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Grass Eaters | 27 | Steakhouse I
🕑 Added 2024-03-20 16:47:00 +0000 UTCAtlas, Luna
Niblui was about to slip into the luxurious, custom-installed Malgeir-friendly bathtub that the Terrans had put in her special guest quarters. She was already dreaming about the warm relaxation when her datapad buzzed, totally ruining her train of thought. Lightly sighing in frustration, she grabbed the device.
“Call for you from the Terrans, Ambassador. They insisted on talking to you,” her aide spoke through the speaker.
“The Terrans? Now? Is this about the schedule for tomorrow? Never mind, just connect them through— Hello, this is the Ambassador— What do you mean… minor diplomatic incident?”
---
20 hours ago
President Havel wasn’t exactly what Ambassador Niblui had expected. The head of state of the Terran Republic was a diminutive old man with as much gray hair as Niblui has seen on any Terran’s face. His slow, clumsy-seeming movements contrasted with the sharp appearances and high energy of the mostly military specimens of his people that she’d interacted with.
Appearances can often be deceiving, she thought. And despite the Terrans’ claim that his position was mostly ceremonial, the respect with which other Terrans treated him did not leave her with the impression that he was merely a powerless vestige from the past.
“Join me for a stroll, Ms. Ambassador?” Havel extended his soft, lined left hand toward her.
Niblui enveloped his appendage in her thick, furred paw. It felt frail in comparison, yet strangely dexterous. Together, they strolled into the well-decorated hallways of the presidential residence, its walls adorned with art, much like the Federation’s historical institutions. She noted that a pair of ceremonial guards trailed a respectful distance behind them, their weapons conspicuously absent. She was not fooled.
Havel gestured toward a framed photograph hanging on the wall. It was a photographic depiction of the blue-and-white Terran home planet appearing over the desolate surface of Luna. “Earthrise. Taken on the humanity’s maiden voyage to Luna.”
“It must have been a proud achievement for your species at the time,” Niblui replied diplomatically.
“Apollo Eight, I think it was. It took us another two missions to land on this rock. Now, that was a moment we were proud of. My great-grandmother — she was just seven. She watched it on television as it happened, and she used to tell me about how she never forgot about it… She ended up living just long enough to see us touchdown on Mars and Europa, but the first time: that was a truly special occasion.”
Intellectually, Niblui knew how young the Terrans were as a species, but hearing a living Terran talk about how he knew someone who witnessed the first steps of their journey into the stars… it really drove the point home. Snapping back to the moment, she realized Havel was awaiting her response. “Your species has come far in such a short time. For my people, such events are in the annals of our ancient history. Thousands of years ago, barely distinguishable from mythology.”
Havel nodded thoughtfully, steering her attention to a nearby exhibit. This one was a primitive-looking spacecraft that towered over the room: next to it was a piece of metal with Terran writing on it. Havel bent down gingerly, touching the plastic covering the artifact. “This one’s a replica. From that first Luna mission. Have you gotten a chance to learn our languages?”
Niblui shook her ears, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her features. “Unfortunately not, but I am trying my best. I am still getting—”
Chuckling gently, Havel reassured her, “No need to feel shame. We have a great deal of them, and nowadays most of us just use the translators. This text is not in my first language either. But… I had to take English classes in college.” He cleared his throat and recited from the plaque, “Here men from the planet Earth first set foot upon the Moon. July 1969 AD. We came in peace for all mankind.”
Catching the deeper significance behind his choice to show her the plaque, Niblui offered a thoughtful nod. “That was a nice touch. Your people, Terrans, they have this ingrained yearning for peace, as most civilized sapient species do.”
Tilting his head, Havel weighed her words. “Yes, and no. We are a self-contradictory species. The first Terrans who landed on Luna did indeed come here for peace. They genuinely meant what they wrote there. But they were also some of the finest warriors of our species. Both of the explorers who landed on the first mission were combat pilots for atmospheric fighter jets; one of them shot down two enemy aircraft in war. The purpose of the Apollo program was a competition with another human faction that could have led to our total destruction. And the chemical rocket they came here on? Designed under the direction of the same rocket engineer who developed humanity’s first missile and then one of its first tactical ballistic missile.”
Puzzled, Niblui inquired, “Tactical ballistic missile?”
