First Contact

Nemta woke up, moaning and rolling over in his nest. He opened his eyes and saw the broodcarrier leaning over him, wiping him down with soft cloths. She was singing softly to him, trying to soothe him, even as the light from the doorway clawed at his eyes and made his head pound.

"Thirsty," he managed to croak.

The broodcarrier held up a squeeze bottle with a straw, gently lifting his head and tilting the bottle. "Cool drink, yummy drink, good Nemta drinky drink," it crooned.

Three swallows and it no longer felt like his tongue was going to abrade away the top of his mouth. His headache receded slightly and he looked around. He was no longer sleeping on the floor in a wad of aerogel, now he had a low bowl of woven plas strips, much more comfortable. His uniform and the clothing the mantid had modified hung up on pegs on the wall. He had windows now, complete with curtains and cryplas windows that were tinted to keep the sunlight out. He now had a floor instead of bare dirt and dead grass.

"How long..." he coughed and the broodcarrier rolled him on his side, holding a bowl up to his face. He started to protest when he suddenly vomited up thin strings of bile and the juice. When he was done she let him curl up and set the bowl to the side.

He realized that this one was a different broodcarrier than he had seen. This one had burn scarring on her side and was missing an eye and an ear.

"Many days sicky sick. Get better soon. Gonna bring Mommy," the broodcarrier said. She took the bowl with her when she left and Nemta put his arm over his eyes.

He remembered watching as the Mantids worked to build the space ship, went twice to the starport to help the mantids and Friend Terry recover the controls and computer cores from several ships. He had stopped eating the rations because Mother had moved them somewhere else, enjoying the food from the dispenser that the Mantids had made.

There was the tapping of a cane and Mother came in, dressed in a wrap around robe and wearing sandals. She moved over and sat on the stood the broodcarrier had been sitting on. The broodcarrier busied herself wiping down Nemta's feet.

"You look better than you did," Mother said.

"Was I poisoned?" Nemta asked, then coughed. His stomach clenched and he groaned.

"All of your life, as were we," Mother said. She shook her head. "I should have thought of it but it happened so long ago for our people that I did not even think of it."

Nemta swallowed. "What? What is wrong with me?"

"Friend Terry calls it Detox Dee Tee's," Mother said. She sighed, reaching out and smoothing Nemta's fur on his brow. "You, like us, were fed drugs all of your life. Mood stabilizers, mood alterers, many different types of chemicals. All of them addictive, all of them with terrible detoxing effects so that it would be known if you tried to wean yourself off of the chemicals."

Nemta coughed, the broodcarrier moving up with the now-empty bowl again. Nothing came up but a few thin strings of bile. Mother waited while the broodcarrier wiped Nemta's face with a cool damp rag.

"I never took any pills. Not a chem-head," Nemta said. He felt weak and shaky and his missing tail hurt.

"No, you did not. It was in your food, in your drink. Every meal, every drink, you were medicated," Mother said, shrugging. "When you started eating the rations, you started to detox. When you ate from the food dispenser, you were starting to detox faster."

Mother sighed, leaning back slightly and lifting a carafe with tea in it.

"The little green miracle workers had scanned your rations, seen your nutritional needs, and programmed the food dispenser to ensure that your meals had everything you needed but the medications. Combine with a, and I quote, quick gene-scan, and the food dispenser was providing you with healthy food your body needed without the drugs," Mother said.

"Then why do I feel so bad?" Nemta asked.

"Because you went through detox," Mother said. "You fell six nights ago and had a seizure. Friend Terry and the miracle workers cared for you. Friend Terry is trained in basic medical procedures," Mother shook her head. "The Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol demands they teach their warriors so much."

"We cared for you. You had a hard time of it. You had waking nightmares, hallucinations. Twice you tried to run away screaming that the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol was coming for you," Mother stroked Nemta's forehead. "You frightened the podlings and cuddlers. They thought you had Precursor Madness."

