“From the looks of his arms, Bureel and those saurian eyes, I would hazard to say that Nazeera would be free to search for a new mate of her own choosing, and not our father’s,” Nazar told him.
“You dare!”
“Enough! Enough!” Nazeera exclaimed. “I’ll hear no more of this discussion. Bureel, I will not sponsor your request, and since you must have one of the three Triumvirates to sponsor a bill from a lower level of the Assemblage-I doubt if either Karel or Puriezia would go against my wishes-your challenge will go unfulfilled. Without my support, I don’t think your scheme for glory will come to much. Now, I must attend to the Chamber, where the Elder and the Triumvirate will discuss the particulars of this unpleasant situation in detail. I therefore take my leave of you.”
Nazeera turned on her heal, her black tresses whipping behind. The two males bowed as befitting junior members of the Assemblage and left in opposite directions.
#
Alexander settled himself once again in the gloom of his cell, exhausted. The enormous effort of self control and debate that characterized the most important half hour of his life, and possibly of Terran existence, drained him of all energy. He had no illusions as to the import of his actions, and as ill an ambassador as he thought he was Alexander couldn’t afford the luxury of failure. He sat on the metal floor and gathered his thoughts. He won a small victory. The Chem would send him to a prison planet, he couldn’t remember the name, and there test his “mettle.” The situation was turning out to be logical, if not desirous. The Chem wanted to know what they were up against.
His task now, his only task, was to put forward such a powerful image of Humankind that the Chem would have second thoughts on attacking Earth. His personal survival and safety were secondary now. He was an actor assigned to play the role of a Human as he should be, and not necessarily as he was. His only regret was his condition. At thirty-nine he was past the peak of his physical powers. He’d seen too little of the gym or dojo in the last years, and old injuries made themselves more apparent. Still, he told himself, he wasn’t completely without physical ability. At six foot two, two hundred and thirty pounds he was somewhat pared down from his playing days in Minnesota. A black belt in the martial arts could be thanked for his not “ballooning” in weight when injuries forced his premature retirement from football. His short career in the trenches of the NFL, although saddling him with an artificial knee and a suspect back, still endowed him with a commanding physique and a sense of fearlessness in personal combat. In the military he became an expert marksman, and had the benefit of annual survival training.
With his experience and remaining physical powers he’d no doubt he could live off the land of this prison planet. He could handle himself, unless it came down to a test of tooth and claw. In that arena genetics hobbled him, and so it did not warrant his concern.
As he pondered his position Alexander was unaware of the changes that came over him. His entire being centered on his task. The cold of the floor disappeared because it was unimportant. The discomfort of his physical position didn’t reach his brain because it was trivial. Imperceptibly, all that was dominant for survival asserted itself. The brutal endurance and cunning of the primitive Homo sapiens combined with the skill and intelligence of modern man. Without his knowledge, he advanced as a being, even as parts of him regressed to their most primitive. It was the secret to survival for the Human race throughout the millennia, to somehow reach their full potential when nature demanded it. He sat and he thought, waiting with the stamina of newfound patience.
He drifted off to sleep. How much time passed he couldn’t say, but his mind was busy with a swirling avalanche of dreams and thoughts. Finally, he awakened. He was sitting on the edge of a bed—his bed. He felt groggy and disoriented. What was that dream he had? It was like a book. Muttering to himself he got up and went into the bathroom. He relieved himself, brushed his teeth, lathered his face and began to shave. It was then, as he looked at the bathroom in the mirror, that he realized this was his apartment in his Air Force days.
The thought struck him, “I’m not in the Air Force anymore—this must be a dream.”
The bathroom disappeared, and his eyes snapped open. He was still in his cylindrical metal cell, but a panel was open revealing a lighted corridor.
CHAPTER 8: Little Green Men
“Bloody hell, what the devil does this mean?” growled Admiral Sten Augesburcke. He stared incredulously at the message Captain Buckminster gave him. The Captain ordered flank speed, and the acceleration of the “Starship Enterprise” through the Atlantic swells forced the Admiral to steady himself against the rail.
