A Learning Experience

by Christopher Nuttall

  He looked up as the hatch opened, revealing two humans. It was hard to tell the scrawny bipeds apart, but one of them wore a neural interface, suggesting that he’d been one of the original captives. The thought made him clack his feet against the deck in frustration. It was clear, now, that the Varnar hadn't engineered fighting abilities into their cyborgs. They were natural fighters, even when taken by surprise and transported into an utterly unfamiliar environment.

  The second human took a step backwards as Cn!lss came into view. It was hard – again – to be sure, but the protrusions on the human’s chest suggested a female ... unless the humans were radically different from the other biped races. Not that that meant the female would be subordinate, he reminded himself sharply. There were races where one sex was clearly superior and races where both sexes were equals ... and races where swapping sex was as natural as breathing. For all he knew, he was looking at the Queen of Earth.

  “I greet you,” he said, dropping into the Posture of Respect. Whatever she was, he had a feeling that rudeness to her would not go unpunished. “I am Cn!lss.”

  There was a long pause as the translator worked through his words. “Hi,” the human female said, in return. “I am ...”

  Cn!lss cocked his head, unsurprised, as the translator failed to provide any translation for the alien name. Unlike concepts such as technology, basic names and superstitions were hard to translate, no matter how capable the computers operating the system. Besides, one race’s religion and naming conventions were another race’s source of endless amusement.

  “I would like to examine your body,” the human female said. “Would that be permissible?”

  “Yes,” Cn!lss said. Compared to the torture he’d been expecting, a medical examination wouldn't be too bad. “I would not object at all.”

  ***

  Steve had been reminded – again – of just why he'd fallen in love with Mariko. She'd stopped dead when she’d seen the alien, as if nothing she’d seen up to then had been quite real, and then she’d gone forward and started a conversation. Now, she was poking and prodding at the alien’s body, all the while bombarding him with questions about how his body actually worked. Not all of the answers seemed to make sense, but at least they were learning something.

  “They're egg-layers,” Mariko said, afterwards. They left the alien in the cabin and walked out to a place where they could talk. “And they’re real.”

  “They sure are,” Steve said. “What else did you find out?”

  “He’s quite ignorant of how his body works,” Mariko said. “I’d need a proper laboratory to do more research, but I think he knows almost nothing. It seems odd.”

  “These guys seem to have been kept in ignorance,” Steve muttered. It still seemed absurd to him that the aliens didn't even begin to comprehend the potentials of their own systems, but he had seen human groups with similar levels of ignorance. He straightened up as Mongo and Jayne walked past, the latter looking completely stunned. “Welcome to our new ship.”

  “Thank you,” Jayne stammered. Unlike Mariko, her family had been ranchers for the last two hundred years and had no intention of leaving their land. But that might have changed now, Steve knew. The children, in particular, would be fascinated by the starship ... and the chance to live on the moon. “This is ... this is ...”

  Steve sighed, inwardly. Mariko was adaptable, Jayne ... was not. But it was hard to blame her; she’d grown up in Montana, never gone to college or anything else that might have taken her out of the state and married a man she’d known since they were both children. It was a comfortable marriage, Steve considered, but it wasn't exciting. Or maybe he was completely wrong. Both he and Mongo were gentlemen. They didn't kiss their wives and then compare notes.

  “Something new,” he said. Would Jayne refuse to join them? Would they have to decide what to do about someone who wanted out sooner rather than later? “And it’s one hell of an opportunity.”

  “Yes,” Jayne said. She wrinkled her nose. “It also stinks.”

  Steve watched Mongo lead his wife further into the ship, then nodded to Mariko and led her back towards the teleport compartment. Mariko bombarded him with questions about how the system worked, questions that produced little or no useful data from the interface. It was quite happy to teach them how to teleport into a high security zone – it crossed Steve’s mind that he could simply beam into the White House – but it still wasn't prepared to tell them how the technology actually worked. Steve made a mental note about hiring scientists who might be able to start unlocking its mysteries, then set their destination coordinates as close to Vincent’s home as he dared. Living on the edge of a town, Vincent had far more neighbours than Steve and his family.

  “I wonder,” Mariko said, as she eyed the teleporter, “what happens if we merge with something else that’s already there.”

  Steve queried the interface. “Apparently,” he said after a moment, “the compensators push everything out of the way.”

  He paused, considering it. The system would make one hell of a weapon, if used properly ... or they could simply teleport bombs onto enemy ships. No, somehow he doubted that was possible. If a relatively small terminal could mess up the teleport lock, it was certain that a more advanced race had ways to block teleport signals. They certainly wouldn't share the technology with a band of barbarian scavengers if they didn't have any way to defend against it.

  Mariko held herself very still as Steve joined her on the pad, then sent the signal. The starship faded away around them, to be replaced by the edges of a small farm. Steve glanced around quickly, wondering if they had been seen by one of Vincent’s hired hands, then led the way towards the farmhouse. Mariko followed, her face surprisingly pale. It was clear that she didn't like teleporting, no matter how efficient it was. But Steve suspected she wouldn't be the only one who had her doubts about the system.

