Alien Secrets

by Ian Douglas

  Hunter held up a hand. “Okay, okay. What about life?”

  “That is not my department,” Vanover said, a bit stiffly. “I can say that the surface appears rocky with extensive glaciation, but no oceans as we would know them. There are some extensive ice sheets, however.”

  “And what about this colony or base or whatever?”

  “Again, Commander, not my department. However . . .”

  He pressed a key, and a red point of light appeared on the image, on the night side, just below the equator. “We have found a significant point source of infrared. Heat, in other words. If someone is living down there, this would be the place to look.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been a big help.”

  But he said that just to be polite. None of what Vanover had had to say seemed at all useful. The team would be going in wearing armored suits, so temperature, atmosphere, and pressure weren’t considerations. They wouldn’t be down there long enough to worry about planetary rotation. The only piece of data of potential use was the location of that IR source, and he imagined that they would have spotted that on the way in. In his mind, he’d already discounted most of Vanover’s information.

  The aliens were . . . terrifying.

  So far, they’d not harmed Duvall or Bucknell, hadn’t even attempted to communicate. Duvall’s cheerful “Hi, there” had been ignored; the looming, massive creature had simply grasped both humans with muscular tentacles that splayed out from behind the head like the petals of a flower and carried them through endless, dark compartments to a small and featureless room. There was no furniture, no toilet facilities, no food or water, nothing but featureless gray metal. Sensors on Duvall’s flight suit threw an environmental report up on the tiny HUD inside his helmet—temperature minus thirty Celsius, atmosphere a poisonous mix of nitrogen, carbon dioxide, methane, hydrogen, and traces of hydrogen sulfide. Their helmets didn’t have chow locks, so they wouldn’t have been able to eat or drink in any case. Removing their helmets was not an option.

  The fact that they’d not been harmed should have been reassuring, Duvall supposed, but the lack of communication combined with the aliens’ utter lack of any emotion that Duvall could see, made them Unknowns with a capital U, and the Unknown is always terrifying. Besides, they commanded technologies unlike anything he’d seen before. One instant, they’d been inside the cockpit of their TR-3R; in the next, they’d been in that vast open space where they’d first seen their captors. Teleportation, then, and that suggested a command of physics, mathematics, and space-time transcending anything he could imagine.

  And that, for Duvall, was truly terrifying.

  “Double-D . . .” Bucknell said softly over their radio link. She sagged. “David . . .”

  “What is it, Bucky?”

  “I can’t get them out of my head!”

  In the CIC, the Guardian was still delivering what Groton could only think of as an extended harangue, its language gradually becoming more intelligible as computer programs slowly made sense of it. “He has a lot to say for himself, doesn’t he?” he told Vashnu.

  “Perhaps it simply enjoys the sound of its own ranting,” Vashnu replied. “It’s possible that the K’kurix are artificial life-forms created for one, specific purpose . . . that of protecting the Dreamer population.”

  “How? By talking us to death?” Groton shook his head. “I’m not sure I’d care to commit my survival to organisms created by my own technology. What if it turned out I’d made a mistake?”

  “That would be no worse, in principle, than leaving your survival to an organism evolved over millions of years by the fits and starts of natural selection and random mutation.”

  “Point. Anyway, the whole idea of curling up for a billion-year nap while someone else watches over me makes my skin crawl. I . . . Uh-oh. What’s that?”

  On an external view, a minute point of light was emerging from the rock face of the alien ship. “It’s Alfa!” Haines said. “They’ve released Alfa!”

  “Okay. Maybe they’ve decided to trust us. CAG! Take them aboard!”

  “Bringing them in, Skipper.”

  Minutes passed. On the big screen, the K’kurix had—finally—fallen silent, and appeared to be simply waiting. Its expression was impossible to read. Was it angry? Groton wondered. Irritated? Impatient? Bored? Or were such human emotional states meaningless to a truly alien organism?

