by John Ringo
"They don't seem too freaked out by our armor," Bill said. "Or the ship."
"She's working on that," Miller replied. "They've apparently got a legend about flying ships. They also have a legend that flying ships are good but when they arrive, the 'Demons' return. We're not sure what the Demons are or why they're associated with the flying ships. But the association seems to be that the Demons don't come from the flying ships, they're just a result of them. Basically, they're saying we're welcome for a bit but then we need to leave."
"Interesting," Bill said. "There's a crate of trade goods coming down from the ship in payment for our stay. Tell Miss Moon to pass on that we're going to be here just long enough to look around, then we're leaving."
"She already did," Miller said. "Anything else, Obi Wan?"
"No," Bill said, chuckling. "There's enough security down that I'm headed back to the ship. I guess we won't be sharing any syrup any time soon."
"Yeah, get that cycled through to me, will you?" Miller replied. "But, what the hell, when I'm stuck in quarantine at least I've got cute company."
* * *
"Is it just me or does this place really make you want to pop your armor?" Guppy asked.
"There with you, pard," Chuckie said. "This is sweet. I mean, the grass looks like grass if you know what I mean."
"Just because it looks like grass, it doesn't mean it won't kill you," Staff Sergeant Driscoll said. "Keep the chatter down and keep an eye on your sectors."
"Staff Sergeant, with all due respect," Chuckie said formally, "we are watching our sectors. There is not apparent reason to maintain radio silence and there is no other way to pass the time than talking."
"And I gave you an order, PFC," the staff sergeant said. "Are you questioning my orders under combat conditions?"
"No, Staff Sergeant," the former RTO said.
"Then shut up."
"Hey, Dris," Sergeant Jaenisch said, walking over. "See anything?"
"You will refer to me as Staff Sergeant Driscoll, Sergeant Jaenisch," Driscoll said. "And if we had observed any movement we would have reported it."
"Okay, Staff Sergeant Driscoll," Jaen replied. "Excuse me for asking. I was just wondering, though, if you'd detected any neenion emissions."
"Neenions?" Driscoll said.
"A tertiary quark junction," Jaen said, sighing. "You have read the manual on neenions, right? Because they can cause failure of your quantum subprocessors. We were getting some neenion twitches from your direction. All your suits are a hundred percent, right?"
"I haven't gotten any red lights," Staff Sergeant Driscoll said.
"Okay, but keep an eye out for neenions," Jaenisch said seriously. "You might want Lurch to check your systems when we get back."
"Thanks for the heads up, Sergeant," Driscoll said.
"No prob."
* * *
Chuckie cut his transmitter and walked over to Guppy, leaning his armor into the lance corporal's. By making contact between two sets of armor it was possible, barely, to communicate.
"What the grapp is a neenion?" Chuckie yelled.
"There isn't any such thing as a neenion!" Guppy yelled back.
"Thought so!"
"PFC Seeley, get back into position!"
"Sorry, Staff Sergeant," Seeley replied, quickly turning his transmitter back on. "I was doing a neenion check on Lance Corporal Golupski's armor!"
"Oh."
* * *
"Well, while slightly out of sequence I would say that that was a successful mission," the CO said to the after-actions group.
The ship was back in orbit, having suffered no casualties and gathered reams of data. They'd also bought one of the flying boards, which was now carefully tucked away. Where the natives had gotten them was still a mystery, but the leader had been more than willing to give one up in return for a crate of steel hatchets and machetes. He'd tried to hold out for one of the M-10s until Miriam got across to him that the "magic" was strictly limited and he wouldn't be able to recreate it.
"We picked up a mass of data," Dr. Beach said. "I'm inclined to agree with Dr. Robertson that most of it is going to have to be analyzed on Earth. There is one anomaly about the locals though. Dr. Robertson?"
"We caught a number of small animals, including some which are essentially mammaloform, as are the locals," Julia said, frowning. "And I was able to gather a hair sample from the natives. The problem is, while the cellular biology of the two groups is close, it's different enough to make me wonder. Miss Moon, did you get any sense that the locals might not be native to this world?"
