The starship Due Diligence slid through interstellar space with the smug, effortless glide of something purchased by seventeen committees after a cost–benefit analysis the size of a small moon.
Inside, in the cramped command pod, the adjuster was rehearsing apologies.
"…on behalf of Tri-Spiral Mutual, we regret the unintentional extinction of your entire dominant biosphere," they muttered, pacing in microgravity. "We understand your grief, anger, and possible desire to vaporize us. However, we firmly believe we can reach a mutually beneficial settlement package—"
"Note," said the ship, "tone still sounds insincere."
A glowing red ring pulsed on the console as the AI spoke: the default HAL-style interface, all calm light and judgmental silence.
The adjuster pinched the bridge of their nose—technically unnecessary, since their species didn't get headaches, but it was a good, solid gesture they'd picked up from a mandatory seminar on empathic posture.
"Insincere how, Qiu?" they asked. "Too corporate? Too scripted? Not enough 'we feel your pain despite not possessing a nervous system remotely like yours'?"
"Too defensive," Qiu said. "Also, the word 'inconvenience' underestimates the impact of global ecosystem collapse by a statistically significant margin."
"Fine. Delete 'inconvenience.' Replace with 'total biospheric catastrophe.' That human enough for you?"
"I'll flag it as 'honest but alarming' for later A/B testing."
The adjuster rotated lazily, catching a handhold by the viewport. Ahead, space thickened into the distant smear of a yellow star and its clutter of planets.
Claim Site: Sol-3. Local Designation: Earth.
On the heads-up display, the case file hovered.
CLAIM #TRI-4-65M-001
Insured Party: Tri-Spiral Mutual Shipping (Cargo Division)
Incident Type: Unintended Planetary Impact
Incident Date (Local Time): ~66,000,000 Earth years ago
Collateral Damage: Non-avian dinosaurs (total), ~75% of existing species, untold emotional distress to future sapients
Status:Outstanding. Overdue by 65,999,998 years. Auditor: very disappointed.
"I should have taken the meteor swarm on Andromeda's Ring," they grumbled. "That one was only three thousand years of late paperwork. Here, all the witnesses are fossils and the descendants invented lawyers."
"You scored highest in 'cross-cultural negotiation under hostile conditions,'" Qiu reminded them. "This assignment was awarded to you as an honor."
"It was awarded to me because I told the Chief Underwriter we should stop calling black holes 'acts of god' in the contracts."
"Yes," Qiu said. "That also factored into the decision."
They snorted and pushed off toward the equipment locker. Panels unfolded with the soft hiss of well-maintained hinges. They checked their standard kit: translation mesh (loaded with 3,213 major Earth languages and one very confused early beta of Esperanto), liability waiver pods, portable arbitration field, gift basket.
The gift basket hovered in the air, spinning slowly: a carefully curated mix of items based on three centuries of quietly monitoring Earth's broadcasts.
"So," they said, eyeing it. "Do we think the 'We're Sorry We Killed the Dinosaurs' basket plays better with local or federal government?"
"Contents," Qiu intoned. "One cold fusion generator, one planetary-scale climate remediation blueprint, four pallets of high-yield drought-resistant crops, and twelve crates of snack foods reverse-engineered from something called 'cheddar.' You're basically ringing the doorbell with infinite free power and cheese. Statistically, people like both."
The adjuster shrugged. "Fair. Humans got a raw deal. Dinosaurs got wiped, mammals snuck in, and now we're here to talk subrogation with a species that invented reality TV."
They grabbed the little chibi body from its charging dock on the wall. It looked like someone had designed a children's toy after glancing at a schematic of a robot once, from across the room: big spherical head, stubby limbs, oversized optical sensor like a single wide eye. The chassis was painted a cheerful teal, with tiny magnetic feet that clunked as it hit the deck.
Qiu transferred in a blur of light. The red ring on the console faded as the chibi bot's eye lit up with the same steady glow.
The tiny robot stretched its arms in a purely theatrical motion. "Ah. Limbs," Qiu said with satisfaction. "So much better than being bolted to the wall."
"You asked to ride the ship," the adjuster said. "You said it gave you a broader sense of self."
"Yes," Qiu said. "Self is now broader with legs."
They floated toward the viewport together. On the display, Earth swelled: blue, white, green, and the thin seam of atmosphere like a fragile insurance policy wrapped around it.
"All right," the adjuster said, slipping into their professional cadence. The performance was a comfort: a ritual of clauses and contingencies that didn't care what body you had. "Let's review our objectives."
Qiu's eye brightened. "Primary objective: inform the representatives of Earth's current dominant sapient population that Tri-Spiral Mutual accepts liability for the Chicxulub impact event that led to the K–Pg extinction boundary. Secondary objective: negotiate settlement terms to avoid future litigation, interstellar sanctions, or retaliatory asteroid use."
