A Day at the Ambassador’s Office

by David Gray

“Come here, cutie,” I coaxed, although it couldn’t understand me. “Are you lost? Why aren’t you with the Ambassador?”

When I got back to my desk, the bug was hiding behind my computer screen, peeking around the edge, wary. They never liked being far from the Ambassador, although this is the seventh one I’d found this week.

I reached my hand over, sneaking my fingers under its legs, and it brushed my fingernails with its feathery palps. Then it leapt forward, clenching all twelve legs around my index finger, gnawing on my knuckle.

“Oh, so we want to play, do we?” I laughed, grabbing the iridescent carapace with my other hand, starting our tug of war. They always let me win at this, the little dears, even though they could take my finger off at the joint without a second thought. We tugged and pulled and nibbled, at an impasse until I covered up the ring of eyes with my fingertips. It played dead, letting out a mournful squeak and falling to the table in a jumble of jointed legs.

“Another point for team Robert,” I crowed. “And the crowd goes wild!”

It flipped itself back upright and waited expectantly, chittering its legs on the tabletop.

“I need to get some work done, then we’ll find the Ambassador,” I said. I don’t know why I talk to them, but I can’t help it. They’re so damn cute. I flipped my hand over and it sprang into my palm. “What do you want today, hair or beard?”

I lifted it to my head, but it stayed put, so I cupped my hand under my chin and it scurried off, infiltrating its legs deep into my bushy beard. After poking and prodding for a minute, it nestled in, stroking the curly hairs with a few free legs.

“I can’t understand how you do that,” Vivienne said, clacking up in her high heels and looking at my little friend. “Just between you and me, they make my skin crawl.” She had a white-knuckle grip on her tablet and a harried expression. She always had that expression. It wasn’t easy being the EU’s Chief Extrasolar Service Officer for Earth’s one and only alien ambassador.

“We’re just hanging out together,” I said, giving the little fellow a tug. It grated out the raspy chitter they always do when they’re annoyed. It was perfectly happy right where it was, thank you very much.

She laughed, but it was a brittle laugh, tinged with a shudder, and asked, “Are they ready for me? I have a new trade proposal with the latest round of amendments.”

“They’ve been asking about that,” I said, bending the truth. Grumbling about it was more accurate. If you haven’t heard ten thousand bugs all grumble at once, you haven’t truly lived.

I typed into the Ambassador’s comm: “Vivienne Montrachet is here with the new trade numbers.”

They responded: “Action: Enter.”

“They’re ready for you. Go right in,” I said. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and pushed through the door.

The comm beeped again. I scratched my little cutie’s carapace as I answered, “Hello. Ambassador’s office. May I help you?”

* * *

When lunchtime rolled around, my buddy was getting tired. Sometime midmorning, during the visit from the diplomatic security team, it had crawled down my shirt and nestled in my chest hair, humming quietly in the dark. Too much time away from the swarm for one lonely bug.

I typed: “Are you free for lunch today?”

They must have been waiting, because the response came back immediately: “Response: Acceptable. Action: Enter.”

“I brought sushi,” I announced, pushing through the door.

The Ambassador’s squawk-box said: “Physiology: Delicious. Query: Rolls? Nori?” 

“Yes, and salmon roe.” I undid two buttons on my shirt and coaxed the bug out, adding, “This guy has been hanging out with me all day.”

“Physiology: Gratitude.”

When I got this job, I tried to mimic the odd squawk-box language, but I always seemed to make more mess of it than good. Now I just talk, and the Ambassador seems to get most of it. Maybe someday the eggheads will sort out the squawk-box, but I’m doing fine for now.

The swarm sat in their resting form, roughly spherical, so I ignored the chairs reserved for official visitors and sat on the floor, releasing the bug that had kept me company all morning. It danced over the carpet and lost itself in the shifting mesh of carapaces and legs.

I asked, knowing the answer, “What do you have for lunch today?” It had become a silly ritual every afternoon, and I always asked before I did the big reveal from my carry-all case.

The squawk-box said, “Response: Paste. Qualifier: Eternally.” Completely nutritious, created from virtually any raw organic material, and the blandest thing in the universe. The nutrient paste sat forgotten in their food replicator as I arranged a plate of California rolls and salmon roe, their favorite, and an extra big heap of pickled ginger. The swarm expanded in anticipation, getting lacy around the edges as bugs released their interlocks, already crowding around the plate and sneaking a quick taste.

