Stars Fell on Trieste

by M. Alan Marr

  Steve looks at Chaz. “Is that where your money comes from?”

  “Mine?” Chaz fake-laughs. “Nooooo. Commander Dev here thought it would be a good idea to fix the lottery for me.”

  “The four hundred million dollar Thrillions? The recent one?”

  “Yeah, that one,” Chaz says, still a bit annoyed. “I wasn’t pleased with that decision.”

  “You got over it,” Dev counters in droll deadpan. “Remind me how you got home?”

  Chaz ignores the jab. “The only thing that saved my sanity, was that the real winner was an old guy who died a few days before the drawing.”

  “That’s pretty cool.” Steve smiles. “I mean, not the dead guy, but the fact that Dev could rig the lottery.”

  “Yeah. I suppose.”

  “Well, if you need any help spending it, just let me know.”

  “You want millions?” Chaz says. “You got it. There’s a whole planet full of gold up there.”

  “Gold planet?” Steve turns to Dev. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Dev confirms. “In the meantime, enjoy your new salary.”

  Before Steve can protest, Chaz interjects. “Dev gave me some excellent advice when I found myself in my new . . . financial position: just stay true to who you are.” Chaz adds, “And believe me, it’s easy to get carried away in the moment.”

  “What, like buying a 767?”

  “Yes, exactly like that.”

  They move on. Dev closes Steve’s file, conveniently leaving his salary at one million dollars per year. Oh well, he’ll get used it.

  ***

  Later, in the study, empty Starbucks cups sit on the desk and table. Steve starts rubbing the back of his neck as the first signs of compression fatigue begin to manifest. While the computer collects data on the list of potential candidates, Dev pulls up images of Trieste, and her constellation. A window on the screen scrolls through images from the surface, cities, and people.

  “Wow,” Steve marvels. “It all looks so normal.”

  “It is normal,” Dev says with a little edge. “We share a common ancestry. Humans as a species only evolve so far. What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know, jetpacks maybe?” Steve watches the image change to a street level view. “Those look like cars,” Steve says, pointing to the screen.

  “Oh, man, the cars there are so cool.” Chaz beams. “Each wheel is a generator, and these glowing electromagnetic treads move the car.”

  “What do people do there?” Steve wonders.

  “Same as here,” Dev replies. “Doctors, engineers, scholars, scientists. Not as many lawyers.”

  “Crime?”

  “Not much. Virtually none by comparison.”

  “Famine? Disease?”

  “No famine. Our doctors work on curing disease at the molecular level.”

  “What about other planets? I mean, is it like Star Trek?”

  “More like Star Wars,” Chaz says.

  Steve tilts his head. “Bar scene or the force?”

  “Bar scene. Definitely.”

  Dev continues. “I explained this to Chaz, but finding advanced societies is pretty rare. And more often than not, they tend to be hostile to other advanced species.”

  “How come?”

  “Species evolve over time toward self-awareness. Building a complex society that advances beyond the confines of their own world means they’ve become masters of their little corner of the cosmos. That places them at the top of their food chain. Generally speaking, any society you go to is, at that moment, at the highest point in their existence.”

  “Earth being the exception,” Chaz says.

  “True,” Dev agrees. “And the appearance of another advanced—or more advanced—alien race descending out of the heavens immediately alters the balance of power, and can even damage their society, psychologically. That’s why we don’t tell you guys about us.”

  Steve rationalizes, “But to know we’re not alone in the universe . . . ”

  “Can be destructive. Particularly when confronted with the realities of the cosmos.”

  “But why?”

  “Look at Earth. You have a huge segment of society who firmly believes that out of the entire universe, life exists here, and only here.”

  “But if they knew . . . ”

  “Then their entire belief system would come undone. Millenniums of religious dogma would be reduced to fiction. A lot of them wouldn’t be able to cope with reality.”

  “Not to mention that people on this planet are paranoid, ignorant, and undereducated,” Chaz says, shaking his head.

