A shadow passed across the elder's face. "A few symphs took the privilege of joining in our services as confirmation they too bore the divine image. More disturbingly, they sowed dissension among their brethren—advocating for rights and duties belonging solely to the children of God. They created doubt among the faithful and instability within society." He raised his bottle once more, drained it, and let it float free.
The serving tray next to the ambassador moved smoothly through the air, performed an acrobatic flip, and aligned itself perfectly to catch the metallic bottom of the bottle with one of the magnetic regions on it's own surface.
A disembodied voice asked "Would you care for another?" The elder smiled and selected a new bottle of the brown liquid. The tray quietly assumed a waiting position by his elbow.
"Eventually, the dissident group and their followers took over a remote research facility, declaring it a free colony of the symph people," his voice held a slight sneer. "We believe it was the concentration of so many in one place that led to the resurgence of a dormant disease. The devout are convinced it was also a warning against violating the natural order."
"But," asked the ambassador, "how did the disease spread to the rest of the symphalan population? You describe this group as isolated."
"Not completely, though that would have been preferable. Despite our best efforts, there were always some who managed to travel back-and-forth between their 'colony' and the major cities."
"Your best efforts?"
"Obviously, we responded to such an act of insurrection."
"Using what methods?"
The elder's eyes narrowed. "Our measures were quite just. We were very aware of our mandate to care for all Creation. This was when the Church took up the mantel of protector," he motioned to the insignia on his uniform, "and we chose 'Dominion' as the new name of our world, so as not to forget our divine responsibility."
"You said this happened almost half a century ago. You were not an elder then. How sure are you of the motives of those in charge? It is not unknown for governments to take draconian action in the face of civil unrest."
His face colored.
"Are you implying," he said in measured tones, "that we did not properly care for the sick and dying?"
"It would not be a first for humanity--and it would have been a simple solution to your problem."
"Your arrogance and your ignorance are insulting." His lips were a thin white, blotchy line. "Do you think we were spared the plague that took the symphs? We were also judged."
His forgotten bottle cartwheeled slowly away; the tray moved to intercept.
"Judged for what?"
"For allowing our charges to get out of control. For dereliction of our duty. For our failure to rule."
The tray had retrieved the bottle. At the ambassador's silent instruction, it jetted to her and she surrendered her half-finished tea. The disembodied voice inquired "Will either of you need further refreshment?" Both declined.
"Is the infection fatal?," the ambassador asked.
"No, but it is persistent and painful. We bear it in humility, a reminder of where we have fallen short. Many look to your arrival with hope. Perhaps you bring some new insight which will allow us to cure our affliction."
"Is that what you seek in an update to your datastore?"
"Some of us hope for more. The knowledge to restore the symphs, but freed from the corruption which caused their rebellion."
She didn't respond immediately, as she assimilated a message from the Archive.
"You know, there was a great debate when the first Archives were compiled. Emigrants were required to endure rigorous screening and decontamination, to prevent humanity from carrying with us the viral and bacterial diseases that had plagued us on Earth."
She chuckled at the look of surprise on his face. "Oh yes, I'm genetically modified for low gravity and microgravity, but still human. I doubt, however, you would consider me a 'child of God"--even though I'm only 0.058% gibbon." She extended her wrist idly, flexing it around its ball-and-socket joint.
The elder said nothing.
"Those who administered the migrations," she continued, "made as certain as possible that settlers carried no dormant diseases--but what of the Archives? Some thought the pathogen genomes should be excluded, so humanity could be free of them once and for all. Others felt no genetic information should be discarded, in case it was ever needed. In the end, the genomes were included, but were modified with inert marker genes that identified the source. This would allow Archive researchers to distinguish between pathogen DNA that came from settlement datastores, and that which came from dormant diseases that got missed. Knowledge of these marker genes is generally restricted to those who administer the Archives."
"Why?" The man asked in surprise.
"Because many pathogens can be weaponized, and often those responsible are motivated to deceive. We wanted a way to uncover the truth. Would you care to know what we found on your ranovolo bottles just now?"
His face reflected sullen anger. "A highly virulent strain of the herpes type 1 virus."
The ambassador nodded. "A virus that, even in its present form, is merely a nuisance to humans, but can be fatal to gibbons--and by extension, to symphalans. The DNA of the virus confirms it was assembled from the genome included in your datastore--and then modified."
The elder stared at her in silence.
"Tell me, she said, "what do you know of St. Francis?"
"He is one of the most esteemed of all the saints--the founder of many orders." He scoffed, "Why? Are you a believer?"
"No, although there are a number in our crew. I want to share something with you." She messaged the Archive to proceed.
The conference room was suddenly filled with the sound of many voices rising in beautiful, transcendent harmonies. Anyone who had ever heard symphalan singing, even once, could not mistake their throaty, vibrant, exultant tones--but this song was so magnificent, it surpassed even the astonishing recordings transmitted by the Alexandria II following her earlier visit to Dominion. The elder caught his breath.
"This is the signal we received," the ambassador told him. "'The Canticle of St. Francis.' It praises God--for all the creatures he has made, calling them brothers. The entire signal is this canticle, repeated, interspersed with a numeric code."
The elder waited.
"When the Alexandria II was here for the last Archive visit, her researchers noticed disturbing signs in the way the human population treated the symphalans. We do not interfere in local governance, but to preserve the integrity of the Archives, we must know the truth. Prior to departure, the Archivists gave the symphalan representatives a code which they could use to signal us should they ever be threatened as a people. This is the code that preceded and trailed every repetition of the canticle, until the signal was cut off. Your Grace, our records and instruments show there were only ever two facilities on Dominion with the capability of sending interstellar transmissions. One is now a crater."
The man was silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke.
"So you will deny us your updated Archive, condemning us to live with this condition," he gestured to his lips, "on the basis of a song and a secret code from a group of rebels who are long dead and can't even answer for their slander."
"We will not certify you for continued participation in the Archive Exchange," she replied. "We will not give you the tools to lift up future generations of symphalans, simply to exploit and oppress them."
She cut him off as he started to object.
"There are, however, those who believe it is our...humanitarian duty to treat the plague you have unleashed upon yourselves. If it were up to me, I would let you suffer the consequences of your actions until the Pergamum arrives. Others advise mercy. I reluctantly admit your world could use a lesson in mercy."
He started to respond, then stopped and said nothing.
"Our interview is finished. Please return to Dominion. We will withdraw, to prepare for our journey back to HR637."
The elder spun elegantly, his ankle on the handhold, then pushed off toward the door of the conference room. It slid aside to let him out. As he was about to exit, the ambassador spoke once more, causing him to stop himself on the doorframe and look back.
"The symphalans had the final vote," she said. "The 'Canticle of St. Francis' has another great theme--praising God through those who bear up under infirmity and tribulation, and yet still offer pardon. By helping you, we honor them, because as they sang--as you were killing them--they were forgiving you."
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