Tales from the Service: Ramrio’s Admirer

2951-01-18 – Tales from the Service: Ramrio’s Admirer 

This week, we continue with the account sent in by Ramiro W. of his role in moving diplomats from the Sagittarius Frontier toward the Core Worlds. Independent reports suggest, as we mentioned last week, that the trio is, if genuine, a delegation from the polity known as the Grand Journey, which is rumored to have little reason to like the Incarnation despite evidence of significant past technological exchange between them. 

Ramiro’s account at this stage gives me reasons for skepticism, but I will present it as it was given to me; the fact that it was approved by Naval Intelligence for publication should not be used as evidence of its veracity. They have permitted false accounts to be published before, though the worst examples of this were thankfully in other publications. 

“Tell me something, Skipper.” Captain Marie Larson sipped whiskey from one of the glasses which she’d collected from her three polymer-averse charges and meticulously cleaned. The alien delegation had retired to their cabin more than an hour previously, leaving Ramiro and his only human passenger alone. “When I asked Naval Intelligence to recommend a light-duty ship to take those three toward the Core, why did they recommend you? You’ve never worked a steady government job in your life.” 

Ramiro delayed answering by taking a long drink of his own whiskey. He had guessed from the moment he’d first met Larson that they’d been put into touch by Naval Intelligence, and that had to have something to do with his connection to Livia. Learning that her new friends possessed some degree of official sanction had been a relief to him, but also a source of anxiety; he had no desire to be drawn into the cloak-and-dagger world of intelligence and counter-intelligence. 

Larson picked up on Ramiro’s hesitation quickly. “Eh, I know how it is. They tell you not to talk about even the silliest things.” 

Ramiro shrugged. “I can say it came as a surprise to me, too. I wasn’t asking anyone for official work.” 

“You must have a friend on the inside, then.” Larson nodded. “Though I knew from my first look at her that Jen Daley was perfect for our needs.” 

“How so?” Ramiro loved his ship, and had from his own first look at her, but she was hardly an ideal diplomatic transport. She’d been designed to move small, sensitive cargoes a few tons at a time, both in external cargo pods and in her internal, pressurized cargo bay, where enroute inspections could be performed. The ship only had passenger cabins because Livia had done most of the legwork to design a total refit of the crew deck.  

“Survey’s flagship is in Maribel. It could have gotten those three where they’re going a lot faster, and a lot more comfortably.” Larson pointed vaguely toward the bulkhead separating the lounge from the cabins. “They insisted on a civilian ride. I had to talk them down from booking second-class berths aboard one of the regular passenger liners.” 

Ramiro winced; in normal times, the big passenger lines that terminated at Maribel were quite comfortable ways to travel between worlds, but ever since Maribel had come under threat, most of them had double-booked every outbound cabin up to the absolute maximum of the atmospherics, turning the once-luxurious liners into noisome, overcrowded, clamorous hulks. There had been riots aboard one of them recently when the main food-fab system broke down, and only the first-class passengers were permitted to enter crew spaces to use the crew’s food-fab system, leaving everyone else to consume un-adulterated nutrient slurry. 

“You weren’t just a name on the list, mind you.” Larson watched Ramiro carefully. “I asked which independent ships and crews we could rely on, and they sent me to you directly. Intelligence never does that. They’ve always got a list.” 

“Someone thinks they owed me a favor.” Ramiro chose his words very carefully. “I have my suspicions who, but I’ll keep them to myself. I haven’t done any of their black-ops work, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.” 

Larson smiled humorlessly. “That’s just what a BCI minder would say.” She drained the rest of her whiskey and set the glass down on a table near her chair. “I don’t know what the spooks want with my friends over there, but-” 

“Captain Larson, neither do I.” Ramiro hoped breaking the ancient spacer custom of never calling anyone by the rank “Captain” out in the void except the ship’s commander, but he knew Larson, with her background in the Navy and in Survey, would take notice. “If BCI is keeping tabs on you, it’s not through me.” 

Larson sunk back into her chair, though she was clearly unsatisfied. “All right, all right. But you can be sure-” 

“Pardon.” A soft, raspy voice, like silk dragged across broken glass, interrupted. Ramiro turned to see the female diplomat peeking into the lounge. “Rest has eluded me. Would I be permitted to join you?” 

