“Observe. Report. That’s what I do. You need a trained witness who is not a party to the negotiations. Also, I am fitted with an embedded biorecorder. If the communications with the landing party are disrupted, and assuming you can rescue me or recover my body, you will have a complete record of what happened. Besides, if you think I’m going to cover the biggest story in the history of the Cottohazz from a couple thousand kilometers up in orbit, you’re . . . well, you’re not as smart as I think you are.”
Captain Bitka looked at him for a moment and then nodded.
“Okay, you’re in. Major Merderet, I’d like two Marines along for security. Unarmed, I’m afraid, and definitely not in armor, so you might want to tag a couple with good unarmed combat skills.”
“I’ve got pretty good close combat skills,” she said.
“Your offer to volunteer is noted and will show in your record, but you’re not going. Get me two Marines who anybody sane will think twice before they tangle with.
“Mister Brook, give your helm the go ahead to start bending orbit. They have a needle but it’s on the other side of the planet from where they want us to set down, so we’ll use a PSRV lander—that’s a Planetary Surface Recovery Vehicle for benefit of the civilians. I figure half an hour to bend orbit and we’ll make one orbital pass over the site to put eyes on it. I want everyone in the landing party suited up in the ready room in twenty minutes. Bosun’s mates will fit you out with SA frames—Strength Augmentation exoskeletons—and they’ll adjust them to your physiology. We’ll need them to walk around down there if we’re going to walk far in that high gravity, and for safety reasons the PSRV needs to set down half a klick from the meeting site. We might fry something important with our rocket blast if we land any closer.”
He paused and looked around, maybe wondering if there was anything he missed.
“Okay, see you in the ready room in twenty minutes.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Moments later, aboard USS Cam Ranh Bay
7 April 2134 (thirteen days after arrival at Destination,
second day in orbit around Destie-Four,
fifty-eight days after Incident Seventeen)
As everyone else filed out Mikko signaled to Captain Bitka to have a word in private. He waited until everyone else left and the door clicked shut, then sat at the table. Mikko saw a haunted look in Bitka’s face, as if he saw death approaching, and once again she wondered if that was what he wanted. The thought angered her. She knew if she was going to change his mind, she had one chance and she couldn’t afford to waste it. She took a breath.
“With respect, sir, you’ve got no business on the landing party.”
“We can’t risk offending this guardian, XO, whoever or whatever it is. It asked for—”
“A representative,” she said, cutting him off. “They didn’t ask for the commander, sir. They asked you to send a representative to make an offer. Those were their words: make an offer. E-Lisyss is our diplomat, right? He’s dying to talk to these guys. He should be our point man.”
The captain shook his head.
“Can’t trust him alone. He doesn’t speak for the Cottohazz or for any if its member states, Neither do we or anyone else on this ship. Somebody’s got to remind him of that.”
“Not your job, sir,” she insisted.
“I can’t order someone down there with him unless I go along.”
“What are you trying to prove, sir? That you’re the bravest son of a bitch in the Navy? Don’t you trust me?” she asked, knowing this was a low blow but also knowing she had to change his mind.
The captain jerked upright in his chair and his eyes opened wide in surprise. “Trust you? Of course I do.”
“This is my job, sir. Let me do my job. You do yours. With respect. Sir.”
Bitka looked away, far away, and then finally sighed in resignation.
“Shit. Okay, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. You command the landing party.” He straightened and his voice became firm. “I want Chief Wainwright flying the PSRV and have him pick the boat to take; he knows which ones are reliable and which are hangar queens.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And send my compliments to Major Merderet. I want a full platoon of Mikes in combat armor and prepped in drop capsules. Tell her no, she is not to drop with them. If things get hot I want her up here coordinating.”
“Understood, sir.”
“And you’re taking a gauss pistol along. Tell them it’s a badge of authority if anyone asks.”
“I’d rather not, sir. Would you have taken one?”
