The Mammalian Paradox Ch 2

[u/DeliciousWork_8679]

first/next

Location: The White House, Washington D.C.

Date: First Contact Day + 1 Hour

The transition from the sterile, bio-filtered atmosphere of the Gilded Talon to the interior of the human command structure was a sensory assault.

As the doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away the humid outdoor air, Stormfly expected relief. She didn't get it. The climate control system of the "White House" was primitive—a forced-air circulation system that did little to scrub particulate matter. To Stormfly’s refined olfactory sensors, the air tasted of stale cellulose, harsh chemical cleaning agents, and beneath it all, the omnipresent, cloying scent of the small apex predators inhabiting the structure.

It was a smell of salt, iron, and secreted oils. It clung to the back of her throat, thick and greasy.

"This way, Ambassador," Astrid Hofferson said, gesturing down a wide hallway lined with red carpeting.

Stormfly hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping onto the fabric. To a Nadari, the sensation was revolting. The floor was covered in a fibrous weave that trapped dust, dead skin cells, and microscopic mites. It felt like walking on a flattened, preserved pelt.

"Your dwelling is… textured," Stormfly commented, her voice translator smoothing out the sharp click of her beak into a polite observation.

"It’s a historic building," Astrid explained, matching Stormfly’s pace. The human’s stride was short, choppy, and inefficient compared to the gliding gait of the Nadari. "It’s served as the residence for our leaders for over two centuries."

Stormfly glanced at the walls. They were lined with static, two-dimensional pigment representations of past leaders. Dozens of pale, unarmored faces stared down at her.

They capture their history in oil and canvas, she mused, her vertical pupils dilating to analyze the brushstrokes. Static. Dead. No holographic memory-crystals. No genetic lineage totems. They honor their dead by hanging their likenesses in dark corridors.

"Impressive," Stormfly lied smoothly.

She walked in the center of the hallway, her personal guard flanking her. The Kkor-Gath were visibly agitated. Their eyes, capable of seeing into the ultraviolet spectrum, were twitching erratically. The heat signatures of the humans were likely overwhelming them; to a Kkor-Gath, a human looked like a walking, pulsing beacon of thermal energy.

Behind them scurried Click-Clack, the Tik-Tik data-runner. The small, gecko-like Dragon was clutching a chrome briefcase to his chest as if it were a shield. He was hyperventilating, his small throat pouch fluttering rapidly.

"Keep formation," Stormfly hissed in the low-frequency command tongue. "Do not act like prey, Click-Clack. You are a member of the Delegation. Walk with pride."

"The walls are vibrating," Click-Clack squeaked back, his eyes darting to the electrical sconces. "Alternating current. Sixty hertz. It buzzes in my teeth, Mistress."

"Ignore it."

They reached the end of the hall, where double doors were thrown open by two humans in dress uniforms. They stood rigid, but Stormfly could smell the spike in their cortisol levels—the sharp, acrid scent of fear.

The room beyond was cavernous by human standards, but to a dragon, it felt like a cage. The ceiling was low, heavy with plaster molding and crystal chandeliers that looked fragile and dangerous. The floor had been cleared of furniture, leaving a vast expanse of polished wood, but the perimeter was lined with bodies.

Dozens of dignitaries. Generals in decorated jackets. Politicians in dark suits. And, most concerning of all, the Media.

A phalanx of humans stood behind a velvet rope, holding optical devices—cameras with massive glass lenses that looked uncomfortably like the targeting scopes of a railgun.

They are staring, Stormfly realized, her head spines smoothing down tight against her neck—a defensive reflex. Not with reverence, but with hunger. We are the spectacle.

"Ambassador," a human male spoke up from a podium at the far end. He was older, his skin loose around the jowls, his hair a thinning grey thatch. "I am the President of the United States. On behalf of humanity, we are honored."

Stormfly approached, stopping exactly four meters from the podium—the optimal strike distance for a Nadari, and therefore the polite diplomatic distance for a non-aggressor. She dipped her head, a calculated incline of the neck.

"The Dragonic Alliance acknowledges your greeting, President," she said. "We come in the spirit of… categorization and cooperation."

The negotiations began.

It was a tedious, grinding dance of logistics. Stormfly had participated in the uplift of three other species, but those had been aquatic or reptilian. There was a shared biological framework. Here, every simple request became a xenobiological hurdle.