  Steve persists, “What about other worlds that have gone out into space?”

  “Same thing,” Dev says. “Let’s say NASA builds spacecraft and sends a bunch of astronauts toward your closest star system. It’s highly unlikely two nascent species would stumble upon each other in space. So, if the NASA guys were to encounter another ship, it’s reasonable to assume the other species would have superior technology.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you guys are amateurs. Also because, geographically, there’s nothing of any consequence anywhere near Earth. That means, anyone who comes here would be doing so from very far away, requiring advanced propulsion technology. Your rockets are no match for anything we’ve got. That fact alone puts the NASA guys at a serious disadvantage. And if the species they encounter is hostile, which is far more likely, then bang, your astronauts are dead, and the hostile species now know where they came from.”

  Steve is persistent. “But isn’t there some sort of common bond?”

  “No,” Dev says, “there isn’t.” He repeats himself for emphasis. “There isn’t. You’re thinking in terms of what you see on TV, but those are actors dressed up as aliens. You never found it odd that just about every alien species you see on TV is humanoid?”

  Steve thinks on this. “Well . . . there are no humanoids?”

  “That’s not even a real word where I come from,” Dev says.

  “What about these Yeti?”

  “The Yeti are bipedal, but I wouldn’t call them humanoid, or even associate the word Human with them, ever.”

  “What’s their deal?”

  “The Yeti have advanced spacecraft, similar in capabilities to our own, but different. They have no qualms about killing us. We’re not exactly certain how their society functions or whether they have a government, or in what form it exists if they do. What we do know is that they are on the attack. The Yeti are offensive combatants, whereas we are mainly defensive. The Yeti language is unknown to us; we don’t know if they can understand us. We’ve tried communicating in mathematical code, but they are either unwilling or incapable of doing so in return.”

  Steve shakes his head. “How are they able to build spaceships if they don’t understand math?”

  “Mathematics is a language Humans use to demystify the universe, but it’s not the only language,” Dev replies.

  “How do they navigate, then?” Chaz says.

  “We think they use a form of dead reckoning. There’s also a theory their navigation is based on gravitational currents, but we’ve never been able to confirm that.”

  “What do they look like?” Steve says.

  Dev cues up side-by-side scale pictures of a generic Human and a Yeti. The hairs on Chaz’s neck bristle upon seeing the picture, dredging up the memory of his personal encounter with the Yeti on Lyra. Steve is measured in his surprise that the Yeti look like, well, Yeti. Data for both life-forms appears alongside each of them. The Yeti is about thirty percent larger than the Human. Skeletal images of each appear next. The Yeti appear to have more bones, many of them overlapping. The Human brain is highlighted. The Yeti brain appears as a bilateral column in the chest and extremities. Two panels open near each brain, displaying dynamic graphics focusing on individual neurons: Human neurons, with their windy nerve fibers, axons, and dendrites; and the odd Yeti neuron, existing as a long series of flattish interlocking
cells.

  Steve looks at the new image and frowns. “What the hell?”

  Dev goes on to describe the two images. “The Human brain operates on neural feedback.” He points to the screen. “The spaces between neurons rely on chemical signals to transmit data. The Yeti brain, if you can call it that, is a large, multi-branched parallel organ originating in the chest, and operates on electrical-based impulses.”

  “What, like binary code?” Steve says.

  Dev shakes his head. “I doubt it. Binary is too simplistic.”

  “That’s what our computers use,” Steve says.

  “I know,” Dev comments. “It’s too simplistic.”

  “What do your computers use?” Steve says.

  “Quantum-level coding,” Dev replies. “Anyway, we’ve examined dead Yetis’ neural tissue. We don’t know with certainty how they cohesively process information. Seems that when they die, their systems become inert, making it difficult to duplicate their biologic processes. Their eyes are interesting. They’re organic solid-crystalline orbs that only detect a narrow field of monochromatic frequencies. In other words, they don’t have color vision. Their visual acuity is not that good, and they tend to track moving, rather than stationary, targets. Of course, they may also see things that we do not, like heat or magnetic waves, or electrical bias. We just don’t know.”

