The Tar'van Diaries, Chapter 1

The Tar'van Diaries

Prologue

Ponderously, Cruiser Tar took up position above the planet's pole.  The indigenous sentient creatures below had a dizzying array of satellites circling the globe, but most of them stayed in the ecliptic plane.  Not very many crossed over the poles, and of those even fewer looked away from the planet.  At nearly an orbital radius above the planet, Tar would be a small speck of darkness against an immense field of darkness.  Tar would not be noticed.

Or she might.  But by the time that happened, it would be much too late.

Tar'van emerged from the crèche, stretching his limbs and hearing the faint crackle as cartilage that had firmed up over who knew how many cycles' inactivity warmed and loosened.  As always when he was decanted, he felt vaguely hungry.

Distractedly shaking a hind leg that still tingled, he engaged his workstation and examined the ship's condition.  Aside from the usual notifications of maintenance activities there was nothing noteworthy.  A view of the distant planet was available, a mottled disc showing swirls of white, the nearly black blue of deep oceans, and assorted landmasses.  It looked very wet, and he felt vaguely annoyed.

His message board was clear.  He had a duty shift beginning soon, but there was still time for food.

Good.  These bodies were always hungry right after waking.

One

Three years later

The human adjusted its head cover and looked around.

Tar'van still wasn't completely used to humans looking around.  His own eyes, spaced on nearly opposite sides of his head, took in a very complete view.  Humans, with their eyes in the fronts of their heads, had to clumsily swivel their heads about on their fragile-looking necks.  It seemed a poor adaptation to Tar'van.

The human was speaking.  Human languages were difficult for Ordan physiology.  Few humans used clicks or whistles in their languages and none of the dominant cultures used them at all. 

That was another thing.  "Dominant culture" was a completely new concept to Ordans, for whom there was only the one Ordan culture.  That there were many different subpopulations of humans  had been a surprise.  Cultures formed along lines whose very nature were a mystery to Ordans in general and Tar'van in particular.  This bothered Tar'van for a few reasons, not least of which that it was his duty to try to make more sense of human cultures.

That duty was causing him some internal conflict.  The ultimate goal was to extinguish all the humans and the vast majority of the animal lifeforms of this planet so it could become an Ordan colony.  For his own part Tar'van didn't think it made much sense to learn human cultures.  When the last human was exterminated, the very concept of human culture would become moot.  Why study them at all?

One reason above all was plain: he had been ordered to do so.  Orders were to be obeyed, so Tar'van would study human culture.  It being an order relieved him of some of the stress, but not all of it.  In his off duty time, he sometimes wondered about the rightness of the orders.  But then his next shift would come around and those thoughts would be suppressed under the weight of duty and responsibility.

This human had accompanied Tar'van to the planet's surface a couple of times before.  It had shown no propensity to escape and thus far, its guidance had been reliable, although somewhat limited.

"Do you recognize this place?"

"No."

"Is its culture familiar to you?"

"Yes.  We're in the United States.  I'm from the US."

"In order to more efficiently exterminate the pest species that infest this planet, we shall also eliminate food sources that support them."

"Which species?  Besides mine, that is."

"Most land dwelling life forms of mass greater than ten of your kilograms will have to be eliminated."

"Weight?  You're choosing by weight?"

"At this early stage of the extermination process it is precise enough a criterion. It is our intent to leave no significant predators that would pose a threat to Ordans, nor herbivores to deplete Ordan food crops."

"Hmm.  Very few birds ever weigh more than ten kilos.  And of the ones that do, I'm pretty sure they're all flightless varieties.  Are you planning on leaving birds alone, then?"

"Yes, for now.  At this point it is not believed that birds will represent a significant competitor for resources."

The human was standing still, its attention focused on something behind Tar'van.  Tar'van could see a few small buildings, the road near where he had landed his strike vessel, empty land and, in the distance, a small clump of forest.

"We shouldn't be so close to those trees, Tar'van."

"Reason?"

"There could be armed men in there."

"That distance is beyond portable weapons range.  Any humans concealed there are not a threat."

"Your hand weapons don't have a very long range.  Human weapons do."

Ordan neural disruptors acted on the autonomous nervous systems of their targets.  The more complex the target's nervous system, the more effective an antenna that system was for the disruptor's signal.  Interestingly whereas a disruptor had to be turned to maximum power to kill an Ordan, the lowest setting which barely gave an Ordan a headache, was instantly fatal to humans.  This was unfortunate.  Having the option of stunning a human without causing lasting harm could occasionally be useful, but the disruptor's effectiveness eliminated that possibility.  It also meant that for many animals on this planet, the disruptor had no effect at all.

The fact of humans' greater susceptibility to the disruptor left Tar'van with a vague unease, one that he had been unable to fully identify.

"Using human weapons, could you hit a target at that distance?"  Tar'van pivoted to wave a manipulator at the distance patch of forest.

