it can only learn this the hard way, by eating some and getting quite ill.”

“Oh man,” Joe groaned, feeling sick himself. “Jubal? Any ideas?”

The factor glanced back at the workstation screens. “I got a lock on her. The flitter went down about twenty klicks into the Coverture, say forty klicks from here. We’ve got a gatherer maybe two from the border in that general area. It could get to her in maybe two hours if we were lucky, but she doesn’t sound in any shape to get herself out of the wreck and into it.”

Bull shook his head. “No gatherer may enter the Coverture. That is forbidden under our treaty.”

Joe never got a chance to argue this pronouncement because Frank finally turned up, bursting in at a dead run and squeezing past Bull with a scowl.

“What the fuck is going on here?” he puffed.

“Serena crashed the flitter,” Joe began, “And she’s—”

“Dumb fuckin’ princess,” Frank sneered, all trace of his posh accent gone. “I told her she couldn’t, but I guess when Daddy owns the company the rules don’t apply.” He jerked his thumb at Jubal. “Out. I’m taking over. I don’t get her body back her father will have my nuts in a vice.”

“She’s badly hurt but still alive,” Jubal explained, vacating the chair at the workstation.

Testa stared at him a moment. “Rich and lucky,” he growled. “Must be nice.”

Jubal shook his head. “I wouldn’t call her that. She’s got an imar giving her the eye.”

Testa hesitated for a second, his face going absolutely blank, then took the chair. “You two stay out of my hair and fuck with the imar,” he snarled, jamming the headset on and turning away. “I’ll work on hauling her useless ass out of there.”

Joe turned back toward the comm-board and uncovered the mike. “Serena? You still with us?”

“Still here. I think I’ve almost got—oh boy, that hurts. OK. Got a picture now?”

“I do,” Joe answered, his insides clenching with the effort it took to keep the dismay he felt off his face. She was a mess. Her face was cut and bloody, one eye swollen shut. Fresh red blood marked her mouth and nostrils, dripped from her chin.

“Not too pretty, huh?”

“You look just fine, Serena.”

“You should get out more.” She grimaced. “I should get out less. Remember me saying I wanted to know everything? Well, I have learned something new.”

“What’s that?”

“Yelling at an imar won’t scare it away.” She coughed, wiped her mouth. “ ’Course I can’t yell very loud.”

Bull moved closer. “You must not yell, Miss Serena. Almost any sort of loud sound will only draw its attention.”

“What about the turbofan in the flitter?” Jubal suggested. “Would that scare it off?”

“It would find that most unpleasant.” Bull confirmed.

“Did you hear that?” Joe asked. “Can you fire up a fan?”

“Sorry, but all the engines are dead.” Joe couldn’t believe how calm she sounded. “They crapped out on me in midair and I dropped like a rock.” She shook her head. “I’ve flown these things lots of times and never had one act like this one did.”

Frank pulled his headset off and pushed back from the workstation. “I’m going after her. You stay here.”

“How?” Jubal asked.

Testa ignored him, shoving past Bull and on outside.

Joe flinched as the comm brought them a new sound. It was the imar scratching on the flitter’s fuselage. On the screen Serena hunched lower, her jaw set.

Joe tore his gaze away and faced Bull. “There has to be something we can do to scare that imar.”

“If one of us were in the area he could influence its small mind and frighten it away. But none of us are anywhere near that part of the Coverture.”

“Could you do it from here?”

Bull shook his head. “No, it is too far away. My mind cannot push that strong a thought into its small brain from this distance.”

“Damn.” Joe scrubbed his forehead, trying to pull some sort of useful thought out of his own small brain. Nothing came. If only there were more people working on the problem then maybe—

His eyes went wide and he stared at Bull. “OK, how about this? You can link minds, right? That’s what you do when you commune. Can you—can several of you all try to drive it away at the same time? Would that do it?”

Bull regarded him steadily, precious seconds ticking away before he answered. “A most intriguing idea, Mister Joe. I do not know if it would work or not.”

“Will you try?” It was all he could do to keep from screaming the question.

“Joe!” Serena rasped, “It’s going to—” There was a distant thump and groan as the imar assaulted the damaged airframe.

Again there was that maddening deliberation before Bull answered, but when he did Joe wanted to kiss his big ugly mug.

