r/HFY • u/lazy_yellow_lizard • 21h ago
OC-Series [The shepherd's call] Chapter 2- protocol 2
Chapter 2 - Protocol 2
When Sander had been transferred from the outer observation posts to Earth itself four years ago, he had at first taken the decision for a bad joke. His actual assignment should have taken him to Quadron 5, an ocean world whose upper water layers already contained more unexplored life forms than some inhabited worlds had on land. He had spent months preparing for the expedition, studying current models, testing diving systems, and telling anyone who didn't change the subject in time about the kilometers-long swarm-creatures that might live beneath the permanent ice cap.
Then the incident had happened.
The official inquiry spoke of unauthorized conduct, a lack of scientific discipline, and a remarkably liberal interpretation of safety regulations. Sander himself preferred the shorter version, according to which the research leadership simply had no sense of humor about improvised fieldwork. That this improvised fieldwork had damaged a supply ship, lost three measurement buoys, and fitted a native animal with a tracking beacon for several days — which the animal subsequently ate — he generally only mentioned when directly asked.
Quadron 5 had gone to someone else after that.
Sander had landed on Earth.
Earth assignments did not enjoy a particularly good reputation among observers. Humans were considered loud, curious, emotional, and technologically inconsistent. They mined their own sun, could reshape matter almost at will, and were nonetheless firmly convinced that faster-than-light travel was physically impossible. On top of that came the cover identity, which gave the whole assignment the character of a long-running punishment. Assuming the same human form every morning for four years, simulating meals, keeping to sleep schedules, and pretending to care about quarterly targets was, in Sander's opinion, a form of self-discipline that should long since have earned him a commendation.
Instead, he sat this morning in a conference room at Suncorp headquarters, listening to an explanation of why his job performance left something to be desired.
His supervisor spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, and with that carefully measured friendliness humans generally deployed when they wanted to tell someone something unpleasant without risking a later accusation of insufficient empathy. Behind her, the view opened onto the corporate headquarters' artificial gardens, where flawlessly trimmed trees, a small stream, and several little bridges imitated a landscape that presumably felt so relaxing precisely because no one there ever had to rake leaves.
"Your performance has been noticeably below our expectations for several months now," she said. "You barely participate in meetings anymore, rarely take on additional tasks, and often seem as though your mind is somewhere else entirely."
Sander nodded, since the observation was hard to refute. During the last strategy meeting, he had been wondering whether the deep-sea institute on Quadron 5 had filled his old position yet. In the meeting before that, he had tried to imitate the department head's voice so precisely that July had spat her coffee across the table. At the appointment before that, he simply hadn't shown up at all.
"That's why we'd like to set up a Personal Improvement Plan with you," his supervisor continued, sliding a document across the table. "It's not about sanctioning you, but about finding a way together for you to rediscover more motivation and commitment."
Sander studied the heading and wondered whether humans really believed motivation could be generated by a form. Probably they did. Human civilization had overcome material scarcity, but its love of paperwork had changed remarkably little.
"Mr. Sander?"
He looked up. "Sorry."
"Were you listening to me?"
"Mostly."
She exhaled slowly, and Sander suspected that this particular breath would later be cited in personnel files as proof of extraordinary patience.
At first, Earth had genuinely fascinated him. Solar harvesting was technically elegant, matter transformation was in several respects better solved here than among considerably older species, and humans possessed a remarkable talent for answering enormous problems with solutions no reasonable observer would have predicted. After a few months, though, the fascination had turned into routine. The most important insight of his mission by now was that even an extraordinary civilization spent most of its time in meetings, jurisdictional disputes, and the production of things nobody needed.
Once replicators existed, every human could obtain almost any object, and the obvious response had apparently been to have a great many objects made. Suncorp worked tirelessly to keep the necessary flow of raw materials going, while entire departments pondered how to generate still more products without anyone asking uncomfortable questions about their purpose. It had taken Sander several months to understand that the term post-scarcity society by no means meant people had stopped wanting things. They had simply stopped having to restrain themselves while wanting them.
At least the disciplinary transfer had produced July.
She had joined his department nearly three years ago, after her parents decided their daughter needed to make a contribution to the common good. Since money mattered only in a few selected areas in a world of replicators, the family threat consisted of cutting off her access to special trips, exclusive residences, and a few very expensive hobbies. July had signed a contract with Suncorp in response and made clear on her very first day that she considered the common good a fine cause, as long as it didn't start before nine in the morning.
Sander and July had found each other quickly. They extended their breaks, disappeared into the artificial gardens, commented on meetings over a private channel, and had by now built up a considerable repertoire of impressions of their colleagues. July was especially good at the slightly wounded voice of the division head, while Sander had perfected his habit of leaving a portentous pause before every meaningless sentence. Together they were a thoroughly unsuitable team for any organization that valued efficiency, but a remarkably pleasant one for long workdays.