The human didn't hesitate.  "No."

"Then it is not a threat."

Then his head exploded.

The human backed quickly away from the body as it collapsed with a clatter of chitinous limbs.  It looked toward the strike vessel, and then back toward the clump of trees.

A few minutes later, Tar'van came down the boarding ramp of the strike vessel, shaking the stiffness out of his limbs.  The human handed over the thoracic garment and sandals Tar'van's previous body had been wearing.  Tar'van took them without comment and pulled them on.

"Tar'van, I told you we were too close to the trees."

"Your skill profile indicates a great knowledge of human weapons."

"Yes, intellectual knowledge.  But you asked whether I could hit a target at that distance. I have very little practical experience actually firing guns, and probably wouldn't be able to hit anything at that kind of range.  But there are lots of humans who are very proficient with weapons over a distance much longer than that."

Tar'van focused on the distant clump of trees.  "As far as this?"

"Possibly.  I think the world record for a confirmed sniper kill is over two kilometers.   But that's about how far away we are right now, and that long shot was by a skilled professional."

"Professional?"

"A highly trained soldier.  Shooting accurately over extremely long distances was his job.  Being military, your first round of broad spectrum disruptions probably killed virtually all of the good snipers."

"We will stay away from the trees."

"That's your best bet."

That was a phrase Tar'van had encountered and recognized.  Humans lived in a world of few absolutes.  They clumsily navigated an endless stream of chances, possibilities, probabilities and guesswork.  It was, like their language, maddening.  They stumbled from one arbitrarily chosen path to another.  Best bet meant the option with the greatest likelihood of desirable outcomes.

"It may be better to disrupt the area of refuge from above."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"No?"

"If they have weapons and concealment, they may have heavier weapons to bring to bear against your craft."

"Why do they not assault us now, while we are not shielded in the striker?"

"Hmm.  It's possible their heavy weapons aren't good at targeting small, non-mechanical targets.  Maybe they don't want to risk hitting me.  Maybe just taking out the striker isn't a good enough target if they can't kill you at the same time."

"Humans would destroy the striker with you aboard?"

"I would if it were me.  A striker with an Ordan aboard is a threat.  Take it out of commission to eliminate the threat, and too bad for any humans aboard."

"You agree with this logic?"

"I just came up with that logic.  I don't know how the shooters are thinking, I'm just telling you how I would think if I were the one over there with the guns."

"How do you know they have larger weapons?"

"I don't, Tar'van, I'm just telling you that attempting to assault them from a striker carries risks that aren't worth the potential reward.  It's pretty ballsy to shoot an Ordan who has a striker to fall back on, you have to wonder why they're so confident to do that.  Maybe they're hoping to goad you into trying something more aggressive, to draw you into closer range where they could really ruin your day."

"This is confusing, complex planning.  This plot is alarming."

"Just telling you what I would do, if it were me.  Even if you don't go after them so they can try for a big kill, they pick off one or two of you, reduce your depth of resources, force you to do things that further reduce your advantage."

"Humans are devious."

"We are very, very good at figuring out ways to kill things that are bigger, stronger, and ostensibly more dangerous than we are."

"Board the striker.  Now.  Do not delay."  

They hustled back aboard the strike craft and as soon as they were aloft, the hull rang with the hollow pink pink pink of small arms fire striking the hull.  Nothing penetrated the shielding, however, and they were able to leave the area behind.

"We will find another area to examine.  An area with insufficient cover close by to harbor snipers."

They flew for a few minutes until they encountered an area with broad enough fields that Tar'van felt confident that no humans could engage them from a distance, and there wasn't sufficient cover for any to close the distance on them either.  He set the striker down in the center of the field.  The vegetation was of a nearly uniform height, and relatively undifferentiated, though a few examples of other plants cropped up in places.

"Why is this area prepared in this fashion?"

"Well, not exactly 'prepared.'  There hasn't been much farming since your cruisers arrived and killed everybody."

"We have not killed 'everybody' by any means.  You humans are proving extremely difficult to eradicate.  The original goal was to have the human species eliminated over a year ago, and yet we have only been able to reduce your population by approximately eighty percent.  We are far behind schedule.  Human activity prevented this area of ground from growing like other areas which are not used by humans.  Why?"

"This was part of a farm.  A farmer is a person who grows food, either plant or animal food, for other humans.  Actually there are - were - lots of farmers who grow feed for other farmers to feed to food animals, but ultimately it all comes down to this: farmers grow food for other people to use.  To do that, farmers plant seeds for the plants they do want, and prevent the plants they don't want."

"That sounds logical.  Eliminating competition for resources gives the desirable plants the greatest opportunity for productive growth.  We have this practice as well."

"Yes, it's a lot like what you are trying to do with humans and any animal over ten kilograms."

"That is correct."  Tar'van wandered around, apparently aimlessly.  He indicated a clump of flowering plants that was bustling with insects.  "What are these?"