The old Terran hesitated. “It’s uh… short-range battlefield nuclear missiles.”
“Short-range? For planetary use?” Niblui asked, horror flickering on her face for a split second before she politely suppressed it.
“Yes. Luckily, we have never had to use them, the tactical nuclear weapons.”
Niblui breathed an audible sigh of relief, chalking the existence of such a weapon to more Terran paranoia. Then she caught onto his caveat at the end. Surely, they have never used non-tactical nuclear weapons in battle against their own people either—
Adding to her agitation, Havel continued, “Not on Terra anyway.”
“But you have peace amongst your people now,” Niblui ventured, trying not to worry too much about the implications.
Havel tilted his head. “Do you know the motto of our Navy? Pax Terrana. That’s in an old language. It means… Terran Peace. Ironic. The truth is, as a species, before the Terran Republic, we never knew peace. And even now, we still do not. Not really. We still constantly fight among ourselves. But things are… better than before. Like you said, Ms. Ambassador, we are still a young species, learning our place in the galaxy. So please, I hope your people can judge ours for what we hope to become, not just a timeline of our mistakes and conflicts.”
Pausing to take a breath, he continued. “We are about to send some of the best of us into war for you. I would like you to see us not only through the lens of their heroism and martyrdom on the battlefield; there will be plenty of that, I am sure. After the war, I hope your Federation can see that we are also a people who wished their sacrifices were ultimately unnecessary.”
Niblui tilted her head thoughtfully and nodded. “I understand. I will do my best to convey that to my people.”
“Good. And I will have to ask for forgiveness for another thing in advance,” he half-winced.
Niblui’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What is it?”
“We are holding a press conference for your delegation. Our people will have many tough questions for you…”
---
Niblui and Havel looked through the one-way glass into the jam-packed press room, where the busy journalists were tapping away on their electronic devices.
Havel leaned in, giving Niblui a quick rundown. “We’ve already sent them your statement. So this is just the Q and A. I will enter, and as host, I will read a short statement. Then we will select a few journalists in the audience, and they will ask us some questions.”
Niblui tilted her head. “That doesn’t sound so hard. We have these in the Federation too, you know? I’m quite familiar with the concept of a press conference.”
Havel let out a friendly chuckle. “Fair enough… Just know that we can be an unruly species at times. However, as this is your first press conference in Terra, we have taken the extraordinary step of asking those present to take it easy on you. I can’t promise they will comply, but we tried.”
“Are they that… intense?” she asked, slightly nervous. Despite her outward confidence, she’d never been at a first contact press conference either.
“Fortunately, most Terrans are very much sympathetic to your species’ plight and supportive of our first contact. General approval for the Senate has skyrocketed since their decision to open relations. But how long that warm welcome lasts? That’s on you. I suspect our reporters’ questions will be more of curiosity about your species than anything challenging about your government’s policies or positions. That said, we do have a contingency in case—”
“I’m sure a contingency won’t be necessary. I will be truthful with your people,” Niblui reassured him hurriedly.
Havel continued, as if he didn’t hear her. He pointed at the window. “Look at the back row, there is a journalist wearing a circular blue headdress. If you feel too uncomfortable to continue, call upon her to ask a question, and we will feign a security incident so we can pull you out of there.”
Niblui peered into the window and identified the ringer. “I will uh… keep that in mind. Just in case.”
The door opened, and they both walked up to their marked podiums.
Havel nodded at her and started to read from his tablet:
Good evening, my fellow Terrans, and our friends watching from distant stars, in the present and future. Today, we are one people: there are no hawks and no doves. We observe today not a victory of an internal faction, but a celebration of our common values —symbolizing an end as well as a beginning —signifying renewal, as well as change.
A few years ago, I swore here before you the same solemn oath our forebears prescribed decades ago… The universe is very different now. Yet we dare not forget today that we are the heirs of that revolution of unity. Let the word go forth from this time and place, let it be written in the pages of our history, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Terrans. Born in this Republic, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage —and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those Basic Rights to which our people has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home — and around the galaxy.
For years, we have lived in the knowledge of a universe vast beyond comprehension, inhabited by civilizations old and new, friendly and not. And today, as we make official contact with one of them, we pledge the loyalty of our worlds and its peoples to the relentless pursuit of interstellar peace.
