Hellspark by Janet Kagan

(You’re getting awfully good at holding up your end of the conversation!) (Thank you,) said Maggy, primly.
    (Maybe,) Tocohl repeated. (Swift-Kalat is the survey team’s ethologist. That, and his “swift”
    status, give him a lot of credence, but I’d be happier if the polyglot had asked for a glossi.) (I have forty-three files that quote swift-Kalat as the highest authority on ethology. Would you like a random sampling?)
    (No, I concede his expertise. Let me find out more.) Tocohl said aloud, “Stepping into that kind of situation is asking for trouble, whatever the outcome.”
    Tinling Alfvaen said, earnestly, “Tocohl, swift-Kalat is Jenji. The Jenji don’t lie.” That was conventional wisdom on many worlds, but to Alfvaen the belief seemed to go beyond convention to a personal conviction. “I’ve known Jaef for a long time—”
    Tocohl raised an eyebrow and said, “That you’re entitled to use his soft-name is proof of that.”
    (And proof of a strong bond between the two,) she added for Maggy’s benefit.
    “—And if he says the species is sentient, I believe him,” Alfvaen finished, “but you must help him prove it.” She reached into a pocket of her kilt and drew out a folded piece of gold paper.
    Without a further word, she offered it to Tocohl.
    Tocohl took the paper, unfolded it. The startling boldness of Jenji script seemed to leap from the page: three lines and the signature, swift-Kalat twis Jalakat of Jenje
    .
    “Geremy,” Tocohl said quietly as she refolded the paper and returned it, “are you free to take a cargo of winterspice and tapes to dOrnano for me?”
    Geremy turned. “What do you say, Nevelen—can you spare me for a few weeks?”
    So Geremy was acting as the judge’s aide, Tocohl thought. That explained much. She would have withdrawn her request, but Darragh spoke first: “I haven’t been to dOrnano for years, Geremy. I’ll go with you.”
    Geremy turned again to Tocohl. “After festival?” he said.
    “Of course,” Tocohl replied, and because it was Geremy, their dickering was pro forma. In only a few moments they had snapped fingers to close the deal.
    Alfvaen’s face lit as she realized the import of this exchange. “You’ll go!” she said and looked down at the paper in her hand. “He told me this would convince the kind of person he needed. I don’t understand why, but I’m glad.”
    Tocohl said, “To say ‘I know’ in Jenji, you must specify how you know. You have a choice of degree—firsthand experience, inference, hearsay, to name just a few of the options—and each tells your listener how reliable you think your information and why. That, in turn, reflects on your reliability. The language is also backed up by strong cultural penalties for using the wrong degree, and a religious belief that you may, by lying, inadvertently create a truth that would do no one any good.”
    Tocohl touched the edge of the paper in Alfvaen’s hand and went on, “He tells me here that he has in his hands an artifact, and from this artifact he deduces the presence of sentient life—anyone might have written that in any language. In Jenji what swift-Kalat wrote is very complex and very precise. The degree of his surety is so high that if I were MGE, I’d pack up the survey team and go home.”
    “In three sentences?” Alfvaen unfolded the paper and stared at it in wonder.
    “Four,” Tocohl said. “He signed his name—and that puts his status on the line. If he’s wrong Page 23

    about this, he’ll be forced to drop his ‘swift’ status. And that’s the social equivalent of your going into your hometown and admitting to la’ista
    .”
    Alfvaen’s eyes widened still farther. “He’s that sure?”
    “He’s that sure,” Tocohl said, but before she could say anything further, a group of Sheveschkemen passed and their cheerful singing momentarily brought conversation to a halt.
    The song was a lengthy and awe-inspiring detailing of Ste. Veschke’s sexual