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More from fwbrown61
Odd thing about a lot of SF, furry or otherwise.
We assume that the aliens, when or if they get
here, are going to be different from us.
Now isn't that a quaint idea?
.
.
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
>>>>> THE BUSINESS <<<<<
© Fred Brown, April 21/2006 (rev. Jul 29/14)
Story can be downloaded from here: THE BUSINESS - RTF
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
❱❱❱❱ NOTA BENE: This copy is in a clearer, better-readable font, and can only be read on DARK screens.
The Enhanced text copy that's readable on cyan screens is here: The Business (Enhanced text)
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
=============================================================================
Sitting on the couch in the Oval Office, the short, furry, and--if truth
be told--irresistibly cute alien sipped at his(?) cup of special-blend White
House coffee.
He looked like an unlikely cross between a small cheetah and a teddy
bear, with delicate three-fingered hands (paws). An ecstatic expression
passed over his face (muzzle) and he murmured gutturally into the small
headset he wore.
The oblong translator unit on the alien's belt spoke: "Again, Madame
President, I have to say this hot drink, this coffee, is truly delicious. This
product alone offers much trade potential, of great profit to us both. If
there's more where this came from and I'm sure there is, we're all going
to get soooo rich."
The translator voice was smooth and mellifluous. That it sounded
suspiciously like that deep-voiced guy on CNN was the least of
everybody's bogglement.
Everybody, in this instance, meant the privileged mob of political
heavyweights, senior staffers, cabinet officers, and military and intel types
who had crammed themselves three deep around the walls of the Oval
Office. Nobody who was anybody was going to miss this meeting if they
could help it. It was starting to get a bit stuffy in the room.
The most of everybody's bogglement, of course, was primarily
reserved for the huge, black, cone-shaped starship that squatted heavily
on the White House lawn, ruining both the turf and the composure of the
Secret Service.
All of their prized and priceless surveillance and security hardware,
tight enough to track and target ICBMs onto a bee's ass in the Rose
Garden, had emitted not so much as a single <Bleeble!> when the ship
drifted blithely down as though it owned the sky. That had been two hours
ago.
Commendations all round, though, for how the Service recovered
instantly from their shock, then flawlessly implemented what had to be
the dustiest, moldiest, and most highly improbable of all their byzantine
contingency plans.
Aliens on the White House lawn. Sheesh, the President thought to
herself. Only the Secret Service would have a plan for that. Then take it
seriously.
Sitting opposite the alien, the President silently included
commendations also for the Army and Air Force and National Guard, who
ringed the White House with ranks of troops and steel in surely the
swiftest battle deployment in the history of the US military. The air over
the suburbs of Washington was thick with attack choppers and F-29s,
standing off and waiting to pounce.
Half the firepower was pointed outwards to stop the media hordes
and the anticipated crowds of hysterical UFO nuts, or hysterical crowds in
general.
The other half was pointed solidly inwards at the starship. And
loaded, extremely heavily, for bear. Or in this case vaguely bear-like.
While the alien enthusiastically took a refill from an unflappable
White House steward, an ominous thought occurred to the President. She
signaled to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretary of
Defense. Both men moved closer.
"Listen, gentlemen," the President said in a low voice. "All that
firepower and those troops out there may, or may not, be able to poke a
hole in that ship if it makes a hostile move. But it is all quite capable of
making a splendid mess of holes in us. No matter how disciplined those
soldiers are, they and their commanders are probably pretty nervous.
Stand down their alert level, will you, before someone sneezes wrong."
The Secretary and the bemedaled General, both with combat
experience, reacted alike and stiffened with alarm. In unison
(coincidentally the first time they'd ever agreed on anything) they both
barked out a loud, vehement: "NO!"
The outburst startled the entire room. The President was amused to
see the Secretary and the General do an embarrassed double-take. But
the alien lowered his coffee cup and cut in.
"With respect, Madam President, I agree with your military advisors,"
the alien said cheerfully. "Don't lower your guard, please. I've been doing
first contacts for my company for a long time. I've never conducted a
single one without all manner of lethal machinery pointed at my head or
poorly concealed in the wings. Displays of power and military strength are
crucial to successful negotiations. It seems to be the same with any
sentient species. Nobody likes to show weakness when cutting a deal."
