An Admiral’s Plate

The Ranger’s mess doors opened to admit Captain Arthur Landsman, captain of the exploration cruiser Daniel Boone. Ranger—flagship to the Chief of Space Operations of the Earth Space Operations Command—here on a mission with the Earth Planetary Union Deputy Prime Minister to pass judgment on a world’s future. Arthur hesitated before entering. He was a cruiser captain, not a diplomat. Unfortunately, he and his ship were the focus of the visit. What was said in the next day or two might very well seal the fate of that world. His included.

Diplomacy awaits, he thought. And possibly a food fight.

His cruiser, Daniel Boone, was exploring the planet Meyer—a near-duplicate of Earth—when they discovered two species equivalent in development to Homo erectus. Almost simultaneously, they made First Contact with the Braum. Our first. Each of those should be momentous in their own right.

Together they turned Meyer from a scientific discovery into a political decision. Should Earth colonize or let those two species develop on an undisturbed Meyer? Behind those mess doors, two sides of Earth’s government couldn’t agree. And the Braum were watching. Of that, he had no doubt.

A two-Marine honor guard snapped to attention as he stepped into a compartment filled with low conversation and carefully curated background music. Unlike the maritime capital ships of the past, Ranger didn’t support a crew big enough to have its own band. Everything was digital, chosen for mood. Many held a drink—Admiral’s privilege for formal occasions.

Arthur rarely drank, but he ordered a scotch for appearance’s sake. The warmth spread down his chest. Maybe not such a bad idea. Too many ways tonight could go sideways. He scanned the room and stopped. A short stocky Admiral was holding a drink and talking animatedly with a tall, striking woman. Dixon. Here. The stakes just went up.

A murmur in the crowd caught his attention. Heads turned. Arthur followed their gaze—

T’iyree had arrived.

Shipmaster T’iyree of the Ilyra—his counterpart in the First Contact. Arthur had learned that the title of Shipmaster was more than just a rank. It was a place in Braum society. The ship was more than just a ship, more than just a home. It was raison d’entre. Rankwise it was equivalent to Arthur’s captaincy, but that was like saying a wedding ring and a legal contract were the same thing.

The Braum stood poised at the hatch, wearing a long asymmetrical tunic—sleeveless, side-slit for movement, short in front and draping over the tail base in back. Its layered weave suggested soft down feathers touched with gleaming silver—ancestral markings. A sash crossed one shoulder, bearing the sigil Arthur had seen on Ilyra’s bow.

He seemed carved from stillness.

Then he stepped forward, and the tunic shimmered—indigo shifting into luminous iridescence, like wings catching early dawn light. Behind him came Helpmate Pack Leader Kyl’in and Science Master Zo’orun, equally striking.

Arthur grinned. T’iyree certainly knew how to make an entrance.

He approached Arthur. Their relationship had grown into something resembling friendship—more than professional camaraderie, less than unguarded trust. But tonight, public formality ruled.

They clasped wrists in the Braum way.

“Quite an entrance,” Arthur murmured.

T’iyree chuckled. “We are not so different. Both our kinds know the value of spectacle.”

A hand on Arthur’s shoulder. It was Zeke—the CSO—and an old friend.

“Shipmaster,” Arthur said formally, “may I present Chief of Space Operations, Admiral Ezekiel Reyes.”

T’iyree tilted his head, throat feathers flaring—a sign of formal respect. He extended his forearm, wrist bare: the Braum gesture of trust.

“Admiral Reyes. An honor to meet the leader of your sky-warriors. May this be a day remembered by both our peoples.”

Zeke stepped forward without hesitation, clasping the offered wrist—but added a human gesture of his own, placing his other hand gently over T’iyree’s in a show of warmth. “The pleasure is mine, Shipmaster. You’ve demonstrated a real gift for interspecies cooperation. Today wouldn’t have been possible without your perseverance—especially through our own fumbling first steps. I hope this marks a first step in a true partnership between our peoples.”

T’iyree inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Feel free to call me T’iyree. We do not stand on titles the way you Humans do. Ours simply describe what we do—not what honor or prestige we’re owed. That’s in the honor associated with our name.”