"I feel as if I almost died," Nemta admitted.

"You would have, had no Phreni'ima and Friend Terry not taken care of you," Mother said. She shook her head. "Friend Terry told me he was obligated, by the Law of the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol that he do everything in his power to care for you and treat your wounds."

"Why?" Nemta could vaguely remembering sitting in the sun next to a starship talking to the Terran, but couldn't remember when.

"Because that is the law. That an enemy soldier becomes a non-combatant when he cannot defend himself any longer and cannot retreat. You were sick, and the Arch-Angel TerraSol demands he care for you as if you are one of his own," Mother said. She petted his head. "Ah, you are feeling better. The last time I told you this you wept in shame."

Nemta swallowed thickly. The broodcarrier moved over, cradling his head, and let him sip at the liquid again. His throat stopped burning and he started to feel slightly better.

"The ship?" Nemta asked, then coughed for a moment, but managed to keep from vomiting.

"The frame and the primary wiring is finished. It is much bigger than I thought it would be and has things I would not have considered," Mother said. She laughed before sipping at her tea. "To me a starship just magically goes from one place to another. I need not think about such things as plumbing, waste reclaimation, power supply and balancing, and many other things that the little green engineers concern themselves with."

Nemta nodded, slowly sitting up. The broodcarrier noticed immediately and helped him up, rubbing his back. His muscles, hell, even his bones ached like crazy. It took him a few minutes before he felt good enough to swing his legs off the bed and sit there for a moment.

The broodcarrier brought him a robe to wrap around himself. The cloth was soft and warm against his fur and he realized that despite the sunlight he felt slightly chilled.

Mother put her hand of the back of his neck and hmmm'd to herself. After a moment she nodded. "Your fever is gone. You may feel shaky, so Phreni'ima will help you outside."

"Warm sunny day," the broodcarrier said softly.

Nemta felt a little ashamed that by the third step his strength was gone and he had to lean against the Telkan broodcarrier. The curtain was some kind of door that pulled itself aside when he got close. He was surprised at her strength as she helped him out into the sunlight.

The appearance of the encampment had changed so much that all Nemta could do was stare.

The shelters had been painted, windows in the frames, doors in the formerly empty doorways, roofs, gutters. The encampment had been expanded slightly, the huge orb and the ship-frame now obviously outside the main walls of the encampment. The inner courtyard of the encampment had paths laid down and short grass. He could see three broodcarriers teaching groups of children from six different races on the grass, all of them with hologram emitters. There were new buildings, power leads, outside lights.

It looked like a modern village that just happened to have a wall with mounted lights on it.

"What... what happened?" Nemta asked as the broodcarrier helped him sit down on a flat rock that had been moved to the grass.

"Friend Terry said it might take some time to finish the ship. He led us in working on our encampment, said that now we had the tools to build the tools to no longer live like wild animals," Mother said. She pointed with her cane. "We have a place to eat," she pointed again, "A place to do laundry," and pointed a third time. "And a place to make things."

Nemta shook his head. He couldn't believe it had all gone up quickly. He must have been sick for months.

"How long?" Nemta asked.

"A week."

Nemta looked around again, staring at everything. He could hear the sound of those grinders operating outside the walls. He looked at where the starship was being built and shook his head. There were robots up there welding parts in place, both jump-drives were in place and having the ancillary machinery attached. It looked there was going to be a main body with the two engines away from the main body in a V design. He understood it immediately: It got the engines as far away from the starship itself with the least amount of material.

Nemta saw quite a few people looking at him out their windows, or coming out of their houses to stare at him.

"When all of these people get here?" Nemta asked.

"Friend Terry has been bringing them back. He wants to leave as few as possible on the planet," Mother said. "He worries quite a bit about abandoning others. The Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol instills "Leave None Behind" into her people from birth."

Nemta was beyond disbelief when it came to the Terran. If Mother told him that the Terran had sprouted wings so that he could bring back a piece of the sun and showed him a chunk of burning gold he would have just nodded.