“We are attempting this,” Bull said slowly. “It is a new and fascinating idea. Miss Serena has trespassed against us, but we do not wish her to be further harmed. To frighten the imar we must cause a simple pulse of primal fear. To have many send such a pulse as one is difficult.” He cocked his head to one side as if listening, and in the silence they heard the sound of the imar’s talons tearing at the perspyl canopy, seeking a crack it could get hold of. “Others join in. We seek—”

The shriek of tormented metal, plastic and ceramic filled the room. “The dumb bastard is finally figuring it out,” Serena whispered. How could she sound so calm?

“Joe,” Jubal called in a low tight voice.

Joe held up his hand for silence, asking Jubal to wait. He didn’t want anything to break Bull’s concentration.

“Ah,” Bull said softly. “Clever. An aid to synchronization.” His foot began to thump rhythmically in a beat not unlike the drumming of Joe’s childhood. Joe fought down a crazed urge to chant along. The operations shack shivered with each beat of Bull’s massive foot.

Seconds later a bloodcurdling scream came over the comm, a shrill sound of absolute terror. Joe turned back to the commboard. The screen was black, blank. “Serena,” he bellowed, “Are you there? Answer me!” There came a sound so unexpected that for a moment he couldn’t figure out what it was. She was—

“You’re… laughing?” he whispered with baffled disbelief.

The picture returned to his display, showing her hand receding after uncovering the pictup. She’d covered it so they wouldn’t have to watch her get eaten. What kind of woman would do something like that?

“It ran,” she gasped breathlessly, tears rolling from her eyes. “It jerked straight up like someone had booted it in the ass, let out a scream, and ran away so fast it nearly fell over!”

Joe sagged back in the chair. “Thank god.” He smiled at Bull. “Thank you. Thank everyone.”

“Joe,” Jubal called again. “We’ve still got a problem.”

Joe turned toward him. “Now what?”

“Frank took off in the shuttle. He’s running it on manual, and he’s using it to go after Serena.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Jubal cut a meaningful glance in Bull’s direction. Before he could say it out loud Bull said it for him.

“Mister Joe, your quiet sky-flying machine must not go over the Coverture, nor can it be allowed to land there. To do so would be in direct violation of our treaty.”

The ensuing silence was finally broken by Serena.

“I heard that. What’s he talking about?”

Joe answered her, his gaze still fixed on the big alien’s face. “You’ve crashed in an area called the Coverture. The terms of our treaty make it off-limits to us and our machines.”

“This is news to me. Not very good news, either.”

He looked Bull in the eyes. “Please. This is an emergency.”

“The emergency exists only because our treaty was broken in the first place. Breaking it again can only compound the damage.”

“Frank’s almost halfway there,” Jubal reported tonelessly. “I think I can override his control from here if 1 have to.”

Bull spoke calmly, passionlessly. “He must not be allowed to land. If you are truly our advocate then you must stop him.”

Joe turned back to look at Serena and took no comfort in what he saw. She wiped her mouth and sighed. “Joe, tell me the truth. Did I break their treaty by flying out here?”

“Yes,” he said softly.

A slow nod. “Then you must not break it again.”

“Frank’s almost there,” he argued. “He can have you back here in short order. Hakim is a damn good medic.”

She locked eyes with him. “You heard what I said, Joe. I never would have done this if I’d known. I apologize for my crime against them, and I will abide by their decision.”

“Frank’s four klicks out and closing,” Jubal put in. “ETA in two minutes.”

Joe swallowed hard. “You could die before we figure out some other way to get to you. If we even can.”

Her gaze was unflinching. “How many of your people died because of broken treaties, Joe? Remember what you are, and the lessons of your history. You either stand for honor and trust, or you stand for nothing. Remember that vest your grandfather gave you. It’s a symbol of honor and courage, of protection of the sacred.”

“One minute, thirty seconds,” Jubal intoned.

She shook her head, her gaze still pinning him mutely in place. “Don’t cut corners, Joe. Don’t take the easy way out, nothing good can come of it. A treaty is a sacred trust. I will not be a party to seeing it broken.”

Joe closed his eyes, and perhaps because of her suggestion or just to find some kind of comfort, his fingers caressed the soft old leather of the vest Grandpa Sam had given him. But the old man had been wrong. He was not a warrior, nor was he wise. Not a real Indian, but a bleached-out bureaucrat hundreds of light-years from his people and their ways.