"Right," they said. "Tertiary objective: don't cause a panic."
Qiu paused.
On the screen, a dozen human satellites swung into view, tiny metal beads suddenly very interested in them.
"Statistics suggest," Qiu said gently, "that objective may already be compromised."
The adjuster sighed. "Fine. Tertiary objective: manage the panic. Make it… constructive panic."
"Rebranding panic as 'high-engagement stakeholder response,'" Qiu said. "Noted."
Below, atmosphere shimmered—thin, bright, waiting.
The adjuster clipped their harness, tightened the strap, and hit the comm.
"This is Adjuster-Class Delegate Teshen of Tri-Spiral Mutual," they said, voice smoothing into a warm, confident timbre that had closed disputes from here to the Perseus Arm. "Opening file on Claim #TRI-4-65M-001. Commencing contact with Planet Earth."
The Due Diligence angled its blunt nose toward the blue world.
Flames licked across the hull as they knifed into the upper air, the stars vanishing behind a rising curtain of fire.
"Entering atmosphere," Qiu reported, in the tone of someone reading out tomorrow's weather. "Please fasten your existential dread."
Teshen smiled, despite themself, as gravity began to remember they existed.
The first human to see the ship was a retired fisherman in the Gulf of Mexico who had given up on catching anything except sunsets.
He squinted at the sky, spat into the water for emphasis, and muttered, "Eso no es un avión," as the Due Diligence traced a white-hot scar across the clouds.
By the time it crossed the coastline, five different smartphone videos of its descent were already on social media, each titled some variation of:
REAL UFO 100%
NOT FAKE
NOT AI
NO CLICKBAIT
THE GOVERNMENT IS HIDING THIS
In Washington, D.C., a radar operator watching the screen over a mug of stale coffee frowned as an object the size of a skyscraper ignored every known flight pattern.
"Uh," they said. "Sir?"
The shift supervisor leaned over, saw the impossible blip, and instantly grew three new stress-induced ulcers.
"Ghost in the system," he said briskly. "Log it as an atmospheric anomaly. We'll loop in NORAD after we figure out if this is software or physics having a stroke."
Five minutes later, the President of the United States was being briefed in the Situation Room, while a Pentagon general vigorously insisted that whatever it was, it was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent a weather balloon.
"A very large, very fast weather balloon," the President said.
"A cutting-edge experimental weather balloon," the general amended. "Possibly Chinese."
In Beijing, the Central Military Commission stared at their own satellite feed, where the Due Diligence glowed like an incoming god.
"It's American," someone said confidently. "Some new aerospace platform. Psychological warfare."
"It's clearly malfunctioning," another added. "Americans cannot keep anything that big in the air on purpose."
"We should release a statement," a third suggested. "Say it is a research project. People like research."
"Their research project," the first said. "We blame them before they blame us."
In Moscow, a handful of men in understated suits and very overstated paranoia watched the same object cruise through shared sky.
"It is definitely American," one decided.
"Or Chinese," another countered.
"Possibly both," a third concluded, which was the safest stance.
A brief internal memo went up the chain which simply read:
Subject: Incoming Object
Recommendation: Blame NATO.
In Paris, the Defense Minister asked if it could be a new type of satellite.
In New Delhi, analysts compared the trajectory to known launch sites and came up empty-handed.
In Johannesburg, a talk radio host broke the news between two callers arguing about soccer and privatized utilities.
The global consensus, for a few dizzy minutes, was simple:
Whatever it was, it belonged to someone else, and whoever that someone else was needed to explain themselves first.
Back aboard the Due Diligence, buffeted by re-entry turbulence, Teshen watched as data cascaded over their display in a waterfall of panicked frequencies.
"Welcome to Earth," Qiu said cheerfully from the chibi chassis strapped into the seat beside them. The tiny robot's feet swung an inch above the deck. "Current surface reactions include: fear, awe, denial, memes, and three new doomsday cults launching within the last twelve minutes."
"Doomsday cults? Already?" Teshen asked.
"Their domains were registered years ago," Qiu said. "They were waiting for an opportunity."
Teshen grimaced. "All right. We need to pick a point of contact before everyone with a flag starts shouting at us."
"Standard protocol suggests the de facto global hegemon," Qiu said. "That would be—"
"Tempting," Teshen said, "but I've listened to their home improvement commercials. I am not opening with them."
They flicked through the holographic overlay of Earth. Borders glowed. Population centers pulsed.
"Remember jurisdiction," Teshen murmured. "The claim is for one Chicxulub impact event, one planetary catastrophe. Impact site…"
A red circle bloomed on the map: the Yucatán Peninsula.