Vice Admiral Dixon stepped forward next, formally, shoulders braced and his expression fixed. Arthur introduced him, noting a subtle flick—a micro-pause in T’iyree’s posture. The Braum equivalent of something smells off.

“Admiral Dixon is Chief of Ship Operations for ESOC,” Arthur explained. “He’s responsible for the construction, operation, maintenance, and logistics of our ships—not fleet command.”

T’iyree nodded politely. “Pleased to meet you, Admiral Dixon.”

“Most people call me Dixon,” he said. “Keeps things orderly.”

T’iyree extended his wrist.

Dixon hesitated—not long enough to be overt, but long enough for Arthur to cringe internally—then took it.

Zeke’s mouth turned down slightly as he swallowed a frown.

Before the moment could sour further, the Deputy Prime Minister arrived.

The DPM stepped up smoothly, offering his wrist without hesitation. “Welcome to Meyer, Shipmaster. I look forward to our discussions.”

He glanced at Arthur. “Should I expect anyone else from the Braum delegation? Or will we need to repeat this later?”

T’iyree’s feathers rustled faintly subtle, but to Arthur it carried a note of amusement, not insult.

He reached into his tunic and withdrew a flat envelope in the Human style and offered it with both hands. “In Human terms,” he said, “I have been appointed as Minister Plenipotentiary to the Earth Planetary Union. I carry full authority to negotiate treaty terms on behalf of my species.”

The DPM blinked—only a heartbeat—then accepted the envelope with both hands. “Then I accept your credentials, Minister. Let us begin.”

The CSO’s aide, Lieutenant Commander Anita Rojas, stepped forward. “Dinner is served.”

They gathered around the long table, Zeke at the head as the host and highest-ranking officer. The CSO nodded to the chair at his immediate right.

“This is yours, Shipmaster, as our guest of honor.”

T’iyree dipped his head in acknowledgment. The seat was clearly meant for him —the back had been removed to allow space for his tail. To a human, it resembled a stool. The gesture—the speech, the seating—was calculated. Political. A signal of respect.

Arthur,” Zeke pointed to seat next to T’iyree. “Shipmaster, I thought you might prefer a familiar face nearby. Captain Landsman has been instrumental in building this bridge between our peoples.”

Arthur wondered if sitting him beside T’iyree served another purpose— to annoy Dixon.

The two seats to Arthur’s right had also been modified, backless to accommodate Zo’orun and Kyl’in. Mika, Boone’s Chief Scientist, sat beside them. On Zeke’s left was the Deputy Prime Minister, signaling civilian authority, followed by Dixon and Cyra.

When everyone was seated, T’iyree rose, holding up a twin-spouted bowl—the Braum equivalent of a wine goblet. “In reading the information you were kind enough to share,” he said, “I learned that ceremonial Human dinners often begin with a toast. I would like to offer one, adapted from our own tradition.

“To the alliance we hope to forge between our peoples. May the bonds formed be as strong as steel and as enduring as the ties of family. To peace, prosperity, and endearment.”

“To peace, prosperity, and endearment,” the table echoed.

“That’s a strong sentiment to open this evening,” Zeke added. “Let’s enjoy the meal and we can get down to business afterwards.”

The first course was placed in front of everyone: a thin slice of white fish in a sweet and spicy citrus sauce—with no lemon. Subtle tension sifted through the room. All eyes drifted to the Braum to see how they would handle it. Most expected them to use the talons on the end of their fingers to slice the food and then pick it up like a predator with prey.

Mid-conversation with Zeke, T’iyree felt the shift. Silence. Eyes on him. He turned slightly; even his own companions had paused.

His mouth curled into his best imitation of a smile. “We cannot use your knives or forks. They… do not suit our hands.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Understood. We can—”

“However,” T’iyree continued, producing a thin case, “we encountered a human feeding implement in one of your cultural records. Efficient. Elegant. Simple.”

He opened the case. Inside were two dark-wood rods—slightly curved and notched to match the contour of his claws.

“Chopsticks,” Mika whispered, grinning.

