A Matter Of Trust

     When humans first ran into aliens, it was almost exactly that.
     Alarms blared through the steel passageways of ESS Theseum; "Collision stations, all hands," rang out from the intercom over and over.  The crew reacted with frantic, well-trained precision.
     "Franklin, you're fired," snapped Captain Henry Hersht from his C3 station.  He leaned toward the Virtual Display, as if being closer to the VD would somehow force a faster answer.  "Nail down that asteroid's orbit so we can get out of the way."
     "Sorry, sir, don't know how we missed something that big."  Chief Franklin closed his eyes to better focus on his direct neural link.  "What are the odds of a random rock being in a perfect survey orbit. . . there, got it.  Up on the VD with vector change options."
     "Great.  Execute primary option."  Cpt. Hersht sat back, relieved.  "You're hired again."  He overrode the alarms and opened his personal intercom access.  "All over and well done.  All hands return. . ."  Collision alarms interrupted him.  He cursed, closed the intercom, and cut the alarms again.  "Chief?"
     "Sir." Chief Franklin pulled his link cable and turned to face his CO.  "The asteroid is maneuvering."
   
       
     "No, you're not getting it," Dr. Makkin said to the com display aboard ESS Perseus.  Pure joy of disovery had her wound up, just short of babbling.  "They are almost solely macro-systems.  Their muscles have no cells!  Instead they use contracting polymer membranes.  Even the bones are extruded polymers."  
     Similar conversations went on around her in the communications shack as the First Contact team sent it's first comprehensive report back to Earth.  A similar team of aliens were aboard their own ship in Earth orbit, doing the same while the quantum communications link was up.  While decoding each other's language was the first priority, both teams had tried to cover as much as possible.
     "It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen," Taylor continued.  "I have no idea how they procreate, develop, or even practice medicine.  Honestly, if I had to operate on one I'd need a woodshop instead of an operating room."  She smiled at the display.  "I'm really glad you got me on this mission, Uncle Vaz."
     The middle-aged man on the screen grinned at that.  The background was his austere office; his rumpled business attire and open sincerity did not hint that he was an extremely important man.
     "You earned that yourself, Taylor.  Despite the fact they look like a spider skeleton with wings, you say they're quite intelligent?" Vassily asked.  His years-seamed face easily hid his keen interest in the answer.  "What do they use for a brain?"
     "A distributed neural net, nerve clusters connected by extruded cabling."  Taylor grinned and tapped her head.  "Connectivity is an order of magnitude less than us, but at least an order of magnitude faster.  Very intelligent, and quick."
     "Easy to kill, I suppose, with their brains hanging out?"
     "What?"  She frowned.  "Why would you even ask that?"
     "Just answer the damned question."  He winced at his emotional slip.  "Sorry, but it's a serious question.  Understand?"
     "So.  It's like that."  Taylor shook her head.  "No, they'd be much harder to kill than your typical human.  And Uncle Vassily?  You're an ass for sending me to do your bloody spying."