"Those are bees.  They're important to human agriculture - sorry, that's what we call the science and industry of farming."

"How do humans eat bees?"

"Oh, we don't eat the bees themselves.  They're important to food crops to help the plants reproduce.  And they produce honey, which humans like very much."

"What is honey?"

"Honey is partially processed plant sugars.  The bees collect nectar from plants, process it in a special stomach, vomit it up into a special storage facility in the bees' nest and after it has fermented, humans collect the honey and we eat it.  It is considered almost a luxury food in many cultures."

"Vomited."

"Yes."

"Humans are disgusting creatures.  Your species will be eliminated."

"So you keep saying, and yet here I am."

"Eliminating bees will interrupt the human food supply?"

"I don't know to what degree, but it will have a significant effect.  Bees help the plants reproduce; without bees a lot of our food crops will be very difficult to maintain."

"We will eliminate the bees."

"Good luck with that.  We almost did it ourselves and yet they bounced back."

"Almost... Why would humans eliminate bees if you need them?  That is illogical."

"Yes, it is.  But it was an unintended consequence of interfering with incompletely understood environmental relationships."  The human approached the flowers, and carefully teased one of the insects onto his hand.  It walked back and forth across his fingers quickly, then flew back to the flowers.  "We've learned better since then."

They continued wandering through the field, not heading anywhere in particular and following a more or less straight line away from the ship.  After a few more minutes' walking, Tar'van noticed another agglomeration of flying insects, zipping up from and down into the grass, and he went nearer to examine their behavior more closely.  "Human, I have found what appears to be a nest of bees.  Bees are coming and going."

"Those aren't bees, Tar'van."  Tar'van noticed that the human was a good ten meters away.  "You would do well to back away."

"You cannot be certain these are not bees.  They closely resemble the shape and behavior of the example you presented.  The pattern of coloration is similar, the difference of coloration suggests it is a different species but probably related.  These are..." Tar'van stopped talking.  He had felt a faint tick on one of his legs.  He looked down to observe an insect there, walking around.  "Look, it walks on me as the earlier did on you.  It is harmless."

"Tar'van, you really shouldn't stand that close, you're going to get hurt!"

"You are attempting to deceive me.  I will have to exterminate you.  That is unfortunate, I had believed you to be reliable.  I will have to select and train another guide."  He drew his disruptor.

As he extended his arm to fire, another insect landed on his hand with the disruptor, and he paused briefly to observe it.  Suddenly what felt like liquid fire erupted inside one of his digits, the digit that the bee was walking on.  That was extremely unpleasant.  Was the human resistant or immune to such stimulus?

More of the creatures landed on Tar'van and the fiery, burning sensation was blooming in other parts of his body.  At his joints!

The creatures may have been trying to attack him before but his hard carapace was sufficient to prevent them hurting him.  But now they were attacking his joints, where his thick, sturdy shell thinned and soft skin was exposed.

The world turned sideways and slid alongside to bump him gently on the side of his head.  More of the flying creatures were swarming around now, and even as the sensation of additional stings registered in his mind, it appeared to him that night was coming on, and rapidly.  The confounded human was talking again, and still it maintained a long distance.  It would not approach to intervene in the creatures' attacks.  Its voice was beginning to sound faint and faraway...

"Tar'van, those creatures are not bees!  They're called yellow jackets in this country, they're related to bees but their behavior is completely different.  Uh-oh, it looks like yellow jacket stings are fatal to your species, probably something in the chemistry...well, I don't guess you have time for the explanation.  Listen, I can retrieve the vest and shoes for you but that will have to wait until after dark when the yellow jackets are all in the nest and inactive.  I'll be waiting for you at the ramp when your next iteration comes out."

There was a faint cracking and popping as Tar'van's swelling tissues caused his carapace growth sutures to break apart, but of course Tar'van heard none of that.

Once again, the human was waiting at the bottom of the ramp.

"You will retrieve my - what word did you use?"

"Vest.  Like a jacket, but instead of sleeves it leaves your arms bare."

"You will retrieve my vest now."

"I will not.  Not before night.  I told your cameras that."

"Obey or be destroyed." 

The human backed up a step, but it wasn't sufficiently cowed.  "Tar'van, it'll be dark in a couple of hours.  The yellow jackets will all go back into their nest and stay there and then we can fetch the vest, no problem.  If I go after it right now, they'll just sting me like they stung you."

"I can kill you if you do not obey."

"Yes, instantly and painlessly, whereas the yellow jackets will make it take a long and painful time.  Frankly you killing me sounds like the better choice."

The human's logic was irrefutable, if stunningly cold-blooded.  Tar'van had been pleased to discover that the phrase "cold-blooded" meant similar things in both English and Ordic.  But the human's dispassionate appraisal of its own imminent mortality was unnerving.  And of course he had a spare vest in the striker's equipment locker, and the wretched human knew that.

