SIXTEEN

A COMMITTEE OF ONE

JORL’S workspace contained an old desk that he had acquired when a physiologist he’d once met at a faculty mixer had decided to sell off all his belongings and use the resulting cash to travel somewhere far away and start over. He’d told Jorl the desk had been his grandfather’s, an artist of insatiable appetites that ranged from the sweet and savory to the carnal and unsavory. Allegedly, the desk had been an altar of sorts, the physiologist’s grandfather supposedly performing acrobatic acts with both men and women upon its broad surface. Upon taking possession of the desk, Jorl had it disinfected, sanded, and refinished with multiple layers of resin before moving it into his home.

As he had no intention of using its surface as a sex platform, he commissioned the construction of a matching hutch, a structure of shelves and cubbies and compartments where he could sort and file various projects, keep reams of paper and cups of fresh ink bamboo, hide snacks away for later consumption (the hiding becoming a critical feature with Pizlo in his life), and once upon a time store a supply of koph. He no longer needed koph in order to see nefshons. The drug Arlo had died to protect remained in his system, constantly reactivating the ability far better than an application of koph ever could. Instead of koph that cabinet now contained the latest in Alliance communications technology, a device that connected to a relay in the space station in orbit above Zlorka and from there to every inhabited planet in the galaxy. As the juniormost member of the Committee of Information, he had access to every published book and article, magazine and flim, recording and vid that existed in the Alliance, assuming he could figure out how to find it in the arcane and necessarily complex filing system that had grown up piecemeal as different administrations attempted upgrades and streamlining of the library.

It also served as a more mundane method than Speaking for conversing with his fellow senators, would-be petitioners, and Druz. Jorl had been sitting in his hammock, jotting down some thoughts on his aborted attempt to Speak with Fisco, the Speaker from Belp who had sailed off more than two centuries ago. Being summoned hadn’t surprised her, as it had every other Speaker of the past that he’d contacted for his project. Indeed, the old woman had reacted as if she were already in the middle of someone else’s summoning when he’d reached her, giving a lecture of some kind. That made no sense. Nor did the name she’d mentioned and bid him forget. Caudex. Had he misheard or was the elderly Lox attempting to cover a slip? The only other interpretation he could imagine involved Fisco having slipped into senility at the end of her long life and somehow believed herself to be part of the roots and stem of a plant. It made no sense. Jorl’d set the question aside for a time, allowing it to turn over in the back of his mind while he focused his attention on other concerns, but nothing satisfactory had emerged and he was on the verge of summoning her again when the transceiver hidden in his desk called for his attention. Druz was signaling him, and from the pattern of the call’s tone she was in the star system. Except … she wasn’t supposed to be, not for another season.

“Attend,” he said to the air in front of him, shoving aside the pages of his notes and resting his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. “Open the incoming circuit and record.” The device behind the cabinet door gave a faint ping in response and implemented his directives.

“Druz, is everything all right? I didn’t expect you until wind. You’re supposed to be making a circuit of Alliance worlds and scheduling appointments for me.”

An image of his assistant took shape above his desk. It wasn’t as clear and realistic as he’d expect from even the most inexperienced of Speakers to create from their imaginations and render in nefshon space. Rather it was made of light and sound generated by the Sloth and transmitted from her ship. Silence answered him, but that was to be expected with Druz. He’d long since learned that the Sloth’s carefully prepared speeches needed pauses before and after. Regular conversation, when he could convince her to speak to him as just an ordinary individual and not as the senator she served, ran more casually, but whatever had brought her through the system’s portal wouldn’t be ordinary and he’d just have to endure the delays that were part of her nature.

Eventually, she spoke. “Greetings, Senator. I apologize for the unscheduled call. Has my intrusion occurred during an acceptable time? I am still several days out from Barsk and can call back at a more convenient moment if you’d prefer.”

“This is fine. I’m fine. Well, no, actually, I’m curious what you’re doing here.”

“Yes, sir. Understandably so. As you already surmised, prior to diverting to Barsk ahead of schedule I was following your last directive, traveling among the worlds of the Alliance and screening potential petitioners. As established, I redirected those who could find better support and assistance through other, lesser, governmental channels and assigning priority ratings to the few who remained and scheduling them for you to meet using your, ah, gifts. I trust you’ve been receiving my field notes and reports?”