“Patience, little ones. Let me do the wasabi first.”

I dribbled soy sauce down the long tray—I always thought of it as the bug trough—and muddled in the wasabi. I grabbed my chopsticks and invited, “Bon appetite!”

I’d like to say they were polite about it, like they always were at official state dinners, but we were all friends here, so they didn’t even try. The entire swarm flattened and spread across the carpet, self-organizing into a swirling mass for their turn at the feast. Astoundingly, by the end of lunch, each and every one would be chewing on a red salmon egg or nibbling a morsel of ginger or, for the lucky ones, proudly dashing somewhere private with a sail of seaweed, safe from the competition.

I dunked my first roll and let three bugs extract a few spicy grains of rice, then sat and ate, lost in the flurry of motion around me. Each bug was a gem, with its shiny blue-black carapace and symmetrical legs, but together they were a miracle. 

By the time I finished my rolls, several hundred bugs had formed enough of a swarm to speak again. The sweeties left one piece of the salmon roe for me, but I offered, “Please, I brought these for you.” The horde descended and teased it apart in seconds.

As I dumped the picked-clean dishes in my carry-all, I asked, “Are you looking forward to some time on the ship?”

“Response: Yes. Action: Integrate…report...rest. Physiology: Substandard.”

“Why are you sad?”

“Action: Wrestle.”

“Me too. I’ll miss our arm-wrestling competitions, but we still have half an hour now before the Pentagon big-wigs arrive. Do you have a new plan to try today?”

“Quantity: Twenty-three.”

“No way! You needed Thirty-seven yesterday. Game on!”

I flopped down on my stomach and adopted the classic starting position: forearm up, elbow on the carpet. Twenty-three bugs dutifully filed out of the swarm, forming ordered ranks in front of me.

“Twenty-three, counted and acknowledged. The Ambassador is going for an interstellar record.”

“Action: Prepare. Goal: Defeat. Subject: Human.”

“Oh, cocky today, are we? Give me everything you’ve got.”

They scurried over and locked together into a wedge-shaped contraption. This was something new. They usually made a lever-like assembly, mimicking my bent arm. I couldn’t see how this configuration would move, but it was their funeral.

“Ready,” I called. Two bugs pressed tightly into my palm, and another gripped my thumb.

“Set.” The bugs at the base dug into the carpet, but one lone bug held back. Hmm. Something was up.

“Go!” I applied some muscle, but they held firm, a solid wedge, making no progress forward but also not giving up any ground. It was a draw, game over before it began.

Then, they employed their strategy. The lone bug scurried onto my hand and started a silly dance, spinning its legs and squeaking in time. I had to laugh, and that naturally led to a minor lapse of attention. The others immediately took up the slack, wedging me an inch closer to defeat. The strategy was impeccable, distracting and creeping the solid block forward at every opportunity. After five minutes, I had made no gains on their assault, so I said, “I concede. Well played. Twenty-two is our new record.” I snagged the little dancer, flipping it upside down and scritching around its leg joints, saying, “Plus one.”

* * *

“Remember the meeting with the Pentagon,” I said, grabbing my carry-all.

“Response: Acknowledged. Query: Hide?”

I laughed. “No, you can’t hide in your office, or anywhere else. The Pentagon will find you wherever you are.”

On my way out, three bugs scurried over from the main swarm and snagged my pant leg, scaling me and nesting in my hair. I’d been letting it grow out, giving them more opportunities to hide, but recently I’d been considering a perm. I bet they’d love that.

The Pentagon crew were already waiting, so I ushered them in, then dove into my afternoon busywork. The Ambassador would be returning to their ship for some well-deserved R&R, but they were pondering an international tour upon return. Unfortunately, not everyone was comfortable with a swarm of creepy crawlies from space, so security would be a priority, and I needed to schedule a boatload of meetings to sort it out.

My comm pinged later that afternoon, after the Ambassador had been holed up with them for two solid hours.

“Agenda: Extension. Quantity: One Earth hour. Query: Coffee? Pastry?”

“No problem. Give me about ten minutes.”

I arranged for a coffee urn, water bottles, and a box of cookies, and added an orange to the order. The Ambassador was probably losing patience, so that would give at least a few of their bugs a tasty pick-me-up.