“No, but I trust you with it more than me. I haven’t shot one in about ten years. You’re qualified, right?”
“Yes, sir. Shot expert at the Academy and I’ve kept my hand in.”
Bitka hesitated, as if rethinking his decision, and then shook his head.
“I’m going to have all the passengers secure themselves in their acceleration rigs, and then I’m going to spin down the habitat wheel, just in case we need to do some violent maneuvers on short notice. I have very mixed feelings about this, XO.”
“Really, sir? Because ever since that alien probe hijacked us, my feelings have been unmixed and uniformly dark. For almost two months you’ve been telling us the truth: the only way out of this is forward. So let’s go talk to these assholes and see what it’s going to take to make them send us home.”
* * *
Mikko hated reentry. She’d done it half a dozen times, because her training required it, but nobody but a fool or a Mike Marine willingly plunged into an atmosphere at a velocity of seven or eight kilometers a second and hoped the atmospheric drag slowed them down enough to keep from crashing into the surface. Oh, and didn’t burn them up. She noticed it never seemed to work very well for actual meteors. The ride was bumpy, but Chief Wainwright was as good a PSRV pilot as any on the ship, and by the time he fired the vertical thrust system to make the final landing flare, she’d gotten her heart rate and respiration back to normal.
They already had a read on the atmosphere: oxygen/nitrogen in close enough to the same proportions as on Earth so they wouldn’t need respirators. All of them carried auxiliary oxygen packs in case they got short of breath. Hopefully they wouldn’t be down here long enough to need a recharge.
Chief Wainwright popped the hatch from his pilot station and a breeze brought the smell of the world into them: humid, sour, warm. It was a living world, and after months inside the sealed environment of a spacecraft, a living world always smelled of death, of decay, along with the smells of life. She supposed you couldn’t have one without the other.
Mikko and the other five struggled into their SA frames in the limited space in the PSRV and then she and e-Lisyss strapped the small vox-box units around their throats and fitted the mouthpieces. All of the party had the newest version of Destie auto-trans loaded in their commlinks, so they would get a running translation of what was said, but they didn’t know enough about Destie technology yet to know if their alien counterparts had a similar capability. Engineering had manufactured the vox-boxes to capture the spoken word (in English for her, aGavoosh for e-Lisyss), turn it into the best Destie they could manage, and project it from the integrated speakers.
They climbed down the side ramp into the bright sunlight under a clear blue sky. That was one reliable and comforting constant throughout the universe, thanks to atmospheric dispersion of visible spectrum light: if a world had a breathable atmosphere without much airborne dust, its sky was blue. It was mid-morning at this longitude on Destie-Four. The temperature was like early summer in her native South Dakota, but the air felt damp and heavy. They didn’t know much about the climates and seasons of this world yet. To be honest, she didn’t care. The sooner they left this place behind, the better.
Of the party, e-Lisyss had the hardest time with the SA frame and so their progress across the yellow-green meadow was limited to his awkward trudging pace. She and the Marines were used to t
he frames and Boniface was as well. He’d gone through Marine equipment familiarization as a prerequisite for being embedded with a Mike unit. He’d probably worn powered armor down on K’tok during the fighting. Acolyte Onogoe Barvenu, the young Buran, had taken to the SA frame with a spirit of curiosity and adventure. Mikko wasn’t sure why the Buran had chosen someone so young—if indeed it was young. Maybe it was just of slight stature. All she knew was other Buran adults were taller and bulkier.
She went over the explanation, mostly truthful, they were to offer the Guardian once the formalities were over. It was not their intention to disturb or alarm the New People with their arrival, but they had been brought to the system involuntarily, by a probe vehicle of unknown origin. They had also experienced a malfunction in their star drive upon arrival, one which they had so far been unable to repair. They would appreciate any assistance the New People could render. All they had to offer in return was an exchange of information and the gratitude of their people, the six intelligent species of the Cottohazz.