“Of course, Rhila.” Ramiro gestured to one of the other chairs, shooting an annoyed look at Larson. He’d have heard the cabin door hiss open, had it not been for the woman’s badgering and suspicion. “I apologize, the bunks in my cabins are far from the Reach’s best.” 

Rhila walked across the room and sat down, her even gait and floor-length garment made the motion look more like gliding than any natural motion. “The bedding is quite adequate.” She waved a golden hand which seemed to have either too many joints, or too few bones, then folded her hands in her lap. “Have I interrupted?” 

“Not anything important." Ramiro again spoke before Larson, though this time Larson opened her mouth too late to interject. “We were just trying to figure out which of our mutual friends recommended me and my ship.” 

“Ah.” Rhila blinked slowly, those blank, polished-ruby eyes vanishing under golden lids and then reappearing. “I had assumed it was your woman.” 

Ramiro had been raising his glass to his lips, and nearly spilled it in surprise. “What?” 

Larson, though somewhat less surprised than Ramiro at the alien’s deduction, nevertheless looked alarmed. “His woman?” 

“Or perhaps, she was your woman, and no longer.” Rhila pointed one long finger at Ramiro. “After all, she is not aboard.” 

Ramiro stared hard at the alien. Was this a bluff? Was Rhila helping Larson probe his Intelligence contacts? If not, then how had this creature come to so accurate a conclusion so quickly? He certainly was not at liberty to tell a diplomat from a foreign power what Livia was doing any more than he could tell Larson, even if he wanted to. 

After a long moment, the thought that these golden-skinned xenos might be telepathic entered his mind. Telepathy wasn’t real, of course; it was the stuff of salacious tales of explorers meeting buxom alien princesses on the deep frontiers. Even if an alien creature could detect the neural impulses in a human brain, how could it possibly learn to interpret them fast enough to be of any use? 

“I tried to explain to him earlier.” Larson held up her hands in defeat. “And he’s still surprised.” With a sigh, she stood and placed her glass in the cleaner. “I’m going to my cabin. We’ll talk tomorrow, Skipper.” 

Rhila’s blank eyes followed Larson out, then returned to fix on Ramiro. A smile – one that seemed less practiced than before, and more natural – tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Do not fear, Captain. I cannot read your thoughts. Such things are beyond our art.” 

Ramiro set his whiskey down. “Then how?” 

“We see many of the things you have trained yourself not to see. Small things that are familiar, and expected, which change only slightly.” Rhila held up her hand. “Look here. A being might go mad cataloging all of the things which one might learn from observing the momentary motion of one hand.” 

“A being who’s not you.” Ramiro nodded; he was beginning to understand, because he’d learned something about the art of reading and manipulating people from Livia. Were these diplomats nothing more than superhuman con-artists? What could that mean for whatever negotiations they were planning to undertake? 

Rhila’s eyes sparkled, and she emitted a broken-glass sound that Ramiro interpreted as laughter. “Maybe even I, someday. But not for a long time.” She leaned forward in her chair. “You fear us, now that I have revealed our art?” 

Ramiro shrugged. “A bit, I guess. You’re probably the third most worrying thing I’ve chatted with in this lounge.” 

“And the most terrifying of all was the woman.” Rhila nodded. “The space she once occupied has not healed.” 

Ramiro nodded; there was no point denying this. He missed Livia terribly, and missed her all the more every time her sporadic, halting messages came in. 

“I admit I find you a most interesting creature, Captain.” Rhila stood and stepped into the middle of the lounge. As she did, Ramiro wondered for a moment how he could have ever seen youth in her, until he realized that with the knowledge of reading subtle tells probably also came the capability of broadcasting them consciously. This being carried the experience of many human lifetimes, even if she might yet be young by the standards of her own kind. 

“I’m not for hire as a specimen.” Ramiro caught himself comparing the subtle curves of the xeno’s body to those of a human woman, as much as her robe-like garments allowed. After an instant’s self-recrimination, he realized that her posture had changed to one that would register for humans as sexually provocative. Was she trying to solicit him? Despite the general humanoid nature of their kind, the idea filled Ramiro with horror. What could such a liaison mean for her role as a negotiator with the Confederated Worlds? What would it mean for Livia, if she ever returned, if he had a cheap fling with an alien diplomat? 

