I stood by the lone, high mirror outside the Ambassadors' Den, adjusting my suit. The Carrians had never quite grasped the concept of differing male and female by clothing, the result being that I had been provided an elegantly-tailored three-piece suit and accompanying silver-sheened bow tie. I shifted the trousers to better accent my hips, lamented the dark circles growing under my eyes, and noted the passage of inhuman forms filing into the chamber beside me. Crablike, armored Chloran; the hovering insectile swarm that was the individual Zdin; chasm-mouthed amphibian Triite, and finally the avian curlicue that was my honored Carrian peer and overlord. I had been in session long enough to grow used to the presence of non-human beings, to almost appreciate their bizarre and sometimes abhorrent forms as another sort of beauty, but the Carrian was different. They had been humanity's masters for nearly two hundred years; their stone-eyed vulture menace might always evoke feelings of terror and suspicion.
I laid a hand on his forewing as he passed. I was not supposed to do that. He turned, radiating indignation, but I spoke before he could rebuke me: "Step aside for a second. There's something we need to discuss."
He chuffed, his neck-ruff of greyish down fluffing in irritation. "Anything you have to say can be brought up in session," he squawked, but nevertheless stepped away from the parade of passing dignitaries, following me into a secure niche. The walls radiated calming green, indicating that neither of us were armed. A good thing, otherwise he might not have let me remove the device.
"This is a gift," I explained. It is difficult to read a Carrian's face, but I supposed he was surprised - any item received from humanity was likely taken as a result of centuries of slavery. I pressed it into a hooked forewing and indicated the shiny greengold leads. "It attaches to your translator, here and here. It's-" I looked around, the unconscious activity of a person who fears being overheard, despite the modern wisdom of air-measure listening devices. "It's a memory record," I finished, and if the Carrian was surprised before, then this must be genuine shock.
"Aren't those illegal?" he protested. I shook my head. "This one was invented three days ago. By one of ours. A human." A blind old man, in a shack on Colony Europa, working with parts scavenged from discarded Carrian obedience machines. He had spent his considerable genius on a life of microbe mining, freed on pension only when his eyes began to seep. This, I deferred to mention. They did not like to be reminded that their draft animals could be as clever as they.
He enfolded it in a grip of sharp feathers, his beak dipping in a signal I had come to recognize as thoughtfulness. "I will have to report this to my government, you realize," he said, but I shook my head. "This was not intended for your government; it was intended for you." Carrians have difficulty dealing with the concept of individual identity. I saw a blink of compacted glass and silvergold in his fist, the flicker of a black eye - the idea of a personal gift had obviously unseated him.
"The device is original, but the data originally comes from Earth. Late twenty-first, I believe. Four years after first contact. French." France had provided some of the most dedicated and resourceful insurgents during the primary occupation, and as such, had been rewarded with such a thorough bombing that no stone in that ravaged province was said to stand atop another. "The original machinery was Triite, but the experience is fully Carrian. It's been passed down among the Bohemian Clans for decades, re-recorded, brought to the stars - despite that we have long lost the ability to interface and play it back. As you know, despite our current deliberations, significant scientific development is prohibited among the slave races. This... this is a memory that everyone should have. It's come a long way, to sit in your hands."
"It could be a trap," he croaked, and he was right. It could be. Memory records were illegal for a very good reason - a skilled neuroprogrammer could create a wipe-and-replace record and distribute it via commercial playback devices. The memory I had just provided my peer and jailer could be a stealth assassination command, hidden inside a pleasant walk through the fungal forests. It wasn't. It was exactly what I told him it was.
"You've chosen me for these deliberations because I am, and I quote, 'the most sophisticated and literate example among your throwback breed'. I do not know if you've come to respect my opinions, but you acknowledge them. We have been your... honored servants for centuries, and have only this year won a voice at table. Why would I risk it on such an obvious trap, when I could instead share something the universe will never see again? This may be our only chance."
A few minutes later, deliberations were again under way. The thirteen representatives who did not require a break for lunch, due to societal or biological discrepancies, were already in their seats. Water, coffee, silk, electrostimulants and methane-silver gaspods were provided for our refreshment; I had a latte, a treat I had not enjoyed since I was seven. I sipped at it, and its similar siblings, throughout that one long Martian afternoon, arguing the cause of my people for the first time since our little blue world was discovered. Coffee was prohibited among the slave races. It tasted like a lost opportunity.
At first, I thought the trouble with my translator was merely a technological glitch, but when it worsened I recognized the telltale aphasia that was the first symptom of heliospore poisoning. A good choice - slow to strike, impossible to counteract once a neuro-colony had been established, and a natural byproduct of life on certain terraformed moons, making it impossible to tell whether it had been deliberately administered or naturally contracted. I gauged three hours until the muscle spasms and hallucinations began - just long enough to terminate meetings for the day. All I had to do was guard my words, make sure I didn't speak out of turn, shake hands, and wander away to enjoy my upcoming brain-death.
I was not the only quiet one that afternoon. I noticed a glimmer of compacted glass beneath the Carrian representative's left earflap. I noticed the distance in his stance and expression, the characteristic awed astonishment evident on any creature who visits the Louvre. I wondered - would my few final, dying visions match that ghost of beauty? A comfort, then: it is inevitable that I will know.