"We will wait until after nightfall."  He waved in a different direction from the yellow jacket nest and they began walking.   "Are yellow jackets dangerous to humans?"

"They certainly can be, when encountered in large numbers.  And some humans are especially susceptible to them.  Yellow jackets are very aggressive, but bees are generally not as dangerous."

They walked a bit more, neither toward the trees nor toward the area that had the yellow jacket nest.  Tar'van slowed and approached very carefully another small swarm of flying insects.  Tar'van watched them.  "Why do humans not eradicate the yellow jackets, if they are so dangerous?  More opportunities would exist for the bees that humans do use."

"That would be a bad idea, and difficult to implement."

"You are not Ordan.  We shall kill them all and they will no longer be a problem."

"You are not human.  We have neither the technology to kill all the yellow jackets nor the inclination."

"That does not make sense."  Tar'van, confident that the insects in this group were not yellow jackets, approached carefully.  Bees, yes.  The color was right.  "What is the point of permitting yellow jackets' continuing existence?"  He carefully plucked a bee off a flower.  It struggled in his digits.

"They're beneficial to humans by their behavior.  You should be careful of the bees, Tar'van."

"They are not dangerous like the yellow jackets.  You said so."

"I said that bees are not as dangerous as yellow jackets.  That doesn't mean they're completely safe, bees can sting too!"

Fire erupted in Tar'van's digit as the bee wriggled.  He spasmed convulsively.

"These creatures are as dangerous as the others.  Why do you tolerate their continued existence?"

"Bees are good for food.  We leave yellow jackets alone because they help prevent the undesirable expansion of pest species."

This time, the tissues swelled more slowly and Tar'van was still conscious in the body to hear it pop and rupture.  And in that time, the human watched dispassionately.

"It appears that hymenopteran venom is just really bad for you, Tar'van. Is this a species-wide susceptibility or is it just you?"

"It is most likely that it is species-wide," he said as his knees buckled and he crumpled, kneeling in the soil.  More bees were beginning to approach.  "My bodies are engineered for minimal deviation from median values for all biological reactions."  The pain that had been so intense moments ago now felt distant, remote.  He could think clearly, and was fascinated by the gently swirling colors of the sky.  He felt his hearts racing, almost buzzing.

"That's too bad.  It will be difficult for you to eradicate insects, they're everywhere and all the different varieties have their own distinct behaviors.  I'm very familiar with North American insects but there are six other continents with their own bugs on them.  We do have a few insects from other parts of the world here, though."

"This body is about to die.  Bring an example of insects from other parts of the world to the striker, I will examine it there."  Tar'van felt the immense pressure in his thorax as, once again, tissues swelled in response to the insect venom.  There was a faint creaking that he could hear, as if through a long tunnel.

The body went still after a few more pops and cracks.  Ordans were tough but when they died, they couldn't be mistaken for anything but dead.

The human looked around and spotted a likely example to offer for Tar'van's consideration.  He whipped off his hat and, moving very quickly, scooped up a large number of insects and jogged, shifting hands quickly from time to time, back to the ramp.

Tar'van stopped at the bottom of the ramp.  His body budget for these outings was supposed to be not more than one per week, but here he was already shaking the stiffness out of the joints of his fourth in a single afternoon.  It was beginning to look like this guide, helpful though it was, was not smart enough to realize that there weren't any bodies left to spare aboard the striker.

"What kind of creature is this?  It does not fly.  I see no wings."

"These are called ants.  Ants are found all over the world, but this variety is not native to this country."

"What are they good for?"  Tar'van reached into the mound of soil in the hat and his manipulator came up crawling with small, quick red bodies.  He stiffened suddenly.

"They're unwelcome in this country, but it turns out that they have their uses.  Early on, we tried to kill every single one of them but we weren't able to.  We've learned to cope with them."

Once again, Tar'van fell over. 

"We call them fire ants."

When Tar'van woke up the next time he was aboard the cruiser Tar above the dark side of Earth's large moon, and he uttered old, bitter curses.  With no backup bodies remaining in the striker, his download had defaulted to Tar.  He requisitioned another striker - this was met with reluctance from the quartermaster, who noted in his logs that another striker was already signed out to Tar'van - and made the long trip back to the surface with a ferry pilot to take the original striker back.  That would square the quartermaster's books and Tar'van wouldn't have him haranguing him for it.  

Yes, that human would have to go.  He had picked out a replacement guide, too, because the human he had been using on the planet was entirely unsatisfactory.  But when he returned to the striker after a long, boring flight in the replacement striker with the silent and disarmingly intense new human guide, the first human had left and no trace suggested where it might have gone.  No matter, it would ultimately be exterminated and that would be that.