"No," Miriam replied over the video screen. "They have legends of flying ships, but no legends of having come from off-world. But I didn't get deeply into their legend structure and something like that . . . Well, there are human legends that have been taken to be evidence of extraterrestrial impact on humanity. But nobody really believes them."
"Ezekiel's Wheel," Dr. Robertson said, nodding. "The Nazca Lines, I understand. But . . . did they say anything about special food needs?"
"Sort of," Miriam replied. "They ate the sreee, but they also ate some sort of vegetable or fruit. I just assumed they liked a balanced diet or they picked it up on the way."
"More likely, it's a necessity in their diet," Julia said. "I am fairly certain, based on the biology, that the 'locals' are lost star-travelers that found a planet that was close enough to survivable for them to stay. Castaways or maybe a failed colony. There was one plant I found that was closer to their genetic structure than the dozens of others we've found. I haven't been able to gene-type everything, though. For all we know, some of the small mammals may be exotics that came with them. Anyway, that's the one anomaly and I'm not stating it as a given. It might just be extreme genetic drift. I will say that they are closer to this biology than humans are, and humans are close enough that I feel quarantine is fully justified. Sorry, Chief."
"No problem," Miller said, sipping a bulb of cola. "I knew it was going to be quarantine when I opened the suit. I just felt . . ."
"It was a great help," Miriam said. "I appreciate it. They were more accepting with a warrior present. They knew I wasn't one," she added with a laugh.
"Miss Moon, can you describe the control method of the flying board?" Dr. Beach asked.
"Not really," Miriam said. "Except it's like telepathy. I just got on and thought 'up' and it went up. From there on I just sort of . . . flew it and it went where I wanted to go. Ever used a Segway?"
"Yes," Everette said, chuckling. "I even took a nose dive on one."
"Well, the board was like that but more so," Miriam said. "You just lean and it banks. Think where you want to go and it goes. It might be very subtle reading of body clues but . . . We are not locals. So it is able to read both our body clues and those of the locals."
"How do they produce them?" the CO asked.
"They don't," Miriam said. "New ones turn up from time to time. They just find them while hunting. But rarely. Most of them are handed down over generations. They don't know where they come from."
"So the next step, if I've read the manual right, is to make contact with a civilization," the CO said. "Get to work looking over the possible candidates. I'll give the science team two days to assimilate their data, then we'll meet again. Among other things, that will give maintenance time to do some work on systems."
* * *
"There may be some neenion contamination," Staff Sergeant Driscoll said as Lurch opened up the armor.
"Damn straight there is, Staff Sergeant," the armorer said, sighing and waving a blinking box over the interior circuits. "I'm going to be deconning this thing all day. Look, I've got to pull the motivator circuits; could you get somebody to run down to engineering and ask them for a can of ID Ten T decontaminant?"
"Hell," Driscoll said. Top had pulled his whole team off on another detail as soon as they got back to the ship. The Wyvern bay was deserted except for himself and the crip. "I'll go get it. I Dee Ten T, r
ight?"
"Thanks, Staff Sergeant Driscoll," Lyle said, grimacing in pain as he crawled into the suit. "My back is really acting up."
Driscoll, cursing under his breath, went to the far end of the compartment and opened up the hatch to the mid level. Dogging the heavy hatch behind him, he climbed down the ladder to the bottom, opened the next hatch, dogged it behind him, climbed down and then headed over to the hatch to engineering maintenance. Which was locked on the other side.
"Hey," he said, hitting the intercom. "I need some cleaner."
"Who's there?" one of the crew asked.
"Staff Sergeant Driscoll, Second Platoon," Driscoll said. "I need some ID Ten T decontaminant."
"Maulk, we don't keep that here." The hatch was opened to reveal a short, hairy mechanic. "The locker for that's up by the torpedo room. Ask Red. But you're going to need radiation gear."
"What?" the staff sergeant asked, his eyes blinking.