"Any chance of our 'display,' as you call it, being effective against
your ship?" the nettled CJCS snapped sarcastically.
The alien smiled enigmatically. "A heavy rock is effective if thrown at
the right skull at the right time. Don't underrate yourselves. Any
civilization that gets good enough at warfare to develop fission and fusion
weapons, and manages to keep from destroying itself, is guaranteed to be
a potent competitor. Which doesn't answer your question, but then again
did you expect me to? Uncertainty is no small weapon too."
A derisive murmur ran around the room as the General turned beet
red. The Joint Chiefs had never been terribly famous for electing perfect
diplomats to the Chairman's seat.
"Ahem. You said 'your company.' So you're a trader, then?" the
Secretary of Commerce said slowly and cautiously from across the room.
"No political role or agenda? You don't represent some sort of galactic
government or alliance?"
"Politics? If I may invoke one of your deities, Christ no!" the alien
exclaimed. "It's logical to think of the possibility, but there is no galactic
government to speak of. There are hundreds of thousands of local
planetary governments, some with faster-than-light starships, some not,
but it's really only crass economics that binds any one species to another.
And that only loosely. And it's all effectively deal-by-deal barter. There's
no such thing as a galactic currency."
"Meaning no galactic central bank, then," rumbled the Chairman of
the Federal Reserve from the comfy chair he had appropriated. "Let me
guess why: There's no FTL communication, is there? The only way
economic information can get from one star to another is aboard a
starship. That adds a time-lag to market and equity valuations and
currency data, which beyond a certain point makes utter hash out any
attempts to make rational business decisions. That limits the size of a
potential multi-star economy or political system. Right?"
The Fed Chair's rep as the smartest person in the room (any room)
would not be dented today. "Excellent deduction, and exactly so," the
alien nodded, taking another sip of coffee. "Space-time can be torqued
around itself to allow a starship to appear to travel at translight
speeds--although it's really more of a tunneling phenomenon--but sending
an FTL signal that contains information still seems to be verboten, as you
say in another of your languages. The math hits a wall. First species to
figure out how to do it, though, boy, are they ever going to clean up."
That was enough to get the chap from the National Science
Foundation all but hopping up and down and whispering furiously into his
cell phone, preparatory of a big boost in funding for the US theoretical
physics and advanced mathematics community. The President looked
thoughtful.
"So there are independent hegemonies and federations and
coalitions, but no overarching economic and political structures," the
President mused, putting a finger to her chin in thought. "Except perhaps
for customs and border frameworks and treaties. Which don't amount to
much as a source of unity among political entities; we should know.
Hmmm. It's on the tip of my tongue. This is all starting to sound vaguely
familiar..."
The alien took another loud slurp of coffee (neatly derailing the
President's train of thought) and drained his cup. He held it up for another
refill.
Another cup...?
The President stared. "Ah, wait a minute here, I used to be a doctor,"
she said in alarm. "There are alkaloid chemicals in that coffee that can
have significant metabolic effects in large quantities. Until we run some
tests to find out otherwise, as a physician I strongly advise you that there
could be a toxin risk here. Or possibly an immune system reaction."
Simple hospitality, an automatic reflex: Serve some coffee. Good
gods, if we've poisoned him?! The Dumbest Mistake in Human History,
right here in my office...
The President's sudden anxiety was stopped as fast as it had been
born. "Caffeine. Yes, we know," the alien said calmly, as a third cup was
filled. "And no, there's no problem. For me it's simply not absorbed. We
did some checking on the Internet and compared our biochemistry to
yours. Our Medical Officer did a whole pile of simulations. Coffee's kosher.
So to speak."
The Director of the CIA and the National Security Agency boss
suddenly looked like they were having some kind of multiple heart attack,
both while turning purple. "You... hacked into the Internet?" the NSA boss
croaked in aghast horror. "How the hell...?"
"You idiot, if smart Chinese ten-year-olds can do it, what's to stop
these guys?" the CIA chief snarled at his colleague. "We've been warning
you fools for years about Internet security, but nooo, you wouldn't
listen..."