         
     "Admiral Mawnsch, I must report failure."  Chief Seeker Tangor passed a traditional printed report to the Admiral, then collapsed into a padded nest-nook.  The Admiral's ready room resembled a normal, if sparingly decorated, nesting den.
     "Flying stones, Seeker," groused the Admiral and keyed up the ready room's illumination to read the report.  "Gather another specimen, another research group.  Cliff's edge; failure could mean our extinction.  Try again, Doctor."
     "Pushing uphill, sir.  We have the best scientists already, and the humans supplied plenty of samples and criminals.  Such an effort would be wasted."  Tangor clattered structural members in distress.  "Shall I explain?"
     "If you didn't, I'd have you recycled to a creche."
     "Sunrise," it replied morosely.  "They are so physically complex we will need decades, perhaps centuries, to understand them completely.  They are entirely made up of biologic nanomachines arranged in hierarchal subsystems."
     "Round cube?" Admiral Mawnsh scrunched in disbelief.
     "Indeed.  For instance, instead of flexation membranes, they use muscle tissue arranged in hundreds of discrete flexators."  Tangor summoned a VR between them.  Images of a human autopsy scrolled as he spoke.  "Muscle tissue is an amalgam of connective membranes and microscopic cells that contract under direct stimulus from their brain.  We estimate the human body contains some 20 trillion muscle cells.  Every organ and system in the human body, from supporting skeletal structures to oxygenation fluid, is built this way."
     "A strong wall has many stones," rasped the Admiral.  "With that kind of redundency they must be tough."
     "Reversal," said Tangor.  "They are relatively frail."
     "Carry on with your research, Seeker," said the Admiral as it stood to salute.  "Even the final brick is needed.  Flow to the desired goal will be found by another channel.  Dismissed."  The Seeker returned the salute and left Admiral Mawnsch alone.
     The Admiral spent the next watch poring over Tangor's report as well as others from scouting missions to Earth and agents in the First Contact Exchange Conference.  The risk and outcome matrix was easy enough to derive, but the Admiral  didn't like what it showed.  Finally Admiral Mawnsch opened a channel to sick bay.
     "Send Medical Seeker Jharmett to my ready room, ASAP.  Tell him to bring everything he has on the Humans."  After a few seconds of pained consideration, he called the com nest.
     "Lt. Chusque, get me a line to that Minister fellow, the one running the Earth side of the First Contact Team.  Yes, Brache, that's the one.  Coded and locked, Chusque, Imperial Secret."   


     "Don't dither."  Minister of Covert Operations Vassily Brache marched briskly along Green Hall, practically dragging Senior Analyst Troy Bensen.  "Don't act shy or intimidated.  You're working with the PM on this, so treat him like he's part of the team.  Got it?"
     "Right, sir," said the gawky analyst.  "No pressure, only the end of the world," he muttered to himself.  Vassily smacked the back of Troy's head.
     Then everything became a chaos of security checks and introductions, ending in the dark woods and ancient decor of famed Ivy Rotunda.  Despite the size of the hall it was standing room only.  It looked as if every Minister in Head Office was present.
     To Troy, who was familiar with lesser gatherings, the meeting proceeded with unbelievable swiftness.  Before he was able to fully gather his wits, all attention was on him.  He rose, but hesitated, cleared his throat to cover discomfiture.
     "Spit it out, Bensen," said Prime Minister Lief.
     "Yes, sir," he said firmly and threw himself into the report.  "Quick establishment of diplomatic relations isn't happening.  We and Poesht are too alien.  We don't understand or trust their motivations yet, and must assume they have the same problem."
     "The Poesht aren't ready for a war on this scale, and neither are we.  Both empires have enjoyed an extended historical period without external enemies.  Individually, the Poeshtans are much harder to kill than we are, so given equivalent readiness, they would have a significant advantage should war begin.  They are more than intelligent enough to recognize this as well as we do."  The hall was ominously silent as Benson activated a 360VD above the podium.  Graphs and diagrams sprang to life.
     "We could preemptively attack, but lack of military forces on both sides would most likely lead to an indecisive, extended, and expensive period of hostilities.  We would lose eventually, but both race's economy and government would destabilize.  There's a good chance of both collapsing."
     "We could start building up the military now in an attempt to reach parity.  However, all they need to do is start building up as well, and they could easily stay ahead of us.  Then it's an old-fashioned arms race until war breaks out or one of us goes bankrupt."
     "If we could significantly delay the previous two options, industry could be built up and readied for an outbreak of hostilities, supplying a deterrent we don't have now."
     "As it stands, Poesht would benefit most from a preemeptive attack while they still have a clear advantage.  Should that be their decision, we can expect action within weeks, perhaps just days.  Our best response is to strike before they do."  Troy dismissed the display and sat down, pale and sweating.
     The most powerful men in Earth's history pondered how to face the untenable situation.
     "Ladies and gentlemen," said PM Lief, "it seems our best choice is bloody bad.  Let's have a. . . yes, Minister Brache?"
     "Thank you, sir," said Vassily.  He rose and cleared his throat.  "I believe there is a more productive possiblity, sir.  If I may?"  With a quick glance around the table, the PM nodded and Vassily activated the central display, showing an extreme close-up of a tiny but monstrous creature.
     "The Poesht don't suffer from diseases as we know them.  However, parasites that infested and fed on them were once a constant problem. . ."