“Ah, so then she is not gone forever.” Rhila walked past Ramiro toward the lounge door, seeming somewhat disappointed. “Do not let me dishonor what you already have.” 

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Tales from the Service: Ramiro’s Sagittarian Diplomats

2951-01-11 – Tales from the Service: Ramiro’s Sagittarian Diplomats

As soon as Ramiro announced on the ship’s intercom that the passengers could move about freely, he heard hatches hissing down the gangway as his passengers did precisely that. The hatch behind him was open, and he heard low, hissing voices drift from the cabins into the ship’s lounge, where they subsided into a susurrating background hum.

No doubt, the trio of xenos were conversing in their own language; Ramiro made no attempt to listen in with the microphone pickups. Their business wasn’t his. He was responsible for delivering them to their destination, not for picking up assorted gossip, and he’d long ago learned his lesson when it came to being inquisitive with the cargo, human or otherwise. The less he poked his nose into the business of his customers, the less they poked into his, and the less there was for anyone to dislike.

“Captain, a moment?”

“Eh?” Ramiro didn’t startle easily these days, so he didn’t jump much at the sudden voice of Captain Larson, the aliens’ Naval Survey Auxiliary minder, who was apparently standing directly behind him. “I’ve got quite a few moments.” He turned his crash-padded chair around until he was facing Larson. How she’d ascended the rattling gangway up from the corridor to the cockpit without making any noise was a mystery to be solved later.

“You came highly recommended, Captain, but I must warn you about the appearance of my charges.” Larson held up a hand, as if to establish a barrier between Ramiro and the trio down in the lounge. “They will doubtless dispense with their cowls now that we are off the station.”

“Whatever they look like, Miss Larson, I’ve handled worse.” Ramiro shrugged. It was, by his lights, quite true. After that last cruise with Livia aboard, when she’d forced him to help her supposed friend escape to Cyclone, he doubted there was much in the galaxy worth getting agitated about.

“That is just what I wanted to warn you about.” Larson shook her head. “The are not precisely, ah, ugly, by human standards. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Ramiro folded his arms and waited for Larson to come to the point. If she was worried about him fraternizing in an unapproved manner with these visitors from beyond the Gap, then his desire to keep his connections with Livia hidden from his attempts to acquire official transport contracts had succeeded beyond anything he could have hoped for.

“They are diplomats.” Larson raised one eyebrow. “Experienced ones. Don’t forget that, no matter what impression suggest.”

Ramiro shrugged. “I’d guessed they were, to be coming this far.”

Larson scowled, clearly unhappy about how the conversation was going.

Ramiro wondered what it was that she was trying to communicate; all he could conclude so far was that the trio below would remind him of children or baby animals, and that he was not to treat them as such.

Before Larson could back up and try again, a device on her belt chimed. Leveling one finger at Ramiro in a way that she certainly intended to be meaningful, she turned and hurried back down the gangway. This time, her boots rattled the floor panels the way Ramiro expected.

Turning back to the controls, Ramiro double-checked the course he’d put into the computer, checking it against the Maribel system authority’s range of approved outbound vectors. The Navy and the system authority had gotten into the habit of changing the inbound and outbound rules every few days, doubtless out of some misplaced hopes of improving the defensibility of the system if it were suddenly attacked. If he drifted outside the range of approved vectors, he could expect to be overhauled, searched, and fined, regardless of Larson’s credentials.

Once he was satisfied as to the permissibility of Jen Daley’s course, Ramiro locked the controls and headed down the gangway. Low voices filtered out of the lounge, mostly raspy and unintelligible. Among the voices, he heard the clinking of glass, which could only be from the glassware that was supposed to be locked in the liquor cabinet. Shaking his head, he rounded the corner. “Excuse me, but wasn’t that-”

The rest of Ramiro’s chiding died unspoken in his throat. The trio of aliens stood around Captain Larson, each holding a whiskey-glass full of some sort of syrupy golden beverage. As Larson had indicated, they’d dispensed with their heavy robes, and were wearing instead garments of darkly shimmering, silk-like cloth which clung to their slim bodies and revealed every wiry muscle in their weirdly-jointed limbs.