They approached the meeting place, a broad, flat rise topped by what looked like a polished stone circular platform about fifty meters across, rimmed on the far side with several tall, irregularly shaped, shining metallic . . . well, what were they? Statues? Monuments of some kind? Or possibly sensors or communication equipment. They looked like abstract art to her.
About twenty New People waited for them on the platform.
“Captain, are you receiving all of this?” she subvocalized on her commlink. It was enough to move her jaw and tongue, and expel a little breath, for her commlink to translate that into spoken words at the other end, and it had the advantage of privacy.
Good video and audio feed, Captain Bitka answered inside her head. How’s the weather down there?
“Hot and humid,” she answered and smiled. “Looks like a welcoming committee waiting for us.”
You’ll do fine, Mikko, he answered and she felt her cheeks warm. He’d never used her first name before. Or maybe just the heat made her feel flushed. She wiped perspiration from her forehead.
“Almost there, Envoy,” she subvocalized on the separate channel to e-Lisyss. It was an open secret he had English auto-trans loaded on his commlink but they’d confirmed it before they left the Bay. Mikko had loaded aGavoosh in hers before leaving as well. It was strange to hear English spoken in the unpleasantly familiar voice of the Varoki trade envoy.
I can see for myself, female Executive Officer.
This from their diplomat. Great.
The eighteen New People of the welcoming committee were all dressed identically in lightweight fabric, very loose long trousers and tunics which reached to mid-thigh, the sleeves to their wrists. The tunics and trousers were dark red and edged in a copper-colored metallic fabric. They carried no weapons or devices of any sort. The New People stood in groups of three, one forward and two back. Six groups. Mikko sensed something ritualistic in their costumes and rigid formation, and she felt some sort of ritual response was required.
Bow! e-Lisyss ordered over their commlinks and all six of the party bowed, the Buran a bit later than the rest.
The New People showed no immediate reaction and then, as if on command, all of them advanced in their peculiar shuffling gait and came among them, one to each side of each of them and one in front, the ones to each side taking their hands gently in their own and then drawing them forward into the center of the meeting area. They were only about a meter fifty tall and so came up to the shoulders of the humans, mid-chest on the Varoki. In a way, it was like being guided forward by children.
They reached the center of the stone meeting area and halted. Mikko saw a flicker of movement ahead and then four beings stood there, each beside one of the metallic monuments or sculptures. Had they stepped out from behind them or had they emerged from them? She couldn’t say, but what she could see clearly was that they were not New People.
They were tall, taller than humans, taller even than the Varoki, easily two meters ten or twenty. Upright bipeds, large eyes with no whites she could see, hardly any sign of a nose, a clear single mandible jaw with recessed chin, and feathers. Small soft feathers on the side and back of the head, larger more ornamental feathers on the shoulders, very fine feathers, or maybe a down, on their arms. The sun shone from Mikko’s right and the beings stood in the shade of the metallic structures, but the air around their heads seemed to glow in the semi-darkness, like . . . halos.
Their legs were encased in shining metallic trousers, articulated at the joints. SA frames, she thought. They must not be from around here, either.
“Damn!” she subvocalized to Captain Bitka. “Do you see this, sir? It’s a whole different species! And that glow . . . ”
I think we just met the Guardians, Bitka said.
“I am Special Trade Envoy Limi e-Lisyss,” the Varoki said through his vox-box in Destie, and Mikko gave him points for having the presence of mind to even speak. “I am the senior representative present of our government, the Cottohazz. This government was established by my people, the Varoki, over three hundred of your years ago. All that time it has guarded the peace and prosperity of the other five sentient species we discovered and to whom we gave the gift of interstellar travel. We—”
“You gave the others the gift of interstellar travel?” one of the Guardians said, its voice deep and resonant. “How did you come upon this gift?”
“Varoki scientists invented it,” e-Lisyss answered.
“You believe this?” a different Guardian said.