     "Yes, sir," said Admiral Mawnsch respectfully to his ultimate boss, the Secretary of the Cabinet.  They spoke over a secure link via Virtual Display.  "A pit is bottomless until you fall, Secretary.  We must assume they are as aware of the situation as we are.  Perhaps because of their fragility they are a very aggressive race, at least as aggressive as we are, if not more so.  They will certainly decide to risk financial self-destruction and begin a massive program to improve their military.  We will then be forced to either shoulder the same financial burden or attack now.  Either way it is very likely both peoples will suffer eventual collapse."
     "Better to lose a limb than wait in the trap.  Thank you for your report, Admiral."  Before the Secretary could dismiss the link, Admiral Mawnsch drummed his membranes for attention.
     "Sir, I may have an alternative. . ."

   
     "The citizens of Poesht present my humble self as their representative to the citizens of Earth."
     "We are honored to receive the interstellar Ambassador of Poesht and present. . ."
     The ceremony would continue for hours, as would the social gathering after, but Vassily turned away from the monitors.  To him, the job started now.
     "Launch," he said quietly to staff at stations around the room.  "God help us all."
     Celebratory fireworks programs started in cities all across Earth and her many colonies.  Unnoticable among the brilliant displays other shells arced aloft, their detonations insignificant.  Invisibly, the haze of spores slowly drifted down to gently infect the jubilant billions.


     With an angry curse Admiral Mawnsch turned off the diplomatic scenes on the main screen.  He had commanded fleets in war, ordered ships to certain doom, lost friends in combat, and never had words been harder to utter.  He looked around the bridge at the assembled team.
     "Commence operation," he rumbled.
     In ancient holiday tradition, formations of naval space vessels flew low over the cities of the wide-flung Poesht Empire, scattering treats to the appreciative crowds with every fly-over.  Unseeable to the celebrating citizens, microscopic mites clung to each toy and sweet.  By the time they all went home to enjoy family and food on the joyous occaision of interstellar peace, most were infested.  In the normal course of living infestations rates reached 100% within a month.


     The meeting was absolutely secret; no aides or advisors or even bodyguards allowed.  The small interplanetary freighter had been abandoned here months ago and would be destroyed as soon as the two beings each left in their respective tiny shuttlecrafts.  The only objects in the otherwise empty central cargo bay was a cheap folding table and toaster-sized generation-one translator.  The two beings entered from opposite sides of the bay at nearly the same instant.
     "Admiral Mawnsch, good to see you again," said Vassily.  "How are you today?"
     "Please dispense with banalities, Minister Brache." the Admiral growled.  "Let us not chew a bitter fruit; this unsavory task is best done quickly."
     "Indeed."
     They approached the table silently and each placed a secure document carrier in front of him.  At a shared nod they slid their respective cases toward the other and opened them.  Each exposed a simple keypad panel and a set of complex keys hung in the lid.
     Turning the keys and entering a code would release a virus on each homeworld, a virus designed to switch both the mites and spores from benign to deadly, resulting in a plague like nothing in history.  Both looked at the devices with unpleasant expressions, though neither could read the other's face.
     "My staff will confirm proper function within the hour," said Vassily as he shut the case.
     "As shall my technicians."  Mawnsch showed atypical hesitation.  "Vassily.  I am told a cure will take three to five years."
     "Yes, we think about the same for us.  I will keep you in the loop on our program."
     "Not my concern.  I'm folding my tent.  What weighs on my mind is, what will we do then?"
     "I should hope something better than what we do now, sir.  Holding each other as genocidal hostages is very close to madness.  I pray we can work out a real solution before then."  Vassily forced himself to step forward and put out his hand, a gesture understood by both races.
     The Admiral's membranes flapped sharply, which was interpreted as a bark of laughter, and slapped it's primary manipulator digits into Vassily's hand.  The man winced, but grasped them firmly.
     "To trust," he said.

The End