  He smiled as he saw Vincent’s small collection of older cars parked in the yard. Vincent could have expanded the farm several times over for what he’d paid for the vehicles, to say nothing of the difficulties he faced in keeping them running. But Vincent had always been a little paranoid about new technology, pointing out – when they’d teased him – just how often it had failed on the battlefield. When the Chinese dropped an EMP bomb on the US, he’d said, they’d be glad of his cars then. And, until then, they were a hobby.

  Poor bastard, Steve thought, as he reached the farmhouse door and knocked. You deserved so much better.

  Vincent’s wife opened the door and peered at them, alarmed. Steve cursed, inwardly; normally, carefully-trained officers were sent to inform wives and families of their death of their husbands and fathers in combat. It was never a duty he'd wanted, nor was it one he’d ever had to do until now. And he didn't know what to say.

  “Ginny,” Mariko said, taking the lead, “can we come in?”

  Ginny paled, but led them into the sitting room. Vincent had decorated half of it with paintings and drawings of vintage cars, Ginny had decorated the other half with paintings of flowers and her family. She was quite a talented artist, Steve had often considered, when she had time to paint. Normally, the life of a farmwife consumed all of her time. He felt an odd lump in his throat when he saw a painting of Vincent himself, then one of Mariko from years ago. There was something almost waiflike in her face that had faded over the years.

  “I'm afraid we have bad news,” Steve said. He hesitated, watching her rapidly paling face. What did one say to a wife who’d just lost her husband? And a wife who would have to help fake the conditions of her husband’s death to avoid attracting attention? “Vincent ...”

  “Is dead,” Ginny finished. She shook, suddenly. “What happened? And why?”

  Steve took a breath and explained everything.

  “Impossible,” Ginny said, when he had finished. She didn't sound as if she believed them. “He can't have died like that, surely.”

  Steve wondered, suddenly, what she was thinking.
He hadn't been as close to Vincent as he was to Mongo, so he had no idea how strong his friend’s marriage had been. Did Ginny think that Vincent had run off with a younger woman and convinced Steve to tell his wife a cock-and-bull story to explain his disappearance? But surely no one would come up with such a story and expect it to be believed?

  “It’s true,” Mariko said. She held out a hand as Ginny started to cry, then wrapped her into a hug. Steve watched, awkwardly, as the two women held each other tightly. Female tears had always embarrassed him. “We’ll take you to see the body.”

  “Yes,” Steve said. He send the instructions through the interface. “Brace yourself.”

  Once again, the world dissolved into silver light.

  Chapter Six

  Virginia, USA

  Kevin parked the car outside the house, then took a long breath. Making contact with potential sources had always been part of his job as an intelligence officer, but it had also been fraught with danger. A source might turn out to be a double-agent or nothing more than bait in a trap. And now, even with the headband hidden under his cap, he couldn't help fearing what would happen if his target took what he said to the government. Bracing himself, he walked up the path and knocked firmly on the front door.

  A middle-aged man opened it, lifting one eyebrow. Kevin felt an odd spurt of hero-worship – he'd grown up reading the man’s books – which he firmly suppressed. There would be time to ask him to autograph his copies later. Instead, he held up the faked ID card and waited for the man to examine it.

  “I’m Kevin, Kevin Stuart,” he said. “We spoke briefly on the phone. Mr. Glass, I presume?”

  Keith Glass nodded, stoking his beard as he studied the card. “That is I,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Stuart?”

  “Just Kevin, please,” Kevin said. “My ... employers have a proposition for you.”

  Glass nodded and turned, leading the way into the house. Kevin followed, keeping his hero-worship under control. Keith Glass had spent ten years in the USN before retiring and starting a new career as an author. His work might not have won any Hugo Awards – they were delightfully politically incorrect – but they had a loyal fan base which grew larger every year. It had crossed Kevin’s mind that recruiting Glass might put a dampener on new novels, yet they needed someone with military experience and a libertarian bent. Glass seemed to fit the bill nicely.

  Once they were in the study – he couldn't help admiring the computer and the massive shelves of books – he opened his briefcase and produced a piece of paper. “I'm afraid we have to ask you to sign this before we can bring you onboard,” he said. “It’s a standard security agreement.”

  Glass ran his eyes down the agreement. “This isn't standard,” he said. “I would be surprised if it was even legal.”

  Kevin shrugged. “Consider it a standard government-issue non-disclosure agreement,” he said. “There are no protective safeguards because there is nowhere else you could acquire the data which will be disclosed to you. Should you break the agreement, for whatever reason, the consequences would be dire.”

  “I see,” Glass said. He placed the contract on the desk and looked up, meeting Kevin’s eyes. “Why should I sign this agreement?”

  “Because this represents an opportunity that will never come your way again,” Kevin said. He’d targeted Glass first because he admired the man’s writing skills ... and his innovative approach to old problems. But there were other science-fiction writers. “This is a chance to join a working group that will have a decisive effect on the world.”