Augesburcke read the message twice, again breaking into swearing heavily laced with his Australian accent, belaying both his temper and his background. Augesburcke was an Australian exchange officer now in his second tour of service with the U.S. Navy. He was so well thought of that the Navy enticed him with the opportunity of a lifetime: the Enterprise battle group.
They were steaming back to Norfolk for a well deserved rest when a classified message from the Pentagon interrupted the ship’s routine. The flush of Augesburcke’s temper reddened the already swarthy features. He ran his hands through his short cropped silver-white hair and pulled at his mustache. None of his aboriginal ancestor’s patience, however, seemed to touch the Admiral at moments of ill or, as in this case, mysterious news. After a third perusal of the message the Admiral demanded, “This was it? They sent nothing else? What kind of order is this?”
“I have no idea, sir,” the Captain reported, adding, “But the orders are quite specific. There’s not much room left for interpretation.”
“None, I would say!” Augesburcke agreed, reading the massage aloud as if to assert to himself it was true. “To all USN vessels—proceed at flank to nearest friendly port. Break formation. Readiness status Alpha. Await further instructions. To Enterprise: B41 will transfer Adm A to new post as CINCCODOTS. Congrats. Urgent, no delay.”
Augesburcke glared at the paper, ignoring the broad context of the message for the moment. “CODOTS, what the blazes is that supposed to mean? I would have sworn we thought up every possible nonsensical abbreviation possible, but this is a new one. And what’s a B41? Is that a ship or a plane?”
“Neither of those designations is in the book, Admiral, and they’re not codes that I know of. We received an alphanumeric code immediately after the clear text confirming the validity of the message. I’ve already ordered all ships to Alpha. All decks are sealed, and we are in the process of moving ammunition from the magazines. Our aircraft will all be loaded and ready to go within the hour. The first fully armed patrol has already been launched. Each ship in the battle group has its orders.”
Augesburcke crossed the bridge and glared down at the deck. The Enterprise anti-submarine helicopters were in the process of launching, and fully armed fighters and bombers were taking their place on the vast armored deck. The “Hornets” rose from the bowels of the ship bristling with needle-like air-to-air missiles, but on some of the aircraft the weapons were fatter, longer, and with larger fins. The latter weapons were not the conventional olive in color, but a dangerous shining white. Augesburcke stared in disbelief.
“My God has it come to this? Why no warning? Is it terrorists or the Russians gone mad? I can’t think of anything but that the balloon’s gone up, John, can you? Why else would we be loading nukes? But this is damn strange. We’re heading to port and not to open sea; we’re splitting up the battle group and ignoring standard submarine defense; we’ve got nukes on our jets and there’s no mention of who or what we’re aiming these things at. Is this for real? Let me see that code!”
The Captain showed him the alpha-numeric message which followed the clear text message already read by the Admiral. Returning to the bridge the two officers decoded it, although it had already been through numerous iterations by the Captain and the bridge officers.
In the end Augesburcke simply swore, “Goddamn i
t, that’s a fine how do you do! Clearance to unlock, arm, and launch, but at who, they haven’t given us any damn targets?”
Augesburcke took out his pipe, lit it and puffed savagely away. After a moment of reflection he left the bridge, Captain in tow, steaming like a freight train. Once outside he leaned over the rail, the wind whipped by at over seventy miles an hour with the “Starship Enterprise’s” speed. A froth of white foam boiled from the “Enterprise,” and her escorts were fading fast towards the horizon.
“Damn strange!”
He puffed savagely at his pipe. The wind tore at the smoke, sending it off over his shoulder and out to sea. The thrill of the big ship’s speed broke the Admiral’s temper, and he suddenly grinned, shouting over the wind, “Look at that, John! She’s still the fastest ship afloat; even the new “Aegis” ships can’t keep up with her when she’s got her steam up! Damn, but it’s good to have this feeling again! John, I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s hot! This is no bluff and bluster. My dad used to say he’d get a bellyful of shrapnel before engagements. I’ve missed my wars, except for chasing these damned 7 century zealots around. Not anymore. This is big; I can feel it.”
