Second Contact

by Mike Resnick

  “And your exec backed you up?”

  Jennings shook his head. “No. I gather he freed Gillette a few hours later.”

  Becker paused, considering his next question. “If I choose not to believe your story, will you think that I am an alien?”

  “No.”

  “Or that I'm in collusion with them?”

  “No,” said Jennings. “You have only my word and my observations, and I realize how far-fetched they must sound.” He paused again. “But,” he continued, “if you had had the opportunity to examine the bodies of Greenberg and Provost, and then you doubted my story, I would have to conclude that yes, you were in collusion with them.”

  Becker leaned back in his chair, made a frustrated gesture with his hands, and sighed deeply.

  “Do you really want to go into court with that story?”

  “It's the truth,” said Jennings. “I know it sounds bizarre, but—”

  “Bizarre isn't the word for it,” interrupted Becker. “Frankly, it's the most indefensible piece of paranoia I've ever heard—and I'm on your side. I hate to think of what Magnussen is going to do with it.” He looked across the small room at Jennings. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather plead insanity?”

  “I'm sure.”

  “I was afraid you'd say that,” said Becker. “All right,” he added with a shrug of defeat, “if that's your story, we'll just have to work with it—for the moment, anyway. Had either Greenberg or Provost ever served under you prior to the voyage in question?”

  “No.”

  “What about the doctor—Gillette?”

  “No.” Jennings shifted his weight on the edge of the bed. “Excuse me, major, but...”

  “Yes?”

  “What if I were to submit to a lie detector?”

  “It's not acceptable evidence.”

  Jennings shook his head. “I don't mean for the court. I mean to convince you that I'm telling the truth.”

  “It wouldn't make a bit of difference,” replied Becker bluntly. “If you're crazy, you'll pass with flying colors.”

  Jennings smiled wryly. “Yes, I see your point.”

  “Did you mention your suspicions to anyone else aboard the Roosevelt before you killed Provost and Greenberg?”

  “When I first began suspecting the truth, I skirted the subject with a couple of my officers. I never addressed it outright.”

  “Why not?”

  “They would have thought I was crazy,” replied Jennings.

  “The prosecution has three psychiatrists who are willing to swear to it.”

  “Only three?” said Jennings, surprised. “I must have convinced one of them.”

  “The fourth one is undecided. He won't do us a bit of good.” Becker paused. “Let me ask you once more: are you sure you wouldn't rather plead temporary insanity?”

  “I'm not crazy!” snapped Jennings. “And more to the point, I must alert our military to the fact that we have been infiltrated and are at hazard. They've taken away my command and denied me access to the press, so the only way I can do so is in court.”

  “There's no way you're going to convince the court that two of your crew members were aliens when 237 other crew members plus the examining medical officer will swear they weren't. If you plead insanity, you'll be given treatment at government expense, and you'll keep your commission and your pension.”

  “And if I convince them I'm sane?”

  “Then they'll try to figure out what kind of grudge you had against Greenberg and Provost, find you guilty of premeditated murder, and put you in front of a firing squad.”

  “They were aliens,” said Jennings stubbornly.

  “The court will buy murder before it'll buy aliens,” replied Becker. “Believe me.”

  “I know what they were, and I performed the proper action in my capacity as commander of the Theodore Roosevelt,” said Jennings adamantly. “Moreover, it is essential to our security that I convince my colleagues that I am correct; if there were three of them on my ship, God knows how many of them have infiltrated the entire military establishment.” He turned to Becker. “Now, are you going to defend me on a plea of not guilty or aren't you?”

  “I really don't know how to go about it,” admitted Becker truthfully. “I'll talk to your medical officer, but he's going to tell me he examined two perfectly normal human bodies. He's already signed a statement to that effect, and the medical log shows nothing out of the ordinary. I can't bring in any defense witnesses who might corroborate your observations, because you never discussed it with anyone else. There's simply no way I can build a cogent defense based on the premise that you killed two alien beings who were masquerading as humans.” Becker's expression reflected his frustration. “Even if they were aliens, how did they pass for human? Why didn't the medical staff spot them? How did they get aboard the Roosevelt in the first place? Each of them had served on other deep space missions; why weren't they spotted before? If they were deep cover agents, when was the switch made? Who knew about it? Who authorized it? Why didn't their friends and families report it? How did they learn the language?” He shook his head. “The more questions they ask, the more implausible your story's going to become.”

  “I don't have any of the answers,” said Jennings grimly. “I'm a military man. I saw a military problem. I solved it in a military manner. I'm willing to be tried by my peers.”

  “The men who will sit in judgment on this case aren't your peers,” said Becker.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your peers, if you have any, believe that aliens look exactly like human beings and can avoid being spotted by their crewmates during four months of close daily contact in deep space.” Becker stared at him. “There is a strong possibility that you may not have a peer in the whole world. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I have a feeling that the quickest way to lose your case would be to put you on the stand. They'd have you wrapped up in a straitjacket five minutes into the cross-examination.”