His grandfather had said he would be a man between worlds, and in this he had spoken a terrible prophecy. Now Joe was trapped in the place where worlds collided. It would be so easy to say screw the treaty, to tell himself that an artificial construct was less important and less valuable than this strange and courageous woman’s life. As easy as all the other arguments, rationalizations, and excuses used to bend and break the promises made to other Peoples in humanity’s entire shame-filled history of seeing such pacts struck, broken and restruck—

—Sooner or later leaving one party with their lands and rights gone, and the other richer by the others’ loss but diminished in honor. He knew his own moral and ethical pockets had already been lightened by the six months he had spent here. Was this the day, the hour, the moment when he finally declared bankruptcy, even if for the best of reasons?

Or was this the place he made his stand?

“Stop Frank,” he said in a low, toneless voice. Jubal whirled back toward the workstation’s boards and began trying to assume control of the shuttle.

“I’m sorry, Serena,” he said, finally opening his eyes to look at the woman he had just condemned.

She managed a smile. “Don’t be. I’m proud of you. You did the right thing.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “Did I?”

“I’m having some problems here,” Jubal put in, his voice tense. “I’m trying to override Frank, he’s trying to override me. So far we’re deadlocked. The shuttle is just hovering, waiting for clear instructions.”

“Have you tried contacting him? If she says stay away, he has to follow her orders, doesn’t he?”

Jubal shook his head, touching his earphone. “I’ve told him that, but he’s not responding.”

“That son of a bitch,” Joe growled, suddenly furious. “He never should have allowed her to take that flitter, I don’t give a shit whose daughter she is.”

“Joe?” Serena called.

“I’m here.” Damn, she’d heard that. “Frank asked me if I wanted to take the flitter up.”

He turned to stare at her image. “What?”

She nodded tiredly. “That’s why he called me. When I got there he said it wouldn’t be needed for an hour or so, and was mine to use if I wanted to see this place from the air—which was really the best way to do it.” A crooked smile appeared. “I would’ve liked you to have come with me, but you were busy and I didn’t want to miss my chance. Now I wish I had.”

That didn’t make any sense. “Frank didn’t tell you that we never use the flitter because the noise it makes hurts the Guys’ ears? Or that the Coverture is restricted?”

She shook her head. “Not a word.”

This was making less and less sense all the time. What was Testa up to anyway? “Jubal, how are you doing?”

“I’m not winning, but I haven’t lost yet either. Frank just keeps shouting threats, demanding that I let him land. Now he’s—damn, he’s gone now.”

Joe was beginning to wonder if rescue was what Testa really had in mind. The whole thing stank. If she was telling the truth—and he had no reason to doubt her and every reason to doubt him—then Frank had arranged for her to be in that flyer and over the Coverture. Tricked her into it. “Jubal, you’ve got to keep him away from her any way you can. Contact the supply ship. Maybe they’re better equipped to override the onboard controls.”

“Gotcha. What should I tell them?”

“Tell them—” He hesitated. “Tell them we re going to have a major interspecies incident on our hands if he lands.”

Bull stepped closer and gently laid a taloned hand on Joe’s shoulder. “I would speak to you about this situation.”

The big alien had been so quiet Joe had almost forgotten he was still there. He covered the mike with his hand. That way if he had to tell Bull or Jubal what he suspected, she wouldn’t hear him. She had enough problems as it was. “Sure, Bull. We’re trying to do what you want.”

“This I can plainly see, Mister Joe. You are doing everything in your power to avoid abrogating our treaty. For this I commend you.” He gestured toward the screen. “I also see how badly you wish to remove Miss Serena from her present unhappy circumstances. We hold our treaty with you in high regard, and yet our relationship with you is no less valuable. The treaty is but a thing, while she is an extremely interesting person in a dire situation.”

He shook his head slowly. “We have communed on this conundrum. Our rights are of cardinal importance to us, but we would not have you think us uncaring monsters. We have agreed that if it is indeed necessary for Mister Frank to land so that Miss Serena may be saved, then you have our leave to do so.”

Joe couldn’t help himself and started to laugh. It wasn’t happy laughter, and it made Jubal turn and give him an uneasy look. The redskin finally cracked under the pressure.

Bull cocked his head and scratched his braincase. “I do not understand your amusement, Mister Joe. Is this relief?”

