DIPLOMACY

What was happening to those seventy-eight fevarians?

That was the question Nr̀oa, scion of Sisi, had been hunting the trail of for days. Their paws had pounded up and down the embassy halls, but not a single diplomat had been able to give them a straight answer. But, eventually, one had given up the information of the health ministry. So, several failed calls and an interstellar shuttle ride later, here they were, making their way down a sealed corridor towards the tower dominated the sky. It was plated in green and red metal that burned bright under the hot sun, and cylindrical in shape, with the top few floors much wider, giving it the appearance of a glittering mushroom.

Nr̀oa brushed back their brown traveller's cloak and glanced to their left. Desert sands and orange mountains stretched as far as they could see. A few other domed habitats dotted the landscape, signs of people. But not their people. This was the moon Drakson, the stronghold of the draksar; proud, scaly-green lizard-men with curling horns and sharp claws. Nr̀oa kept a tight grip on their double-pronged spear. They couldn't prove anything yet, but fur prickled under their sand-colored veil and they had the feeling they were marching deeper into enemy territory.

The lobby had similarly large windows, a scattering of low comfy chairs, and several glass dragons hanging from the ceiling, breathing fire over sculpted swarms of bacteria. In the middle was an enormous circular desk, covered in a thick layer of paperwork.

Nr̀oa approached one attendant. "Excuse me," they said in rehearsed Draconic, "I would like to request a meeting with your Head of Communications."

The draksar glanced down at his watch and raised a brow. "At this hour?"

"Yes. It was as soon as I could arrive." they explained. "I'm the Fevarian ambassador."

He took a long sip from his mug. "Really, now? Paperwork?"

Beaurocrats. Nr̀oa dug out their identification. They glanced down at their brown-furred paws, then around at the room of scale-havers. Who else would I be?

Finally, after much paper-shuffling and back-and-forthing, Nr̀oa was given an office number on the fifth floor. They thanked the teller kindly and half-ran to the elevator. It smelled of disinfectant barely covered by desert rose, and the music wailed with words they didn't know. Even so, they tried to take a deep breath.

Once on the correct floor, it was a short walk past grey carpet and worn white paint to a door with a brightly polished copper nameplate. The door swung open just as they reached it to reveal a draksar wrapped tight in a purple robe. She was built like a pile of sticks, except for the obvious hump on her back. A pair of glasses rested on her narrow snout, connected to her horns with two delicate golden chains. As soon as the door opened, she turned sharply towards them, and demanded, "Well? What is it?"

Nr̀oa held out a paw to her. "I'm Nr̀oa, scion of Sisi, the Fevarian ambassador. Many of our people who have had contact with yours have fallen ill. I was wondering if you might recognize the condition?"

She looked down at their paw. Then, she cackled. "Oh, yes, I see." She shook their paw. "Yes, I may be able to help you. Come inside, strange fur-man."

Nr̀oa followed her into the office. It was lit with warm yellow light. A sturdy rug dominanted much of the space, in the gold-and-green of the draksar. The whole place smelled of smothered blossoms. Medical posters dominated the near wall, giving way to a chaotic mess of sticky notes on the other side, concentrated around a surprisingly neat metal desk. The Head settled herself into the burly office chair in front of it, and indicated for Nr̀oa to take the unpadded stool opposite her.

"So, your people. Describe their symptoms." she said.

"Well, first they started to lose fur. A lot of fur. Then, rashes--usually intense and nearly full-body. Some lost their sense of smell. Fevers, headaches, and severe fatigue are common complaints. Most have begun to experience severe muscle pain, in various parts of the body. For some, it's proven fatal--cause of death usually being either dehydration from fever or a collapse of the heart muscle. And now, some have these thick, powdery ... scales."

"I see, I see." the Head nodded sagely. "Not to worry. All perfectly normal."

"So, you're familiar with the illness?" Nr̀oa asked eagerly.

"Oh, quite." she smiled gently, but didn't elaborate.

Nr̀oa resisted the urge to put their snout in their paws. "What do you call this condition?"

"The Change." she told them.

"What progress have you made on treating it?"

"Treating it?" the old draksar looked shocked, "Why would you do such a thing?"

"To ... save lives? Like treating any disease? ... Maybe it's a translation quirk--to me, to 'treat' is to 'remove badness' ..."

"Yes. There is no badness to remove, though." she said pleasantly. "The Change does only good. It is a blessing from the gods."

Realization dawned on Nr̀oa. "The Change ... blessing ... scales ... oh, it makes you, doesn't it? Makes other creatures into draksar, I mean."

The Head blinked at them. "Of course. Doesn't everyone know that?"

"But my people don't want it. I don't think it's meant for our bodies."

"Of course it is." she reassured them. "The Change works on anyone--elf, dwarf, even fevarian. I'm sure of it."

"Then why is it killing us?"

She waved her claw dismissively. "The Change kills those who are unworthy of its power. Only the strongest can become Changed."

Nr̀oa let out a long breath and dug their claws into their palms. "What research do you have on this Change?"

The Head let out a sigh of her own, and slowly eased out of her chair. Instead of heading for her filing cabinet, she put one firm claw on Nr̀oa's shoulder. "Look, dear, I can tell the Change has you frightened, but it's nothing to worry about. You don't need to obsess over the details; everything is going to work out just fine. Would you like a caramel?"

"No." they said firmly. "I would like to see your research into the Change. If you need, I'm certain I can arrange suitable compensation ..."

She shook her head. "It'll only scare you worse. I shouldn't have said anything, I'm sorry. Why don't we check you in with our counseling department? I'm sure they'll do better ..."

"I am not leaving until I get those documents." Images flashed through his head; Dawa, son of Ikan, the most respected warrior in the land, falling down cold during a public address. Roba, daughter of Fele, the cool-and-collected legendary unifier of the Great Fevarian Empire, giving them their mission with tears in her eyes. Their own brother, ill-fitting clothes covering cold, naked skin, heaved onto a funeral pyre.

The draksar tried to tug on their arm, and Nr̀oa finally snapped. Their modern training of civility and manners went out the window for their old times in the duelling ring. They smacked the Head across the nose with the shaft of their spear, then tried to trip her while she was off balance. She was fast, though, and sliced her claws right across their middle, ripping through tunic and skin, and smashing into the communicator at their waist. It popped off their belt and skittered across the floor.

One paw pressed over their stomach, Nr̀oa stepped back, just in time to avoid her next swipe. The Head grabbed the office chair behind her, and tried to slam it into their legs, but they dodged that too. They swung at her with the spear, but she knocked it aside and nearly out of their paws.

"It's clear you have no respect for our gift!" the Head snarled at them as she advanced, "I will end your wretched, fleshy existence before the Change even touches your unworthy veins."

Nr̀oa's back met wood. The Head smiled--less sweetly and with more teeth--and charged at them. Nr̀oa kicked up the edge of the rug in her face. As she flailed, they hefted the spear and slammed it into her back. She went down, hard. They put one boot over her neck, and the end of their spear on the back of her head.

"This weapon has been 'diplomatically dulled', but I assure you, I have more than enough strength to send it through your skull regardless." Nr̀oa informed her. "Now, where do you keep your research?"

The Head struggled and spat. "I will never give anything to a worthless beast like you. Besides, I don't need to. They're coming."

"They?" Nr̀oa asked, then glanced down as she let something out of her claws. A small white box, with a red button.

The door burst open and the filing cabinet shoved aside with a great screech! and suddenly the room was full of bulky, armored lizard-men pointing their swords straight at Nr̀oa.

"You're under arrest for heresy against our lords, Vindrax and Valdac! Put your claws in the air and drop the weapon!"