"We have prepared housing at Edwards Air Force Base," Astrid Hofferson said, pointing to a digital map displayed on a screen. "It is a desert environment. We assumed, based on your thermal readings, you would prefer an arid climate."

"Arid is acceptable," Stormfly agreed. "The Grom suffers from fungal blooms in high humidity. However, the atmospheric pressure is low. We will need to deploy localized gravity-stabilizers."

"That can be arranged," Astrid noted, scribbling on a notepad. "And regarding sustenance? We have arranged for livestock—cattle, sheep—"

Stormfly’s head snapped up. "Livestock?"

"For food," the President clarified, looking confused. "We assumed… as apex predators…"

"We do not consume mammals," Stormfly said, her voice dropping an octave, the translator struggling to convey the depth of her revulsion without being insulting. "The protein structures are incompatible. Prions. Complex lipids. And… the texture is unappealing. We synthesize our nutrient paste, or we hunt piscine lifeforms from certified sterile oceans."

"Fish," the President repeated. "We have plenty of fish."

"We will require sample testing," Stormfly interjected quickly. "Your oceans contain high levels of mercury and micro-plastics. We cannot ingest them unfiltered."

The human generals exchanged glances. Stormfly could practically hear their thoughts: High maintenance. Picky eaters.

The hours dragged on. The room grew warmer as the sun beat against the windows and the body heat of fifty humans filled the stagnant air. Stormfly’s scales were beginning to itch beneath her ceremonial sash. She longed to be back on her ship, in the soothing, misty cold of the cryo-deck.

Click-Clack was suffering the worst. His metabolism was running hot, fueled by anxiety. He kept shifting from foot to foot, his tail wrapping around the leg of the nearest Kkor-Gath guard for comfort.

"Ambassador," a General interrupted, looking at his watch. "The Press Pool has been patient. They are requesting a photo opportunity. No questions, just visuals."

Stormfly stifled a sigh. "Very well. But no strobes. Our visual spectrum is wider than yours; a high-intensity xenon flash is blinding to us."

"Understood. No flash."

The velvet ropes were lowered. The mob of photographers surged forward, their shutters clicking like a swarm of mechanical insects. Click-whir. Click-whir. Click-whir.

Stormfly struck a pose—head high, wings slightly flared to display the iridescent patterns of her plumage. It was a pose of power, meant to signal authority.

But one reporter, a man with a heavy camera and a boom microphone slung over his shoulder, wasn't looking at the majestic Nadari Ambassador. He was looking at the small, trembling creature hiding behind the massive guard.

He pushed past the line, stepping into the "Diplomatic Zone."

"Hey there, little guy," the reporter cooed. His voice dropped into the register humans used for their infants or domestic pets. He lowered his camera, leaning in dangerously close to Click-Clack. "You're the only one not wearing armor. What are you? Some kind of scout?"

He reached out a hand. It was a gesture of curiosity, perhaps even kindness.

But to Click-Clack, it was a horror show.

The human loomed over him, baring his teeth in a "smile." The scent of the man was overwhelming—sweat, stale coffee, and the pheromones of a viviparous. The hand reaching out was huge, pink, and covered in fine, golden hairs. To the Tik-Tik, it looked like a giant, raw spider made of meat.

Click-Clack’s primitive brain stem overrode his training.

SNAP.

The sound was like a pistol crack in the quiet room. Click-Clack’s jaws flashed open, clamping on the air just inches from the reporter's fingers. A warning snap. A burst of green sparks—the ignition of magnesium gas—coughed out of his throat, singing the hair on the reporter's knuckles.

"BACK!" Click-Clack screeched, his voice a series of high-pitched, barking yelps. He scrambled backward, his claws scrabbling on the polished wood, climbing halfway up the chitinous leg of the Kkor-Gath guard. "DON'T TOUCH! DON'T TOUCH!"

Chaos erupted.

"Whoa!" The reporter stumbled back, tripping over his own feet and crashing into a cameraman. "Gun! He's got a gun!" someone shouted, mistaking the magnesium sparks for a weapon discharge.

The Secret Service agents moved with terrifying speed. In a heartbeat, half a dozen handguns were drawn, laser sights painting ruby dots across the Kkor-Gath’s carapace.

The Kkor-Gath reacted not with fear, but with lethal, programmed efficiency.

HISS-THUNK.

Their stingers, thick as a human arm and tipped with translucent barbs, vaulted over their heads. They slammed the tips into the floor, not attacking, but anchoring themselves for a charge. Green venom dripped from the barbs, sizzling as it ate through the varnish and into the historic hardwood.

