The Galaxy, and the Ground Within (Wayfarers #4)(52)
Fine, we said. We’ll make a government for you. We’ll make an organisation you will recognise.
We’re still confused, you said. We were negotiating with your representatives, and then we had to file motions and wait for processes and debate with each other, because that is the only way to do things, in Parliament. We’ve come back with options, but we don’t know who to talk to now.
That’s because you took five standards to do so, and the representatives you were working with grew old and died. Someone new had to take their place.
We can’t negotiate like this, you said. Every time we talk to you, we have to start over. How are we supposed to negotiate without consistency?
Indeed. Let us discuss consistency.
The only consistency we have had from you is the word no. The only matter in which the GC has proven itself constant is in explaining to us why the things we ask for are impossible. And yet, elsewhere, you have proved yourselves extremely capable of creating possibilities. We have all seen the news about the Human species being granted full GC membership. The Human species, which destroyed its own world and which no one in the GC knew existed seventy-five standards ago. You will grant them full rights. You will give them a star to park their ships around. You will allow them to build colonies. When we expressed our outrage about this, we were told that the circumstances were so very different with them. Humans breathe the same air you do. Their ways were easier for you to understand. They don’t die in the middle of political talks.
How convenient for you, to at last work with a species whose bodies are compatible with your bureaucracy.
Our time in this galaxy is, as you have constantly reminded us, limited. We will no longer waste it on waiting for you to do what is right.
SPEAKER
The sound of an incoming message took Speaker from dead asleep to wide awake in the span of a digital chime. She grabbed her scrib from where it had lain beside her as she slept. She read the text, and hope immediately shifted into confusion.
A mail drone has arrived.
Do you accept this delivery?
Speaker squinted at the screen. That had to be a mistake, a misfire of some random satellite dying above. She dismissed the alert, set the scrib down, rolled over, and shut her eyes.
A few seconds passed before the scrib chimed again.
A mail drone has arrived.
Do you accept this delivery?
Speaker clicked her beak with annoyance. There was no way this could be a legitimate signal. Even if that were possible with the comms network in pieces, she hadn’t ordered anything. Who would be sending her cargo here?
‘Display sender details,’ she said to the scrib. She anticipated nonsense in reply.
4443-115-69, the screen read. Sender: Roveg.
Speaker remained confused, but intrigue crept in.
‘Accept delivery,’ she said, and got out of her hammock.
The boxy drone that came through the airlock was unlike any she’d seen before. It was small, for a start – smaller than Speaker herself, and a far cry from the huge delivery crates she and Tracker usually had to clamber up. The drones she was accustomed to always flew themselves in and landed on the floor, but this one, in contrast, walked. The drone had what looked like a flight module on the back, but the locomotion it currently utilised was that of ten mechanical legs bent out from the sides of the box, marching along in steady obedience. The style of movement was undeniably Quelin, an impression Speaker likely would’ve had even if the sender of this cute little thing had been unknown. And it was cute, in an eerie way. As soon as it was clear of the hatch, it folded its legs up and threw its lid open, as if to say, Hello! I’ve arrived!
Speaker crawled over to the drone, peered inside, and was filled with wonder. The box contained food, none of which she recognised but all of which looked beautiful. There were yellow things and blue things and white things and leafy things – all fruits and vegetables, seemingly – cut into crescents and spirals, some raw, some cooked, some dusted with sugar or spice or salt. Each culinary mystery was packaged in a neat bundle of translucent wrapping and tied with thin, shiny ribbon. She had no idea what any of it was, no idea how to eat it, and no idea why this was being given to her. This reaction had apparently been anticipated, because resting atop the enticing contents was a small box that wasn’t food. It had no lid, no visible seams, only a small button and a hand-printed message that read Press this.
She pressed it.
The box popped open, and as Speaker jumped back, a burst of confetti-like pixels shot out, danced around, then dove back inside. The device extended an arm upward, and from this, a written message in a rectangular frame projected into the air above it.
Good morning, Speaker! I was hoping you might join me aboard my shuttle for breakfast. As I know you’re unable to leave your suit, I thought perhaps you could pack these into your cockpit and join me in that fashion. I tried to make everything small enough to fit into your compartment (and hope I estimated correctly). I also took the liberty of researching what your species can safely eat, so I’m fairly confident all of these will be suitable for you (though, as I’m sure you know your needs best, the ingredients are printed on the ribbons on each package, just in case).
If this idea doesn’t suit, or you simply don’t feel like coming by, please enjoy these tidbits in your own time and your own space. I will not take offence.
Your temporary neighbour,