Although his race did possess a sense of humor, Joe didn’t think it extended to irony. “Thank you, Bull, and forgive me. I laugh because I nearly tore myself in half choosing to stick to the treaty, and I now suspect I made the right choice for a whole other set of reasons. You see, I think that maybe Frank—”

Jubal broke in. “Joe, I have Captain Tsao from the supply ship. She isn’t happy, and wants to talk to whoever is in charge.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I think that’s you.”

“Put her through.” He glanced at Bull. “Let me deal with this and I’ll finish explaining.” The Guy nodded soberly and stepped back. Joe uncovered the mike and prepared to deal with this new crisis. That meant Serena would hear everything after all, but he didn’t want to leave her without the comfort of hearing a human voice any longer.

An Oriental woman of late middle age appeared on the largest of the workstation’s screens. Her iron-gray hair was pulled severely back and gold tabs gleamed on the high collar of her jacket. Her face was stern and forbidding.

“Who is in charge here?” she asked in a flat, no-nonsense tone when she saw that she’d been put through. Jubal eased back out of the way, leaving Joe pinned by her cold gaze.

“I guess I am, Ma’am,” he answered after taking a quick check on Serena. Her head was back and her eyes were closed. Only the clenched look of pain and fatigue on her face told him she was still conscious. “Joe Swamp. BAA Station Chief.”

“Mister Swamp, 1 was just contacted by Site Director Testa. He informed me that you are preventing him from landing our shuttle and rescuing Ms. Caltefores.” She made it sound like an indictment.

“We are trying to prevent him from landing, Captain. I have reason to believe that he means Serena—I mean Ms. Caltefores—harm.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That is a serious accusation, Mr. Swamp. You had better be prepared to back it up.”

“Yes ma’am, I know, and I admit I’m not in a position to prove it right this moment. But his actions have been highly suspicious. He offered Serena the use of the flitter in violation of both site policy and the terms of our treaty with the natives. He did not inform her of our rules against using the flyer, or that flying over an area called the Coverture would be a serious violation of our treaty. I find this disturbing, especially in light of her well known scruples against even slight violations. She would have been aware of these terms in advance, except that the information packet she was expecting never arrived—again an ‘accidental oversight’ on Testa’s part. There are other things he did, such as having me conveniently sent on a wild goose chase to give him privacy to make this offer, but that should be enough to make you doubt his intentions.”

The captain’s expression had not changed in the slightest during this recitation. “Incompetence is not malfeasance, Mr. Swamp. These issues you have raised will be investigated, I promise you that. But as I understand it, he is the only person in position to rescue Ms. Caltefores. At this moment her safety is my prime concern.”

“Ours too, ma’am. But I have a bad feeling that she might not survive her rescue attempt.”

Tsao’s dark eyes bored into him with an intensity that made him want to squirm. “Are you suggesting that Director Testa might cause her further harm, Mr. Swamp?”

“I am. I believe her accident was arranged by him, and that she was not supposed to survive it. Even if she did, he was counting on a wild imar—a deadly local predator—to be drawn to the crash site by the sound of impact and finish the job. An imar almost did get her, a tragedy averted through the actions of the very natives whose treaty this action will ignore. Even if he doesn’t dare make what could be judged a understandable if sadly fatal mistake extricating her from the wreck, rescuing her by means in flagrant and willful violation of the treaty will irrevocably damage her reputation and standing inside BCT.”

Captain Tsao shook her head, still unconvinced. “My concerns are not with her standing and reputation, but with her life. Lacking clear and compelling evidence of wrongdoing on Director Testa’s part, I have no choice but to allow him to land. What I will do is make him aware that his every move is being watched, and that he dares not make any mistakes, fatal or otherwise.”

Joe had to assume that one or several corporate high-rollers were behind the attempt on Serena’s life, and Testa would count on them to protect him. Besides, she would be the best witness against him. He couldn’t take the chance, and was running out of arguments. “Captain Tsao,” he said, not quite able to keep the desperation he felt out of his voice. “As BAA Station Chief I must protest this proposed violation in the strongest possible terms.”

“Your protest is noted. Now if you will excuse me—”

“No, you are not excused, Captain.”

Joe turned to look at the commboard. Serena’s eyes were open. She gave him a weary wink, then spoke again, not a single trace of weakness in her voice. “Did you hear me Captain Tsao? I said you are not excused.”