The impending inter-agency feud was cut short by an icy glare from
the President, the patented one she'd long perfected in countless
acrimonious cabinet meetings.
Helium could freeze under that glare. The two spooks gulped and
wisely fell silent.
The President cocked an eyebrow at the alien. "If you don't mind
explaining?" she said sharply. "About the Internet, that is? Sensitive point,
you understand. Theoretically you now know everything about us. We
know next to nothing about you."
The alien put down his coffee and pulled a small touchscreen display
unit from a belt pouch. "How true. Which is not a good situation, is
conducive to distrust, and which I am now about to fix," the alien said,
tapping a finger on the unit's screen. He handed it to the President.
The President's jaw dropped as she read. "By the way, my
compliments on your satellite technology. Lots of lovely birds up there,"
the alien added. "Especially the telescopes. Quite good enough that I'd
think about export potential if I were you."
The alien nodded to the CIA and NSA men. "Commercial
communications satellite security, however, does leave something to be
desired," the alien said dryly. The NSA boss could only sniff, while the CIA
chief hid a smile.
"A website address?" the President said incredulously, staring at the
small screen. "You've set up your own website?"
"Is there anybody on Terra who hasn't?" the alien shrugged.
"Remarkable thing, your Internet. Another export technology, for
absolutely certain. Yes, we hacked in, but when we get recognized by your
banking system as a legitimate commercial entity we'll pay our bandwidth
bill like anyone else. That site is linked to the information systems and
data storage onboard the ship via a small satellite of our own. You've got
access to all of it. Feel free. Except, of course, for the commercial
information and technology we'd like to sell you."
By luck, the head of NASA had been in town. "Such as FTL
technology?" she blurted out loudly. "And what about the antigrav tech
that landed your ship? Or what looked like antigrav to us."
"Always the first things on the shopping list, every time out," the
alien laughed congenially. "Happy to see you build your own starships.
Under license, of course. And not antigrav per se but just looks like it; a
spinoff of FTL drive theory. And I'm not joking when I tell you that a
concession-type deal for access to your coffee markets should pay for FTL
and the thruster technology several times over. Naturally, you'll need
compact fusion reactors to power it all. We'll throw in that technology gratis.
You're almost there anyway."
An excited muttering filled the Oval Office. FTL. Fusion power.
Antigrav. Fossil fuels were instant history. Overnight, the whole solar
system could be opened for business. And more. It seemed almost too
good to be true.
Dazed, the President handed the display unit to her Chief of Staff.
"Get people on that," she mumbled. "Start data mining. Prep a preliminary
briefing for one hour from now. And by the way, round up the top ten
science fiction writers in the world, no matter what it takes. Think we're
going to need them. If you can get them to stop doing backflips of joy."
The Chief of Staff just nodded as he hurriedly wrote down the website
address, then handed the unit back. He all but threw himself out the door
at very close to FTL speed.
The President hefted the display unit for a moment, then held it out
to the alien. "Thank you. For being open with us. We appreciate it," the
President said quietly. "I'm sure you can understand how difficult all this is
for us."
"Oh, true, true. Difficult for us, too," the alien murmured as he took
the display unit back. "Send out FTL explorer probe robots that cost
bundles, which may or may not find anything. Then launch a crewed
expedition to travel thousands of lightyears, that may meet with disaster
at any time. Then assuming nobody dies or the probe didn't screw up, try
and set up a trading relationship that's actually going to pay for itself over
the long run. And let's not forget the chance that someone else might
mozy along and aggressively undercut you. Possibly by cutting your
throat. Oh, it can be very difficult indeed but the profits can also..."
The President snapped her fingers, interrupting the alien. "Hold it!
Got it! I remember now!" the President exclaimed. "Our own history. Here
on Earth. The 16th century. And the 17th. And the 18th. It was the age of
exploration, when powerful nations sent sailing vessels out on missions
huge and dangerous distances all over the world to find new territories,
new wealth. Columbus was only one of hundreds, nor even one of the
most successful."