I spent so much time disbelieving what was right in front of me. It's like a fog. I can barely remember it, he thought to himself. He looked around the village that had sprung up where the encampment was. For the first time he noticed that there were guns mounted on the wall that had Telkan and Shevashan manning them. Heavy guns, with protective shells, mounted on towers. He could even see anti-air missiles mounted. I can believe he planned and helped build this.

"Have we been attacked since I got sick?" Nemta asked.

Mother nodded slowly. "Three times, but none since the guns were mounted on the walls. Friend Terry believes that the Evil Ones are out there but are unwilling to approach the walls now."

"Those are big guns," Nemta said. Quad-barrelled, what looked like projectile weapons. Terrans love their kinetic weaponry, he thought.

"Friend Terry says that you should always speak softly and load a big gun," Mother said. She nodded to herself. "It one will not listen to your soft voice asking for peace then they will listen to the voice of the big gun as to why they did not want war."

Nemta felt a moment of confusion. A small part of him wanted to argue with her, dismiss what she had just said as primitive nonsense, but then remembered that he was a pilot for the Unified Military Forces, and just his existence, much less his presence, kept others from declaring war upon the Unified Civilized Species.

I was the gun that kept away war, Nemta thought to himself. Now the Terrans fight us.

That made him think, sitting out in the sun, wondering why the humans had gone to war with the civilized species. He realized that, deep down, he had wondered why a species that seemed more content to just wander around doing their own thing had declared war on the Council Species.

There were rumors of at least two massive war fleets launching into Terran Space. Yes, their forces were already here, but they were in the Neo-Sapient Systems holding off the Precursor machines, Nemta thought to himself.

But the Terrans can't beat the Precursors and require us to save... started going through his head.

Images went through his mind. Full visualization. Of Friend Terry sitting on the snake, casually eating the hydraulic piston after drinking the hydraulic fluid like it was juice. Of Friend Terry punching through duralloy to yank out a handful of wires and show them to him saying 'fried out' as he shook the blackened wiring harness.

Everything felt like it went sideways as he suddenly asked himself a basic question: If Friend Terry is just one Terran, and nothing the Precursors have on the planet can face him, what is an entire military force made up of Friend Terrys like?

The broodcarrier Phreni'ima caught him as he started to slump, holding him close and gently stroking the fur on his shoulders. "Deep breath. Deep breath. In slow out slow," she said.

"Are you all right, Friend Nemta?" Mother asked.

Nemta nodded. "I'm feeling fatigued. Can you help me back home?"

"Of course," Mother said. She stood up and walked with Nemta as Phreni'ima helped him back home.

Nemta laid for a long time in the bed, staring up.

I've been lied to. Drugged up. My entire life, he thought to himself. And I was faithful, not some extremist, not some agitator. I was loyal. There was never a reason to detain me, I had not a single black mark on my record.

He stared at the ceiling, holding the soft blanket close.

If they were willing to drug me, just to ensure I was complacent, and I was a space superiority fighter pilot, what else were they willing to do? He wondered before he went to sleep.

-----------------------

The next morning he was sitting up in bed, eating a bowl of food dispenser created salad that tasted and had the exact texture of his favorite salad, when there was a slow knock on his door. Three precise knocks, even spaced.

"Um, come in?" Nemta said.

The door-curtain folded back and Friend Terry moved into the room. He was dressed in workbeing coveralls with a tool belt on, with a hat of hard macroplast in one hand. He was even bigger than Nemta remembered, his skin dark brown and his head shaved as well as his face.

"I came to check on you, kid," Friend Terry rumbled. "Mother and Phreni'ima told me you were up to walking around yesterday. I'd have visited, but I was out tracking another group of survivors."

Nemta nodded slowly. He never noticed how the Terran smelled before. Dangerous, almost primal. It stimulated a slight fear response in him, made him fee slightly anxious. "How do you find them?"