The older woman glanced offscreen a moment, then turned back. “Is that you, Ms. Caltefores?”

“Yes it is, Captain. Now hear me. I absolutely forbid you to allow that shuttle to land. Do you understand me?”

A pained look appeared on her face. “Yes ma’am, I do. It’s just that your father—”

“There is nothing to argue about, Captain. I would rather die than knowingly dishonor the pact my father and our company has made with the people here. We are either people of honor and principle, or we are nothing. I will not allow you to make me a hypocrite. Is that clear?”

Captain Tsao bowed her head. “Painfully so, Miss Caltefores. Our facilities will allow us to shut down the shuttle’s onboard control and turn guidance over to site operations.”

“Then do so immediately.”

The older woman touched her brow in salute. “Yes ma’am. It will be done.” Her image blanked.

Serena’s head slumped back and she let out a weary sigh. “That woman has tried to treat me like a child for years now.”

Joe found it surprisingly easy to smile. “Lady, I don’t think that’s going to happen any more.”

“Probably not. At least I was able to keep from breaking the treaty any more than I already have.”

A chill went down Joe’s spine as he realized that she hadn’t heard Bull’s offer to let the shuttle land after all. She hadn’t been making an end run around Tsao’s willingness to let Frank rescue her. She had stood on principle alone. That was the act of a warrior.

Jubal let out a whoop. “The shuttle’s lifting. Onboard control is shut down and she’s mine now. What should I do with her?”

Joe scrubbed his forehead wearily. “Bring it back here, I guess. Can you put Frank under arrest?”

The factor’s face split in a lopsided grin. “We can give it one hell of a try.” “Go for it.” He turned to face Serena’s image once more. “Well, I guess we won. The problem is, you’re no closer to being rescued than you were when you crashed.”

She chuckled, then grimaced. “Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like a successful executive.”

Bull touched Joe’s shoulder. “Mister Joe,” he said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Will you help us?”

He stared up at the big alien. “Help you what?”

“Rescue Miss Serena, of course. Regrettably we do not know enough of your physiology or medicine to render much assistance on that count, but you could treat her injuries if you would let us take you to her.”

Joe felt a bubble of excitement rise. “Jubal!” he called, his mind suddenly racing. “Call Petra and Hakim. Tell both of them to gear up for a long hard hike. Have Hakim bring a full trauma kit, and tell Petra we’ll need a stretcher. We should both go, too. Maybe you’d better call the ship, have them take over the shuttle and take Frank off our hands. Tell the others we’ll get back, uh, probably sometime late tonight. Lights! We’ll—”

“Mister Joe,” Bull interrupted patiently.

“What?”

“You have misunderstood me. I said we would take you there. Already more of us are gathered outside, waiting to convey you to Miss Serena.”

Joe still didn’t get it. “Convey?” he echoed blankly.

“If you have no objections. We can move much faster than you can, the weight of a human will not appreciably slow us down, and we do not find the heavy growth of our jungles much of an impediment. If we depart immediately we can be there in less than one of your hours.”

Joe finally understood that they were offering to act as living transport. “You’d do that for us?”

Bull inclined his head. “We would consider it an honor to aid our friends this way.”

He glanced at Jubal. “You game?”

“Count me in. I’ve already called the ship. Let me signal Petra and Hakim. They shouldn’t take more than a minute or two to get ready.”

Joe turned back toward the commboard. “Did you hear that? The cavalry is on its way.”

“Hurry,” she said, closing her eyes and letting her head sag back.

On a sunny afternoon 161 days later, Joe was in his office killing time by playing rummy with Bull. The big alien was whipping his butt badly. Guys had nearly eidetic memories, which made them formidable opponents at cards. Joe could have evened the odds a bit by cheating—he could see the reflection of Bull’s cards in his glasses—but his mind wasn’t really on the game.

His comm chimed. His stomach flipped over. “Yes?” he called.

“She’s here—” Mabel began excitedly before remembering herself. “Uh, Madame Caltefores is here to see you.”

He took a deep breath. “Send her in, please.”

“Should I leave, Mister Joe?” Bull asked, picking four cards off the pile and considering them. “I know that humans need privacy for some forms of communing.” He carefully laid down the ace through four of clubs, three fives, the ten through king of hearts and discarded the queen of diamonds, getting rid of all of his cards. “I seem to have won again anyway.”

