The Stalk

by Janet Morris

  He paused. Nobody said it was impossible, at least out loud. Nobody grumbled about the abruptly instituted planning meeting.

  "All right, the Threshold Relocation Planning Group is officially constituted and convened. Feed your data into your desktops before you give it to me verbally. We're going to hold you to it. We're coming out of this meeting with a lean, mean plan that we can begin executing today. There's no room for error and there'll be no second chances."

  Somebody complained that there wasn't enough information on the table yet to do that.

  Reice activated his monitor controller and, sure enough, a problem chart came up on the monitor behind his shoulder.

  "That's what we have to work with. Maybe you'd like more time to check your files, but we haven't got time. Come on, fellas, we built the Stalk and everything on Threshold. We ought to be able to move it safely and cost effectively a few billion miles without wetting our pants. What's A-potential power for?" Reice keyed his remote again and, mercifully, a rotatable schematic of Threshold in three dimensions replaced the problem definition.

  The fat honcho from the labs grumbled, "You're asking us to use scalar energy on a scale we've never attempted before. Where are we porting all the excess energy we're going to be generating if the job is to move the whole habitat without exerting stress on its structural integrity? It wasn't built to be moved. It's got a drag coefficient longer than your ID number, and it's not going to be moving through anything like pure vacuum. You've got a lot of serious problems here, unless you want to turn off the fifth-force generators altogether ..."

  "I don't care how you solve your technical problems, Doctor." He had no idea who the fat man was, but "Doctor" was a safe bet. "One thing we're not going to do is reinvent the wheel, or develop a new interstellar drive, or let you test some notional system you've had sitting on your desk for years. We're talking about a military transportation mission, a logistical priority, with nothing developmental or experimental about it. Remember, we don't need to move anything today, we just need to know what it's going to take to do the job and form into operational teams coordinated by Consolidated Logistics Agency and yours truly."

  God, Reice hated grandstanders. And he knew damned well that if the only problems stopping the movement of Threshold to a new orbit beyond Pluto were power problems, or technical problems relating to reduced solar energy at the new site, then the Unity would help solve those technical problems if the Unity wanted the job done.

  Finally, he understood what Mickey Croft and Remson were after: they needed to know the costs to the United Nations of Earth so that they could drive a bargain with the aliens. The Secretariat needed to know how many people, at what risk, would be involved in modifying what systems to get the desired result. And if there were any way to talk the Unity aliens into transferring some advanced power technology to the Stalk government to facilitate the efficient transportation of Threshold to a new location, then the Secretary General needed all the detail he could get to drive the best bargain for the United Nations of Earth.

  You had to think fast in this man's Consolidated Security Command, these days. And you had to keep on your toes. Reice was almost euphoric as he faced the grindingly difficult task or getting these senior officers to work together for the common good without overmuch regard to budgets, turf battles, personal power enhancement, or interservice rivalries.

  It was a tough job, but he'd do it. Remson had known that he, Reice, was the right man to get the job done. And if the result of this job was the acquisition by the UNE of advanced power technology of the sort that allowed the Unity aliens to pop into and out of complex gravity wells at will, without traversing much spacetime in the process, then Reice was going to be doing the most important job of his life. Maybe of anybody's life.

  Finally, fate and Remson had given Reice a chance to prove he was good for more than babysitting asymptotic personalities and playing cops and robbers.

  He wasn't going to let Remson—or himself—down. Not when so much hung in the balance and all he had to do was keep a bunch of propeller-heads with parochial interests in line.

  By the end of this session, Secretary General Croft would have everything he needed to knowledgeably discuss the logistics involved in moving Threshold to an orbit beyond Pluto. If the session had to last all night, Reice would see to it that Mickey Croft had every advantage possible over the Unity aliens. It was personal, now.

  CHAPTER 5

  Children of Whom?

  The Cummings boy and the Forat girl were really spooky.

  "The Forat-Cummings girl," Croft corrected himself, muttering it aloud for emphasis as the shuttle taking him to the Ball science station mated with the lock.