When the order arrived, I set aside one of the oatmeal cookies and pushed into the Ambassador’s office. It was everything I expected. Stuffed shirts sitting in chairs, warily eyeing the stray bugs scurrying around the room, and a slick presentation outlining all of humanity's accomplishments. Another impassioned plea to bestow the secret of antigravity on the human race, by way of the military. Maybe they’d be successful this time.

The general by the screen said, “But Ambassador, we have assurances from all global parties of peaceful intent.”

“Reference: Starfleet General Order 1.”

I scoffed at this, and everyone glared at me. One fellow with a lot of stars asked, “Care to enlighten us? And why are there Xenopods in your hair?”

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me, but the Ambassador has such a dry sense of humor. And yes, these three bugs hopped on at lunchtime, and I haven’t been able to shake them.” As I set up the refreshments, I added, too quietly for them to hear, “Not that I’d want to.” Honestly, that’s what everyone in this room needed: some personal time with the bugs. But that was an opinion best kept to myself.

I offered the orange to the main mass of the Ambassador, and they created an orange-sized cavity, internalizing it immediately in a flurry of legs and incisors, stripping spirals of peel as it passed out of view.

“Response: Gratitude.”

“My pleasure,” I said as one of the bugs separated from the swarm, scurrying up my arm. Now I’d have to split that oatmeal cookie four ways instead of three.

* * *

The four bugs lined up on my desk, begging for more raisins, since they know I won’t feed them while they’re in my hair. They’re cute, but I don’t want to spend my workday combing crumbs out of my beard.

The Ambassador’s door slammed open and the generals filed out. If they were disapproving before, they were livid now, each one giving me the stink eye as they passed my desk. What on Earth did I do wrong? I guess I shouldn’t have laughed, but the Ambassador so deftly put them in their place.

My comm pinged: “Action: Enter.”

I gathered my four guys and entered, asking, “How did the meeting go?”

“Reference: Hindenburg.”

“That bad, eh? I’m sorry to hear it. Can I help you with something?”

“Agenda: New entry. Item: Ship. Item: Human.”

“No way! Are you going to allow humans on your ship?”

“Quantity: One.”

“One lucky human! That will be a thrill. One of the scientists? Surely not one of the generals.”

“Reference: Dr. Strangelove.”

“Well put. Who will you choose?”

They didn’t answer directly, but said, “Action: Approach.”

The entire swarm swelled, lengthening upward and forming a human-shaped cavity just large enough to fit me. This was something new.

The squawk-box repeated: “Action: Approach.”

I blinked and wondered if I was catching the meaning. It seemed rather obvious, but things often got snarled in the translation. It had a horror movie feel to it, like hiding in the barn with the chainsaws, but I doubted I’d suffer the same fate as the orange. They wouldn’t do that to me.

The box squawked: “Physiology: Enhanced.”

That was enough for me. If it would make them happy, I would take a chance. But just the same, I turned around and backed into the swarm. They must have caught my reservations because they closed around me only to the waist. I could feel them moving across my back and around my neck, a thousand tiny fingers infiltrating my hair and massaging firmly around my legs.

They asked: “Query: Increase?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Give me what you’ve got.”

The pressure around my legs tightened and I was lifted from the ground, bugs forming strong blocks under my feet and engulfing my chest. I waved my arms through the swarm, and they opened pathways, resisting but yielding, like treading water but with the tickle of thousands of feet.

“This is wonderful!”

The swarm asked again: “Query: Increase?”

I said, “Let’s do it!”

Then I was inside, part of the swarm. I closed my eyes, since there was nothing to see, and let myself feel the cooperation surrounding me, every part working together, supporting me. They slowly turned me, laying me out flat, lifting to the surface and floating me on a sea of bugs and submerging again, taken deep within, clenching tightly in a full body hug, turning me and setting me on my feet, and finally flowing away to stand before me.

It lasted only a moment, but I was left with tears in my eyes, unable to comprehend the immensity of it. A dozen bugs remained, dancing over my body, experimenting, kneading and caressing, helping me survive the emptiness of being suddenly alone.

“Item: Ship. Item: Human. Quantity: One.”

Oh, how I wanted this. I asked, “How many bugs are there on this ship of yours?”

“Quantity: Forty-three million.”

“And will I get to meet each and every one?”