The President leaned forward, a dark gleam in her eyes. "But it was
also the age of exploitation," she hissed in a low voice. "The age of
conquest. Of slavery. Of colonization. An age of almost constant war, all
over the globe, the Great Powers locked in ferocious combat over insanely
imperialistic dogmas of power politics and greedy economic self-interest.
And fanatic religion. It was an age when everybody was at everybody
else's throat. Or preferably lower down. The weak went to the wall.
Especially the people who got colonized, who didn't have guns. And the
only real law was the kind that got delivered at the points of massed
bayonets or out of the sulfurous mouths of batteries of well-aimed
cannons!!"
Suddenly, the Oval Office was deathly, deathly quiet. The President
took a deep breath.
"Am I right? That's what it's really like? Out there?" the President said
levelly, pointing up at the ceiling with a finger. "Everyone weaponed up to
the max. Fingers or tentacles or whatever on the hair trigger. And no
quarter given if the triggers are pulled. And if somebody takes out
somebody else's homeworld with an asteroid on a high-V intercept orbit,
well boo hoo, and too bad, and good thing it wasn't us!!"
"Am. I. Right?" the President repeated intensely.
The alien sat stock still for a moment. The silence stretched out for
what seemed a lifetime. Finally, he spoke.
"In my estimation, you humans are going to do splendidly, and I
mean absolutely," the alien said slowly. "In most of the first contacts I've
done, it usually takes me weeks of negotiations to get the facts across.
What the galaxy's all about, that is. And why my company's services and
products are so much needed if an emerging race is going to make it."
The alien nodded at the President. "Congratulations. You figured it
out not in weeks but in under an hour," the alien said quietly. "Again,
congratulations."
"What does your company sell?" the President asked bluntly. Not a
human in the room was breathing by now.
Casually, the alien pulled out the touchscreen again, and a paw
began tapping on it. "It's quite a legitimate business, I assure you.
Time-honoured, even," the alien murmured, tapping away. "In fact I'm
even set up to take your order now, or at least the preliminaries.
Considering how much business I suspect we'll be doing I'm definitely
happy to give you a fifteen percent first-order discount, so don't hold
back."
The alien stopped tapping and smiled broadly at the President, all of
his white, sharp, fangs exposed. For the first time, the President and
everybody else in the Oval Office got a chilling glimpse of the alien's true
predatory heritage.
"Once you get your new FTL starships built, tell me now, how many
sensor and targeting systems, and missile tubes, and beam systems, and
shield pods do you think you'll want to install? We have a wide range of
products to completely satisfy all of your defensive and offensive systems
requirements," the alien arms salesman purred toothily.
--- Fin
Jul 20/14
=============================================================================
We assume that the aliens, when or if they get
here, are going to be different from us.
Now isn't that a quaint idea?
.
.
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
>>>>> THE BUSINESS <<<<<
© Fred Brown, April 21/2006 (rev. Jul 29/14)
Story can be downloaded from here: THE BUSINESS - RTF
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
❱❱❱❱ NOTA BENE: This copy is in a clearer, better-readable font, and can only be read on DARK screens.
The Enhanced text copy that's readable on cyan screens is here: The Business (Enhanced text)
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
=============================================================================
Sitting on the couch in the Oval Office, the short, furry, and--if truth
be told--irresistibly cute alien sipped at his(?) cup of special-blend White
House coffee.
He looked like an unlikely cross between a small cheetah and a teddy
bear, with delicate three-fingered hands (paws). An ecstatic expression
passed over his face (muzzle) and he murmured gutturally into the small
headset he wore.
The oblong translator unit on the alien's belt spoke: "Again, Madame
President, I have to say this hot drink, this coffee, is truly delicious. This
product alone offers much trade potential, of great profit to us both. If
there's more where this came from and I'm sure there is, we're all going
to get soooo rich."
The translator voice was smooth and mellifluous. That it sounded
suspiciously like that deep-voiced guy on CNN was the least of
everybody's bogglement.
Everybody, in this instance, meant the privileged mob of political
heavyweights, senior staffers, cabinet officers, and military and intel types
who had crammed themselves three deep around the walls of the Oval
Office. Nobody who was anybody was going to miss this meeting if they
could help it. It was starting to get a bit stuffy in the room.