Joe shook his head as he stood up. “That’s OK, I’m sure she wants to see you too.” He raised a warning finger. “But I’m not going to let her play cards with you.”

His office door opened, and Serena Caltefores walked back into his life again. Just like the first time he’d met her, all he could do was stand there and stare.

The last time he’d seen her had been as she was being loaded on a shuttle to be taken up to the orbiting supply ship. She’d been unconscious and hooked up to seemingly every medical device at Hakim’s disposal, alive but in critical condition.

Bull and three other Guys had gathered up the four people who were going to the crash site in their arms and made tracks in an uncharacteristic haste, a phalanx of five more Guys leading the way to break a trail. Joe and the others had found themselves taking the ride of their lives. The aliens had thundered through the dense jungle growth at speeds occasionally topping seventy kph, hurdling some obstacles with tremendous eight meter leaps and crashing through others like meat tanks in overdrive, covering the distance in just over half an hour.

Serena had been in even worse shape than they had thought—and than she had let on. Not only had both her legs been broken and one lung punctured by three splintered ribs, she also had a broken wrist, various internal injuries, and a broken back. Hakim and Petra had gotten her stabilized, Jubal cocooned her in transfoam to immobilize her body, then the Guys had peeled the wreckage away from her with a breathtaking display of brute strength tempered by tender, almost reverential delicacy.

Guys lived longer than their imar hosts, and two or three times during their lifetime they would abandon the imar body they resided in for a younger, healthier one. Bull and the others were aware that humans were peculiarly body-bound, but it was only upon seeing the shape Serena was in that they truly understood that she would die if her body did. They were aghast at the thought.

After a brief communing with the others, Bull insisted that a shuttle be sent directly to the crash site for her. Captain Tsao already had a second smaller shuttle carrying the ship’s doctor en route to the BCT worksite and it was quickly diverted to the scene of the crash. They loaded Serena in and watched it lift, Tsao herself controlling its ascent. The supply ship broke orbit and raced toward a safe transit distance only minutes after the shuttle docked.

There had been no word since, not until that morning, when Captain Tsao had sent a message that the Tahiti was back insystem and Miss Caltefores would be coming down by shuttle sometime that afternoon. Jubal, who had been running things in Testa’s absence, had come to personally give Joe the good news that she had survived and returned.

Serena paused just inside the doorway. She met Joe’s gaze and smiled. “Not what you were expecting?”

It took Joe several seconds to find his voice. “You look good,” he managed at last. “Like it never happened.”

“Believe me,” she said with a laugh, “It did. I ran up a medical bill big enough to build an entire hospital. Even my father was impressed.”

“But you’re OK now.”

“I’m just fine, and as you can see I’m no more delicate than before.” She sketched a bow in Bull’s direction. “It is an honor to see you again, Bull. I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”

Bull removed his glasses and bared his teeth in the Guy version of a smile. “We could do no less for someone who so honored us, Miss Serena. I am delighted that you have returned, and overjoyed to see you so well recovered. Mister Joe said I should stay to greet you, but does not think I should be allowed to play cards with you.”

Joe chuckled. “Not for money, anyway. We wouldn’t want the Guys to end up owning BCT.”

Serena sauntered toward him. Her walk looked fine. In fact it looked great. He knew he was staring, but couldn’t stop.

“They already do own a small piece of it,” she said. “Father put a thousand shares in a managed account under their name to compensate them for their help. Then they picked up another couple thousand, ones that used to belong to Frank and the faction at BCT which paid him to arrange my accident. Believe me, there was blood in the halls back at BCT for a while.”

Joe assumed that was just a figure of speech. Then again, when someone with her father’s wealth and power went on the warpath his enemies were most certainly dead meat. He couldn’t keep from wondering what might have happened to him if she had died. That wasn’t something he wanted to think about.

“So, you’re telling me the Guys are rich?”

“Wealthy, anyway.” She snickered. “Can’t you just see them taking the tsassa-mahra baths at Sardonyx?”

Joe said nothing. He had no idea what she was talking about, and this reminder of the gulf of class and lifestyle between them made him feel obscurely sad.

“Anyway,” she continued, “You ought to know that you’re talking to the new Vice President in charge of Site Operations.”

The gulf just got wider. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I’ve already started making some changes, and have plenty more planned.”