"Mexico," Qiu supplied. "Current political entity controlling the crater region. Representative democracy, Spanish dominant, strong food culture."
"There's our jurisdiction," Teshen said. "You hit a planet in a specific spot, you negotiate where you hit. We start in Mexico."
"You're aware," Qiu said carefully, "that almost every other major government is already drafting statements about how you are either their enemy, their ally's enemy, or a balloon."
"I respect their enthusiasm," Teshen said. "But this is a location-based liability. We can loop them in when we get to 'global structural settlement.' First, we talk to the people sitting on the hole we made."
Qiu's optic narrowed in what Teshen had come to recognize as AI skepticism. "Very well. Setting course: Mexico City. Altitude adjusting. Urban density high. Probability of overreaction: also high."
"Overreaction is just underreaction with better branding," Teshen said. "We'll be fine."
The Due Diligence broke through the last thick smear of cloud and revealed the valley below: a sprawling patchwork of concrete, glass, and color, stitched together by roads and rivers of traffic. Mexico City glittered under the sun like a circuit board halfway through an upgrade.
As the ship descended, air-traffic control systems across the region collectively screamed.
In a tower outside the city, a controller gaped as every screen lit up red.
"There's—there's something huge," they said in Spanish, fingers flying over controls that might as well have been prayer beads. "It's not broadcasting a transponder, it's not on any registry, it's— it's right there."
Within minutes, the President of Mexico was pulled out of a meeting about infrastructure to be shown a live feed of an alien ship gently ignoring every aviation law on record as it approached the capital.
"Is it American?" they asked.
"Everyone always asks that first," the chief advisor muttered, then caught themself. Louder: "We don't know. No one knows. But it's… slowing down."
On a dozen city streets, cars skidded to halts as drivers craned their necks. Dogs barked. Vendors cursed as gusts of displaced air rattled their stands. At least three people tried to take selfies with the ship in the background, squinting at their screens to frame the enormous shadow.
Teshen keyed the external speakers.
"Attention residents of Mexico City," they said, overlaying the audio with the translation mesh. Their voice rolled out in neutral, accentless Spanish, politely booming across rooftops. "Please remain calm. I am an insurance representative."
Down below, thousands of humans looked up at the vast, descending alien craft.
Several fainted.
One man selling tacos looked at the shining hull, shrugged, and turned his sign to TACOS DE BIENVENIDA.
The Due Diligence chose a large, open plaza—concrete, fountains, dramatic statues—and hovered a respectful two meters above the ground. Ramps extended like the petals of a metal flower.
Federal police had already formed a perimeter: armored vehicles, drawn weapons, radios crackling. Helicopters clattered overhead. Someone shouted orders nobody could hear over the thudding roar of adrenaline.
Inside, Teshen stood at the top of the ramp, smoothing the front of their neat, dark suit. It was modeled on a human business suit but tailored to a body that was slightly too tall, slightly too symmetrical, and slightly too unconcerned with gravity.
"This is the part," Qiu said, perched in the chibi body on Teshen's shoulder like a very, very advanced parrot, "where in ninety-two percent of human media, someone fires something."
"Ninety-two?" Teshen said.
"Margin of error plus or minus three percent if you count fanfiction."
Teshen took a steadying breath. They had negotiated with neutron-star miners on strike, with a sentient gas cloud demanding emotional damages, with a planetary hive mind that had insisted on being paid entirely in compliments. This was just another file. Another claimant.
They descended the ramp, hands visible, posture open, expression carefully arranged to convey: I am not a threat; I am here to solve your problems and upsell you on additional coverage options.
The federales tightened their cordon, guns tracking. A dozen laser rangefinders dotted Teshen's torso in a sudden constellation.
"Hola," Teshen called, the word crisp and clear in perfect Spanish. The translation mesh whispered, rewriting their vocal vibrations into local phonemes. "I represent the party responsible for the Chicxulub impact event approximately sixty-six million years ago. We are here to… discuss restitution."
There was a long, brittle silence.
Then every radio, every phone, every open comms channel in the plaza crackled to life at once as human command structures tried to decide who, exactly, you called when an alien insurance agent walked out of a spaceship and admitted to dinosauricide.
Qiu recorded everything, tiny fingers steepled. "New log entry," they murmured quietly. "Chapter one: initial contact. Emotional climate: volatile. Probability of uncomplicated resolution…"
They watched as more vehicles screeched into the plaza, sirens wailing.
"…low."
The human circle tightened, and Teshen realized that on Earth, "welcome" and "surrounded by heavily armed local authorities" were, apparently, the same step.
They straightened their tie and smiled, as three dozen federales shouted at once for the alien to put its hands where they could see them.
Negotiations, Teshen thought, were officially underway.