“I have. And I’ve been meeting from here with those you’ve scheduled in my offices throughout the Alliance worlds. What’s come up to change that? I’ve had no new report.”

Another pause and then, “No, sir. The circumstances have been peculiar, and I’m still writing it up. I’ll have it for you before we reach Barsk.”

“We?” Jorl’s ears fanned with a trace of concern.

“Yes, sir. One of the petitioners I met with presented a peculiar observation along with her request to meet with you.”

“Peculiar in what way, Druz. I’m not following.”

“Yes, well, your special techniques notwithstanding, sir, this individual—a Procy by the name of Abenaki—had deduced that you would not actually be present at your scheduled meeting with her. I reviewed the facts of her arguments and they were quite convincing, though I’m sure you’ll want to hear it from her yourself. In any case, as her petition did meet the criteria for your hearing, and as it didn’t seem prudent to turn her loose with the results of her deductions, and as she’d actually brought up the matter of your lack of genuine presence as an argument for allowing her to meet with you directly … well, it seemed best to depart from my schedule and transport her to you at once.”

Jorl’s ears dropped flat against the sides of his head in disbelief. “You’re bringing a petitioner to Barsk? Are you mad?”

The silence that followed went on long enough that he wasn’t sure if it was one of his Sloth’s legendary pauses or if he’d offended her to the point of breaking off the call, but then he thought he could hear her clearing her throat as if to start again. When she spoke, her tone was different, anxious. And she’d replaced her usual diffidence with excitement. “Senator … Jorl … I’m quite sane and this Raccoon’s petition is truly something you’ll want to hear face to face. If I have acted in error, well, then I can depart without awakening her and the meeting need not take place. You’ll decide the proper course once you’ve had the opportunity to review my report. In the meantime, I’m transmitting all the backup documents to your location now.”

“Wait, what do you mean awaken?”

“It did not seem prudent to allow her free access to your ship in the event I’d misjudged things and she intended some mischief or sabotage. I placed her in the medical suspension chamber in the ship’s infirmary for the duration of the trip. From her perspective it will be as if she’d only gone to sleep the night before.”

“Druz, that gear is for medical emergencies, not for transporting inconvenient passengers as if they were cargo.”

“Yes, sir. But it seemed the best course, as I hope you’ll agree once you’ve reviewed all the facts. In three days’ time, it’s my intention to set down in the waters a short distance from Keslo as I have in the past.”

She stopped and Jorl waited, counting to himself, moving his trunk like a metronome to distract himself and give his assistant the time she needed. Something extraordinary was happening and, right or wrong, he’d have to deal with it in three days.

“Please review the documentation, sir. I’ll leave a channel open in case you have any questions you wish me to address prior to touchdown. I should tell you, though, the Procy has said she won’t answer any queries until she stands in front of you. I apologize for her rudeness. We’ll be there soon, sir.”

Which left him with no real answers and questions that wouldn’t or couldn’t be satisfied now.

“In three days then. Jorl out.”

The image of Druz winked from existence. Jorl pulled a fresh sheet from a bin in the hutch and spoke aloud. “Attend,” he said again, getting the device’s attention. “Begin display of incoming reports. Normal scroll.” Immediately the air above his desk filled with the first page of the information his assistant had started sending. He snatched up a piece of ink bamboo in his trunk and began taking notes as he read.

*   *   *

THE senators of the Alliance maintained a rotating constituency. It tended to limit political decision-making and legislation that favored particular planets over others. This was even more true for the Committee of Information. Its twenty-five members had to represent all the worlds of the Alliance. Of necessity, these senators constantly moved from planet to planet, local offices where they could meet with constituents, hear petitioners, receive lobbyists. Vessels and assistants like Jorl had inherited came with the job and his colleagues spent a significant portion of their lives simply traveling from one senatorial suite to another.

Jorl’s ability allowed him to do the job without leaving his home and in a fraction of the time. Unlike any other Speaker, he could perform multiple summonings at once, dividing his consciousness into as many separate pieces as needed.