“Yes,” said T’iyree. “A tool of precision. And—if we may say—respect.”

Arthur chuckled. “Well… I’ll be damned.”

He glanced over at Dixon who looked like he’d been bracing for a spectacle of animal ferocity—and now had no idea what to do with himself.

T’iyree drew a black-handled knife from the case, its grip inset to fit his claws. Using the chopsticks, he delicately held the fish in place. One smooth slash of the knife—clean as glass.

Arthur muttered, “That knife is sharper than even a sushi knife.”

T’iyree lifted the piece between his chopsticks and tipped his head back slightly to clear the arc of his beaked snout—then placed the fish in his mouth.

Lowering his voice just enough to be conspiratorial, he added: “Do not worry, Admiral. No live animals tonight.”

A beat of silence. Then smothered chuckles rippled down the table. Mika almost choked on her own fish.

Arthur didn’t look at Dixon—he didn’t have to.

Zeke leaned over to T’iyree. “You speak our language well in such a short period. Idioms and all.”

“Your language is… full of strange corners,” T’iyree replied. “We Braum find it delightful. So many ways to speak of things without saying them.” A soft click of amusement. “Many of us now prefer English in the halls. It sings. Ours… scratches.”

The Chef picked up a tray from the small dumbwaiter — trays carrying shallow dishes that shimmered faintly under the light. He set them down before each guest with a tone halfway between pride and curiosity.

“Our Braum guests provided this earlier,” he announced. “A native delicacy from their home world — bioformed lichen, cultivated symbiotically on volcanic stone. Shipmaster T’iyree explained to me that it’s called veirash and said it grows only where the air is thin and the soil remembers fire. His words.”

The dish looked simple— a soft, mosslike mat, glistening faintly as if dew still clung to it. Pale silver-green at the edges, deepening to indigo near the center. Steam, or perhaps vapor, rose in faint curls, carrying a scent both earthy and electric, like rain striking hot iron.

“Our medical staff and theirs have both approved it for human consumption,” Chef added.

T’iyree inclined his head, crest feathers settling in a gesture of reassurance. “It sustains us on long crossings,” he said. “A food of patience and endurance. Your Dr. Desai confirmed it is harmless — even beneficial.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “I need to have a talk with the Doc,” he muttered under his breath.

A ripple of amusement.

Across the table, Dixon stared at his plate, expression unreadable.

No one moved at first. Diplomatic hesitation — that familiar mix of waiting to see who goes first and the quiet reluctance to be the one to try something so alien. Then Zeke Reyes simply picked up his fork, cut a clean piece, and ate it. He was the leader. Diplomacy demanded it.

He chewed once, twice, then sid with an amused look. “Subtle.” A pause. “Like seaweed crossed with mint. But with some interesting sensations. Earth could do worse.”

T’iyree’s crest flickered in approval — the Braum equivalent of a smile.

Arthur sighed inwardly and picked up his own fork. “Well, if it’s good enough for the Chief of Space Operations…”

It was cool at first, like biting into a wet, chewy quiche, but a bit harder. Then warmth bloomed — not heat, but something alive, a pulse of mineral, almost minty sweetness followed by a trace of ozone. It reminded him of the first breath after a thunderstorm. Not pleasant, not unpleasant — just real, grounding.

Arthur looked at Zeke. “Uh, Admiral, your description of interesting sensations was a bit understated.” He looked at T’iyree. “I can see why your people consider this a delicacy.”

Mika tasted hers. “It’s alive.”

“In a sense,” Zo’orun replied. “It shares a root-mind. It is said one lichen can awaken another across a field.”

Arthur met T’iyree’s eyes. “You’re saying eating it connects you to the world.”

“Yes,” the Braum captain said simply. “As you say — we are all related.”

Dixon frowned.

Arthur glanced over at Dixon’s plate. Not touched. The only one. It was no longer steaming. Parts of it had congealed into an unappetizing sludge. He turned towards Zeke. Their eyes met. Out of the corner of his eye he caught an unhappy look on the DPM’s face as he glared at Dixon.

Arthur sat back. One for the good guys.