The Tatemae were a quiet, peace-loving race, descended from avian omnivore stock, migrating along the Perseus arm in flocks of swept-wing spacecraft.
They were involved in more and bloodier wars than any other race in the galaxy.
The trouble was this: The race had no word for “Yes,” and thus by extension, no way to give an unambiguous “No.” Regardless of their individual feelings, culture custom and language forced any individual Tatemae to hem and haw and reply to any request with “Well, it might be difficult…”
Did they come in peace? Well, they might, they might not. Too early to tell.
Would they be willing to exchange technologies? Ah, now, that was a good question.
Could they change their migration route? Hm. Might be tricky.
How about a peace agreement between their race and ours? Perhaps. Hard to say.
Would they withdraw before we open fire? They’d give it some thought.
And cue another bloodbath.
They were involved in more and bloodier wars than any other race in the galaxy.
The trouble was this: The race had no word for “Yes,” and thus by extension, no way to give an unambiguous “No.” Regardless of their individual feelings, culture custom and language forced any individual Tatemae to hem and haw and reply to any request with “Well, it might be difficult…”
Did they come in peace? Well, they might, they might not. Too early to tell.
Would they be willing to exchange technologies? Ah, now, that was a good question.
Could they change their migration route? Hm. Might be tricky.
How about a peace agreement between their race and ours? Perhaps. Hard to say.
Would they withdraw before we open fire? They’d give it some thought.
And cue another bloodbath.
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