In a typical day at the office, he might maintain multiple independent aspects of his awareness—just yesterday his agenda had required him to create eight of himself. And, much as he’d met with Welv in a mindspace replica of the Cynomy’s office, so too had he spun images of the offices he kept for interviews on different worlds. In eight separate rooms, behind eight desks, he by turns listened, discussed, and even argued with a succession of petitioners—who to their credit had overcome both their personal philosophies and the labyrinthine requirements necessary to land a meeting with him. None of them were Fant, none had previously met a Fant, nor likely ever imagined doing so. Ambition trumped racial prejudice and he was the newest, most recent member of the senate’s Committee of Information.

Not traveling from world to world and conducting several meetings at the same time had allowed Jorl to complete most of his senatorial obligations at one go every tenday. Druz handled the particulars of his schedule, screening petitioners and providing background details sufficient for him to summon them into his mindscape. After each of these marathon sessions Jorl typically slept most of the following day. He didn’t find the manipulation of all the nefshons or the juxtaposition of multiple versions of himself tiring. Rather, it was the concentrated punch of so many pleading, cajoling, desperate individuals who saw him as their immediate salvation that drained him.

And now, for reasons that were annoyingly absent from her reports, Druz was bringing one of them directly to him.

*   *   *

OVER the next couple of days Jorl made several trips to various merchants, placing orders for foodstuffs, fuel, and bits of gear. He arranged for all of it to be delivered down through the Civilized Wood to the harbor where he kept the boat that Phloda, the provost at the university on Zlorka, had allowed him to retain some years back. He wasn’t much of a sailor and mostly only used it twice a year to meet Druz. By design, none of the edibles he’d arranged for were perishable. He’d pick up something fresh from Hearne, a vendor at the dock, before he took the boat out; rather, acquiring the supplies was an exercise in restocking what Pizlo had invariably acquired during his frequent raids.

Over these days, Druz sent regular updates, not just the final particulars of her report but also specifics of her progress traveling insystem. The final message had reached him late last night and specified the precise time of her arrival. In the morning, Jorl traveled by funicular from Keslo’s transit center down to the Shadow Dwell and the harbor beyond. He had the car to himself and used the slow trip from forest into rain to review what he knew about Raccoons. Based on the most recent census information he had downloaded from his senatorial archives, one variety or another of Procy could be found on fully half of the Alliance’s four thousand worlds. As a race, they tended to get along well with everyone, generally excelled at technological innovation and sculpture, and adapted their own diets to the regional or preferred cuisine of the dominant people wherever they lived. That last point came in handy as he exited the funicular at its base, stopping at a food stand. He’d long since established a traditional meal for these visits, finding a common assortment of shoots, buds, and leaves that both he and Druz favored. He added an assortment of nuts and berries—mostly for his uninvited Raccoon guest—before leaving the protection of overhangs and awnings and continuing on to the docks through the unrelenting deluge that defined the season of flood.

The harbormaster’s young son, a likable boy barely a year out of his mother’s house, had supervised the delivery of his ordered goods to the berth where his boat was moored, and as Jorl approached he observed the youth jumping nimbly back and forth from the surface of the pier to the boat’s deck, each time carrying a different mesh bag of supplies, heedless of the downpour.

Frowning, Jorl arrived in time to pick up one of the remaining bags. “Chisulo, you don’t have to do that. I’d have taken care of it.”

“No disrespect, sir, but that’s not so. You ordered all this, right? And paid for delivery?”

“Yes, but just to the dock. Getting them on my boat is my problem.”

Chisulo shook his head, ears flapping wildly with his denial. “I looked at the bills of lading. They all specify your boat as the address, not the dock’s main address.”

Jorl sighed. “That may be, but they’re not allowed to set foot on any of the boats. That’s your mother’s rules.”

“Too true, sir. Only owners and guests of owners can come and go, excepting of course my ma, or whoever she leaves in charge. And seeing as how that’s me just now, it falls to me to finish the delivery.”