“I hope you’re wrong, Sten, but here’s my problem: when I got the initial message I asked our communications people what they’d been listening to. I mean, there’s got to be something going on. They’ve got nothing, absolutely nothing. It’s as if the world communications nets had all gone off the air.”
“How did we get our message then?”
“There was a window of one minute where all of a sudden every military channel worldwide came alive. We called our people, the Russians called theirs, the Brits, etc. Then everything went dead again. Even the French shut up. If it’s radio silence then everyone’s in on it.”
“Well it won’t do any good to worry about what we can’t control; we’ll just have to wait. Maybe this B41 that’s coming to get me will have some answers.”
An hour later, still two thousand miles off the coast of Virginia, a solitary aircraft announced itself on radar. Captain Buckminster informed the Admiral, “It’s your bird, sir and he’s coming in hot. We clocked him at mach three-seven.”
“Hell, I didn’t know we had any carrier plane that went that fast!”
“We don’t, at least as far as I know. The “Hornets” will join up on him as soon as he slows. We’re turning into the wind. I gave orders for the deck officer to bring the pilot to the bridge as soon as he’s aboard.”
“How long will that be?”
“About five minutes,” the Captain said. The two men waited outside, and in a few moments they spied the sleek shapes of the fighters escorting a long angular aircraft half again their size. As the aircraft entered downwind Buckminster called it out, “I’ll be damned, it’s a “Vigilante” with a NASA/DARPA tail flash. I didn’t know there was any still flying.”
“Someone’s in a hurry,” Augesburcke nodded. “Make ready to fuel him as soon as he shuts down. The big guns don’t let their toys out in public without good reason. You may not know it, John, but NASA and DARPA don’t put their flashes on the same bird unless it’s a Dreamland airplane. Area 51 and all that super secret squirrel stuff. Don’t bother getting the pilot out, like as not he’s under orders not to leave the cockpit. Just get me suited up.”
Buckminster did as the Admiral asked, and as the “Vigilante” touched down they came out on the deck to meet it. The flight deck crew expertly released the cable and guided the pilot directly to the port catapult where a fuel line waited for it. The pilot shut down, but only the aft canopy of the aircraft rose. Without hesitation Augesburcke scrambled up the ladder and squeezed into the aft cockpit. The Admiral plugged his communications cord in immediately, asking, “What’s this all about?”
“Just strap in, Admiral, I’ll explain on the way,” a female voice answered.
“We’re just sitting here, and it will take at least a few minutes to get gas. Can’t you give me anything?”
“Admiral, I don’t know the full picture,” the pilot informed him. “There is a briefing file in the back there that you are not to open until we are airborne. I’m afraid that’s all I know. I just drive these things. Now sit tight, whatever’s not in your file will have to wait until we get to New York.”
“New York, why the hell aren’t we going to D.C.? Strike that, you wouldn’t know would you? Well, when will we get there?”
“Less than an hour, sir,” the pilot told him. “You better strap in, Admiral, we’ve got our gas, so we’re out of here!”
“Roger,” Augesburcke answered, motioning to Buckminster, who was on the ladder strapping him in. The Captain raised an ear of his headset and leaned into the cockpit to listen.
“I don’t know what the hell is going on John! They’re bugging me out to New York-who knows why-little green men from Mars are probably trying to take over Wall Street and they need an Aussie who can drink them into negotiating!”
“Drink a few for me then, Sten! I don’t want to hear that some half-pint put you under the table! Good luck!” Buckminster laughed, shaking the Admiral’s hand. He hopped down the ladder to the steel deck, and gave a final wave.
Augesburcke strapped on his Oxygen mask and felt the cool flow of air. His canopy came down, and now he was trapped in the aircraft, like a sausage in a can that was slightly too tight. He fought the feeling of claustrophobia that tightened his gut and made the sweat pop out on his forehead. The “Vigilante” shuddered as the engines started, and the sickly sweet odor of exhaust and jet fuel permeated the cockpit. He switched his mask to “100%” Oxygen, and the all he could smell was rubber and plastic—it was an improvement.