The most of everybody's bogglement, of course, was primarily
reserved for the huge, black, cone-shaped starship that squatted heavily
on the White House lawn, ruining both the turf and the composure of the
Secret Service.
All of their prized and priceless surveillance and security hardware,
tight enough to track and target ICBMs onto a bee's ass in the Rose
Garden, had emitted not so much as a single <Bleeble!> when the ship
drifted blithely down as though it owned the sky. That had been two hours
ago.
Commendations all round, though, for how the Service recovered
instantly from their shock, then flawlessly implemented what had to be
the dustiest, moldiest, and most highly improbable of all their byzantine
contingency plans.
Aliens on the White House lawn. Sheesh, the President thought to
herself. Only the Secret Service would have a plan for that. Then take it
seriously.
Sitting opposite the alien, the President silently included
commendations also for the Army and Air Force and National Guard, who
ringed the White House with ranks of troops and steel in surely the
swiftest battle deployment in the history of the US military. The air over
the suburbs of Washington was thick with attack choppers and F-29s,
standing off and waiting to pounce.
Half the firepower was pointed outwards to stop the media hordes
and the anticipated crowds of hysterical UFO nuts, or hysterical crowds in
general.
The other half was pointed solidly inwards at the starship. And
loaded, extremely heavily, for bear. Or in this case vaguely bear-like.
While the alien enthusiastically took a refill from an unflappable
White House steward, an ominous thought occurred to the President. She
signaled to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretary of
Defense. Both men moved closer.
"Listen, gentlemen," the President said in a low voice. "All that
firepower and those troops out there may, or may not, be able to poke a
hole in that ship if it makes a hostile move. But it is all quite capable of
making a splendid mess of holes in us. No matter how disciplined those
soldiers are, they and their commanders are probably pretty nervous.
Stand down their alert level, will you, before someone sneezes wrong."
The Secretary and the bemedaled General, both with combat
experience, reacted alike and stiffened with alarm. In unison
(coincidentally the first time they'd ever agreed on anything) they both
barked out a loud, vehement: "NO!"
The outburst startled the entire room. The President was amused to
see the Secretary and the General do an embarrassed double-take. But
the alien lowered his coffee cup and cut in.
"With respect, Madam President, I agree with your military advisors,"
the alien said cheerfully. "Don't lower your guard, please. I've been doing
first contacts for my company for a long time. I've never conducted a
single one without all manner of lethal machinery pointed at my head or
poorly concealed in the wings. Displays of power and military strength are
crucial to successful negotiations. It seems to be the same with any
sentient species. Nobody likes to show weakness when cutting a deal."
"Any chance of our 'display,' as you call it, being effective against
your ship?" the nettled CJCS snapped sarcastically.
The alien smiled enigmatically. "A heavy rock is effective if thrown at
the right skull at the right time. Don't underrate yourselves. Any
civilization that gets good enough at warfare to develop fission and fusion
weapons, and manages to keep from destroying itself, is guaranteed to be
a potent competitor. Which doesn't answer your question, but then again
did you expect me to? Uncertainty is no small weapon too."
A derisive murmur ran around the room as the General turned beet
red. The Joint Chiefs had never been terribly famous for electing perfect
diplomats to the Chairman's seat.
"Ahem. You said 'your company.' So you're a trader, then?" the
Secretary of Commerce said slowly and cautiously from across the room.
"No political role or agenda? You don't represent some sort of galactic
government or alliance?"
"Politics? If I may invoke one of your deities, Christ no!" the alien
exclaimed. "It's logical to think of the possibility, but there is no galactic
government to speak of. There are hundreds of thousands of local
planetary governments, some with faster-than-light starships, some not,
but it's really only crass economics that binds any one species to another.
And that only loosely. And it's all effectively deal-by-deal barter. There's
no such thing as a galactic currency."
"Meaning no galactic central bank, then," rumbled the Chairman of
the Federal Reserve from the comfy chair he had appropriated. "Let me
guess why: There's no FTL communication, is there? The only way
economic information can get from one star to another is aboard a
starship. That adds a time-lag to market and equity valuations and
currency data, which beyond a certain point makes utter hash out any
attempts to make rational business decisions. That limits the size of a
potential multi-star economy or political system. Right?"