“But…” Jorl let his words trail off. Chisulo had followed his own line of logic that didn’t have room for the alternate possibility of just leaving the stack of bags for a boat’s owner to handle once they arrived. The boy had likely spent more time on or around boats than in the meta-trees of the Civilized Wood, and knew the value of leaving nothing unsecured. Jorl settled instead for a gesture of his trunk and a muttered “Thanks” and boarded the boat himself.

“You want, I can stow everything below decks, sir. Get it all tied down for you.”

“That’d be a great help, thank you. The packaged food can go anywhere you find space for it in the galley. The other supplies can all go in the utility chest in one of the benches. I’ll keep the fresh food with me.”

“I’m on it.” Chisulo wrapped a hand around a third of the bags’ straps, did the same with his second hand, and grabbed the rest in his trunk. He nodded once and vanished below, leaving Jorl to step into the wheelhouse and upload Druz’s coordinates to the boat’s navigation system. As he finished, Chisulo popped up behind him.

“You taking her out far, sir? It’s a good craft, I know, and with lots more gadgets than most, but you don’t normally sail in flood.”

“Not far, Chisulo. Not even as far as another island. Just out into open water for a span. No need to worry, I’ll be back before nightfall.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll keep an eye out for you then. Safe travels.”

*   *   *

SEASONED sailors never traveled between archipelagos during flood. Fisherfolk cast their nets closer to their native islands. Even the traffic between adjacent islands dwindled in this kind of weather. Jorl knew better than to travel in this season and he intended to make sure Druz understood this, too. He had zero visibility, and if not for the navigational computer and Druz’s satellite coordinates he’d never have found the yacht until he’d rammed it.

The protocol they followed required Druz to set the yacht down in the water far enough away from Keslo that it would have been unseen by anyone on the shore in even the clearest weather. The pounding of rain on the wheelhouse and the gentle thrum of the engines provided the only sound, the roll of the open water the only sense of motion. A counter on the navigation display assured him he moved ever closer to his destination at good speed. A proximity alert gave him time to cut the boat’s engines and continue forward by momentum until the yacht loomed over him and he floated through the gate of its flooded cargo hold. He dropped anchor and moved to the deck, pausing to pick up the parcels containing their meal.

“Welcome, Senator!” Druz’s familiar voice called out to him. He fanned his ears, orienting on the sound, stepped to the bow and cast her a line. “Got it.” Moments later his boat rocked gently forward and came to rest at an internal mooring. Druz stood upon a gantry level with his deck and greeted him.

“Good to see you again, Senator.” She stood waiting with a bath sheet.

Jorl crossed from boat to ship, took the towel, and handed over their lunch. With a nod for her to lead the way, he followed his assistant out of the hold. “And you, of course. Now, what could possibly be so important to bring you here a season early?”

“I really think you should hear that from the Procy herself.”

“I gathered as much from the lack in your reports. What’s her status?”

“She awakened from suspension without incident. A touch groggy at first, but that passed after she’d hydrated.”

“And she’s where now?”

“Awaiting your pleasure in the guest parlor, sir.”

Seven years ago Jorl would have rolled his eyes and trumpeted at the absurdity of a spacecraft having a parlor, let alone the pair of them this ship enjoyed. His first experience with extra-planetary vessels had been the Patrol craft commanded by the first Sloth he’d ever met, and he seriously doubted if Brady-Captain Hrum had much more luxurious space for space’s own sake to her cabin than the spartan quarters he’d been required to squeeze into and share with a trio of ensigns. But that ship had claimed a crew of thirty and was less than half the size of the yacht he’d inherited from his predecessor.

Manners drilled into him since he was ear-high surfaced as they strode through the ship. “I hope you’ve made her comfortable, Druz. Unwelcome as I expect I’ll find her to be, she’s still a guest.”

“Yes, sir. I left her just a few moments ago. She’s preparing tea for the two of you.”

“Why is a guest preparing tea?”

“She insisted. I believe that now that she’s about to meet with you, the bluster that carried her this far has deserted her and she finds the rituals of preparation soothing.”

Tea wasn’t his favorite beverage, but the warmth of it would be welcome after the unseasonal trip, even so brief as it was. At the entrance to the guest parlor he handed the towel back to Druz. “This is beyond irregular, Druz. Is there anything useful you care to tell me before I meet this Raccoon, or are you determined to keep the entire thing a mystery.”