To our new friends: we welcome you to Sol, not as strangers, but as neighbors older than time itself. The knowledge of your existence has transformed our societies, reshaped our beliefs, and opened our minds to the infinite possibilities of the stars. However, it is not our close distance but our shared aspirations for a peaceful galaxy that truly binds us. In your struggle to survive, your victories fill us with inspiration and with hope, your sacrifices: our grief and our sympathy. We cannot change our pasts, but we can offer our hand in partnership, knowing that in this vast cosmos, our destinies are intertwined.
To all our worlds, our districts, and our peoples: let us not be blind to our differences… but let us also direct attention to our common interests and to the means by which those differences can be resolved. Let us resolve to be united, in the face of this new chapter in our history, standing together to ensure the promise of a free, prosperous, and secure future for all our people.
In the long history of our species, only one generation has been granted the role of defending its existence in its hour of maximum danger. We are that generation. We do not shrink from this responsibility — we welcome it! I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our worlds and all who serve it. And the glow from that fire can truly light the universe.
“Thank you.” As he paused for the finish, Niblui clutched her datapad tightly, looking at the crowd in front of her. It seemed bigger in here than when she was looking at the room through the glass.
Surely, they can’t all have questions for me, she thought.
Then, Havel looked up at the audience, a smile lighting his elderly face. “I know you have many questions. We will try to get to them all—”
Every reporter present shot their hands up, staring straight at Niblui like she was a juicy piece of steak on their plate.
Well then.
---
As a humble engineer on the Pesmod, Pack Leader Quaullast wasn’t exactly rolling in credits. Dining at fancy restaurants was a pipe dream, even before the galaxy plunged into war. Growing up in a remote district on the planet Malgeiru, he was no stranger to simple living. Food was always available, thanks to the local government-run butcher shops. But his ration allotment of three Malgeir Standard meals a day was usually as good as things got.
When war erupted, things took a turn for the worse. Conversations with his family back home painted a bleak picture; Malgeir Standard became Solidarity Standard, and after a while, Wartime Standard.
First came the fall of the Granti. Their people and diet were close to the Malgeir, which meant a steady farm trade that occasionally added exotic spices and variety to the Malgeir’s relatively monotonous weekly meal plans. When the Granti Alliance started losing the war, their spiced and aquatic meats stopped coming. Districts like Quaullast’s mourned the loss of their weekend luxuries.
Then, one by one, several of Malgeir’s frontier farm colonies were overrun by the Grass Eaters. The rations each pack received from their local butcher became lighter with each loss. As the Znosians bullied their way through the planets in the Malgeir’s agriculture belt, the cargo ships coming in were replaced with ships carrying refugees for the Core.
Meat became minced meat. Minced meat became grounded meat. And the grounded meat started coming mixed with unfamiliar-tasting chunks that most decided not to ask too many questions about.
Quaullast never had to experience this gradual decline in quality.
No, he got it all at once when he enlisted in the Malgeir Navy.
Due to various issues with its procurement pipeline and the lowest bidder nature of the providers, ship food had always been notoriously low quality. There were never luxuries, only unidentifiable cuts of what ship chefs assured them were technically edible and chemically tested to be unlikely to make a healthy spacer severely ill.
As a non-combat ship, the Pesmod was not what anyone would consider state-of-the-art. But it did have one perk: it carried the Ambassador on board. When Quaullast heard the Terrans were not only providing food for their guests, but they were also paying, he wasted no time volunteering to escort their ambassador down to Luna.
Predictably, so did most of the rest of the ship. Luckily, the Terrans did not seem to mind the hundreds of crew members from the Pesmod. Only a few crew members who drew the short straw were left behind to maintain its idle systems, and the captain promised them that they would be rotated down to the surface after their next shift.
Now on Luna, the crew watched remotely from several large screens as Ambassador Niblui navigated the various Terran diplomatic ceremonies and answered questions from the ensuing news conference.
Then the moment everyone had been waiting for: the hushed whispers of the crew grew louder as they were led to a large dining hall.
Standing at the front was a Terran woman with a waterfall of brown hair cascading down her shoulders. Quaullast noticed she was tall, even by Terran standards.