A roaring grew in his ears. The jet rocked violently.
Almost too late he saw the deck officer give the go signal. Augesburcke planted his head against the seat just as the catapult fired. Despite his readiness the acceleration threw him back into the seat. The deck of the ship disappeared and all Augesburcke saw was the bottle green windswept Atlantic. It looked dangerously close, so close the streamers of spray whipped up to grab him. Involuntarily Augesburcke lifted himself in his seat—away from the water. It was a mistake.
The pilot pulled back on the stick. The g-force plastered Augesburcke back into the steel seat. In his dimming vision all the Admiral could see were the thick Atlantic clouds.
The mystery of the file was forgotten. All Augesburcke wanted to do for the next few minutes was to keep his lunch where it belonged. He’d never particularly liked flying, and though he’d logged more “cats” and “traps” than he cared to remember this flight was particularly nasty. The “Vigilante” punched its way through layer after layer of cumulus clouds, bucking the Admiral like he was a doll. The ascent lasted ten interminable minutes. When they finally found smooth air above the clouds, and Augesburcke was about to breathe a sigh of relief, the pilot pushed the nose over. The maneuver allowed the aircraft to accelerate more rapidly, but it sent the Admiral flying against his straps, his stomach rising with him. In a desperate bid to retain his dignity Augesburcke threw the oxygen switch to “Emergency.” Immediately a welcome stream of cold Oxygen splashed his face, and in a few moments he could concentrate on something besides trying not to heave.
With a momentary respite from the nausea Augesburcke tore open the envelope. In the space of a moment every symptom of airsickness was completely gone.
“Mother of God,” he whispered. The document at the top of the stack was the most incredible piece of paper he’d ever seen. The letterhead was from the United Nations Security Council. That was not so unusual; Augesburcke received taskings and status reports from the council before. It was the first line of the communiqué that drew his attention.
“On January 2, two days ago, official contact was made with representatives of the extra-terrestrial Scythian Empire. Contact was initiated by the Scythians after their representatives landed on the front lawn of the United Nations. A Scythian delegation has been
in constant dialogue since first contact with representatives from the Security Council. The purpose for Scythian contact is twofold: a desire to warn the population of Earth (Terra in galactic standard) of possible hostile actions to be taken against our system by another extra-terrestrial empire, the Chem; and the establishment of a mutual defense agreement between our two cultures. Substantial evidence, (contained within this briefing package) exists to substantiate Scythian claims. The United Nations Security Council, working at the behest of the governments of the member nations and in cooperation with civilian and military working groups from member nations, has created the Council of Defense of the Terran System, CODOTS, for implementation of terrestrial policy. This council will be limited in membership to twenty-two representatives of various backgrounds. The membership selected comprises people of civilian, military, political and academic experience from six continents. The CODOTS council is a streamlined working group which shall formulate and implement a plan of action appropriate to our present circumstances. CODOTS shall wield the equivalent of executive planetary authority during the current crisis with the United Nations Security Council acting as a legislative governing body. As Commander in Chief of the CODOTS council, you shall have all the respective powers as commander, manager, etc. All information relevant to this position is contained herein. You will brief the Security Council on your initial impressions of the situation and your plan of attack on arrival at the United Nations. Good Luck.”
Augesburcke let out a long whistling sigh, paging absently through the thick stack of papers behind the cover letter. There were dossiers on the twenty-one other members of the CODOTS council, dozens of photographs of the Scythians, and a file on the Chem. At the back was a photocopy of star fields showing the relative positions of the Scythian Empire, the Chem Empire, and buried in the midst of Scythian space a circled star: the Terran System. He shook his head, thinking of that small circled dot amidst the hundreds upon hundreds of like dots.
Alexander Galaxus: The Complete Alexander Galaxus Trilogy Page 7