All of them.
Don’t smirk, Lieutenant. I’ve been up against matriarchal societies before. And for your information, my first captain, aboard the USS Malthus , was a woman.
May I continue, sir? At last the Queen herself arrived, flanked by a group of princes. One—I was later to know him quite well—was brave enough to knock upon the door. They all jumped back when it opened and the stairs dropped down.
All eight of us came out in full landing gear, of course. Not that we needed it. The air had already been tested thoroughly and we all had our inoculations. But usually blocked cultures appreciate ceremony, so we give them the works: costumes, ritual, even magic, then speak to them in their own tongue. It establishes us with the chiefs of state quite quickly.
At the bottom step, Lieutenant Hopfner took off his bubble, stroked his beard, and spoke what we thought were the correct ritual words. We had spent hours debating them.
“I am not an enemy,” he said.
The Queen gave a small smile and answered, “Why should you be?”
What he had actually said, it turns out, was, “I am not a quarreling woman.” No wonder the Queen responded that way. It was not an auspicious beginning.
No, I don’t expect it was. I also don’t remember reading about that exchange in any of the lieutenant’s notes —and they are vast.
Is that an official reprimand to the lieutenant, sir? Should I include it in the tape?
Include everything for now, Malkin. We will decide later what—if anything—needs to be deleted.
Yes, sir.
Continue, Aaron.
My God, they were beautiful, sir. Our tapes, even our infrareds, had not prepared us for that. They were like something out of the old tales of the Celtic faerie.
Explain that, son.
The Royal women, the Queen especially, are tall, slim, golden-eyed, with masses of long dark wiry hair that refuse to lie quietly but seem almost alive with electricity. They move with a supple dancer’s grace. The men are the same, only their hair is trimmed shoulder length and bound down by metal brow bands. They all wear silken clothes whose colors seem to shift and change in every breeze. The priestess is shaven of her hair, but her acolytes are not, and they wear short skirts which show off their legs. They all—Queen, priestess, princes, and acolytes—wear metal bands encrusted with gemstones on their upper arms and at their wrists. Their feet are shod in leather sandals with thongs tied up to the knees.
The women of Arcs and Bow, their warriors—hunters, really, as they seem to fight no wars—are the only ones with short hair. Short and muddy-colored, cut off above the ears. And they are trogs.
Spell that, please. For the records.
Trogs. T-r-o-g-s. Short for troglodytes. That’s what Lieutenant Hopfner called them and the name stuck. They are short, maybe five five, squat, bandy-legged, blue-eyed as far as I could tell, well-muscled, broad-shouldered. They have small chins and largish foreheads and seem almost, well, brutish in nature. It’s a wonder that the two races—for that is what they are—can interbreed.
Do they?
Yes, Sir. That’s what the tapes indicate. The Royal men interbreed with the trog women. They call it plukenna , tumbling. When the Royals have intercourse with their own kind, male or female, they call it ladanna , touching with joy. But they also have a word which they use interchangeably for both races, rarredenna , which means plowing or sowing of the seed. Occasionally the Royals are able to get a tall, slim Royal-looking child on one of the trog women. It is taken away when it reaches puberty and is raised as a Royal in the city of L’Lal’dome. The crossbreeds aren’t true Royals. Often they are sterile or they don’t breed true; they die younger than their fathers, though they live longer than the trogs.
Is that kind of crossbreeding unusual, Aaron?
Not really, sir. I mean, it’s not so different from what we think happened between our early Earth races,
Don’t smirk, Lieutenant. I’ve been up against matriarchal societies before. And for your information, my first captain, aboard the USS Malthus , was a woman.
May I continue, sir? At last the Queen herself arrived, flanked by a group of princes. One—I was later to know him quite well—was brave enough to knock upon the door. They all jumped back when it opened and the stairs dropped down.
All eight of us came out in full landing gear, of course. Not that we needed it. The air had already been tested thoroughly and we all had our inoculations. But usually blocked cultures appreciate ceremony, so we give them the works: costumes, ritual, even magic, then speak to them in their own tongue. It establishes us with the chiefs of state quite quickly.
At the bottom step, Lieutenant Hopfner took off his bubble, stroked his beard, and spoke what we thought were the correct ritual words. We had spent hours debating them.
“I am not an enemy,” he said.
The Queen gave a small smile and answered, “Why should you be?”
What he had actually said, it turns out, was, “I am not a quarreling woman.” No wonder the Queen responded that way. It was not an auspicious beginning.
No, I don’t expect it was. I also don’t remember reading about that exchange in any of the lieutenant’s notes —and they are vast.
Is that an official reprimand to the lieutenant, sir? Should I include it in the tape?
Include everything for now, Malkin. We will decide later what—if anything—needs to be deleted.
Yes, sir.
Continue, Aaron.
My God, they were beautiful, sir. Our tapes, even our infrareds, had not prepared us for that. They were like something out of the old tales of the Celtic faerie.
Explain that, son.
The Royal women, the Queen especially, are tall, slim, golden-eyed, with masses of long dark wiry hair that refuse to lie quietly but seem almost alive with electricity. They move with a supple dancer’s grace. The men are the same, only their hair is trimmed shoulder length and bound down by metal brow bands. They all wear silken clothes whose colors seem to shift and change in every breeze. The priestess is shaven of her hair, but her acolytes are not, and they wear short skirts which show off their legs. They all—Queen, priestess, princes, and acolytes—wear metal bands encrusted with gemstones on their upper arms and at their wrists. Their feet are shod in leather sandals with thongs tied up to the knees.
The women of Arcs and Bow, their warriors—hunters, really, as they seem to fight no wars—are the only ones with short hair. Short and muddy-colored, cut off above the ears. And they are trogs.
Spell that, please. For the records.
Trogs. T-r-o-g-s. Short for troglodytes. That’s what Lieutenant Hopfner called them and the name stuck. They are short, maybe five five, squat, bandy-legged, blue-eyed as far as I could tell, well-muscled, broad-shouldered. They have small chins and largish foreheads and seem almost, well, brutish in nature. It’s a wonder that the two races—for that is what they are—can interbreed.
Do they?
Yes, Sir. That’s what the tapes indicate. The Royal men interbreed with the trog women. They call it plukenna , tumbling. When the Royals have intercourse with their own kind, male or female, they call it ladanna , touching with joy. But they also have a word which they use interchangeably for both races, rarredenna , which means plowing or sowing of the seed. Occasionally the Royals are able to get a tall, slim Royal-looking child on one of the trog women. It is taken away when it reaches puberty and is raised as a Royal in the city of L’Lal’dome. The crossbreeds aren’t true Royals. Often they are sterile or they don’t breed true; they die younger than their fathers, though they live longer than the trogs.
Is that kind of crossbreeding unusual, Aaron?
Not really, sir. I mean, it’s not so different from what we think happened between our early Earth races,
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