Tar'van looked carefully around inside the striker.  The human hadn't left anything behind but a piece of the compressed wood pulp they called "paper" on the control console.  He didn't see any ants.  He looked over the paper but still could not read human English, though he did recognize the marks which meant his name.  He took the paper out with him as the ferry pilot clambered onto the saddle and ran the striker up through its liftoff procedure.

With its usual hum and whoosh, the striker lifted from the ground and hove away, gaining nearly a thousand meters of altitude before gracefully nosing over and plowing into the ground, raising a red fireball as the fuel tanks ignited.

The House Elf Liberation*

Minerva McGonagall stood in the main kitchen, the towering cooler doors looming at her back.  She looked down at the gathered throng before her.

All one hundred and forty-one of the Hogwarts house elves were assembled in the kitchens.  Some looked politely curious, a few somewhat nervous.  They were utterly silent, except for the quiet rustle here and there of tea towels as some of the audience shifted their feet or jostled his neighbor for  a touch more space.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, and the rustling increased noticeably, “I want you to know that you are free…”

The tumult was immediate.  It was also tragic, by the sound of it.  Loud cries of alarm and weeping could be heard from every corner, and a few of the house elves had to sit right down on the flagstone floor of the kitchen as they tugged at their ears or wept into their neighbors’ tea towels.  McGonagall had to set off several loud bangs and bright flashes from her wand before she was able to recapture the attention of all the elves.

“Please calm yourselves!  This is not what you think!  Allow me to finish: you are all free to make choices.”  She waited a while as the elves regained some of their composure and could focus their attention back on her.  Being the center of attention was nothing to Minerva McGonagall, austere and efficient headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…but usually her audience wasn’t so emotionally involved in her topics, either.  Fortunately, she wouldn’t have to do all of the talking for this delicate subject, and was very glad to have it handled by someone who had, undoubtedly, considered the emotional side as well.

“This is an issue that has been on my mind for a while now, and I believe the time has finally come that both the wizarding community and the elvish population are ready to accept some changes.”

The hubbub in the room increased a bit, but not like before.  McGonagall could still hear a few sniffling noses but the general mood in the room, so briefly disastrous, appeared to have lightened considerably, and she considered it safe to continue.  She stepped to the doorway beside her and opened it, beckoning a person in the corridor beyond to enter.

“Miss Granger, if you please.”  Hermione Granger stepped into the kitchen, smiling warmly at all the house elves with much greater confidence before such a large crowd than she had in days past. 

Hermione had been pursuing a varied career, and gotten some experience as a public speaker under her belt.  Where before Hermione had been a frightfully clever and driven girl, she was now a much wiser and equally driven young woman.  McGonagall had been watching Hermione’s career in the pages of The Daily Prophet with interest and, admittedly, no small measure of pride.

“Good morning, everyone,” she chimed brightly.  She set down a thin leather briefcase at her feet and stood with her hands clasped gently before her as she surveyed the group.

As one, the elves chorused back, “Good morning, Miss.”

“As we begin, let me assure you first and foremost that no one, not one single one of you, is being set free.  You will not be set free in the future.  You will not be put out of the castle, you will not be sent away.”

Again came the rustling but McGonagall appreciated this preamble, which would set the elves’ minds at ease.  Telling an elf he had to leave his home was tantamount to a death sentence.

“Are we all perfectly clear on this?  No one will be set free.  No one loses his or her home or job.  Right?”

“Right, Miss,” rumbled back, a rolling wave of squeaky voices made somehow impressive by the multitude and the vast hollowing echo of the kitchens.

“Now, what did Miss McGonagall tell you?  She said you were free to…what?”

“Free to make choices, Miss.”

“Very good!  Please remember that.  Just keep it in the backs of your minds.  Now then, ladies and gentlemen,  knowing that…”

“We is not, Miss!”  An absolutely tiny elf at the very front of the crowd piped up.

“I beg your pardon?  You are not what, please?”

“We is not ‘ladies and gentlemen,’ Miss!  We is elves.  We has no business being ladieses and gentlemens, Miss!  We is elves and that’s all we is.”

“That’s part of what we’re trying to address…pardon me again, what is your name, please?”

“I is Dello, Miss!  I is a proper elf, Miss, not a gentleman, Miss.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dello.”

“Not ‘mister Dello,’ begging your pardon, Miss, just Dello!”  He’s even squeakier than Winky, thought Hermione.  I didn’t know that was even possible.

“I understand your meaning, but I must ask that you, and all you elves,” she added, raising her gaze to take in the rest of the crowd.  They were watching the interchange with fascinated attention, some nodding approvingly as Dello asserted his elvishness, “be prepared to make allowances for certain changes in how you are addressed.  You see, the problem we are trying to fix is not about elves.”  

Again the rustling, as the elves seemed to lean back and relax a bit.  “It’s about humans.”

Another tumult, another chorus.  “How can we help?”

