The colonel’s mouth dropped open. “Necessary?” he said in disbelief, his eyes now burning angrily. “How can a hoax like that be necessary? What rationale could you possibly have?”
I understood his outrage. I felt the same. This single answer had revealed that Michelle had told the truth about something that Nari had been lying about. Lying about for a very long time—to his staunchest ally. And this was after Nari had already admitted he had been withholding key information.
If I hadn’t been shaken up already, I would be now. How many layers thick was this onion? And would I ever be able to sort truth from lies?
Outside the wall of glass behind Nari and the colonel, dawn was breaking. The sun was just beginning to rise behind us, causing patches of ocean to glisten like wet diamonds, but I was too preoccupied to bask in the beauty of the scene. If not for the nanites, my body would be desperate for sleep. Even with them, I was emotionally spent.
“I can only promise to provide our rationale,” said Nari. “You’ll have to decide if you think it’s valid. I’d like to think you’ll understand why we made the choices we made, even if you don’t approve. But that will be entirely up to you.”
I continued to be struck by how reasonable the alien leader made everything seem, even his lies.
“So let me begin,” continued Nari. “I’ll lay it all out for you the best I can, and then I’ll field questions. Not that you shouldn’t feel free to jump in along the way.”
All three of us nodded our understanding.
“First,” he continued. “Intelligent life in the galaxy doesn’t just consist of one wolf species—you—and twenty-two sheep species. There is another. One that’s in a category of its own. A species that makes humanity look like sheep. A marauding species spreading across the galaxy like locusts, obliterating all intelligent life in its path. We call them the Swarm.”
I thought the colonel was going to explode. “Sure,” he said bitterly, “a marauding species that obliterates all intelligent life. As long as you were only withholding something unimportant. I was worried it might be something big.”
Nari didn’t reply, and I hoped the translation AI was able to reproduce Brad’s exact tone and expression, dripping with sarcasm.
“Let me guess,” continued the colonel. “Earth is directly in their path?”
“Yes. As is the entire Galactic Federation.”
“Perfect!” hissed Brad. “Easy to see why that wouldn’t be important for us to know.”
I shook my head. “So when you told us that all Federation members were gradually going extinct from stagnation,” I said, “that isn’t true, either.”
“No,” said Nari. “That is true. I just left out that the Swarm will destroy us long before that happens.”
“What reason could you possibly have to keep that from me?” demanded the colonel.
“We wanted to gain your trust before hitting you with an ugly truth. Everything I’ve told you previously has been accurate, with the exception of the physical appearance of my people, and the star system we call home. Everything.
“We are headed toward gradual extinction. We were desperate to find a species like yours to lead and inspire us, and to drive us into a glorious and peaceful future. Even before we detected the Swarm.”
“But your ugly truth is that you first need us to lead you in a war against them,” I said.
Nari nodded. “That’s right.”
“That not entirely true, either, is it?” said the colonel. “You don’t need us to lead you into battle. You need us to fight the Swarm for you—all on our own. With you providing tech and moral support in the background. Sheep don’t go into battle.”
“Nor would you want us to,” said Nari. “And again, while you’re our only hope, we’re your only hope also. If we weren’t here, you’d destroy yourselves before the Swarm did. Even if you did survive your adolescence, you wouldn’t develop the technology to detect them for a long while. You wouldn’t know they were coming until they were almost here, and you’d be utterly helpless against them. So don’t discount what we bring to the table too quickly.”
He paused for this to sink in. “If humanity wasn’t in any jeopardy from them,” the alien continued, “but we were asking you to fight to protect us, anyway—to fight our war for us—then that would be a different story. But your necks are in the same guillotine as ours.
“Still,” continued the alien, “as I’ve already said, if we told you about this upfront, we feared losing your trust, your goodwill. You aren’t a trusting species. Managing first contact with humanity was perilous enough. Gaining your trust difficult enough. But introducing ourselves and then letting you form the mistaken impression that we’re saving you so you can become the galaxy’s mercenary soldiers? You’d never believe our intentions were anything more than selfish. Desperate. You’d never believe we truly intended for you to lead us, even absent this threat.
“Our AI was adamant about not telling you. It advised us to do so only after we had formally introduced ourselves to all of humanity. After your species had adjusted to the reality of the Galactic Federation. After we had all worked together for a period of time, and learned to trust each other.
“The AI was also concerned that if your species knew you were even more important than we were letting on, you’d make demands of us. Demand advanced technology ahead of your readiness to use it, putting yourselves in jeopardy from which even we couldn’t protect you.”
“So when did you plan to tell us?” asked Brad.
“Between one and two hundred years from now. Depending on how well your relationship with the Federation was going. And depending on how quickly you continued to mature and develop your science and technology.”
Nari frowned. “Believe me, we were painfully aware that the longer we kept humanity in the dark, the angrier you would be about our previous silence. And the more it would strain our relationship.”
“Where is this Swarm now?” I asked.
“A little over twelve hundred light years away. Are you familiar with the use of right ascension and declination to pinpoint celestial objects?”