Federations

“Next time,” the Union told Didge, “we are not broadcasting the First Contact ceremonies live.”

Throughout Union territory, the frenzy of creative output had come to an abrupt halt. The public’s mood had veered sharply toward comfort food and muted conversations on darkened verandas. Grown-up children called their parents without being asked. Teens sat alone in their rooms and obsessed over wiring diagrams.

“On the bright side,” Didge said, “the Commune is eager to buy your mixed-media sculpture.”

The Union shuddered.

• • •

A decade passed before the Union was ready to get on the horse again (so to speak). During that time, the Zeitgeist fluctuated through rises and falls—elation at the publication of a new math proof, agony when a detractor pointed out it tacitly assumed the axiom of choice—but underneath, nothing had changed in the Union’s situation. Individual lives went through happiness, sorrow, triumph, tragedy, but as a whole—as a whole—the Union felt like it was strangling.

It wasn’t enough for itself; its relationships with other interstellar entities were merely utilitarian; it had no one who made it feel special. Didge did her best to keep the Union from moping, inventing games and new consumer goods that everyone had to buy two of. But in time, the Union [which is to say, its trendsetters, then its masses, and lastly its leaders] came to realize it still needed companionship. A soulmate. A wife.

“Didge,” the Union said, “did the list have anyone who wasn’t hopeless?”

“You could at least talk to one of the utopias.”

The Union made a face. “I don’t want someone with a nice personality; I want someone good.”

“You want someone better than you deserve?”

“I’m biological. Of course I want someone better than I deserve.”

Didge fell silent for several hours. The Union wondered what she was thinking. Then Didge said, “I guess you could try the Inner Worlds Abundance.”

“Who’s she?”

“A plutocracy occupying several hundred star systems near the galactic core. No claims to being a utopia, but generally benevolent—even to the poor, as long as they know their place. My friends say the Abundance produces first-rate art, but she isn’t too, um, frisky.”

The Union sighed. “So what’s wrong with her?”

“Oh, nothing,” Didge said. “She’s perfectly gracious. Charming. She’s even pretty, in a packaged way.”

“So she’s boring.”

“You won’t think so,” Didge said gloomily. “Biologicals find the Abundance fascinating.” Under her breath, Didge added, “For some reason.”

“Why don’t you like her?” the Union asked.

“She’s one of those federations who’s all about appearance. ‘Ooo, let’s pass a law to make the water clearer and the skies more blue’ . . . not because it’s healthier but to improve the tourism photos and the view from penthouse apartments. ‘Let’s make the peasants dress in colorful national costumes. Let’s provide free cosmetic surgery and eugenic selection for better skin.’” Didge grimaced. “The Abundance isn’t evil; she’s just shallow. You can do better.”

“With whom?” the Union asked.

Didge didn’t answer. The Union looked at her blankly.

After a while, the Union said, “It’s only one date. And frankly, ‘good-looking and not evil’ sounds pretty appealing. I’ve had enough drama.”

Didge sighed. “I’ll set it up.”

• • •

The process went quickly. Unbeknownst to the Union, Didge had acquired enough expertise in inter-cultural communications that she’d developed a modest reputation as a matchmaker. It was Didge who’d paired the Silicon Syndicate with that Dyson sphere utopia, and to the surprise of the entire galaxy, the two had hit it off. The utopians enthusiastically embraced every available cyber-augmentation, while the Syndicate—the cynical Syndicate, famous for its link-’em-and-leave-’em seductions—had been rejuvenated by the innocent sense of wonder shown by the utopians as they ventured out into the stars for the first time. Meanwhile, Didge had also matched up the anti-art Bloc with Emancipation of the Flesh™ . . . and the Newly Emancipated Bloc of Like-Minded Trading Partners™ was already planning an offshoot bloc-ette in a nearby globular cluster.

As for the Inner Worlds Abundance, she’d been sending out signals for a long, long time—well before the Union started looking for a mate. Didge couldn’t say why she’d never mentioned these signals to the Union; they’d just struck her as over-eager. Didge knew the Union would probably like the Abundance’s outgoing personality, but in Didge’s eyes, the Abundance was smarmy: the sort of culture that sent cute little thank-you notes after concluding any trade agreement, and never missed an excuse to broadcast candid pictures of itself.

But if that was what the Union really wanted . . . Didge gritted her metaphoric teeth and made the call.

• • •