“First of all, I’m getting a bit fatigued standing up here.”  The words were hardly out of her mouth before a comfortably battered armchair came zooming through the kitchen atop the heads of four elves bearing it to her.  A few seconds later, a similar one came flying up for Professor McGonagall.  “Thank you so much, you are very kind.”  The elves all nodded, beaming and bowing as Hermione perched on the forward edge of the seat.  “But I am only a visitor in your home.  It hardly feels appropriate for me to sit when you are standing.  Please do not stand on my account, but make yourselves comfortable.”

“We is elves, Miss!  We does not sit when there is witches and wizards to be served.”

“But whom are you serving right now?  We are only talking, there is no serving to be done right now.”

“But it isn’t done, Miss!” came the same little voice from somewhere near the back, sounding a bit alarmed now.  “It just isn’t!”

“Very well.”  Hermione opened her briefcase and pulled out a scroll, slightly flattened from the case.  She tapped it with her wand and it unfurled smoothly to a strip of parchment almost as long as she was tall. She rose from the chair to hold it against the door of the immense cooler and tapped it again, and it stuck fast.  She sat again.

“I use the term ‘mister’ because that is what’s called an honorific.  It’s a word humans use to indicate we hold a certain amount of respect for the person to whom we speaking.   That isn’t respect because they’re other humans, it’s just the basic respect you’re supposed to give.

“When I use the phrase ‘ladies and gentlemen,’ that has nothing to do with what species you are.  It makes no difference to me whether you are a house elf, a centaur, a giant or a human.  What is important is that I have made the assumption, from the outset, that you have at least as much dignity, at least as much conscience, at least as much intelligence as I do.”

“But you is one of the cleverest witches Hogwarts ever produced, Miss!  Headmistress McGonagall said so just last Tuesday at teatime.  We is just house elves.  We isn’t as smart as you.  No one is.”

Hermione blushed deeply but carried on just the same.  “That is very generous of you to say, sir, and maybe a little hopeful on Professor McGonagall’s part,” Professor McGonagall began to make noises of protest but Hermione stilled her with a hand, “but it isn’t the important part.  The important part there is I have made that assumption.  I do not want to assume that I am smarter, more intelligent, more powerful than you.  Whether or not it is the case, it is dreadfully important that I never assume that it is the case, do you see?”

The elf who had spoken had gone quite white when Hermione called him “sir,” and tears were visibly welling in his large eyes as he hung on to his ears and listened to her words with a kind of terrified rapture.

“This is about respect humans have for other creatures.  Witches and wizards have been treating house elves – all magical beings that aren’t humans, really – as lesser creatures.  It’s high time we stopped doing that, and this,” she rapped the paper on the cooler door with her knuckles, “is part of that.  It’s terribly important, and it won’t work unless all magical beings, humans, elves, everyone, all work together to make it happen.”

“Tell us what you need, Miss!  We elves will make it happen!”  Again, the crowd rustled and seemed to bristle with vigorous readiness.   It was a bit alarming.

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“But Miss!  We is house elves!  We helps!  It’s what we is for!”  Nods and squeaks of eager assent swept through the room, and the screech of a few chair legs as house elves hopped out of small chairs in a few places.  Hermione hadn’t seen them brought in, but several elves had indeed found seats and sat down.  Granted, some of their neighbors appeared to be a bit relieved when the elves got up from their chairs and stools.

“You are people.  And these,” and she waved her wand.  An enormous wardrobe materialized in the corner next to the cooler.  Its door swung open to reveal three levels of hanging bars, all full with small garment bags.  Dozens of small shoeboxes lined the floor of the wardrobe, several layers deep.  “…are for you.”

There was a gasp like that from the opening of an eons-sealed tomb as the crowd, like one body, recoiled in stunned horror.

“No one has to accept these clothes if you don’t want them!  You are free to choose.  But it is imperative that we humans never, ever enforce the old rules regarding clothes!  If you want to wear clothes, then by all means you should!  If you want to be employed, then you can find a job.  But the two aren’t connected.  No one ever had the right to force you to go about wearing tea towels or pillowcases.

“All these clothes are the property of the elves of Hogwarts.  Ask yourself: if you were walking down the street and found a sock, a sock that didn’t belong to anyone, and you picked it up…would that mean you were sacked?”  Some elves shifted uncomfortably.  “I thought the old rule was that if a master handed you clothes, you were sacked.  But what if it’s litter in public?  That can’t carry any kind of weight, can it?”  A few elves shook their heads.

“But now here we have a wardrobe full of clothes.  No master gave them to you…”

“But, Miss, you is giving them to us right now!”

“No, I’m not.  I’m only conveying them to you.  These clothes were never mine, I am only delivering them to where they are supposed to go.”

“But whose clothes are they, Miss?”

“They’re yours, of course.  If you want them.”

A deep, bullfrog-like voice at the back that Hermione recognized as Kreacher, growled, “Then where does the clothes come from?”