  “What about their emotional capacity?” Steve says.

  “No idea. But one thing is certain, the Yeti are vicious, at least by Human standards.”

  Chaz stares at the Yeti, and a chill runs down his spine. “They are vicious.”

  Steve turns to Chaz. “You’ve seen one in person?”

  “I . . . killed one,” Chaz says uncomfortably. “In person.”

  “Where?”

  “Lyra.”

  Dev interjects. “He saved a man from being eviscerated.”

  Steve grimaces. “That’s what they do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about their ships?” Steve says. “The ones we shot down seemed pretty quick.”

  “Their ships we do know something about,” Dev says optimistically. “Technology is much easier to reverse engineer than organic matter.”

  Dev cues up an image of a Yeti Brigand and a Crown Fighter for comparison. The Brigand is larger and thicker in stature. Both Chaz and Steve have seen Brigands in action, and the crashed Brigand Chaz saw on Lyra was half buried in the ground. The engineering breakdown details a largely triangular arrowhead design with no visible exhaust ports or vents. The weapons system is highlighted, existing as a series of emitters along part of the leading edges connected to a central core. The gravity drive dominates the internal spaces. There is no canopy; no windows.

  “The Yeti use an electric-based gravity drive,” Dev explains. “It makes their ships highly maneuverable.”

  Chaz looks at Steve. “They can make right-angle turns.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. It’s wild. How are they able to do that?”

  “They do it by instantly shifting their gravity field.”

  Steve looks at Dev. “And we—you—guys don’t have such a system?”

  “We do, and you’ve seen it. But we don’t use them as our primary means of propulsion. The shifting gravity fields of a Brigand create forces too extreme for Humans to withstand. Those maneuvers you both saw would have shattered all of your bones.”

  “How do you know?” Chaz says.

  “Four very unfortunate test pilots in a captured Brigand,” Dev replies.

  Steve winces at that thought and folds his arms. “So the Yeti are strong.”

  “Very strong,” Dev says. “Their bones are made of extremely dense material. That’s why our sidearms are energy weapons. Their muscle fibers are a type of organic polymer.”

  Steve is very curious. “What about their blood?”

  “Their blood is black. But unlike Human blood, which carries oxygen, Yeti blood carries chemical compounds to their tissues and seems to act as a liquid conductor for the electrical nature of their nervous systems. They can survive in extremely harsh atmospheric conditions, and even short exposures to the vacuum of space.”

  Dev notices Chaz staring at the Yeti, so he closes the program.

  “So, basically,” Steve says, “the Yeti are right out of our worst nightmares.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dev replies.

  The conversation switches gears to the more optimistic prospect of flight training, leading with a question from Steve.

  “So, how does one actually train to fly your fighters?”

  “It will require spending several months up on Trieste. I’ll be working on a training syllabus to help expedite the process. You already know how to fly, so we can dispense with a lot of the basics. And believe it or not, the aerodynamic techniques you use down here will give you a substantial advantage, even over our own Flight Candidates.”

  Steve looks at Chaz and jokes, “Glad we’re good for something.”

  “You’re joking, but it’s true. More than you realize,” Dev replies. “Chaz stunned the Admiralty with his skill. Combine that skill with our technology and you guys will be legendary.”

  Steve grins with excitement. “Count me in, Commander.”

  “But you still have to be our chief pilot,” Chaz says firmly.

  Steve laughs. “Don’t worry. You guys already gave me the best job on the planet. I’ll never give that up.”

  “Question remains,” Dev says, “do you think Harrison and Jen and whomever else we hire will be up to the task?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Chaz says.

  “I don’t know, either,” Steve admits. “That’s above my pay grade.”

  Chaz looks at Steve sideways. “Have you seen your pay grade?”