The Fed Chair's rep as the smartest person in the room (any room)
would not be dented today. "Excellent deduction, and exactly so," the
alien nodded, taking another sip of coffee. "Space-time can be torqued
around itself to allow a starship to appear to travel at translight
speeds--although it's really more of a tunneling phenomenon--but sending
an FTL signal that contains information still seems to be verboten, as you
say in another of your languages. The math hits a wall. First species to
figure out how to do it, though, boy, are they ever going to clean up."
That was enough to get the chap from the National Science
Foundation all but hopping up and down and whispering furiously into his
cell phone, preparatory of a big boost in funding for the US theoretical
physics and advanced mathematics community. The President looked
thoughtful.
"So there are independent hegemonies and federations and
coalitions, but no overarching economic and political structures," the
President mused, putting a finger to her chin in thought. "Except perhaps
for customs and border frameworks and treaties. Which don't amount to
much as a source of unity among political entities; we should know.
Hmmm. It's on the tip of my tongue. This is all starting to sound vaguely
familiar..."
The alien took another loud slurp of coffee (neatly derailing the
President's train of thought) and drained his cup. He held it up for another
refill.
Another cup...?
The President stared. "Ah, wait a minute here, I used to be a doctor,"
she said in alarm. "There are alkaloid chemicals in that coffee that can
have significant metabolic effects in large quantities. Until we run some
tests to find out otherwise, as a physician I strongly advise you that there
could be a toxin risk here. Or possibly an immune system reaction."
Simple hospitality, an automatic reflex: Serve some coffee. Good
gods, if we've poisoned him?! The Dumbest Mistake in Human History,
right here in my office...
The President's sudden anxiety was stopped as fast as it had been
born. "Caffeine. Yes, we know," the alien said calmly, as a third cup was
filled. "And no, there's no problem. For me it's simply not absorbed. We
did some checking on the Internet and compared our biochemistry to
yours. Our Medical Officer did a whole pile of simulations. Coffee's kosher.
So to speak."
The Director of the CIA and the National Security Agency boss
suddenly looked like they were having some kind of multiple heart attack,
both while turning purple. "You... hacked into the Internet?" the NSA boss
croaked in aghast horror. "How the hell...?"
"You idiot, if smart Chinese ten-year-olds can do it, what's to stop
these guys?" the CIA chief snarled at his colleague. "We've been warning
you fools for years about Internet security, but nooo, you wouldn't
listen..."
The impending inter-agency feud was cut short by an icy glare from
the President, the patented one she'd long perfected in countless
acrimonious cabinet meetings.
Helium could freeze under that glare. The two spooks gulped and
wisely fell silent.
The President cocked an eyebrow at the alien. "If you don't mind
explaining?" she said sharply. "About the Internet, that is? Sensitive point,
you understand. Theoretically you now know everything about us. We
know next to nothing about you."
The alien put down his coffee and pulled a small touchscreen display
unit from a belt pouch. "How true. Which is not a good situation, is
conducive to distrust, and which I am now about to fix," the alien said,
tapping a finger on the unit's screen. He handed it to the President.
The President's jaw dropped as she read. "By the way, my
compliments on your satellite technology. Lots of lovely birds up there,"
the alien added. "Especially the telescopes. Quite good enough that I'd
think about export potential if I were you."
The alien nodded to the CIA and NSA men. "Commercial
communications satellite security, however, does leave something to be
desired," the alien said dryly. The NSA boss could only sniff, while the CIA
chief hid a smile.
"A website address?" the President said incredulously, staring at the
small screen. "You've set up your own website?"
"Is there anybody on Terra who hasn't?" the alien shrugged.
"Remarkable thing, your Internet. Another export technology, for
absolutely certain. Yes, we hacked in, but when we get recognized by your
banking system as a legitimate commercial entity we'll pay our bandwidth
bill like anyone else. That site is linked to the information systems and
data storage onboard the ship via a small satellite of our own. You've got
access to all of it. Feel free. Except, of course, for the commercial
information and technology we'd like to sell you."