She spoke into an invisible microphone that magnified and translated her voice for everyone to hear. “Hello, my name is Marsha,” she beamed, pointing to a nametag with her transliterated name in Malgeirish that shimmered on the front of her sleek uniform. “Welcome to Soerru Steakhouse… I’m excited to be your hostess for tonight. The Atlas Port Authority has cleared out this section of the transit zone to accommodate your crew. We are thrilled to have you all join us. We normally do not do catering, but we are making an exception for tonight obviously.”
Her eyes twinkled with excitement as she continued, “We’ve double-checked with the Navy experts to make sure that everything we’re serving tonight is absolutely safe for your unique digestive systems. Your well-being is our number one priority.” Then, she motioned to the attentive waitstaff, dressed in uniforms that complemented the restaurant’s bright decor, stationed at various tables around the room. “If you have any questions or concerns, these fabulous folks are here to help. We will bring out our menus in just a minute, so thank you all for your patience.”
Quaullast sensed a ripple of skepticism spread through the crew. These half Grass Eaters, friendly as they obviously were, could they possibly prepare a good meal for Malgeir?
Then again, Quaullast thought, the bar was not exactly high, the bar being… vacuum-sealed ship rations.
“Hey, Spommu,” Quaullast asked across the empty table to his friend, also in the engineering crew, as they waited for the dignitaries and food to arrive. “Did you hear from your friends on the Seuvommae? Why aren’t they joining us?”
“No. It’s weird.” Spommu, the smaller pack leader with her nose the color of freshly turned soil, shook her ears. She looked down at her datapad, its screen complaining at her. “Ever since we stepped off the Seuvommae, it’s like I’ve been cut off from the fleet. Even the skeleton crew on the Pesmod isn’t pinging back.”
“Ah, your connection too, huh?” a head pack leader from hangar bay, Frumers, chimed in. He gestured to his own unresponsive datapad like it had personally offended him. “I thought it was just my piece of garbage datapad.”
A ripple of agreement fluttered around the table, each crew member glancing down at their own uncooperative devices. Quaullast replied, “It must be the Terrans. Remember when they boarded us last time? They made our communications stop working as well.”
“I heard about that too,” Spommu nodded and then shrugged. “But it is still weird that the escort crews aren’t joining us.”
“Sucks to be their crews. I don’t get what Commander Euntribent is thinking.”
“Politics,” Frumers shook his head, his eyes narrowed in distaste. “They’ll be so jealous.”
“Hold your thrusters, Frumers. You haven’t even seen what the Terrans are feeding us yet,” Spommu hedged. “They are still Grass Eaters, you know? What if they just serve us this… sauteed grass?”
Frumers looked at her like she was an idiot. He made two dramatic sniffs with his nose in the apparent direction of the kitchen, where a subtle aroma was wafting towards them. “Have you ever smelled grass like that? And the guide said this was a mostly faithful imitation of Soerru Steakhouse from Malgeirgam. Smells similar enough to me from when I went there.”
“You’ve been to Soerru Steakhouse?” Quaullast asked, wide-eyed. “What was it like?”
Frumers leaned back, basking in the sudden surge of attention from the entire table. “Eh, a bit too high society, even for me… Before the war, of course. I was there with an accountant from Home Fleet for her birthday. The portion sizes were not particularly big, but they had very good quality meats. Like, the kind you’d never get from those sad-sack ration distribution centers. Not that any of you would even be able to fully appreciate it with your un-evolved palettes.”
A chorus of playful jeers erupted from the table, and Spommu rolled her eyes at the exaggerated snobbery. “Come on, it’s just grub. There’s good food and there’s bad food. If it’s not bad food, what difference does the quality make?”
Frumers looked at her severely as if she had just stepped on his tail. “What difference does it make? What difference does it make?! I’m in the company of uncultured savages. I can already tell by the smell coming from the kitchen that this meal will be the closest thing to a religious experience in your life.”
Spommu chuckled. “Or… maybe it’s just Grass Eaters playing tricks with your nose. Listen, Frumers, if you’re so sure that tonight’s meal is going to be some major upgrade compared to the canned junk on the Pesmod, I’ll— I’ll… bet you a day’s wages on it.”
Frumers grinned, showing her all his sharp teeth. “You’re on!”
---
Meta
The Havel speech was based mostly on inauguration speech of American President John F. Kennedy given in 1961.
Comments
NateD12
Spommu about to lose a bet.