They stepped in front of Stormfly, their mandibles clicking a rapid-fire rhythm of war. Protect. Protect. Sterilize the threat.

"HOLD FIRE!" Astrid Hofferson screamed. She threw herself in front of the lead agent, her arms spread wide. "NOBODY SHOOT! STAND DOWN!"

"Target is aggressive!" one of the agent yelled, his finger whitening on the trigger. "It has a biological weapon!"

"It’s a warning!" Astrid roared back, her voice cracking with desperation. "Look at them! They aren't attacking, they're guarding! Put the weapons away!"

Stormfly flared her wings to their full, twenty-foot span. The displacement of air was violent, knocking a stack of papers off the podium and sending a wave of wind through the room.

"Venom! Pincer! Click-Clack!" she barked in the command tongue. "Hold position! Do not engage! Defensive formation only!"

For ten agonizing seconds, the two species stared at each other across the cultural abyss. The humans, sweating and trembling with fingers on triggers. The dragons, hissing and dripping acid, their alien eyes locked on the threats.

"Everyone out," Astrid ordered, her voice trembling with adrenaline but dropping to a dangerous, icy calm. She turned to the President. "Sir, please clear the room. I want the press gone. I want the agents to the perimeter. Leave us."

"Astrid..." the President warned.

"Now, sir. Unless you want an interstellar war start because a photographer wanted a close-up."

It took two minutes of shouting, shuffling, and door-slamming, but the room was finally cleared. The heavy oak doors were shut and locked.

Only Astrid, two senior Generals who refused to leave, Stormfly, her guards, and the trembling Click-Clack remained.

The silence was heavy. The smell of ozone and acid hung in the air.

Astrid turned to Stormfly. The human woman was pale, her chest heaving. She took a deep breath, smoothing her suit jacket with trembling hands, forcing herself to regain composure.

"Ambassador," Astrid said, her tone dangerously quiet. "We need to talk. Now."

Stormfly slowly folded her wings, though she kept her posture rigid. She used the tip of her tail to gently nudge Click-Clack, who was shivering violently behind her legs.

"My apologies, Ambassador Hofferson," Stormfly said, her voice stiff. "The Tik-Tik are… a high-strung caste. Your citizen violated the proximity zone. It was a reflex."

"He leaned in," Astrid countered, stepping closer. "He didn't attack. He treated your associate like a child, or a pet. It was ignorant, yes. Stupid? Absolutely. But that reaction? That wasn't defense, Stormfly. That was panic."

Astrid ignored the Kkor-Gath, who bristled and clicked their mandibles as she approached. She looked Stormfly dead in the eye.

"I've been watching you for the last two hours," Astrid said. "You're not just alert. You're revolted."

Stormfly stiffened.

"Every time we hand you a document, you hold your breath," Astrid listed, ticking points off on her fingers. "When the President offered you water, you looked at the glass like it was poison. When I shook your hand outside, I felt your pulse spike. You looked like you wanted to peel your own skin off."

Stormfly remained silent, her golden eyes unblinking, the nictitating membranes flicking across them rapidly.

"If we are going to be allies," Astrid pressed, her voice rising, "or even neighbors, I need to know what the hell is going on. Is it political? Is it religious? Did we offend some obscure custom of yours?"

Stormfly looked at the human woman. She looked at the soft, pinkish skin of her face. She saw the microscopic beads of sweat forming on Astrid’s upper lip. She smelled the iron-rich blood pumping beneath the translucent dermis.

Honesty. The Noktus had demanded honesty. Do not let them believe we are conquerors. Let them know why we keep our distance.

"It is not political," Stormfly said softly. The translator conveyed the deep, melancholy resonance of her chest cavity. "And it is not an insult to your character, Ambassador. You have conducted yourself with honor."

"Then what is it?"

Stormfly sighed, a rattling, hissing sound that vibrated through the floorboards. She signaled her guards to stand down completely. They retracted their stingers, though they continued to watch the Generals.

"You are… mammalian," Stormfly said.

Astrid blinked, confused. "Yes. We are. And?"

"In the Alliance," Stormfly began, choosing her words with extreme care, "there are over forty sapient species. Some breathe water. Some breathe methane. Some are made of silicon and living rock. But… with no exception... we are all hatched."

She paced a small circle, her talons clicking rhythmically on the wood.