It was the faces of the xenos, though, which had caught Ramiro off-guard. The moment he stepped into the lounge, three pairs of reddish-brown eyes like ruby cabochons set in golden faces fixed on him. Those eyes, set into such serene, human faces, made the trio more alien than any coldly mechanical Angel or squid-like, invertebrate Reacher. The impression Larson had given Ramiro that he should expect the creatures to look childlike was validated, but only for an instant; the creatures reminded him more of elfin idols come to life.

“We apologize for invading the storage unit.” One of the creatures stepped forward and bowed slightly. It was, Ramiro decided, probably female, its voice significantly higher than that of the one who’d spoken to him before, but still raspy, and its movements inexpressibly feminine. “It was a necessity.”

“There’s something in the polymer of the disposable cups that they don’t like.” Larson shrugged. She was drinking out of one of these. “I brought plenty of proper glass, but they found yours first.”

Ramiro, regaining composure, shrugged. “Just… put them in the cleaner when you’re done. The cabinet is locked because of the liquor, not the glasses.”

The female’s mouth tugged upwards into a hesitant smile, and Ramiro knew by how foreign the expression was to that round, golden face that smiling was something they’d learned to do to reassure humans. “We would not invade such supplies without asking.”

“I appreciate that.” Ramiro, realizing he was still standing in the door, took two more steps into the lounge.

Larson raised her cup toward the slightly taller being nearest her. “Captain, this is Ambassador Ghalr. His associates are Orulh and Rhila.” She gestured in turn to the other standing near her, and the female who’d moved toward Ramiro.

“Pleased to make your acquaintances.” Ramiro bowed his head slightly, once again missing Livia’s presence; con artist or no, she had been so much better than he at putting passengers at ease. “Do you still need to access your cargo?”

Ghalr nodded, then raised his glass and drained the liquid inside with one smooth, silent motion. “If convenient, Captain.”

“Come with me.” Ramiro led the ambassador aft to the hexagonal chamber behind the lounge, which on one side led to the boarding ramp, on another to the umbilical airlock, and on a third led into the engine room. Stooping, he tapped his uniform cuff against the hatch in the floor, then stood aside as it opened and slid away to reveal a ladder descending into the dimly lit cargo bay.

Turning to the ambassador, Ramiro indicated the ladder. “Can you manage this climb?”

The golden-skinned diplomat answered only by setting his feet on the first rung and descending with no difficulty. For such a senior person, Ramiro couldn’t decide how old Ghalr was; there was no spring of youth in his movements, but nor was there any of the hesitation of age.

At the bottom, Ghalr stood aside to let Ramiro descend and lead him to the netting-encased pile where the port stevedores had stored the diplomats’ belongings. Ramiro pulled back the netting waited as Ghalr checked the labels on several containers before opening one and surveying the contents. Only now did he notice that the containers were metal-walled, rather than the more common, lighter, cheaper polymer.

Without so much as reaching into the box, Ghalr replaced the lid and stood aside. “I am satisfied. We may return.”

Frowning, Ramiro led the way back to the ladder and let the diplomat ascend. He didn’t particularly care what was in the box, but why did the diplomat need to look at it, if it wasn’t needed?

Though I am not satisfied of the veracity of this rumor, it is being told here at Maribel that a delegation of diplomats from the Sagittarius Arm power known as the Grand Journey passed through the system a month or so ago. That would line up acceptably with Ramiro’s story, if true, and would provide a possible identity for the strange creatures he reports ferrying into Farthing’s Chain.

What is publicly known about this alien faction is limited: their ships share technological similarities with Incarnation warships, suggesting technological interchange between the two when the precursors of the Incarnation reached Sagittarius, and the Reachers supposedly speak of the Grand Journey in very positive terms. Some reports suggest this faction is multi-species, but most indicate that it is no threat to the Incarnation. Contact with the Grand Journey was first made by the Lost Squadrons, though it seems this first contact was hesitant at best.