  More time passed, and then Captain Macmillan over the intercom reported that both TR-3R Alfa and Bravo were safely on board, their crews shaken but unhurt.

  “Take us clear of the alien, Lieutenant Briem.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” And on an external viewscreen, the crinkled black surface of the asteroid ship slid to one side, replaced a moment later by the bright glare of the local sun. “We’re clear to maneuver, Captain.”

  “Admiral? We’re about to shift toward the planet. Please inform the Inman.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Ms. Briem? Accelerate. Take us to Zeta 2c.”

  Their encounter with the Xaxki had taken place some eight astronomical units from the star; the planet now identified as Zeta 2c was nearly 3 AUs from Hillenkoetter’s position. That translated as twenty-four light minutes—actually closer to twenty-five. At 90 percent of the speed of light, they would cover that distance in twenty-seven and a half minutes.

  However, moving that swiftly, time dilation became a significant factor as well, with time slowing dramatically as the ship approached c. For the people on board the Hillenkoetter, only twelve minutes passed.

  And so, twelve minutes subjective after maneuvering clear of the Xaxki ship, the Hillenkoetter and the escorting Inman decelerated sharply and slid into orbit around a dim and rocky planet, with clouds marking the sweep and swirl of huge storms, and sheets of ice covering large stretches of what otherwise appeared to be barren desert. Much of the surface was orange and brown, though there were ragged black patches that might be basaltic lava flows. There was no sign of life or habitation, but that lone spot of infrared radiation marked the one possible place in two hundred million square miles where technological life might be hiding.

  Groton joined a small gathering of Hillenkoetter’s science people in the briefing lounge off the bridge. Brody was there, as well as Carter, Vanover, and McClure. The big screen on one bulkhead showed the planet below.

  It didn’t look very inviting.

  “We’ve decided to name the planet ‘Serpo,’” Simone Carter told him. “I suppose it’s easier than ‘Zeta Reticuli 2c.’”

  “Rubbish,” Vanover said. “The conventions established by the International Astronomical Union—”

  “Are of very little importance out here,” Groton said, cutting the man off. For Groton, the convention of naming new planets in the order of their discovery, with letters of the alphabet that were also used to identify the separate components of double stars and told you nothing about where they were in a star system, was worse than useless.

  But then, he still disliked the IAU for demoting Pluto from planetary status a few years ago. Not because Pluto should be a planet in its own right, but for reasons—like “clearing out its own orbit”—that were completely bogus. By that reasoning, Jupiter—hell, even Earth—were not true planets, since there was plenty of asteroidal debris still within the orbits of both.

  “So, Serpo it is,” he said. “At least until it’s confirmed back home. Any sign of our diplomats?”

  “Not a trace,” Brody said.

  “So what’s causing the infrared glow?”

  “It appears to be a city, Captain,” Carter said. “It’s protected by a kinetic field. And we’re reading energy pulses around the perimeter.”

  “Energy pulses? From power generation?”

  “No, sir. From an ongoing attack.”

  The JSST was descending to the planet in three TR-3B transports. Hunter had demanded it. For one thing, if one or even two transports were disabled down there, the entire team co
uld be lifted back to the Big-H on the remaining ship.

  Besides, there was a chance that they would be evacuating somebody—or something—from the surface. According to the Guardian, humans had tried to colonize the world, and the Guardians wanted the intruders gone. Hunter didn’t know how many people were supposed to be down there, but each shuttle had a carrying capacity of one hundred fifty people. That would make a good start.

  Hunter sat in one of the padded seats with fifteen other team members, and felt the jolt and shudder as the craft began to enter atmosphere. With gravitic control, they didn’t have to worry about a traditional fiery reentry, but they were moving fast and the thickening air outside seemed like water. The cabin’s forward projection screen showed dense, dark clouds illuminated by the transport’s lights. They were coming down on the night side. It looked like it might be raining down there.

  But raining what? The temperature was well below zero, so it wouldn’t be water.

