Arrival at The Benevolent Hands of Friendship Clasped Firm was fairly uneventful. It was huge, and as there were designated districts for each of 14 Collective member-races with a presence on the station, we docked at our own. Per protocol, the first four days of my orientation would be exclusively among my own people. Meeting my superiors, learning the lay of—at least our portion of—the station.
Each member-race’s sector of The Hands housed roughly a towns worth of inhabitants, perhaps 50,000 souls. Diplomats and administrative staff and their families, academics and researchers, ordinary citizenry as well. The idea was to enable constant cultural exchange in as authentic of environments as possible, so there were culinary experts and theater performers, artists and musicians, all of the people that represented the culture of a people.
Normally travel was unrestricted between sectors, but on a few specific observed holidays—such as the weeklong arrival and orientation of new Vice District Ambassadors—access to each district was restricted to its own.
So it was still to be a while before I met my counterpart. All the more time for my anxiety to build I suppose.
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After the first three days of mandated R&R I was hailed to the command center and I met my superior, District Ambassador Chyrkrady.
“Have you been enjoying your ‘assimilation’ work these past few days? I hear the brewery off of town square has quite the selection of intoxicants from around the galaxy.”
“Yes sir, District Ambassador, sir, I have undertaken my assimilation assignments with diligence and—“
“Eish, call me Chyrkrady. We can save that ‘District Ambassador’ title nonsense for meetings with Command. So tell me Chakky, have you tried the Bloorkäm wine yet? I hear it’s the best in the galaxy. May I call you Chakky?”
“You may address me however you see fit sir.”
“Oh eish! Chakky it is then! Really, we must stop with the formalities though. We’re diplomats, we represent our people, we needn’t act like we’re the damn Navy.”
“Um, sir, with respect, we are the—“
“Yes yes Chakky I know, I know. We are The Navy, of course we are. What I mean is that we are more than that here. We needn’t act like automaton. You aren’t here to steer the ship or man the guns. You are here to share our culture and be shared with in turn.”
“Sorry sir, but ‘man the guns’?”
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“Ahh right right, a Human figure of speech, my apologies Chakky.”
“No apology necessary sir—“
“Please Chakky, call me Chyrkrady, I really must insist.”
“Yes sir—err, I mean Chyrkrady, no apology necessary.”
“Right right, well Chakky, I’ll tell you what, I’m rather tired of the scenery in this office. Might I suggest we take a trip to the aformentioned brewery? I rather think I’d be better able to conduct a review of your new duties and responsibilities after I’ve had a drink or three.”
And so over the next two days I met my fellow comrades, my race’s other 14 District Ambassadors and Vice Ambassadors, a few Parliament members, and many dozens of the notable locals… or so I’m told.
I don’t recall much after leaving District Ambassador Chyrkrady’s office.
He was right, those Bloorkäm knew how to make some really good wine…
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The atmosphere on The Hands was extremely relaxed, far more so than my days at academy and in the service. I kept waiting for the party to be over, for the serious business to start, but Chyrkrady insisted that that just wasn’t how it worked on the station. Yes we were expected to follow orders, and yes we each had our particular duties, but we were encouraged to act as much like civilians as possible.
Apparently this was common practice on all diplomatic stations. The Collective had found out long ago that all of its vastly different multitudes got along better without the strict regulations, intimidating checkpoints and guards, uninviting military backdrop, and the ever implicit threat of violence that accompanied such things.
We were all one family, that was the rational. Membership in The Collective was never coerced, every member-race was a member by choice. There was little reason to flaunt ones fighting prowess among allies. And inter-member disputes had always been settled peacefully and to the satisfaction of all parties.
As Diplomatic Ambassadors, our role was to make every member-race feel welcome and understood by our people, and the same is true for the Ambassadors of every other member-species. We were there to help everyone get along. For those species with a long history in The Collective, this was pretty easy. Such long-term relations required little in the way of maintenance, though of course Ambassadors were still implemented to help preempt any disputes.
But where the The Collective’s Ambassadors were most essential was as liaisons to those newest member-races. Especially those like the Humans, whose First Contact experience had been less than optimal.
As a people, they were still wary, and their association of ‘extraterrestrial’ with ‘invasion’, ‘enslavement’, and ‘war’ would still take time to undo.
So, unlike some of my classmates, whose diplomatic duties would mostly entail eating, drinking, visiting the brothels, and partying with their counterparts, my responsibilities were far more important.
I had to foster goodwill and earn the trust of the entire Human race.
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The next morning, walking up to the reception hall with Chyrkrady, I felt the spines flattening against my back as anxiety washed over me, I fought to keep them erect in a display of neutral calm.
The grand doors opened and we walked into the vast chamber, normally used for a variety of interspecies events—galas, conferences, and the like—but today reserved solely for Chyrkrady and myself, and our respective Human counterparts.
The familiar ragged-edged architecture of our end blended, and finally gave way, to what I presume to be the Human style, with its abundance of right angles and symmetrical geometries.
Most of the furnishings had been removed from the great hall, with the exception of a handful at the very center, where I could see a single figure standing.
I felt both of my hearts’ rates increasing as we drew closer, my forelimbs yearning to close flush to my body in reflexive defensive posture.
Once we were within 5 or six limb lengths away—no more than 15 Standard Increments—Chyrkrady gently motioned me aside as he continued toward the creature. Though not quite the giant of fable and popular imagination, it was still massive. Even from there I could sense the sheer weight of the thing. An immense mass of muscle concealed under its loose fitting garb.
Chyrkrady, though nearing his Elder Years, was neither small nor frail, but as he drew closer i could see that the creature was easily two heads taller than him.
They faced one another, no more than a crest’s width apart, staring. No expression that I could detect on either.
Then, suddenly, Chyrkrady leapt at the creature, faster than I’d’ve thought possible for one his age, faster than I’d seen anyone move since Basic, but not fast enough… not nearly fast enough.