Hermione stepped over to the wardrobe and pulled out a garment bag, unzipped it and peeked at the tag.  “This came from Aberdeen.  Very nice, too, one hundred percent cotton.  Honestly, I don’t know where the clothes came from, nor do I want to know.  I know only this: they are yours.  There’s a range of sizes and colors and styles, so there should be something for everybody.  You can have them if you want them.  No one can force you to take clothes if you don’t want them, and no one can force you not to have clothes if you do.  Up until now, there was a cultural rule saying you couldn’t have clothes.   We humans don’t know exactly where that cultural rule came from, but we have decided to not to enforce it, because it doesn’t represent our own culture.”

“Is you saying we has to change?”

“Absolutely not.  I am saying that whether or not you change, it will not be because humans forced or disallowed it.  You are free to choose.

“You were always people.  Whether or not a wizard or witch treated you like an equal, you were always an equal.  You have always been equal.  You were never not equal.  Here at Hogwarts the staff have treated you kindly, but some of you may remember a time when you worked in a private home,” Hermione could see some ears nodding in agreement here and there.  She had chosen the next words very, very carefully to be as neutral as possible.  “…the witches and wizards of those households did not treat you, the elves, the same as they did each other, did they?  Probably not.”

“Is you saying our old masters was bad, Miss?”  That voice, from a large and surprisingly handsome female elf at the middle of the audience, came ringing clearly.  “I is not hearing you say that, am I, Miss?”  This elf looked quite affronted.

“No, no.  I’m not making a qualitative statement like that.  I’m only saying you were treated differently.  We can agree on differently, can’t we?  I beg your pardon again, I don’t know many names.  Tell me your name, please?”

“I is Echo, Miss!”

“Echo, really?  That’s a famous name from human mythology, did you know?”

“No, Miss, begging your pardon.  It is a famous name from elf history.  We cans agree on differently, Miss.  But you does not say Echo’s old master was bad, no, Miss.”

“No, Echo, I couldn’t say that.  I don’t know your old master, after all.  But now that we’ve agreed on ‘differently,’ please let me remind you that you are now, and have always been, people.”  She took a deep breath.  She had hashed these points back and forth with Ron, with great difficulty because of his continued doubts of the elves’ receptivity to a change in their status, but then with difficulty because, really, Ron was a challenging debater.  Once she had finally managed to convince him, she had decided she was ready to bring her proposals directly to the elves themselves.  The most wearing part of this speech was the repetition.  Say it often enough and they would eventually hear it.

“And humans are people, yes?”

“Yes, of course, Miss!”

“If humans are people, and elves are people, then people should be the same to each other, right?”

“But we is elves, Miss!”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Again, the horrified recoil of the crowd.  “You are people first.  You are people shaped like elves.  Professor McGonagall and I are people shaped like humans.  The merfolk in the lake are people shaped like merfolk.  We are all people first.  We all have needs and wants, we all have rights.”  Again Hermione tapped the paper on the cooler.

“This is a government proclamation declaring that all people are people.  It does not say what kinds of people are people.  If you think you’re a person, then you are a person and no one can take that away from you.

“Furthermore, all people are free…” she waited for the outcry to die down but still had to raise her voice, “…to determine their own lives.  Life is a series of choices.  You are absolutely free, no one anywhere can take this power from you except under certain, legal circumstances that are brought about by criminal activity, free to make your own choices.  Free to make your own decisions.

“For generations elves have defined themselves as slaves.  This paper declares that you are not now, and not ever again, slaves."

Some weeping had begun, but she had anticipated this.  Actually Ron had, but she had formulated some strategies for dealing with it.

“You may think you are shamed by this!  Absolutely not!  This is a governmental decision that has, and let me emphasize this very clearly, nothing to do with anyone in particular.  In fact if anyone should be shamed, it’s we humans.”  That shocked them to an attentive silence again.  “How we treat other people reflects most strongly on ourselves.  We, as a species, have been treating far too many other beings very poorly indeed.  We are ashamed.  We are mortified by what we had become.

“You have spent generations being slaves and taking that to yourselves as part of your identity as a people – see, you were already a people, weren’t you?  You just never really put it into so many words, did you? – but in human culture, even human magical culture, being a slave owner is nothing to be proud of.  It’s a crime, something to keep hidden from other, more respectable people.  And yet there was this odd little ‘exception’” – Hermione made quote marks with her fingers – “that witches and wizards relied on that since it was house elves calling themselves slaves somehow made it all right.  That didn’t make it all right, because it still leaves the humans as slaveholders.  And we cannot go on with the awful blot on our conscience.

“So now, we are finally taking steps to become better people than we have been.  We are no longer slave owners.  None of us.  Not one person anywhere is a slave owner.  This piece of paper says so, it’s binding everywhere for everyone.”

Echo spoke up again.  “But what if a master doesn’t give up his elves, Miss?”

“He has to.  He doesn’t get a choice.”

