The walkway knitted itself down to the surface and Bazil Drin followed the shining threads. His breath, plastic-scented and dry, caught in his throat. When he did finally breathe out the moisture misted on the dome of his helmet. His heart rate threatened to exceed acceptable parameters, and he hoped that the life support mechanisms in his suit wouldn’t kick in. It would be mortifying to interrupt the historic moment with the sudden jettisoning of waste that accompanied panic/first aid mode. His gloved hand tightened around its precious load.
Practically every channel was showing Bazil’s slow descent onto the planet surface. The spacecraft behind him bristled with cameras.
Earth’s envoy had to suppress a tremor as he squinted up at the massive, amorphous clumps. He knew that most of the Bletherfeldians would be tuned in to the event as well. The aliens exchanged particles with each other on a constant basis. With those airy fragments, they also swapped information.
That was just one of the many physiological differences that made communicating with the people of Bletherfeld VII so difficult. And the initial problems with communication inevitably lead to what it normally leads to: war.
*****
The human offensive was led by erstwhile commander-in-chief, Geo. Earth III carpet-bombed the newly contacted planet, which did very little good at all since most of the incendiaries were absorbed by the sludgy miasma of the planet surface. Bletherfeld retaliated by releasing a number of silent-but-deadly biological attacks on Earth III, which were eventually survived through the adoption of defensive nose pegs and air freshener.
An armistice was declared and Bazil was chosen to carry the sign of peace
*****
He left the airlock of the Dove. While the craft appear to be constructed of tinfoil, packing crates and twine, it was still a comforting form in a shapeless world. He felt irrationally glad of his helmet. It was a barrier which stopped him from leaking out and joining the murk.
He stopped walking before his toes reached the walkway lip. Making sure that he didn’t crush the stick he held in his clumsy, padded fingers, he began to sign rapidly in new semaphore.
[We, the people of Earth, greet you, the people of Bletherfeld VII]
In front of him, scraps of dark fog drifted down, a drifting tendril curled around heavy-bellied clouds. Then, with a trick of the filtered light, Bazil see the rough shape of a man traced in moisture, mist and methane. It developed stumpy arms and began to sign back.
[We, the people of Bletherfeld VII greet you, the emissary of the people of Earth.]
There was an awkward pause as Bazil tried desperately to remember the rest of the speech. His eyes rolled up to the heavens. It had been so much easier in the old days of space travel, when one had only needed to improvise a catchy sound bite instead of having to memorise a long and highly formal series of arm-waves. With relief, he remembered the sequence. Peace and Prosperity and all that.
His arms flew open in an enthusiastic flourish and, to his everlasting horror, the gift he had so carefully nursed through the dark between the stars flew from his fingers. The slender branch twisted elegantly in the air, performed a forward flip and landed on the planet surface.
Bazil lunged for it. Then he remembered where he was, wobbled alarmingly for a moment and then staggered back to safety.
Through the tinny speakers, he heard the faintest gurgle as the stick up-ended. And then it began to slide, taking the delicate white flowers, the smooth rounded leaves and the payload of olives down into the soupy world below.
‘Uh…’ said Bazil. His heart stopped. His brain went into meltdown. His suit went into overdrive. A small flap opened at the back and released a stream of effluvia in preparation for medical repairs.
[You have dropped the symbol of peace?] signed the gas giant. [Mind not. Symbols are symbols only. Peace is important. We welcome your presence.]
‘Yeah,’ agreed Bazil, who in the moment of crisis, had forgotten that his hosts did not possess ears and read the wind instead. [I mean, yes. Of course. I extend to you the hand of friendship and…] The human and the gas giant continued to complete the speech, and it was only at the end that Bazil glanced down at the uncertain ground.
[What is your planet made of?] he signed carefully.
The gas giant replied. Bazil was a pilot, not a scientist, but he was a keen gardener in his spare time. He recognised some of the ingredients from his bag of compost.
[Phosphorous, Nitrogen, Oxygen and Potassium] the giant finished.
[I thought so,] signed Bazil. Then he turned around and began to walk back up toward the Dove. Behind him the walkway retracted and the engines fired up with a metallic whine.
The Bletherfeldians were taken aback by this. Then their spokescloud found that a something had taken root in its foot. It was too late to do anything. The human spacecraft took off and reached terminal velocity as the vine sent strands tunnelling through the nutrient-rich planet.
Bazil escaped the pull of Bletherfeldian gravity. The olive plant flourished, tightened its root system in a stranglehold.
As he sat in his tin can, overwhelming guilt washed over Bazil. The accident was unforgivable. He would forever be vilified, remembered for the extinction of the first species that Earth III had managed to make peace with. He would be a villain.
Within moments the planet was imploding, even as a million leaves blossomed into a brief, leathery-green supernova. Then, the nutrients exhausted, the giant olive tree began to wither and die. In the end, nothing was left except a dried out faggot of twigs, and a few sad wisps left by the evaporating Bletherfeldians. A ball of tumbleweed rolled across the desert between the stars.
Bazil flew on and felt terrible.
Several star weeks later, Earth's envoy climbed out of his pod to the sound of applause and a rain of tickertape. As he was led up to the podium, President Geo declared the event a resounding victory, the first Earth III had ever achieved against an intergalactic foe. He shook Bazil's sweaty hand, spoke about espionage and declared that the astronaught was a war hero. Dazed, Bazil though that the Comnmander-in-Chief had a very short memory. He was about to say so when the great man leaned in, grinned and whispered: 'smile, pretend and survive. It's what I do every day.'
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