  Dev fetches three bottles of water from the bar and hands them out. “And we still need to find a base of operations.”

  “I can’t even imagine where we’re going to put it,” Chaz says, while opening his bottle of water.

  “We need to figure it out,” Dev says, after taking a sip. “Because when Fleet Constructs is finished, they’re going to send the structure whether we’re ready or not.” Dev fights a yawn and opens the safe. First, he disarms his weapon and stows it inside. Next, he removes the small cargo box brought back from Trieste and pulls out a shiny silver Ti-Phone for Steve. “Here.”

  “Whoa, a new iPhone?”

  “This isn’t an iPhone,” Dev replies.

  Steve turns it over. “Looks like one.”

  Chaz smiles at Steve. “They call these Ti-Phones.”

  “They?” Steve’s eyes light up. “You mean this is from Trieste?”

  “It is,” Dev replies. “I had our tech guys build them. It works just like your old phone, but it also has some advanced features you’ll learn about.”

  “Wow!” Steve looks at the Ti-Phone, impressed that it looks and feels just like the real thing.

  Chaz gestures to the new device. “Just touch the Ti-Phone to your old one to transfer your data.”

  “Anywhere?” he says, while touching his phone to the edge of the Ti-Phone. There is a slight magnetic attraction between the two devices. The Ti-Phone chirps a few times. “How long will it take?”

  Chaz laughs. “It’s done. Look at your iPhone.”

  Steve looks at the screen of his old phone, which is showing the opening graphics of an unused iPhone. Steve looks next at his Ti-Phone, which has captured all of his data. “Whoa.”

  “Swipe left,” Chaz says.

  Steve does so and watches as the screen graphics dissolve into the very uncommon Tertian graphics. “Wicked.”

  Dev interjects. “Don’t play with any of the Tertian stuff until you’re trained on it.”

  “I promise,” Steve says. “Is the space stuff separate from the regular iPhone stuff?”

  “Not really,” Dev says, closing the safe. “The display looks the same, and all your apps will still work, but you’ll find they are . . . enhanced a bit.”

>   “What do you mean?”

  “The maps function, for one. The GPS is more of a galactic positioning system. You can zero in on your exact location; there’s more information about your surroundings; oh, and the weather app will work anywhere in the universe, that sort of thing.”

  Chaz adds, “And the battery is good for ten years.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You won’t have to charge your Ti-phone for ten years.”

  “Whoa.” Steve tosses his old iPhone in the trash and pockets his new Ti-Phone.

  The computer signals completion of the vetting program. The screen fills with thumbnail photos of the sixty-nine members of the Atlanta Rainbow Wings chapter. Six are highlighted. The other sixty-three photos disappear. The remaining photos arrange themselves across the top of the screen. Lines of individual information and subject icons cascade below each candidate like vertical family trees, some forming lists, some adding bullet points.

  “Is that Skinny Merle?” Steve says, looking at the screen.

  “Who?” Dev asks with uncertainty.

  Chaz recognizes the photo. “Hey, I know him.”

  “Who is Skinny Merle?” Dev says.

  “Third photo,” Chaz says. “Matthew Merle Thompson. They also call him Mattsy. I haven’t seen him in years. Last I heard he moved to New York.”

  “He did,” Steve says.

  “How do you know him?” Chaz says.

  “He was dating one of my flight attendants at the charter company in New York. I’ve met him a few times at company functions.”

  Dev looks perplexed. “Why do they call him Skinny Merle?”

  “Because he weighs about ninety pounds soaking wet,” Chaz says, earning a laugh in agreement from Steve.

  Dev surprises them both. “You know that’s actually an asset in compression flight.”

  Chaz looks at Steve, then Dev. “What do you mean?”

  “Lower body mass translates into less disorientation during compression.”

  “Wow,” Chaz marvels. He looks at Steve. “What’d you think of the compression drive?”

  Steve’s expression is measured. “Pretty intense.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Chaz says. “So, anyway, Skinny Merle . . . ”