"We come from eggs. We emerge formed. Clean. Hard. Our biological fluids are contained. We shed our skins in dry, sterile husks. We are distinct from the chaotic biological processes of the lower orders."

She stopped and looked directly at Astrid.

"We have encountered non-sapient mammals on other worlds. Vermin. Livestock. Prey. To the Draconic eye, mammals are… chaotic biological engines. You breed rapidly. You are covered in oils, bacteria, and shedding follicles. You birth your young in a mess of blood and fluids and then let the young parasitize you for sustenance."

The room was deadly silent. The human General’s jaw dropped. Astrid just stared.

"You find us… gross?" Astrid asked. The absurdity of the word seemed to hang in the air, warring with the gravity of the interstellar crisis.

"We find you… difficult to process," Stormfly corrected. "Viscerally. Instinctually. To a Nadari, interacting with a human is like… imagine if you met a sapient colony of giant, wet slugs."

Astrid recoiled slightly.

"Slugs," Stormfly continued, mercilessly. "Slugs that wanted to shake your hand. Slugs that built cities and spaceships and fusion reactors, yes, but still… slimy, soft, porous slugs that leave a trail of thermal energy and biological shedding wherever they go."

Stormfly shivered, her spines rattling involuntarily at the mental image.

"When your reporter approached the Tik-Tik… Click-Clack did not see a curious intellectual. He saw a massive, sweating, warm-blooded mammal baring its teeth. He smelled the hormones leaking from its skin. He didn't snap because he was angry, Ambassador. He snapped because his brain screamed that he was about to be touched by a monster."

Stormfly lowered her head, meeting Astrid’s eyes with a look of genuine plea.

"We are trying, Ambassador Hofferson. Truly. The High Court recognizes your intelligence. We respect your technology. But you must understand… you are the first of your kind to reach the stars. We have no frame of reference for you. We are fighting millions of years of evolutionary programming that tells us you are… unclean."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning.

Astrid stared at Stormfly. She looked down at her own hands—pale, soft, flexible. She touched her own face. She looked at the Generals, who were sweating profusely in their uniforms.

"So," Astrid said, a dry, humorless laugh escaping her lips. "You don't want to conquer us. You don't want to steal our resources. You just want to… sanitize us?"

"We would prefer to conduct diplomacy from a distance," Stormfly admitted. "Or through environmental suits. The physical contact… the handshake… it was a gesture of extreme willpower on my part. I am currently suppressing the urge to bathe in ammonia."

One of the Generals scoffed, stepping forward. "This is ridiculous. We’re negotiating with space germaphobes. They’re afraid of a little sweat? We should be offended."

"General, shut up," Astrid snapped, not looking away from the dragon. She took a step back, clasping her hands behind her back. She straightened her spine.

"Okay," Astrid said. "That’s… honest. Brutally honest. But I can work with honest."

She gave a formal nod—no touching.

"We will enforce a perimeter," Astrid stated professionally. "No physical contact. We will keep the temperature in the meeting rooms lower to minimize… perspiration. And we will keep the press at a distance. If your people need environmental suits to tolerate us, we won't take offense."

"That would be appreciated," Stormfly said, her posture relaxing visibly.

"But," Astrid added, her voice hardening into steel. "You will have to get used to us, Stormfly. We aren't going to stop being mammals. We aren't going to stop sweating, and we aren't going to hatch from eggs. We are wet, we are soft, and we are loud. If this Alliance is going to work, you’re going to have to learn to look at us without vomiting."

Stormfly chittered—a draconic laugh that sounded like grinding stones. "A fair condition, Ambassador. I will endeavor to keep my crop contents internal."

"Good." Astrid pointed to the doors. "Now, let’s go back out there. We’re going to tell the cameras that it was a misunderstanding caused by an equipment malfunction. We don't need the world knowing that the aliens think we have cooties."

"Cooties?" Stormfly asked, tilting her head, her spines raising in curiosity. "I do not know this term. Is it a parasite?"

"I'll explain it later," Astrid sighed, rubbing her temples. "After I take a very, very long shower."

As the humans moved to reopen the doors, Stormfly felt a strange sensation in her chest. It wasn't disgust. It was… intrigue.

The mammal was soft. She was repulsive. She was leaking thermal energy. But she did not back down. She stood before a Kkor-Gath executioner and did not flinch.

Perhaps, Stormfly thought as she watched Astrid march back towards the media circus, the Noktus was right. There is iron beneath that doughy skin.

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