  Alfa Platoon was fully suited up for their insertion. Hunter was just glad they were making their insertion by aircraft—not quite by helicopter, but close enough—and not parachuting into alien and possibly hostile terrain in high wind and an uncertain surface. There was little chatter on the way down. Each person in the platoon seemed isolated by their suits, and alone with their thoughts.

  Minkowski, in a seat several places to Hunter’s right, finally broke the silence. “What do you think we’re gonna find down there, Skipper?”

  “Somebody in trouble is all I know, Mink.”

  “Yeah . . . but Nazis?”

  He grinned. “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that.”

  Hunter had heard the rumors and scuttlebutt, just like everyone in the team. Nazis fleeing the collapse of the Third Reich had built flying saucers with alien assistance and gone to the Moon . . . or to the stars. There’d been no sign of Nazi bases on the Moon, he’d been told . . . and there was no evidence that they’d gone to the stars either.

  Not unless you counted that floating bit of wreckage out at Aldebaran.

  No, the only rumor connected with Serpo was that wild-assed one about a secret diplomatic exchange or mission back in the 1960s, and that seemed increasingly unlikely. The Xaxki controlled this system from their myriad asteroid biomes around the inner edge of the debris field disk. Wherever the Grays or the Saurians actually came from, it wasn’t Zeta Reticuli.

  “We have the LZ in sight, Commander.” That was the voice of Marine captain Philip Merton, the transport’s pilot up in the cockpit, coming in over Hunter’s helmet speakers. “Three minutes!”

  “Roger that. Thanks for the ride.”

  “Don’t mention it, Commander. We’re ready to drop the ramp as soon as we touch down.”

  Hunter stood up. “Alfa Platoon!” he called. “On your feet! Center yourselves on the hatch!”

  The TR-3B had a ramp lowered from the keel, with the exit contained by a small airlock. Sixteen men in space suits and carrying weapons fit into the lock with a lot of crowding. It would have made sense to go out in two groups, perhaps . . . but Hunter had already decided that he wanted the maximum firepower on the ground in the minimum time. They could put up with being jammed in like sardines for a few minutes, at least.

  He couldn’t see the monitor from down here, and gravitics abolished the surge of deceleration, but he felt the deck shift as the ship struggled to cope with a sharp turn.

  And then they were down and the hatch was descending beneath them.

  The outside atmosphere blasted into the small lock, a hard gust of wind that splattered them all with some oily liquid . . . whatever it was that passed for water on this ice ball. “Go!” Hunter yelled. “Go! Go! Go!”

  The platoon went.

  As soon as they all were outside, the TR-3B dusted off, lifting into a rain-filled night-dark sky swirling with clouds and bits of particulate matter, its landing lights a bright smear through the thick, low clouds. The light faded, and the team was down and surrounded by night, the only light coming from the lamps on their helmets. The wind was a hard, shuddering force clawing at the team, as rain sprayed sideways out of the dark.

  “Tactical Command,” Hunter called. “We’re on the ground.”

  “Copy you down, Just One. The shield should be just in front of you.”

  By the book, perhaps, Hunter should have been back on board the Hillenkoetter, in TaCom with Powell and McClure monitoring the op from the technological high ground. In fact, though, he was a tactical combat leader, and for Hunter that meant leading his people, not watching from the rear. He gestured—a silent hand signal that would register on the IR displays of the team’s helmets—and moved toward the shield.

  Lightning flared, or, rather, an energy burst very much like lightning. It exploded twenty meters off the ground and ahead of them, the flash illuminating the rocks in stark contrast to the surrounding night, the bang immediate and deep throated.

  “TaCom, Just One,” he called. “Who’s doing the shooting? I thought the Xaxki wanted us to evacuate these people!”

  “Just One, TaCom,” Powell’s voice replied. “The Guardian knows you’re down there. He should have ordered a cease-fire.”

  “Have Vashnu talk to him again!” Another flash and bang cracked above the rocky landscape. “Somebody down here didn’t get the word!”