“Her name is Abenaki. As for the rest, it’s hers to tell.”

Jorl snorted, shook his ears back, and stepped into the room leaving his unassisting assistant in the corridor.

The guest parlor was a simple room, even by the opulent standards of the yacht. A semi-circular couch faced the entrance, its broad seat and low back able to offer a comfortable place to any of the Alliance’s races. A low table hovered in front of the couch, suspended from the ceiling so as to accommodate long or short legs of the couch’s occupants. As expected, a tea service lay upon the table and a Procy sat upon the couch. The latter jumped to her feet before he’d finished closing the door behind him.

“Senator Jorl! An honor to meet you. Truly, a singular event in my life.” She rushed forward and caught herself barely a trunk’s length from him, clutching her right hand in her left, fingers dancing.

“My assistant tells me you’re called Abenaki. Is that right?”

“Perfectly correct.”

“Good. Good. Names are important things. Don’t you agree?”

“I do, yes. Critical things.”

“Yes, indeed. As are … policies and procedures. Mine include meeting petitioners in one of my planetary offices. And yet, here you are, an unexpected guest on my ship, having endured a most irregular passage, and arriving at an unexpected time. Tell me, Abenaki, why are you here instead of meeting with me in the proper way and the proper place?”

The Procy’s manual fidgeting increased. Among the materials Druz had forwarded him over the past days was a vidlog of several casual conversations she’d had with this guest prior to storing her in medical suspension. The logs allowed Jorl to become acquainted with Abenaki’s appearance, the timbre of her voice, the rhythm of her movements small and large. Those movements, from her general nervousness to a slump in her posture, were different in the moment. More obviously though was that sometime today since her awakening and before his arrival she had inexplicably powdered portions of her facial fur, blending the black mask pattern common to all Raccoons into a uniform silver grey. If it had significance, cultural or otherwise, Jorl didn’t understand it.

“May I speak frankly, Senator?”

“I wish you would. But please, let’s sit first. Some tea would be welcome.”

They stepped to the couch and sat, leaving plenty of space between them so each could partially turn and look at the other. Without waiting, Jorl took up the tea pot and poured for them both. They drank in silence, Jorl holding himself from saying anything further, certain that the Procy would not speak first even as whatever mainspring had driven her wound ever tighter and tighter. He finished his cup, felt the warmth lighten his mood, and refilled it as he settled in for the mystery that had so entranced Druz.

“Now then, tell me why this meeting isn’t taking place in one of my offices closer to your home.”

“Because you wouldn’t be there, Senator.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve done my research. I know you routinely meet with petitioners in offices throughout the Alliance, and I actually had put in for an appointment. But when I understood that the meetings wouldn’t really be face to face, I canceled the request.”

“How do you mean, not ‘face to face’?”

“Senator, were I to have met with you in your office on my homeworld of Caluma, it’s clear you wouldn’t have really been there. Not in that room, certainly not in the city, and arguably nowhere on Caluma at all.”

Jorl smiled, recalled that most non-Fant wouldn’t recognize the crinkling around the eyes and wouldn’t be watching the edges of his mouth as they avoided looking at his trunk. He set his teacup down and lifted his hands above the level of the table, palms upward, gesturing innocently. “Where do you imagine I would be then?”

The Procy lifted her own hands and delicately rubbed at her nose with tiny fingers. “The travel itineraries of senators is not public knowledge.”

“That’s a security protocol,” acknowledged Jorl. “It’s been that way for far longer than I’ve been in the senate.”

“Indeed. And having your own vessel suitable for interplanetary travel—” She paused, glanced around with approval at their surroundings before continuing. “—is likewise part of that protocol. As is the mandated service and inspection schedule for that vessel.”

“Service and inspection?”

The Raccoon waggled her fingers and cut him off. “That information, while not precisely public, can be inferred by tracking other data at licensed facilities and tracing ships that don’t enjoy senatorial security blackouts. Based on my analyses, your ship put in for a full diagnostic at a facility at Dawn some twenty-seven days before I boarded. Even assuming the most routine and brief of maintenance operations, this ship could not have delivered you from Dawn to Caluma prior to the day after tomorrow.”