"Stuff's radioactive as hell," the machinist's mate said, sucking his teeth. "You're going to have to suit up."
"We're going to put radioactive stuff in my suit?" Driscoll asked, confused.
"Hey, welcome to the Space Marines," the machinist mate said, leading him into the compartment. "The radiation and the neenions counteract each other. Your suit will be clean when they're done. Heck, if we could figure out a way to generate neenions, we'd have a way to decontaminate anything. Unfortunately, they're only found around buttumium and there's no way to, like, bottle 'em."
The machinist mate had gotten out a heavy rubber suit complete with respirator.
"You're probably gonna want to strip to put this on," he said. "It's a hot mothergrapper."
"How do I get to the torpedo room?" Driscoll asked when he had the, yes, hot suit on.
"First, you're gonna need the tongs," he said, handing over a set of heavy metal tongs. "They're to carry the ID Ten T container. Now, to get to the torpedo room, you're going to have to pass through the conn. First, go up to the third level in Sherwood Forest . . ."
* * *
The giant gas giant above, the blue and white planet they circled, reflected light from the gas giant lighting up the clouds below . . . Weaver never tired of the sight. So even though it was late in his shift and he should be doing paperwork, he was sitting in the CO's chair staring at the forward viewscreen when there was a buzz at the hatch to the bridge.
He looked over his shoulder and his eyes widened as the COB passed a man wearing a full rubber decontamination suit into the conn. The man walked through to the far hatch, passing tactical and pilot as he went, then exited.
"COB," Weaver said. "I have to admit I'm new to this game . . ."
"He's going up to the torpedo room for some ID Ten T decontaminant, sir," the COB said solemnly.
"ID Ten T?" Weaver said, nodding. "What's it used for?"
"Neenion particle contamination, sir," the COB said. "It's radioactive, thus the suit. And the tongs, sir. Don't forget the tongs."
"Uh, huh," Weaver said. "Think the CO is awake, yet?"
"Should be, sir," the COB said. "And had his first cup of coffee."
"And I'm guessing he'd like to see this, wouldn't he?"
"That would be my guess as well, sir," the COB said solemnly.
"ID Ten T, huh? Neenions. Why not weenions?"
"A bit obvious, sir," the COB said reproachfully.
* * *
"You must be Red," Driscoll said angrily, when he finally reached the designated area.
"They said you wanted . . ." Red paused and gulped. "The ID Ten T decontaminant."
"If you don't mind," Driscoll said, trying to rein in his anger. He was angry and it had been a long walk, and climb, to here.
"Okay," Red said, pointing to the locker and backing away. "It's in there."
"Great," Driscoll said, pulling open the locker. The only thing in it was a glass flask filled with a red glowing liquid. "How in the hell am I supposed to carry this on a ladder?"
"Carefully," Red said, stepping through a hatch. "Drop that and break it and it'll flood the whole ship with radiation."
"Grapp," Driscoll said, carefully lifting the container out with the tongs. "Why in the hell is it in glass then?"
"Oh, and it will probably eat a hole in the ship," Red said from around the corner. "It's one of the strongest acids known to man."
"Grapp me," Driscoll whined, carefully backing around and heading back to the missile room. "Can you help me with the hatch?"
"Not on your life. Specially not on mine."
* * *
"Neenion contamination, huh?" the CO said, leaning way over in his chair as the staff sergeant passed.
"Yes, sir," Driscoll said nervously.
"Drop that in my ship and you're going to be breaking rocks for the rest of your life."
* * *
Driscoll finally made it back to the missile room and cautiously set the container down on the deck.
"Great," Lyle said, picking it up and sloshing some onto his hand. "This is just the thing."
"Wait!" Driscoll said. "That's radioactive!"
"Yeah, but the neenions counteract it!" Lyle said, cheerfully rubbing some onto the surface of the motivator module. "See?" he continued, taking a taste of his finger.
"Tastes like . . . sugar water," the armorer added, grinning. "Try writing it out with the number, Staff Sergeant Driscoll. I-D-1-0-T."