  “You must put me on the stand! It's the only way I can explain my actions and warn the world about what's happening!”

  “Not smart,” answered Becker. “I've worked with Jim Magnussen before. He's as good as they get at breaking down a witness’ credibility.”

  “I don't care!” said Jennings. “I'm pleading not guilty, and I insist that you place me on the stand to defend myself.”

  “That's your final word on the subject?”

  “It is.”

  Becker sighed and got slowly to his feet. He extended his hand, which Jennings ignored.

  “Thank you, Commander Jennings,” he said formally. “It's possible that I may have to consult with you again.”

  “Just remember what I said,” replied Jennings.

  Becker walked to the door, which slid back to allow him to pass through, then quickly closed behind him.

  * * * *

  Three hours later Becker was in the general's office, standing at attention.

  “Out of the question,” said the general irritably.

  “But, sir...”

  “You heard me, major. You're the man we selected, and you're the man we're going with. You didn't volunteer for this case, and there's no way you're going to volunteer off of it.”

  “Sir, I simply cannot prepare a competent defense given the restrictions that Commander Jennings has placed on me.”

  “Could anyone else?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Well, until you do know, you're his attorney.”

  “Have you read any of the notes on the case, sir?” continued Becker.

  “I'm acquainted with it, yes.”

  Becker paused for a moment. “Commander Jennings wants to plead not guilty.”

  The general frowned. “We'd prefer a plea of temporary insanity.”

  “You'll get a verdict of insanity,” Becker assured him. “He insists that I put him on the stand.”

  “Oh?” The general drummed his fingers on the desk. “T
hat would be most unwise. The press would have a field day with his story.”

  “If I don't do it, my guess is that he'll fire me and defend himself.”

  “We won't permit that. He must have counsel, whether he desires it or not. And you must prevent him from embarrassing the service.”

  “He's already killed two members of his crew,” said Becker. “How much more embarrassing can it get?”

  “I don't want that ridiculous story about aliens coming out,” said the general firmly. “If it sees print, do you know how many nut cases will shoot their neighbors on the assumption that they're aliens?”

  “Why not just close the trial to the press?”

  “We've already invited them to cover it. If we reverse ourselves at this late date, they'll be sure we're covering something up.”

  “Sir,” said Becker, finally relaxing his posture, “the problem still remains: whether Jennings takes the stand or not, how can I present a case for not guilty without his story about aliens coming out?”

  “Then don't allow him to plead not guilty.”

  “There's no way I can prevent it, sir. If I get up in court and say that he agrees to a plea of insanity and he corrects me, they'll remove me and postpone the trial until he gets a lawyer who will do what he wants. I'm simply suggesting that you get that lawyer now and save a lot of time and trouble.” Becker paused for breath. “You know he's crazy, Jim Magnussen knows he's crazy, and now that I've talked to him I know he's crazy. Why not take me off the case and at least give him a lawyer who thinks he's sane?”

  “Find me one and I'll consider it.”

  “I've been trying all afternoon,” admitted Becker wryly. “No one wants any part of this defense.”

  “Who gave you permission to find a replacement?” demanded the general. “You're the defense attorney.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then perhaps you'd better start preparing his defense.”

  “I won't be able to shut him up, sir.”

  “Then go through the motions of trying to prove his case. When you show him that it's hopeless, maybe then he'll agree to an insanity plea.”

  “I doubt it,” said Becker. “Couldn't you—”

  “That will be all, major.”

  Becker stared at the general, started to say something, changed his mind, saluted, and walked out of the office. At least, he reflected wearily, the whole damned trial ought to take less than half a day ... and it was probably worth a little public humiliation if he could salvage at least part of his furlough.

  3.

  “What happened?” asked Magnussen as Becker entered his office the next morning. “I thought you were stopping by for a drink last night?”

  “Problems,” muttered Becker, flopping down on an empty chair.

  “Women?”

  “I should be so lucky.”

  “Well, then?” asked Magnussen.

  “Jennings,” said Becker. “And I'll have that drink now.”

  “Now? It's ten o'clock in the morning.”

  “Better late than never,” said Becker.

  Magnussen stared at him for a moment, then shrugged, got to his feet, walked to a chrome cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of vodka. “You want a little tomato or orange juice with it?”

  “Whatever you've got.”

  “Whatever you want,” responded Magnussen.

  “What I want is a drink. With coloring, without coloring, it makes no difference.”

  “Just a minute,” said Magnussen, opening a container of tomato juice and mixing up a Bloody Mary. “I can't stand to watch anyone drinking straight vodka this early in the day.” He walked over to Becker, handed him the glass, and returned to his desk.

  “Thanks,” said Becker, downing the drink in a single swallow. “I never thought I'd say ‘I needed that'—but by God, I needed that!”

  “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  Becker nodded. “That's what I'm here for.” He fell silent again.

  “Well?”

