Worst Contact by Hank Davis

Author:Hank Davis [Davis, Hank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781476780986
Amazon: 1476780986
Publisher: Baen
Published: 2016-01-05T05:00:00+00:00

Many years have passed since that epiphany on the spacelanes. Of all of the humans present when we held the fateful meeting, only I, made of durable silicon and brass, still live to tell an eyewitness-tale.

By the laws of Earth, I am equal to any biological human being, despite galactic rules that would have me enslaved. No noble genes lurk in my cells. No remnants of ruffians who went slumming long ago, on a planet whose only life forms merged in scummy mats at the fringes of a tepid sea. I carry no DNA from those alien rapscallions, those high-born ones who carelessly gave Earth an outlawed gift, a helpful push. But my kind was designed by the heirs of that little indiscretion, so I can share the poignant satisfaction brought by recent events.

For decade after decade, ever since that fateful meeting between the stars, we have chased Federation ships, who always fled like scoundrels evading a subpoena. Sometimes our explorers would arrive at one of their habitat clusters, only to find vast empty cities, abandoned in frantic haste to avoid meeting us, or to prevent our emissaries from uttering one terrible word—Cousin!

It did them no good in the long run. Eventually, we made contact with the august, honest Kutathi, the judges, who admitted our petition before them.

The galactic equivalent of a cosmo-biological paternity suit.

And now, the ruling has come down at last, leaving Earth’s accountants to scratch their heads in awe over the damages we have been awarded, and the official status we have won.

As for our unofficial social position, that is another matter. Our having the right to vote in high councils will not keep most of the haughty aliens from snubbing Earthlings for a long time to come. (Would we behave any better, if a strain of our intestinal flora suddenly began demanding a place at the banquet table? I hope so, but you can never tell until you face the situation for yourself.)

None of that matters as much as the freedom—to come and go as we please. To buy and sell technologies. To learn . . . and eventually to teach.

The Kutathi judges kindly told our emissaries that humans seem to have a knack, a talent, for the law. Perhaps it will be our calling, the Kutathi said. It makes an odd kind of sense, given the jokes people have long told about the genetic nature of lawyers.

Well, so be it.

Among humans of all races and nations, there is agreement. There is common cause. Something has to change. The snooty ways of high-born clans must give way, and we are just the ones to help make it happen. We’ll find other loopholes in this rigid, inane class system, other ways to help spring more young races out of quarantine, until at last the stodgy old order crumbles.

Anyway, who cares what aristocrats think of us, their illegitimate cousins, the long-fermented fruit of their bowels?

Jane Fingal wrote our anthem, long ago. It is a stirring song, hauntingly kindred to Waltzing Matilda, full of verve, gumption, and a spirit of rebellion.

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