  “I was told that before, back in 2003,” Glass said. “If we had any effect on the world, beyond wasting thousands of valuable trees to print out our reports, I didn't see it.”

  Kevin scowled, inwardly. Glass had other qualifications than just being a writer used to considering the possibilities of space combat. He’d been involved in the Bush Administration’s attempts to light a fire under NASA’s collective hindquarters and get the human race heading back out into space, then a civilian attempt to work with commercial space developers to establish bases on the moon. All of those attempts had failed, killed by bureaucracy and the simple shortage of money. The experience had left all of those involved more than a little bitter.

  “This is different,” Kevin said. He leaned forward, throwing caution to the winds. “I tell you, sir, that this is one opportunity you won’t want to miss.”

  He tapped the agreement. “Should you sign, you will be told the full story,” he continued. “If you don’t want to be involved after that, which I highly doubt, you will be free to go as long as you keep your mouth shut until full public disclosure. After that ... you will spend the rest of your life wishing you’d made a different decision.”

  Glass met his eyes. “Alien contact,” he said. “A crashed UFO?”

  Kevin merely smiled. “Sign the agreement,” he said. “Sign the agreement and all will be revealed.”

  Glass picked up a pen and signed it with a flourish. Kevin took it back, stuck it in his briefcase, and produced a cell phone. Glass eyed it, puzzled.

  Kevin flipped it open, unable to resist. “Scotty,” he said. “Two to beam up.”

  “You have got to be fucking ...”

  The world dissolved into silver light, then reformed.

  “... Kidding me,” Glass finished. “I ...”

  Kevin smiled. “Welcome onboard, Mr. Glass,” he said. “We have a lot to show you.”

  ***

  “It seems to have worked,” Mongo said. “The cops haven’t raised any awkward questions about the accident.”

  Steve smiled, humourlessly. Mariko had used the medical kits on the starship to repair the damage to Vincent’s body, then they’d placed it in one of his old cars and deliberately crashed it off the road. The body had been discovered several metres from the crash site, having been hurled right out of the car and into the ground hard enough to break his neck instantly. With nothing suspicious about the corpse, it would be soon handed back to Ginny and cremated, just to make sure there was nothing left for a later investigation.

  “Glad to hear it,” he said, finally. One day, the world would know that Vincent had been the first casualty of a war that threatened all of humanity. Until then, people wouldn't raise too many different questions. Everyone who’d known him knew about his hobby of driving old cars. “And Ginny herself?”

  “She seems to be coping,” Mongo said. “Jayne’s staying with her at the moment.”

  Steve nodded. Once the wives had been told, they’d brought in the children and a handful of relatives. They’d all agreed to keep the starship a secret, although not all of them had wanted to travel to the moon – or anywhere else, for that matter. Steve had accepted their word, then put the newcomers to work scrubbing the decks. The starship needed to be made safe for human inhabitation.

  He looked up as Keith Glass stumbled into the compartment, a faintly pole-axed expression on his face. Steve smiled at him, then held out a hand and waited. Eventually, the stunned writer noticed and shook it, firmly.

  “Welcome onboard,” Steve said. “Will you be joining us?”

  Glass nodded, frantically. Steve smiled, inwardly. Kevin had been right. What sort of science-fiction writer worthy of the name would refuse such an opportunity?

  “Then let me tell you what we have in mind,” Steve said. “Kevin, are you ready to proceed with stage two?”

  “I think so,” Kevin said. “There shouldn't be any unexpected surprises.”

  “Keep a teleport lock on you at all times,” Steve warned. “But try not to hit the panic button unless there is no choice.”

  Kevin nodded and left the compartment. “We're planning to found our own nation,” Steve said, turning back to Glass. “Are you willing to help us?”

  ***

  The Ashcroft Residential Home was, in Kevin’s droll opinion, a testament to the failure of the country to stick up for its wounded veterans. Some had been able to get the best o
f medical care, others had had no families or friends willing to assist them in overcoming their conditions and returning to civilian life. Kevin felt a chill run down his spine as he walked up to the doorway and stepped into the lobby. If he'd been wounded in combat – or Steve or Mongo – he might well have wound up in a similar place.

  No, he corrected himself. Steve and Mongo would never leave me here.

  The receptionist – a pretty black woman – looked up at him and smiled. “Can I ask your business?”

  “I'm here to see Edward Romford,” Kevin said. “It's concerning a possible placement for him in the outside world.”

  “I see,” the receptionist said. “I’ll have to ask you to fill out these forms.”

  Kevin sighed – there were four pages to fill in – and cursed the bureaucracy under his breath. He'd never had to rely on the VA for anything, but he’d heard horror stories about wounded ex-soldiers struggling with the paperwork or being penalised for simple mistakes that would have gone unnoticed in a more decent era. Patiently, he filled them in with his cover story and handed them back to the receptionist, who didn't even bother to look at them. Instead, she pointed him towards one of the gardens and waved goodbye.