  “Hey, Skipper!” Master Sergeant Briggs called over the platoon’s comm channel. He was well up ahead, reconnoitering along the base of the magnetic shield. “Eyes on!”

  Meaning he’d seen someone—hostile or friendly was as yet unknown. Hunter hurried forward over rugged terrain, which was beginning to rise steeply. “Whatcha got?”

  The Air Force master sergeant pointed. Just visible in the gloom at the very edge of their suit lights was a small figure. It was wearing a suit with an overlarge and completely opaque helmet, but the humanoid shape and the general details were clear enough.

  It was a Gray or a Saurian. It had to be.

  Taking an enormous chance, Hunter stood very slowly, holding up his splayed-open hand. If these critters decided to shoot first and question later . . .

  But the alien repeated the gesture. Contact established.

  Now all they needed was a way in . . .

  “The shield’s down!” Lieutenant Bader called.

  “Brunelli! You and Coulter cover us! The rest of you . . . double-time!”

  The platoon surged forward, scrambling up the steep slope to cross the perimeter where the screen had been established. Brunelli and Coulter crouched just outside the perimeter, weapons at the ready.

  “Okay, you two!” Hunter yelled. “C’mon inside!”

  But in that moment, a bolt of white fire caught Brunelli and knocked him down . . . and suddenly the night outside the perimeter was filled with alien, nightmare shapes squirming and jostling and slithering up the slope.

  “Fire!” Hunter screamed. “Commence fire!”

  A fusillade of laser fire snapped and hissed down the slope, catching a number of the shapes and slapping them down. Too late, Hunter remembered McClure’s admonition to get permission to fire. There’d been no time for that, no time to even think as the creatures surged up out of the icy ground. Had they been there all along, unseen? Their dark gray carapaces provided perfect camouflage for that dark, basaltic terrain.

  He’d seen image captures of the Xaxki—massive and tentacled—but these creatures weren’t anything like that at all. They were low to the ground and as big as Volkswagens, with rounded, humped backs and segmented armor. Jointed legs, too many of them, were visible on the things’ undersides, and their heads were featureless, flattened bullets encased in high-tech masks and held inches from the ground. Hunter honestly couldn’t tell if he was seeing the actual creature, or massively heavy combat armor of some kind.

  It didn’t really matter—they were trying to kill JSST, and that meant they had to go.

  Lightning snapped from devices gripped in some of those legs; they
had to rear up a bit to fire, and that gave the JSST opportunities to target the less-well-armored underbelly.

  The things were slow, but they were relentless and they were tough. Shot after shot was necessary to take one out, and several now were inside the perimeter.

  The Gray was there beside them, holding up a small box that strobed like a camera flash, and one of the armored creatures below exploded under the being’s fire. The JSST was beginning to get into the rhythm of the battle as well, holding their fire until a creature reared up to shoot . . . and taking it down.

  Where were Coulter and Brunelli? A dense fog was enveloping the battle area—steam, or some other vapor released by the heat of lasers. Hunter began to work his way back down the slope, looking for the two.

  There! Coulter was on his feet, with Brunelli slung across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Hunter reached Coulter’s side in a bound and helped him struggle into the perimeter.

  Only then did the Gray touch something on its suit, and then the attackers’ fire began flashing and popping up the side of an invisible barrier. Two of them had been caught inside the defensive field; both were cut down by the JSST. Other JSST troops had found that laser beams penetrated the field without a problem, and they continued pouring concentrated fire into the seething mass of attackers.

  “Magnetic screens are up again, Skipper!” Bader called.

  And the attackers were already fading back into the encircling darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For many years I have lived with a secret, in a secrecy imposed on all specialists in astronautics. I can now reveal that every day, in the USA, our radar instruments capture objects of form and composition unknown to us. And there are thousands of witness reports and a quantity of documents to prove this, but nobody wants to make them public. Why? Because authority is afraid that people may think of God knows what kind of horrible invaders. So the password still is: We have to avoid panic by all means.