Joe smiled. “I just bet you have.”

“One I’d like to make is hiring you away from the BAA. I’m offering an upper echelon job with an embarrassingly high salary.”

Joe’s smile faded. He’d had a feeling that, being who and what she was, such an offer was bound to come. He didn’t doubt that it was genuinely meant as a reward, but how it was meant, and what it would amount to, were two entirely different things.

He turned away to gaze at Bull. The answer he would have to give her was largely based on the way his relationship with this oversized, occasionally aggravating person and his kind had changed. Serena’s crash had marked a turning point, maybe even a coming of age for him. Bull and the other Guys were no longer just his charges, or his responsibility, but his friends. The protection of their interests demanded the very best he had to give them.

He returned his attention to this woman who, in her way, was as alien to him as any Guy. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

She crossed her arms, her face unreadable. “Why not?”

“I know you have good intentions, and I’m honored by your offer, but the advocate for an alien people can’t function properly if he’s in someone’s pocket. Even someone as nice and well-intentioned as you. I know my place. It’s not inside BCT.”

She seemed to be taking his refusal well; in fact she appeared to be trying to hide a smile as she said, “OK, I guess I can accept that.”

He peered at her uncertainly. “You seem almost happy I said no.”

“Do I?” She shrugged. “You would have been extra overhead, and you know how important BCT’s profits are. Besides, I also happen to have a second job offer for you. You see, while I was still in the hospital I started negotiating with the BAA. It took all the clout I had, and I admit that I traded on looking like the daughter of Frankenstein to get my father’s help, but I got the BAA to create a new division. It’s called ‘Standards and Practices Oversight for Treaty Enforcement and Fair and Ethical Treatment of Native Races.’ I admit that’s quite a mouthful, but I think it’s something that’s been needed for quite a while. The job of being Field Director in charge of keeping an eye on BCT’s performance in those areas is yours if you want it.”

Joe stared. “Me?” There was that gulf again. She’d spent the past months bending vast bureaucracies to her will. He’d taught Bull how to beat him at rummy. With Jubal in charge and the treaty being scrupulously observed there hadn’t been much else for him to do.

She came and parked one round hip on the corner of his desk. He realized that she was wearing perfume. For him?

“Now before you answer, let me warn you that the job has some drawbacks. It will mean a lot of travel, going from planet to planet and site to site, checking to make sure the BAA agents under your jurisdiction aren’t cutting corners or getting too cozy with BCT site management. You’ll probably have to spend months at a time dealing with this spoiled rich bitch my father put in charge of site operations, and although the pay is a bit better than what you’re getting now, it may not be enough to compensate for that.”

Joe just sat there staring at her. She stared back. Both remained poker-faced.

The silence spun out until Bull spoke up. “I believe that this is as much an offer of mating as it is of new employment, Mister Joe.”

“I believe you’re right, old friend,” he answered, his gaze still locked with hers.

“So what do you think?” she asked softly, the faintest hint of vulnerability creeping into her voice.

He cleared his throat. “What you’re proposing sounds like a dangerously cozy relationship between the BAA and BCT.”

“I know. But cozy isn’t always bad. It might even be kind of nice.”

“It might at that,” he said, feeling a rush of heat. He wanted to say yes. She wanted him to say yes. But if he just gave in, would she respect him in the morning? He tried to adopt a severe tone. “I’m sure you’re aware that there would have to be very strict ground rules for something like this to work.”

She arched one dark eyebrow. “Like a treaty, you mean?”

He nodded. “Something like that.”

“You are both exceptionally good at maintaining a treaty,” Bull offered. “This I know to be quite true.”

“Listen to him,” Serena said in a soft, hopeful voice. “He’s very wise.”

Joe shot the big alien a look, then snorted. “He’s a wiseGuy, that’s what he is.”

His inadvertent bad joke broke them both up. Laughing made it impossible to maintain the solemn faces they were hiding behind.

“I do not believe I understand what is so humorous,” Bull said, sounding amused anyway.

Joe came around from behind his desk. “Come on, let’s all go finish that tour Frank screwed up, and we’ll explain it to you.” He offered Serena his hand.

She took it.

He hadn’t agreed to her proposal yet, but they both knew he would. So with that gesture began the first stages of negotiating a pact that would remain sacred and unbroken for decades.