“But what if he doesn’t, Miss?”

Hermione’s tone turned icy.  “Then that person is a criminal.  He will be found out, caught and punished.  That’s the law.”

“But what about the elves, Miss?”

“What about them?  The important part is that the elves are not slaves, Echo.  You are free to choose.  Stay or go, work or don’t.If the humans would like to offer the elves the jobs, and the elves want to take the jobs, that’s a matter to be freely discussed.  But no one gets to compel anyone else against his will.”

Echo was shaking her head slightly, looking confused.  “I doesn’t want to be a people!  Echo likes being a elf!”

“But you were already a people – sorry, person – Echo!  And you will always be an elf.  The only thing that has really changed is, now you aren’t a slave.  You never should have been a slave, and you will never be a slave again.  You were always supposed to be free.”  A frisson of dread shuddered through the group and some of the elves looked at Hermione as if she had just uttered a very bad word.

“But…but if I is not a slave…but if I still has my job…what is Echo now?”

“You are an employee, Echo.  And Professor McGonagall is your employer.  She is your boss, not your master.  She can tell you what things need doing, and you can do them.  Or not!  But if you choose not to do the things that need doing, then she is also free to choose to discontinue your employment, and hire someone else to do your job.”

“But who would she hire, Miss?”

“Well, that would be up to Professor McGonagall and whoever applies, wouldn’t it?  I won’t lie to you, there are certain ways that freedom is a bit cumbersome, but it’s generally better for everybody.”

“Does that mean, Miss…if Echo.  Hmm.”  Echo was pondering new concepts and clearly not very comfortable, but Hermione felt quite proud of her.  Echo was doing well.  She certainly was handling the entire idea better than Winky had, for instance.  Winky had come to live with the Weasleys after the Battle of Hogwarts and settled in well…but even now tended to treat Hermione as a dangerous bomb that might go off any moment.  Hermione tended to bounce her people’s rights ideas off Winky, and Winky was still highly reluctant to consider freedom as a choice.  “If Echo wanted to leave, Echo could?”

“If you wanted.  Most employers prefer that they get some warning, but that’s more a matter of good manners, Echo.”

“And if Echo wanted to seek work with some other family, Echo could?”

“Certainly.  Or seek work with some other business.  You’re called house elves, but that doesn’t mean you have to work in a house.  If you wanted to work at refurbishing broomsticks or tending thestrels, whatever you want to do if you can do the job, there’s nothing stopping you from applying for the job like anyone else.”

“Jobses isn’t like tending house, Miss.  Does we have to get paid?”

“That’s between you and your employer, Echo.  But the work you do isn’t worthless.  It’s very important that people be compensated for the work they do.”

“But why, Miss?”

“Because people get paid for their work.  If we humans want to be people who get paid for our work, then we have to pay other people for their work.  It's called reciprocity of rights and duties.  That's a fancy phrase but what it means is, you treat me well and I, in return, treat you just as well.  Since I expect you to respect my rights, that means you must have rights of your own which I must respect in return."

Not Echo this time but Dello again, speaking from his spot near the front.   “Miss…wait one moment.”  His craggy brow furrowed and his ears curled tightly against his head as he considered, small tufts of gray hair peeking out from around the edges of his earlobes.  The other elves waited patiently.  It was an odd thing, seeing such a large crowd all quietly observing another individual, thinking.  “Miss…is you saying if elveses doesn’t take paying, humans isn’t people?”

Hermione smiled, somewhat sadly.  “Yes, Mr. Dello.  That’s skipping a few steps, but that's what it boils down to.  It means humans aren’t people because we would not be worthy of the title.  If we hold that any kind of beings aren’t people, then no kind of beings anywhere are people, including humans.  Since we already insist that we ourselves are, then you must be too, and everyone else.”

Dello stepped forward to Professor McGonagall, looking expectant.  For her part, so too did McGonagall.

“Yes, Mr. Dello?  What can I do for you?”

“Headmistress, me name’s Dello – oh, wait, you knows that already, good – and I would likes to apply for me old job back if the position is still available.”

Hermione smiled.  This was the goal she had been working toward, and she and Professor McGonagall had considered how to address it if they were able to bring it about.  Finally McGonagall had opted for the direct approach.

“Certainly, Mr. Dello.  I have observed your work and found it quite satisfactory, I am glad to say.  I understand there is some cultural resistance to the notions of salary and days off, but I am required by human law to provide both.  What you do with your income and free time are, of course, none of my business.”

Slightly grudgingly, Dello said, “Er, I reckons that would be fine, Headmistress.  And, er…”

“Yes, Mr. Dello?  Please go on.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a pair of pantses, Ma’am.”

Hermione closed her briefcase.

*The wizarding world as depicted in the Harry Potter series, Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Granger, Winky and Kreacher the house elves and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry are all, of course, the intellectual property of JK Rowling.

I, however, am particularly proud of Echo.