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Tales from the Service: Ramiro’s Three Novelties

2951-01-04 – Tales from the Inbox: Ramiro’s Three Novelties

You probably saw the service announcement yesterday. I am not entirely sure why this schedule change is being made, but you may be happy to know that I agree that it has little to no impact on us out here. As far as we’re concerned, every entry is still due at the same time, but I’ll be honest, I’ve got no idea what they’re doing back at Centauri with our text for the roughly half a standard day they have it already before it hits the main ingest feed, so I certainly have no idea what another day is needed for.

Regardless, the change is being made at levels above mine, and those levels generally know what they’re talking about.

Ramiro W. stood with his arms folded beside the airlock as his quartet of passengers shuffled onboard Jen Daley. Ramiro had never liked being in passenger service, but this particular trip, he hoped, would be interesting enough to make up for the usual annoyances of carrying cargo that could talk.

Though the first passenger was human enough – a prim, angular woman in Naval Survey Auxiliary fatigues whose holographic shoulder insignias marked her as a full Captain – the three following her were anything but. Ramiro had rubbed elbows with plenty of Atro’me and Rattanai in his days on the spacelanes. He’d heard of, but never met, many others: the aloof robotic puppeteers of Cold Refuge, the infamous broker-sapient Jeb of the Silver Strand, the brilliantly plumaged Makaharwans, the only sapients native to the Coreward Frontier, and others. These three, stooped and concealed below white hoods embroidered with intricate blue trim, were something else.

The last of the trio paused next to Ramiro, the hooded head turning slightly toward him. “Our items?” The voice rasped around what were to it unfamiliar syllables of a new language, but Ramiro detected a decidedly gruff, perhaps militaristic tone.

“Everything sent here is in the hold.” Ramiro nodded. “You will be permitted down there once we’re away.”

The xeno hesitated, then ducked its head forward and entered, turning left and heading into Jen Daley’s lounge.

Ramiro sealed the hatch, sent a departure request using his personal comms, then followed. He found Captain Larson talking in hushed tones with one of the hooded creatures, while the other two poked around the compartment, investigating the fittings and fixtures.

“May I have your attention.” Ramiro stood straighter as the quartet turned toward him. The cold, blank stares from below those cowls might have unnerved most spacers, but he’d stared down an Immortal in this very space. A few strange xenos were, by comparison, no problem. “I’ve requested departure clearance and we’ll leave as soon as we get it. I must ask you to make your way to your cabins before we undock and remain there until I buzz the all clear.”

One of the creatures’ embroidered hood twitched from side to side. “Is there some… danger?”

“Interstellar travel can never really be safe.” Ramiro shrugged. “The cabins have local backup atmospherics in case we have a mishap.” They were also the place where rescuers would expect to find passengers, if something happened, but Ramiro’s favorite benefit of confining prisoners to their cabins during departures and docking approaches was that it kept them out of his hair while he ran the ship.

“The Skipper is just stating a standard procedure.” Captain Larson stepped forward. “He’ll permit free movement for the bulk of the journey.”

Ramiro nodded, then pointed forward. “You will find the cabins through there and on the right-hand side of the corridor.”

The three xenos followed their human minder uneasily through the hatchway and into Jen Daley’s small cabins area. They’d already arranged the trio to share a single cabin, with Larson occupying the other.

As Ramiro headed forward to take his position at the ship’s controls, his comms chimed to indicate departure clearance. Running passengers on a military contract did have its perks – normally he’d be waiting two hours or more for clearance from any large station, but now he had it in minutes.

As he sat down in the pilot’s chair, the intercom chimed.

“Captain, I’m told you should have your clearance.” Captain Larson announced. “Are we waiting for anything else?”

“No, Ma’am.” Ramiro winced and began his undocking procedure. “We’ll be away shortly.”

 

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Notice: Changing Schedule of the Tales from the Inbox Series

2951-01-03: Notice: Changing Schedule of the Tales from the Inbox Series

Starting with this week's entry, the Tales from the Inbox text feed feature will be published one day later (Mondays instead of Sundays at 17:15 standard planetary time, 2:1:15 standard ship time). This change in schedule is a result of the oversight and feed-ingestion logistics at the home office on Planet at Centauri; Duncan's contractual schedule will not be impacted.

We thank all our loyal readers for their understanding of this change, and hope that it will not cause any loss of your enjoyment of this series. Check this feed endpoint tomorrow at or after this time for a new Tales from the Inbox episode!

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