“It is the truth,” e-Lisyss answered, a hint of righteous indignation entering his voice.
e-Lisyss started to take a step forward but the three New People held him firmly and then with a surge of adrenaline Mikko saw that their free hands all held short, gleaming knives.
Where had those come from?
“Sam?” she said.
Mikko!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Moments later, aboard USS Cam Ranh Bay
7 April 2134 (thirteen days after arrival at Destination,
second day in orbit around Destie-Four,
fifty-eight days after Incident Seventeen)
When the first knife struck, Sam heard a collective gasp go up from the bridge crew. When Running-Deer went down, Alexander in TAC One let out a cry of despair that came from the soul. Sam felt almost paralyzed by the sudden carnage on the audience slab—almost.
“Merderet. Drop your Mikes!” he ordered into his commlink. Then he pinged Lieutenant Sylvia Norquist in the docking bay.
“Norquist, clear away another PSRV and put a good coxswain in it. Don’t launch until I give the order.”
Mikes away, Merderet reported. Seventeen minutes to ground.
“Load a second platoon in pods, Major. That’s our reserve. Here’s your quick brief for the inbound platoon. Priority One, recover surviving members of the landing team. Priority two, secure the landing area with a minimum of friendly casualties. Priority Three, get me a prisoner if you can. The big birds seem to be in charge, so bring me one back—alive.”
Aye, aye, sir, she answered.
When he stopped talking he became aware of the background noise, curses and one person sobbing quietly. Almost everyone looked away from the large monitor feeding the camera views but Sam did not take his eyes off it. For whatever reason, the Desties had not jammed the commlink feeds. As long as the eyes and ears of the six beings down there lived, the ship’s monitors would reproduce it. Boniface’s biorecorder would go on recording and transmitting quite a while longer. As much as he wanted to look away, those were his people and someone should witness their final moments.
“Dr. Däng to the bridge,” he ordered into his commlink. “Bohannon, patch me into the downlink to Chief Wainwright in the landed PSRV.”
“You are live to the Five Boat, sir,” she answered, voice betraying anger more than grief.
“Five Boat, what’s your status?”
Secure for the moment,
sir, the senior chief bosun answered, but there are Desties outside bangin’ on the hatch. Pretty soon they may bring in a cutting torch, or whatever they have to do the job.
“Twenty Mikes are inbound, Chief. We need you operational to haul them out again, so lift off and find a secure LZ within a couple klicks. Better stay low. We don’t know what sort of close air-defense threat we’re facing.”
Sir, if I lift right now, we’re going to toast a bunch of Desties.
Sam watched what the New People were doing on the stone platform that was now slick with his crew’s blood.
“Icing on the cake, Chief.”
Aye, aye, sir.
Sam turned to Lieutenant Alexander in TAC One. The TAC boss stared away to the side, no readable expression on his face other than enormous loss. Of course! Sam had been a blind fool. That’s why Alexander always shot his mouth off in front of Running-Deer: showing off, trying to impress her. Poor, stupid bastard.
“TAC, we’ve got four lasers and a sky full of satellites. Set up a target priority queue. Rank those big guys in high orbit first, all the little stuff that’s pretty much communication relay birds last. Lieutenant, do you hear me?”
Alexander ran his hands over his face, then went to work.
“Yes sir, set up the target queue. Then what?”
“If we get any sign of hostile action against the PSRV or the Mikes, start taking out satellites as fast as you can. Otherwise wait for my order.”
“I think we ought to just open fire, sir,” he said, his voice shaking.
“Noted.”
“Sir,” the sensor tech to Alexander’s right said, “the Five Boat is airborne.”
The bridge crew gave a ragged cheer.
Dr. Däng floated through the bridge hatch and turned to face Sam. Her eyes were wide in shock, her cheeks still wet with tears.
“Dr. Däng, we have a recording of the entire incident. I want you to watch it—”
“What kind of a monster are you? Watch that? Are you insane?”
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