“And then I remember why I do it. Because as strange, and exhausting, and enervating, and, yes, even humiliating as it can be, at the end of the day, when everything goes right, it’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. Ever. I stand there and I can’t believe that I’ve been part of a group who meets with people who are not human but can still reason, and that we’ve reasoned together, and through that reason have agreed to live together, without killing each other or demanding more of the other than what each of us needs from the other.

“And it’s happening at a time in our history that’s never been more critical to humanity. We are out here, all of us, without the sort of protection and growth that Earth has always provided us before. And because of that, every negotiation, every agreement, every action we take—even those of us on the bottom rung of the diplomatic service—makes a difference for the future of humanity. For the future of this planet and every planet like it. For the future of everyone at this table.

“I love all of you. Dad, I love your dedication to Phoenix and your desire to keep it running. Mom, I love that you care for each of us, even when you snipe at us a little. Brandt, I love your ambition and drive. Catherine, I love the fact that one day you will rule us all. Wes, I love that you are the family jester, who keeps us honest. I love you and your wives and husbands and your children. I love Magda and Brous and Lisa, who have lived their lives with us.

“I was told recently by someone that if I wanted to make a difference, that this must be the place. Here, on Phoenix. With love and respect, I disagree. Dad, Brandt and Catherine will take care of Phoenix for us. My job is to take care of the rest of it. That’s what I do. That’s what I’m going to keep doing. That’s where what I do matters.

“So to each of you, my family, a toast. Keep Phoenix safe for me. I’ll work on everything else. When I come back for Harvest Day next year, I’ll let you know how it’s going. That’s a promise. Cheers.”

Hart drank. Everyone drank but Alastair, who waited until he caught his son’s eye. Then he raised his glass a second time and drank.

“That was worth holding off on the potatoes for,” Wes said. “Now pass me the gravy, please.”

EPISODE ELEVEN

A Problem of Proportion

Captain Sophia Coloma’s first thought at registering the missile bearing down on the Clarkewas, This again. Her second was to yell at Helmsman Cabot for evasive action. Cabot responded admirably, slamming the ship into avoidance mode and launching the ship’s countermeasures. The Clarkegroaned at the sudden change of vector; the artificial gravity indulged a moment where it felt as if the field would snap and every unsecured object on the Clarkewould launch toward the top bulkheads at a couple hundred kilometers an hour.

The gravity held, the ship dove in physical space and the countermeasures dazzled the missile into missing its quarry. It blasted past the Clarkeand immediately began searching for its target as it did.

“The missile is Acke make,” Cabot said, reading the data on his console. “The Clarke’s got its transmitter in memory. Unless they’ve changed it up, we can keep it confused.”

“Two more missiles launched and targeting,” Executive Officer Neva Balla said. “Impact in sixty-three seconds.”

“Same make,” Cabot said. “Jamming them now.”

“Which ship is shooting at us?” Coloma asked.

“It’s the smaller one,” Balla said.

“What’s the other one doing?” Coloma asked.

“Firing on the first ship,” Balla said.

Coloma pulled up a tactical image on her console. The smaller ship, a long needle with a bulbous engine compartment far aft and a smaller bulb forward, remained a mystery to the Clarke’s computer. The larger ship, however, resolved to the Nurimal,a frigate of Lalan manufacture.

A Conclave warship, in other words.

Damn it,Coloma thought. We fell right into the trap.

“These new missiles aren’t responding to jamming,” Cabot said.

“Evade,” Coloma said.

“They’re tracking our moves,” Cabot said. “They’re going to hit.”

“That frigate is moving its port beam guns,” Coloma said. “They’re swinging our way.”

The Conclave thought that other ship was us,Coloma thought. Fired on it, it fired back. When we showed up, it fired on us as a matter of defense.

Now the Nurimalknew who the real enemy was and wasn’t wasting any time dealing with it.

So much for diplomacy,Coloma thought. Next life, I’m getting a ship with guns.

The Nurimalfired its particle beam weapons. Focused, high-energy beams lanced forward and tunneled into their targets.

The missiles heading for the Clarkeexploded kilometers out from the ship. The first missile, now wandering aimlessly nearly a hundred klicks from the Clarke,was vaporized mere seconds thereafter.

“That c was not what I was expecting,” Balla said.

The Nurimalswung its beam weapons around, focusing them on the third ship, lancing that ship’s engine pod. The ship’s engines shattered, severing from the ship proper. The forward portions of the ship went dark, power lost, and began spinning with the angular momentum gained by the force of the engine compartment eruption.

“Is it dead?” Coloma asked.

“It’s not firing at us anymore, at least,” said Cabot.

“I’ll take that,” Coloma said.

“The Clarke’s identified the other ship,” Balla said.

“It’s the Nurimal,” Coloma said. “I know.”

“Not that one, ma’am,” Balla said. “The one it just wrecked. It’s the Urse Damay. It’s an Easo corvette that was turned over to Conclave diplomatic service.”

“What the hell is it doing firing on us?” Cabot asked.

“And why is the Nurimalfiring on it?” said Coloma.

“Captain,” Orapan Juntasa, the communications and alarm officer, said. “We’re being hailed by the Nurimal. The person hailing us says they are the captain.” Juntasa was silent for a moment, listening. Her eyes got wide.

“What is it?” Coloma asked.

“They say they want to surrender to us,” Juntasa said. “To you.”

Coloma was silent for a minute at this.

“Ma’am?” Juntasa said. “What do I tell the Nurimal?”

“Tell them we’ve received their message and to please wait,” Coloma said. She turned to Balla. “Get Ambassador Abumwe up here right now. She’s the reason we’re here in the first place. And bring Lieutenant Wilson, too. He’s actual military. I don’t know if I can accept a surrender. I’m pretty sure hecan.”

*   *   *

Hafte Sorvalh was tall, tall even for a Lalan, and as such would have difficulty navigating the short and narrow corridors of the Clarke. As a courtesy to her, the negotiations for the surrender of the Nurimalwere held in the Clarkeshuttle bay. Sorvalh was accompanied by Puslan Fotew, captain of the Nurimal,who did not appear in the least bit pleased to be on the Clarke,and Muhtal Worl, Sorvalh’s assistant. On the human side were Coloma, Abumwe, Wilson and Hart Schmidt, whom Wilson had requested and Abumwe had acceded to. They were arrayed at a table hastily acquired from the officers mess. Chairs were provided for all; Wilson guessed they might be of slightly less utility for the Lalans, based on their physiology.

“We have an interesting situation before us,” Hafte Sorvalh said, to the humans. Her words were translated by a small machine she wore as a brooch. “One of you is the captain of this ship. One of you is the head of this ship’s diplomatic mission. One of you”—she nodded at Wilson—“is a member of the Colonial Union’s military. To whom shall my captain here surrender?”