By luck, the head of NASA had been in town. "Such as FTL
technology?" she blurted out loudly. "And what about the antigrav tech
that landed your ship? Or what looked like antigrav to us."
"Always the first things on the shopping list, every time out," the
alien laughed congenially. "Happy to see you build your own starships.
Under license, of course. And not antigrav per se but just looks like it; a
spinoff of FTL drive theory. And I'm not joking when I tell you that a
concession-type deal for access to your coffee markets should pay for FTL
and the thruster technology several times over. Naturally, you'll need
compact fusion reactors to power it all. We'll throw in that technology gratis.
You're almost there anyway."
An excited muttering filled the Oval Office. FTL. Fusion power.
Antigrav. Fossil fuels were instant history. Overnight, the whole solar
system could be opened for business. And more. It seemed almost too
good to be true.
Dazed, the President handed the display unit to her Chief of Staff.
"Get people on that," she mumbled. "Start data mining. Prep a preliminary
briefing for one hour from now. And by the way, round up the top ten
science fiction writers in the world, no matter what it takes. Think we're
going to need them. If you can get them to stop doing backflips of joy."
The Chief of Staff just nodded as he hurriedly wrote down the website
address, then handed the unit back. He all but threw himself out the door
at very close to FTL speed.
The President hefted the display unit for a moment, then held it out
to the alien. "Thank you. For being open with us. We appreciate it," the
President said quietly. "I'm sure you can understand how difficult all this is
for us."
"Oh, true, true. Difficult for us, too," the alien murmured as he took
the display unit back. "Send out FTL explorer probe robots that cost
bundles, which may or may not find anything. Then launch a crewed
expedition to travel thousands of lightyears, that may meet with disaster
at any time. Then assuming nobody dies or the probe didn't screw up, try
and set up a trading relationship that's actually going to pay for itself over
the long run. And let's not forget the chance that someone else might
mozy along and aggressively undercut you. Possibly by cutting your
throat. Oh, it can be very difficult indeed but the profits can also..."
The President snapped her fingers, interrupting the alien. "Hold it!
Got it! I remember now!" the President exclaimed. "Our own history. Here
on Earth. The 16th century. And the 17th. And the 18th. It was the age of
exploration, when powerful nations sent sailing vessels out on missions
huge and dangerous distances all over the world to find new territories,
new wealth. Columbus was only one of hundreds, nor even one of the
most successful."
The President leaned forward, a dark gleam in her eyes. "But it was
also the age of exploitation," she hissed in a low voice. "The age of
conquest. Of slavery. Of colonization. An age of almost constant war, all
over the globe, the Great Powers locked in ferocious combat over insanely
imperialistic dogmas of power politics and greedy economic self-interest.
And fanatic religion. It was an age when everybody was at everybody
else's throat. Or preferably lower down. The weak went to the wall.
Especially the people who got colonized, who didn't have guns. And the
only real law was the kind that got delivered at the points of massed
bayonets or out of the sulfurous mouths of batteries of well-aimed
cannons!!"
Suddenly, the Oval Office was deathly, deathly quiet. The President
took a deep breath.
"Am I right? That's what it's really like? Out there?" the President said
levelly, pointing up at the ceiling with a finger. "Everyone weaponed up to
the max. Fingers or tentacles or whatever on the hair trigger. And no
quarter given if the triggers are pulled. And if somebody takes out
somebody else's homeworld with an asteroid on a high-V intercept orbit,
well boo hoo, and too bad, and good thing it wasn't us!!"
"Am. I. Right?" the President repeated intensely.
The alien sat stock still for a moment. The silence stretched out for
what seemed a lifetime. Finally, he spoke.
"In my estimation, you humans are going to do splendidly, and I
mean absolutely," the alien said slowly. "In most of the first contacts I've
done, it usually takes me weeks of negotiations to get the facts across.
What the galaxy's all about, that is. And why my company's services and
products are so much needed if an emerging race is going to make it."
The alien nodded at the President. "Congratulations. You figured it
out not in weeks but in under an hour," the alien said quietly. "Again,
congratulations."
"What does your company sell?" the President asked bluntly. Not a
human in the room was breathing by now.