Friend Terry pointed at the chair. "May I sit?"

Nemta frowned slightly at the Terran's deference, then realized: Friend Terry was in Nemta's hut. Terrans put a high value on politeness, even in private settings.

"Yes, yes, sorry," Nemta said, waving his hand. "I was distracted for a moment."

Friend Terry nodded, carefully sitting down. He seemed relieved that the chair would hold his weight.

"You had a rough couple of days, kid," Friend Terry said.

Nemta shrugged, holding his hands up in resignation. "I do not remember. My body remembers through aches, but my mind does not."

"Detoxing sucks," Friend Terry chuckled. When he saw Nemta's confused expression he shook his head and smiled. "That means that going through what you went through is a terrible experience."

"Oh, yes," Nemta said.

Friend Terry sat silent for a long moment then spoke up. "Listen, kid, I realize you weren't in good shape, which I hadn't noticed, when we talked last time, but we need to talk again."

"About what?" Nemta asked.

"What you plan on doing when we leave," Friend Terry said.

"We talked about that?" Nemta frowned, trying to remember. He could kind of remember the conversation, but wasn't it the big mechanical snake asking him if he was going to live with his mother after he rode home on the back of a winged Terran female?

Friend Terry nodded. "Yeah. I reminded you that you might not want to go back."

Nemta thought. He couldn't figure out a reason not to go back.

"You took part in a pretty major battle. I pulled your ship's black box to get at the astrogration data and watched the fight. You outnumbered the Terran fleet, which was just a light Strike Force, by the way, at least two hundred to one and still got eaten for lunch," Friend Terry said. "Not a good look for your side."

Nemta nodded. He could vaguely remember the battle.

"I'm going to take it a bit slower this time," Friend Terry said. "Do you know what the term 'disappeared' means?" Nemta nodded. "Do you know of anyone that happened to?"

Nemta thought for a long moment. He pointed at the squeeze bottle and Friend Terry handed it to him, leaning back and waiting.

"Yes. A few times. One of them, well, he should not have been vanished," Nemta said. When Terry asked shy Nemta looked around, still feeling slightly nervous. "He had pointed out that the reactors in our superiority craft couldn't support battle-screens at optimum at full throttle and an upgrade would actually be more financially efficient."

"And what happened to him?" Friend Terry asked.

"They said he washed out and killed himself," Nemta said. "A few weeks later there was no clue he had ever existed. At first I thought it was because, you know, Unified Military Fleet is so large and so old that perhaps his records were missing."

Friend Terry nodded.

"You were present at a battle where more than likely only a handful of your side's ships escaped. A complete defeat where you had geometry, surprise, and numbers on your side," Friend Terry said. Nemta nodded. "What will happen when you go back and report on it?"

Nemta opened his mouth then closed it. He thought for a moment. "I would be disappeared."

"Yes," Friend Terry nodded. "You realize, I am bound by oath to try to protect you."

"Wha..." Nemta started to say, then stopped. If he turns me over to my own organization and they kill me, does that mean, to his oaths, that he took part in murdering me?

"What would you suggest?" Nemta asked.

"You have friends, family?" Friend Terry asked.

Nemta shook his head. "My species is not bound by such archaic notions as familial bonds."

"Mm-hmm," Friend Terry said. "No friends?"

"Pilot is highly competitive."

"Lover?"

Nemta shook his head. "Authorized pleasure dome workers only."

Friend Terry sighed. "My suggestion is either you bail out at a neutral planet and I'll modify the logs to show I dropped you somewhere else," Friend Terry said.

"Or?" Nemta asked after a moment.

"Or I take you all the way to Confed Space," Friend Terry said.

Nemta shook his head. "And be interrogated and vanished?"

Friend Terry laughed. "I doubt you know anything about your fighter craft that the green boys don't know. I doubt you could tell Mil-Int anything they don't know. Sure, you'd probably be questioned for a couple days, then you'd be assigned a system number and released to do whatever you wanted."

