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plating.
Two arcs of scarcely waist-high figures awaited them. White spacesuits and silvered visors blocked any direct view of the aliens, behind whom gaped the outer hatch of the starship’s own airlock. A high-pitched squeal warbled in Art’s ears, in the mutually agreed-upon clear channel. “Welcome to Victorious ,” appended a familiar voice. The synthesized speech sounded like Pashwah. A clone, Art decided. Light delay made it impossible for the original agent on Earth to do translations.
“No identification or title given,” Keizo said on the all-hands private band. “Nor did the speaker show himself, such as by stepping forward or raising an arm. We know K’vithians use personal names, and that their culture is hierarchical. I theorize that their high officials remained inside.”
One of the shorter humans stepped in front of the rest; he towered over the K’vithians. “Thank you for your hospitality. I am Ambassador Hong-yee Chung. On behalf of the United Planets, welcome to human space.” A high-pitched squeaking followed, Chung’s remarks translated by a human-created AI.
Art had to respect Chung’s attentiveness to the diplomatic niceties, as their surroundings kept distracting him. The ship’s rotation manifested itself in the wheeling overhead of stars, nearby Callisto, and mighty Jupiter. This near the spin axis magnetic boots held him securely, but centrifugal force still tugged at his body. Let’s go. Spacesuit shielding notwithstanding, humans belonged inside, protected from Jupiter’s vast but invisible radiation belt.
Lights sparkled and flared as spectator ships jockeyed for position. What a zoo it was out there! Had the UP sent twice as many ships to keep order, they would not have sufficed.
Finally, a Snake gestured at the open airlock. Mixed groups of humans and aliens cycled through the lock, beyond which waited more greeters. Spacesuited ETs marched off, presumably to shed their vacuum gear. The corridor, like the airlock, was amply tall for humans. Parallel lines of small holes marked the ceiling as far as Art could see. Similar rows of holes marked the ceiling and wall of a cross corridor. Decoration?
The aliens were whippet-thin, iridescent-scaled bipeds. Their faces seemed less humanoid than their bodies, probably because of the upward-oriented third eye near the apex of the skull. They lacked noses, their nostrils lying flush with the plane of the face. Each extremity bore four digits, one opposable; the tips of razor-sharp retractable talons were barely visible in hands and sandaled feet. More than half their greeters displayed the back-of-the-neck scalloped ornamental ridge of a male.
All wore belted, jumpsuit-like garments of a common fashion, made of a plastic-like material. Similarities in clothing, despite differences in ornamentation and color, suggested uniforms. The largest Snake stood about 125 centimeters tall.
“Helmets stay on,” Art reminded everyone. K’vithian and terrestrial life alike were CHON-based, but…. “Yes, there’s oxygen, but these guys like concentrations of volcanic gas we’d find toxic, especially sulfur dioxide. And keep your suit heaters on. It won’t be much above freezing.”
An honor guard waited in two parallel ranks. Their ramrod postures conveyed energy, discipline, and utter seriousness. These guys were scary : like erect, pack-hunting pumas who had evolved intelligence. Who had built a starship. Who almost certainly used vast quantities of antimatter. Art was suddenly glad to be wearing a pressure suit. It cloaked, he hoped, an uncontrollable shiver.
One of the taller aliens raised his arms in welcome, fingers spread. His uniform was white and starkly unadorned. His thin lips parted but did not further move as he spoke a sequence of squeals. An overhead speaker declared, “I am Arblen Ems Firh Mashkith, Foremost of this vessel. Please follow me to our meeting room.”
Mashkith strode briskly, humans and Hunter officers
Two arcs of scarcely waist-high figures awaited them. White spacesuits and silvered visors blocked any direct view of the aliens, behind whom gaped the outer hatch of the starship’s own airlock. A high-pitched squeal warbled in Art’s ears, in the mutually agreed-upon clear channel. “Welcome to Victorious ,” appended a familiar voice. The synthesized speech sounded like Pashwah. A clone, Art decided. Light delay made it impossible for the original agent on Earth to do translations.
“No identification or title given,” Keizo said on the all-hands private band. “Nor did the speaker show himself, such as by stepping forward or raising an arm. We know K’vithians use personal names, and that their culture is hierarchical. I theorize that their high officials remained inside.”
One of the shorter humans stepped in front of the rest; he towered over the K’vithians. “Thank you for your hospitality. I am Ambassador Hong-yee Chung. On behalf of the United Planets, welcome to human space.” A high-pitched squeaking followed, Chung’s remarks translated by a human-created AI.
Art had to respect Chung’s attentiveness to the diplomatic niceties, as their surroundings kept distracting him. The ship’s rotation manifested itself in the wheeling overhead of stars, nearby Callisto, and mighty Jupiter. This near the spin axis magnetic boots held him securely, but centrifugal force still tugged at his body. Let’s go. Spacesuit shielding notwithstanding, humans belonged inside, protected from Jupiter’s vast but invisible radiation belt.
Lights sparkled and flared as spectator ships jockeyed for position. What a zoo it was out there! Had the UP sent twice as many ships to keep order, they would not have sufficed.
Finally, a Snake gestured at the open airlock. Mixed groups of humans and aliens cycled through the lock, beyond which waited more greeters. Spacesuited ETs marched off, presumably to shed their vacuum gear. The corridor, like the airlock, was amply tall for humans. Parallel lines of small holes marked the ceiling as far as Art could see. Similar rows of holes marked the ceiling and wall of a cross corridor. Decoration?
The aliens were whippet-thin, iridescent-scaled bipeds. Their faces seemed less humanoid than their bodies, probably because of the upward-oriented third eye near the apex of the skull. They lacked noses, their nostrils lying flush with the plane of the face. Each extremity bore four digits, one opposable; the tips of razor-sharp retractable talons were barely visible in hands and sandaled feet. More than half their greeters displayed the back-of-the-neck scalloped ornamental ridge of a male.
All wore belted, jumpsuit-like garments of a common fashion, made of a plastic-like material. Similarities in clothing, despite differences in ornamentation and color, suggested uniforms. The largest Snake stood about 125 centimeters tall.
“Helmets stay on,” Art reminded everyone. K’vithian and terrestrial life alike were CHON-based, but…. “Yes, there’s oxygen, but these guys like concentrations of volcanic gas we’d find toxic, especially sulfur dioxide. And keep your suit heaters on. It won’t be much above freezing.”
An honor guard waited in two parallel ranks. Their ramrod postures conveyed energy, discipline, and utter seriousness. These guys were scary : like erect, pack-hunting pumas who had evolved intelligence. Who had built a starship. Who almost certainly used vast quantities of antimatter. Art was suddenly glad to be wearing a pressure suit. It cloaked, he hoped, an uncontrollable shiver.
One of the taller aliens raised his arms in welcome, fingers spread. His uniform was white and starkly unadorned. His thin lips parted but did not further move as he spoke a sequence of squeals. An overhead speaker declared, “I am Arblen Ems Firh Mashkith, Foremost of this vessel. Please follow me to our meeting room.”
Mashkith strode briskly, humans and Hunter officers
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