“And how is that significant?”

“In two ways. First, that’s when my appointment was scheduled for, before I canceled it.”

Jorl made a mental note to alert the fellow members of his committee to the roundabout breach of the security protocols. His personal craft had been in an engineering bay on Dawn at the time the Procy referenced. He recalled speaking with Druz on that occasion, using the same technique that allowed him to take meetings on other worlds.

“And what makes you think that I couldn’t have arrived on Caluma before my ship went in for maintenance?”

“That’s the second reason. Twenty days ago you met with a colleague of mine in your office on Marbalarma. And even assuming you departed the moment that meeting ended and went straight through to Caluma, you’d still have needed a day more than the physics allows for.”

“I see. And so you conclude that I wouldn’t have been there for the scheduled meeting?”

She shrugged, hands fidgeting again and then stopping when she noticed them. “That’s my best guess, though I suppose it could be that you were never on Marbalarma, and thus could have arrived to Caluma prior to your ship’s trip to Dawn. Though, if that’s the case, parsimony would suggest that you weren’t there for that meeting, either. And of course, the fact that you’re here on Barsk, which is the opposite direction from both Marbalarma and Caluma, well that just provides further proof, however circumstantial.”

“I must say, this is the most interesting proposition anyone has brought before me in some time. But without regard to the veracity of it, is there a point? Surely you didn’t endure the rigors needed to get a meeting with me just to cancel it and travel to Barsk to tell me I wasn’t actually going to meet with you.”

“No, sir. All of this was just to get your attention. I’ve no doubt that you hear endless proposals, many of merit, but I wanted my pitch to stand out and capture your imagination.”

Jorl frowned. “I see. Well, you’ve achieved your goal. You’re here now, whether I like it or not. You have my undivided attention. What exactly is it you want from me?”

Abenaki nodded. Her hands danced, fingers flying almost faster than the eye could track. She took a deep breath and her entire body froze with a preternatural stillness. She let out her breath and just sat a moment, gazing at her cup. When she set it down, her movements were slow and deliberate, much as she’d shown on Druz’s vids. No trace remained of the nervous energy that had defined her since he’d stepped into the room.

“Senator Jorl, with respect, sir, I represent a consortium of Raccoons who want to emigrate to another planet, one where no Raccoon has ever been.”

Jorl’s ears fanned in surprise. With rare exception, and excluding the inhabitants of Barsk, Alliance citizens, whether individually or in groups, were free to relocate to whatever world they wished. “Emigration is hardly within the purview of the Committee of Information. I don’t see how I’m apt to be of much help.”

“On the contrary, you’re the only one who could help. You’re the only Fant with any governmental involvement.”

“And what does my race have to do with your desire to move to a new world?”

“Everything, Senator. The world we want to move to is Barsk.”

After seven years of listening to lobbyists and representatives of every special interest group in the Alliance, Jorl had come to believe that nothing he heard in any of his offices could surprise him. The Procy had just proven him wrong. If this is what she’d told Druz, no wonder the Brady had brought her to him. But … revolutionary though the idea was, it was also pointless. He stared at her in silence for a moment as he recovered his wits and said, “Barsk is a closed world.”

“That’s exactly why we want to relocate there.”

Jorl waggled the tip of his trunk from side to side. “I don’t follow.”

“Senator, are you familiar with the Quality of Life Commission?”

The Fant nodded. The QLC had existed for hundreds of years, gathering long-range survey data across the thousands of planets of the Alliance. His predecessors on the Committee of Information had routinely authorized the minimal request for funding it submitted annually. “Is your consortium connected with that commission?”

“Not directly, no. Their work is purely descriptive, whereas my people have taken their data and performed extensive meta-analyses with respect to global satisfaction and social hypothesis testing.”

Jorl blinked. He understood all of the Raccoon’s words individually and in small groupings, but the entire phrase rang like something a graduate student might try to pass off as insight in the absence of substance during a dissertation defense. “Meaning?”