"Oh, you son of a—" Driscoll said, ripping off the respirator. "I'm going to . . ."
"You're going to what, Staff Sergeant?" the first sergeant said, coming around the side of the missile tube and leaning up against it.
"Top, I cannot believe that you have—" Driscoll said, furiously. "This is an insult to my dignity as an NCO!"
"Walk with me, Driscoll," the first sergeant said, waving towards the far end of the compartment. "Walk with me, as the Disciples once walked with the Lord God. And perhaps open up your ears . . ."
26
Define "Demon"
"I don't see how we can do a humble approach," Dr. Beach said.
"The manual calls for making contact away from major civilization," the XO pointed out. "Appendix Sixty-Seven."
"We could set down well off position and march overland to make contact," Dr. Beach said. "But that would have us contacting peripheral leadership. If we're going to make serious contact with these civilizations, determine their real technological and social advancement, we'll need to contact primary leadership. I'd say that a reasonably close approach to one of the major cities, while it has issues, is a better choice."
"Like riots," Captain MacDonald said. "Crowds. Attack by local military forces or mobs."
"Our orders are clear," the CO said. "We're to make contact with civilization on the planet. Somebody that can speak for a sizeable body if there's no world government. We're not to become involved in wars but we are to assess the political and military structure of the governments. So landing on the peripherals is out, whatever the book says."
"There's a bunch of cities," the tactical officer said.
"First Sergeant Powell," the CO said. "I would like your input."
"I can only extrapolate from human civilizations, sir," Top said. "But, historically, contact like this would, in general, be better suited for a growing society. Indicators of physical growth in cities would be what I would look for. Such societies are already adjusting to societal change associated with that population growth. While they are going to be more volatile, in general they are more able to accept change. There are exceptions, of course. London didn't really start to regrow after the Black Death for some time and yet underwent a Renaissance. But, in general, it's the way to steer."
"And while that will potentially increase the security threat," Captain MacDonald said, "it's unlikely that there will be anything we can't handle. As long as Miss Moon agrees to remain in her armor."
"Then I have a suggestion," Miriam said. She and the chief were back on videophone. "The first city we'v
e spotted. I was looking for some of the same indicators and it gives evidence of recent growth."
"Okay," the CO said. "I'd say that's our target. Captain MacDonald is in charge of determining the landing zone. Think ability to contact and security."
* * *
"What do you got, Top?" MacDonald said, looking up from the computer screen.
"Interesting suggestion, sir," the first sergeant said, laying a sheet of paper on the desk. "This spot is located about six klicks from the outer edge of the real metropolitan area. It's a large manor that seems to be part castle. Broad lawns, so they apparently like the same sort of stuff we do, which is interesting. Most important . . ."
"Those look like defenses," the CO said, pointing to spots. "Is that a trenchline?"
"That, sir, is a ha-ha," Top corrected. "A deep ditch designed to keep the riff-raff out. This, in fact, looks very much like their version of Buckingham Palace, just when the duke of Buckingham still owned it. Some interesting indicators to be drawn from it. The fact that all serious defenses have been eradicated indicates that the area is free from external threats. Lots of ship traffic. I think Miss Moon hit the jackpot."
"I was looking at this thing," the CO said, pulling out a similar printout. It showed an open plain and a very large hill apparently composed entirely of granite.
"I saw that as well, sir," the first sergeant said uncomfortably.
"And you have objections," the CO said. "It's certainly defensible. And if we need to make a quick getaway . . ."
"As you say, sir," the first sergeant replied.
"Say it, Top."
"First, sir, there's the fact that there is no development," the first sergeant said. "There's no indication that even when this area was castellated, and there's significant indicators of previous castellation, that any occurred on that hill. So they deliberately chose not to build defenses on it. That could indicate anything from instability to taboo to religious reasons. Second, sir, it's a long damned walk. Communication with the ship will be difficult if we end up entering the city. And in the worst possible scenario, fighting our way back to the ship will be difficult or impossible. Those are my objections, sir."