Casually, the alien pulled out the touchscreen again, and a paw
began tapping on it. "It's quite a legitimate business, I assure you.
Time-honoured, even," the alien murmured, tapping away. "In fact I'm
even set up to take your order now, or at least the preliminaries.
Considering how much business I suspect we'll be doing I'm definitely
happy to give you a fifteen percent first-order discount, so don't hold
back."
The alien stopped tapping and smiled broadly at the President, all of
his white, sharp, fangs exposed. For the first time, the President and
everybody else in the Oval Office got a chilling glimpse of the alien's true
predatory heritage.
"Once you get your new FTL starships built, tell me now, how many
sensor and targeting systems, and missile tubes, and beam systems, and
shield pods do you think you'll want to install? We have a wide range of
products to completely satisfy all of your defensive and offensive systems
requirements," the alien arms salesman purred toothily.
--- Fin
Jul 20/14
=============================================================================
Category All / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 240 x 240px
File Size 1.8 kB
Quick hit on Google... Ah, there we are. The name Ringo is new, but
the universe he's built seems familiar enough. Yah, looks like a couple
of parallels with the Darhel.
But only tangential, I think. Much more capitalistic lot, these folks, out
more for the sale than any other motives. As for who they really are,
and what their deeper motives are, dunno. The logic of the short
story didn't require me to think about that.
Although I have been thinking about that, and some of the other races
out there in this theoretically hostile and anarchic galaxy. Or maybe it's by
no means as simple as the President's historical analogy would suggest?
Well, it had better not be or I've just got a boring space-war novel on my
paws. With furs.* And who wants to read that?
fwbrown61(* Potential plot Maguffin: That's not Cheetah-Bear's original
body. Meaning the aliens have advanced *bio-tech* too.
Now what games can I play with that, hmmm? :- ) )
Oh yah, the X-29; know about it. To look at that plane you could believe it can do miracles
in the air. Apparently came close.
That said, a cheap SF writing trick is deployed here. To reinforce a sense of future time
setting, just having someone say the date only goes so far. There need to be details that
go Ping!
So in this story we have F-29s in the air. When I wrote this, the highest number flying was the
F-18. Let's pull a number outta the hat: F-29. Say, we must be in the future if that's what the Air
Force has now.
Of course, now they're up to the much-troubled F-32, so poof, my story's outdated almost
before the ink--pixels--are dry. Oh well. :- )
fwbrown61
Oops. F-35. Canada's allegedly buying some.
Still, hats off to the American defense corporations. Isn't everyone who can make a clusterf**k break Mach.
(Of course Canada's buying some. :- ) )
fwbrown61
Glad you liked. There are some short stories that just <Click!> sooo
neatly, when writing or reading. This one's got it (and really short, too.)
And oh holy Christ on a skateboard, could this *ever* take off in a
dozen different directions, if I give in to temptation and build a novel
on it. And thoughts are brewing, I say to you.
As snap endings go, I gotta think that's one of the best I've done.
An arms salesman? As reader's jaw hits the floor. And along with
that, the instant question: What happens next?
Well, there's no more story, so we don't know. But we're certainly
invited to think about it, which is maybe an object lesson in short story
writing. The story has to close properly, and in a properly dramatic
way.
But for the reader the story does not close, in the sense that they
are able to continue to imagine about the characters and their world.
The story sets up and solves a particular plot problem, but leaves
the characters and their world turned upside down. Now what're
they gonna do?
I think if I could pull off this trick more often I'd be a happier
writer. And I'd have more short stories in inventory. They're harder
than they look.
On the other paw, given that we are in furlit country on this website,
some of the [furry] thoughts that are brewing here are looking like a
*helluva* lot of fun. Thoughts that would never occur if I were
thinking pure-SF.
As in, the aliens appear to have a lot of space 'n weapons technology
to offer. But might they not also have a lot of *biological* technology
to offer as well?
And where is it written that that's Cheetah-Bear's original body? A good
First Contact team would be intensely aware that physical appearance
is gonna make a big difference.
So just what will the rest of the aliens look like, hmmm? Say, room for
a cameo here, if you want it. :- )
fwbrown61
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