Nemta stared at him. "Well, what would I do afterwards? I know nobody."

Friend Terry shrugged. "Who knows? I mean, it'd be up to you," Friend Terry sighed. "That's the biggest thing, the scariest thing. You can do pretty much whatever you want as long as it doesn't hurt others without their consent."

A thought suddenly struck Nemta. "Is that why Terrans ask for consent for them to enter? Our consent holds that much weight?"

Friend Terry nodded. "Never forget, Friend Nemta, your consent may not be compelled or commanded, it can only be freely given. Never let anyone else tell you different."

"What if someone does something to me without my consent? What may I do?" Nemta asked, frowning. "Say, someone touched my genitals without my consent?"

Friend Terry chuckled. "Then you smash them across the face with your clenched fist and take your boots to their ribs while they're down. They consented to that repercussion the minute they did that."

"But it was a touch. Why would it consent to a beating?" Nemta asked.

Friend Terry sighed. "That would not be 'just a touch', Friend Nemta. That would be assault. Sexual assault at that. You are allowed to defend yourself from assault with physical violence."

Nemta thought for a moment. You must have consent, implied, given, or allowed.

After a moment Nemta nodded. "Your laws cover consent quite a bit, do they not?"

Friend Terry nodded.

"That seems strange to me. My body is the property of the Unified Military Council and the Unified Military Forces," Nemta said.

Friend Terry laughed. "Same with mine. I mean, I still have some autonomy, but by and large, I pretty much traded my consent for quite a bit, but military is different," he shook his head. "Aren't you interested in anything?"

Nemta thought for a bit. "What will I do if I..." he had no word for it.

"Defect," Friend Terry said.

"If I defect. What will I do?" Nemta asked.

"Want my advice?" Friend Terry said.

Nemta almost yelled at the Terran, anger welling up. Of course I want your advice, you murderous psychopathic lemur! Why else would I ask you?

He felt a sudden pinch between his eyes as he glared at Friend Terry.

"Easy, Friend Nemta. Just relax," Friend Terry said. "Just breathe deep."

It took Nemta a minute to get his anger under control.

"My apologies, I never felt anything like that before," Nemta said softly.

"It's all right."

"Then, yes, I would like your advice," Nemta said.

"Then once you finish being debriefed by military intelligence, go ahead and do the Gee-Eye-Billybob Route. Go to school, get drunk, try not to pass out face down in the bushes," Friend Terry laughed. "Although, to be honest, you'll probably be asked to be on every Tri-Vid show ever. You'll have tons of people wanting to hear what your life was like," Friend Terry paused for a moment. "Actually, my advice? Hire a Public Relations Manager right as soon as you get there. Ask for... well.. man, I can't believe I'm going to say this, but... well... hire a lawyer and a PR guy."

Nemta frowned. "Willingly hire a Terran lawyer? I heard they eat people."

"Only the ones that lose to them," Friend Terry laughed.

Nemta thought for a long moment. "If I go back, I die. If I go to a neutral planet, I'll probably be hunted down and killed. If I run to Terran space, I'm a traitor."

"That's about it," Friend Terry said. He pointed outside. "The ship should be finished in a few days. Enough room for everyone. Shouldn't be more than three weeks to the first stop."

He stood up and walked to the door. "You don't have much time to think about it, Friend Nemta. Not as much as it feels like."

The door whooshed open and Friend Terry stepped out.

-------------------

Nemta woke up the next morning from a dream of being told how smart and clever he was as a child by a broodcarrier.

He couldn't understand why he was crying.

Nor could he understand why he was suddenly furious at the entire world.

He was glad when Mother came in to check on him. He felt stupid, but still prayed with her.

Weirdly enough, he felt better.

Friend Terry is marooned on an alien planet and the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol still loves him, he thought to himself, staring up at the ceiling after Mother left. Everyone else is comforted by her love.

It's just primitive superstition caused by brain damage from Precursor psychic assaults, right?

Right?