  “You're about to become a national hero,” said Becker. “When this trial is over, they're going to ghostwrite your autobiography and make you into a video series.”

  “I'm gratified, of course,” said Magnussen sardonically, “but what the hell are you talking about?”

  “He's pleading innocent.”

  “You're kidding!”

  “Do I look like a comedian?”

  “I don't believe it!” said Magnussen.

  “If that strains your credibility, you're gonna love his defense,” said Becker wryly.

  “Are you willing to tell me what it is?” asked Magnussen seriously.

  “Why not?” replied Becker. “Before I do, I want you to know that I tried to quit the case yesterday. The general won't let me off the hook.”

  “It's that flimsy a defense?”

  “It's so flimsy that I spent half the night pulling every string I could to get myself reassigned.”

  “Unsuccessfully, I presume?”

  “Unsuccessfully.”

  “I suppose I should ask what you did with the other half of your night?”

  “Nothing. I spent it reading his diary or journal or whatever he wants to call it.” Becker paused. “All you have to do is sit back and watch me make a fool of myself.”

  “The Devil made him do it?” suggested Magnussen.

  “The Devil's big and red; these guys were probably little and green.”

  “I don't think I follow you.”

  “Greenberg and Provost were aliens, and he was protecting his crew by killing them.”

  “Aliens? He never mentioned aliens in his deposition.”

  Becker stared at him. “You're sure?”

  “Of course I'm sure.”

  “Then why does the general know about it?”

  “Jennings is under constant surveillance; Security probably told the general what he said to you.”

  “Well, now Jennings wants to tell it to the world.”

  Magnussen started chuckling. “I can't wait to see you try to convince the court that the Roosevelt was infested by men from Mars.”

  “Thanks for your sympathy,” said Becker.

  “I can't help it!” laughed Magnussen. “Aliens! Have you seen the medical reports?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm dying to hear you get up in court and explain how aliens wound up with fingerprints identical to Greenberg and Provost!”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “God, what I'd give to get him on the stand!”

  “How much would you give?” asked Becker.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Magnussen, confused.

  “Ten bucks and he's yours,” said Becker, holding out his hand.

  “You're not serious!” said Magnussen incredulously. “You're going to let him testify?”

  “Let's say, rather, that I can't stop him.”

  “This is too good to be true! Jesus, Max, give me six months to set up my practice and you can come in as a partner. I'll owe you that much.”

  “I may not be able to wait six months once this fiasco is over.”

  “I can't believe it!” continued Magnussen. “He's actually going to testify that he thought he was killing aliens?”

  “Right,” said Becker. “Now, if you can control your elation for a minute, I've got a serious question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What do we do about it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he pleads innocent, all they can do is convict or acquit,” said Becker. “If they convict, he's going to get the death sentence. You and I both know he's as crazy as a loon—so how do we save him from the firing squad and get him committed to an asylum?”

  “It shouldn't be a problem. As prosecutor, I can request a commutation of sentence and ask that he be remanded to the proper facility for psychiatric treatment.”

  “Are you sure there'll be enough time?” asked Becker. “The court is going
to be under considerable pressure to execute him immediately.”

  “Nonsense,” said Magnussen. “Once his story gets out, everyone will know he's crazy.”

  “I hope so,” said Becker. “In the meantime, I still hope I can get him to change his mind.”

  “About what?”

  “About pleading insanity.”

  “How do you convince a crazy man that he's crazy?” asked Magnussen with a smile.

  “I try to put together a case for not guilty, reporting back to him every step of the way, and when he sees that it'll be laughed out of court, maybe he'll opt for free medical treatment and a pension.”

  “And if he doesn't?”

  “Then I go to court and try to convince you that we've been infiltrated by aliens who look and sound exactly like men.”

  “I'll look forward to it.”

  “Personally, I'd rather have my teeth drilled.”

  * * * *

  By noon, Becker had been on the vidphone to Cornell, Stanford, and the University of Chicago. Cornell and Stanford thought the odds against an alien being able to pass for a human were in the neighborhood of five billion to one. The University of Chicago thought the odds were so high that they couldn't be computed.

  He had a quick lunch, then returned to Bethesda, where he requested copies of the autopsy reports on Greenberg and Provost.

  The Department of Forensic Medicine kept him waiting in the outer office for an hour, then transferred him to the Public Information Division. He spent another twenty minutes there, then was sent to the Pathology Laboratory, which wasn't expecting him, didn't quite know what to do with him, and finally sent him to see Juan Maria Greco, a tall, dark, ascetic civilian who was in charge of all problems that couldn't be handled at a lower level.

  “Major Becker, is it?” he asked when Becker entered his plush, elegant office.

  “Right.”

  “Won't you please have a seat, Major?” said Greco. “Can my secretary bring you anything to drink?”

  Becker shook his head. “I've spent the past three hours trying to get my hands on the autopsy reports for Greenberg and Provost. If you'll just give me copies of them, I'll be on my way.”

  “Copies of the autopsy reports?”