“Let me back up,” said the Procy. “Throughout the Alliance, approximately eighty percent of planets are what we call “mixed worlds,” containing cities in which ten or more different sapient races coexist. Of the remaining twenty percent, more than half are moving in that direction and have one or more cities with at least five merged populations. That leaves less than thirty planets with four or fewer distinct sapient races upon them, all of them worlds that have been settled sometime in the past millennium. Only five of these consist of a single people, and of these only Barsk has been inhabited for more than three hundred years.”

“The Fant are not a single people, Abenaki. The Eleph and Lox that reside on Barsk are two separate races.”

“I’m aware of this, Senator, but it’s a distinction that is not appreciated anywhere else in the Alliance. But you make my point by referring to both by the common term Fant. Pragmatically, both races are so unlike any others and so like one another as to make no difference.”

“And what precisely is your point?”

“I’m getting there, please, bear with me. Among its measures, the QLC assesses individuals’ sense of self-worth, overall happiness, psychological well-being, and social and environmental relationships. One version or another has been used on every world in the Alliance, repeatedly, in some instances going back more than six hundred years to the commission’s founding. And one of its most consistent findings has been that sapient beings show higher scores across all levels on worlds with a greater mix of races. Moreover, in places where we’ve had data from worlds moving to more diverse populations, these levels increase across the board.”

“Are you suggesting that the people of Barsk are somehow lacking in their happiness or psychological well-being?”

“No, Senator, I’m saying that the quality of their lives would be enhanced by the presence of greater variation among the world’s inhabitants, and that they in turn would enhance the experience of those who shared their planet.”

“You’re saying that the presence of Procy on Barsk will improve the existence of the Lox and Eleph already there?”

The Raccoon’s fingers danced with excitement. “And vice versa. Ideally, I would suggest more than just Procy be allowed to establish themselves on Barsk, but since their isolation eight centuries ago the negative stereotyping of Fant has only grown; building a coalition with a strong racial identity who are willing to live among you hasn’t been easy. But I’ve assembled one thousand people who are willing to pack up and move now, today. I believe that in as little as twenty years the resulting changes they effect, on both sides, will inspire other groups from other races to follow suit. If only Barsk will give us the chance. It’s a win-win, Senator. Can you help make this happen?”

Jorl rose from the couch and began pacing the room’s circumference as he flapped his ears in contemplation. The timing of the Raccoon’s proposal, coming so soon after his conversation with Senator Welv pushed the bounds of coincidence and smacked of destiny. But even if Abenaki’s idea accomplished some of the same ends as his own goals—blending the Fant with other races of the Alliance—he’d had his fill of destiny seven years earlier, and the taste of it soured in his mouth.

“You make a compelling argument,” he said, drawing the words out as he argued pros and cons in his mind, “appealing to the best interests of both Barsk’s people and the greater good of the Alliance.”

“Thank you, Senator.”

“Yes, but you’ve left off the rather significant stumbling block of our Compact.”

“Surely your people could call a referendum and amend the provision that prohibits—”

Jorl cut her off with a wave of his trunk. “It’s not so simple. The Compact is not a constitution, it’s a treaty. It’s not enough to convince the Fant; you’d need approval of the full senate, and likely a majority vote of all the worlds of the Alliance. There’s probably procedure for such a thing, maybe even precedent, but I seriously doubt it could happen in this circumstance.”

Abenaki slumped back against the couch, one hand rising to brush back tears and smudge the makeup blurring her natural mask. “But you see the value of it, don’t you, Senator?”

“I do. And I promise I’ll review all of your documentation personally. Bringing the Fant back into contact with the rest of the Alliance is a goal of mine as well. Perhaps I’ll find a loophole that can deliver what we both desire.”

The Raccoon’s eyes welled up. “You mean that? Truly?”

“I do,” said Jorl. “I’d like to review your data, as well as the details of the formal proposal you’ve put together. If you’ll give those to Druz I’ll begin going through them at once. And, when I’ve had a chance to digest the materials, I’d like to come and discuss them with you here at length. Assuming you don’t mind being my guest a while longer. Awake this time.”

The Procy swallowed back emotion. “Senator, there is nowhere else in all of space that I would rather be.”