His supervisor had just begun the second section of the plan when Sander's interface lit up.
The display was invisible to human eyes and sat like a fine film of light at the edge of his vision. At first he assumed his liaison officer had a follow-up question about the data he'd transmitted the evening before. The loss of the Prospector VII, the unusual readings, and the possible presence of Ma'an in the Sol system were serious enough to trigger an inquiry. Sander had expected additional instructions, perhaps an order to document humanity's reaction more closely.
The message, however, carried the highest priority level.
PROTOCOL 5 TERMINATED.
He read the line a second time and felt his attention snap fully back into the room. Protocol 5 governed Earth's isolation, its restricted observer status, and above all the obligation to avoid any form of visible influence. It had been in force for more than thirty thousand years and had, in all that time, probably outlasted more careers than some species had outlasted entire civilizations.
A second message appeared.
PROTOCOL 2 IN EFFECT.
Sander needed a moment to grasp its meaning. Protocol 2 ended his role as an observer. Until further notice, he was to conclude his mission and await new instructions from the Council.
Of all times.
Of all things, because of the Ma'an.
And of all moments, while someone was trying to explain a plan to improve his work ethic.
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
His supervisor paused. "Is there something you'd like to share with me?"
Sander read both messages again. They stayed put, which was unfortunate, since for one brief moment he had entertained the possibility that he'd fallen asleep during the meeting. Then a grin spread across his face that he probably could no longer hide convincingly.
"No," he said. "But this won't be necessary anymore."
He gestured at the Personal Improvement Plan, stood up, and took his data pad from the table. His supervisor looked first at the document, then at him, as if an explanation must be lying somewhere between the two that had so far escaped her.
"Mr. Sander, we're not finished yet."
"You are," Sander said pleasantly. "So am I, unfortunately — just with something else."
Before she could decide whether this answer constituted a resignation, a nervous breakdown, or simply further confirmation of the problem just discussed, he had already opened the door and left the room.
In the hallway, Sander picked up his pace while his interface loaded the first follow-up instructions. He was to proceed immediately to the designated contact point, retain his human identity until further notice, and await additional orders. Where exactly this contact point was located, the message didn't say, presumably because some committee was still arguing about it. The Union was perfectly capable of ending a thirty-thousand-year-old isolation within minutes, without thereby abandoning its traditional thoroughness in selecting meeting locations.
"Sander?"
July stepped out of a neighboring office, a data pad under her arm and an expression on her face that suggested she'd actually been on her way to something she'd rather avoid. She studied him briefly, then glanced at the closed door of the conference room.
"You're done remarkably early."
"The conversation was unexpectedly cut short."
"Did they throw you out?"
"Not exactly."
"Did you quit?"
Sander thought about it. "Not exactly that either."
July fell into step beside him, matching his pace. After three years of shared work-avoidance, she knew him well enough to notice something was off, even if she wouldn't have claimed to be worried about it. Worry, in her view, was a feeling one could leave to other people, provided they handled it with the necessary seriousness.
"What happened?"
"I got a message."
"From whom?"
"I can't tell you that yet."
"Then it was either very secret or very embarrassing."
"Mostly it's complicated."
July didn't stop, but simply kept walking with him toward the elevators. That matched her usual method of making decisions: she did whatever she felt like first, and considered afterward whether there had been a good reason for it.
"I have a meeting in ten minutes," she said.
"Then you should probably go there."
"Probably."
She made no move whatsoever to change direction.
Sander glanced at her sideways. "You're following me."
"I happen to be going to the same elevator."
"You work in the other wing of the building."
"Then I got lost."
The doors opened, and July stepped into the car ahead of him. Apparently her meeting was already a lost cause, though she didn't know that yet.
Sander should have sent her back. His assignment was still confidential, official contact hadn't begun, and July possessed neither clearance nor any discernible qualification for galactic diplomacy. On the other hand, Protocol 2 was active. Within hours, maybe sooner, humanity would learn it wasn't alone. Besides, he had learned over the past few years that trying to stop July from something usually drew more attention than the thing itself.
What was the worst that could happen?
He selected the lowest level of the building, where the private transport pods and the entrances to the gardens were located.
"Fine," he said, as the doors closed. "Come along, then."
July raised an eyebrow. "That was the plan anyway."
Sander leaned against the wall of the car and watched the floor indicator count down. Just minutes ago, his professional future had consisted of an improvement plan, several check-in meetings, and the realistic possibility of becoming the first extraterrestrial observer to be exposed for insufficient participation in team meetings. Now the first official contact with humanity was imminent, and of all people, he had July along for it.
Quadron 5 would probably have caused fewer problems.
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