  "What's that, sir?" came Remson's voice through the cumlink in the helmet Croft wore for safety Mickey Croft was not technically adroit. He devested all of the risk associated with checking his glove seals and his life support and the redundant command and control heads-up display that cluttered his visor with things he didn't warn to think about, such as ambient pressure, external temperature, internal security status, and life-support monitoring.

  "Nothing. Vince. just that our young marrieds are problematic, especially the woman."

  "Yep." said Remson, distractedly, as with a slightly perceptible bump the shuttle came to a stop, gravity ceased, and Remson unbuckled his seatbelt to float toward Croft.

  "There's something I can't quite name here that rings false—beyond the obvious glitch of the modeler image. I mean." Remson was piloting Croft personally, now that the two of them had left the Secretariat flagship the GEORGE WASHINGTON.

  The Assistant Secretary had met him on lime, with a grin and a slap of a datapad in his hand. "All ready to face the unknowable, sir. with a risk assessment of the protected task and a task force hard at work on specifics."

  "Good." Croft had replied, gruffly, hiding his surprise as best he could: Remson didn't like displays of emotion, and neither did Croft. But this time, Remson had outdone himself. Vince was as always a pleasant surprise—always competent, always giving better than any other man's hundred percent. But to have come up with a reasonable cost assessment of the aliens' request that Threshold be moved beyond Pluto in less than the time it took for Croft and his flagship to meet Vince at Spacedock Seven ... Croft reminded himself to put a commendation in Remson's file.

  In this crisis, Remson was a real and certain comfort, especially noticeable to Croft as Remson deftly guided him into the pressure lock, and beyond....

  As Croft faced the scant security of a paperlike access tube, which led through microgravity to the minimal facilities of Science Station Seven, he wondered how he could get along without Remson, and then told himself that, with any luck, he would never need to find out.

  The tube was the equivalent of a red carpet, out here, present only because Croft was present. It was a godsend. Through its opaque exterior, he couldn't see the spidery scaffolding that secured the science station to the alien Ball.

  Another manifestation of Remson's thoughtfulness. Croft muttered, "Declutter," and the telltale readouts of his pounding pulse and elevated blood pressure left the right upper quadrant of his visor. Croft didn't need to be reminded that he was tense. His head was throbbing. Damn those kids. And damn the minimal facilities at this station that meant one had to stay inside a space suit the whole time.

  Recording the upcoming proceedings for posterity was not high on Croft's agenda. But the science station was minimal because it was posited so close to the alien Ball that no one had wanted to install fifth-force generators, initially, nor had the Secretariat been inclined to encourage a continuing presence.

  The station was no more than a couple of spaceworthy modules interfaced with pressure seals that could sustain an atmosphere, had the proper life support been in place. It wasn't.

  A dozen suited and helmeted staffers stood in close quarters, looking at monitors with their feet or arms thrust into anchor webbing.

  Croft
said to Remson, "Vince, find out if they've made contact with the Unity delegation yet."

  He listened to the query, and the negative response, through the open comlink, but did not use it himself. He wanted to hear what was going on but not constrain conversation.

  He heard: "Your boss sure there's some meeting scheduled out here?"

  And: "We haven't scanned a sign of life. It's as dead in there as it's ever been."

  And: "What happens if nobody shows? Does your boss get pissed when he's stood up?"

  And, finally: "Let's have a little decorum, gentlemen." Remson's firm tone turned every other helmeted head toward his. "The Secretary General, I'm sure, would appreciate a look at what you've got for us."

  Remson cleared the way and Mickey took a perch at the midpoint of the consoles, while around him people whispered on their allcomm: "Shit, I didn't know." "Don't worry, he couldn't hear us, I bet." "Probably still can't: they've got their own secure corns."

  On the monitors that showed the Ball from every angle the scaffolding could provide, a silver sphere sat quiescent, as if waiting.

  Waiting for what? Croft? He was here. The last time he'd been near the ball, a soap bubble had come to collect him right out of the GEORGE WASHINGTON'S airlock. The aliens had orchestrated everything. And now?

  Croft suddenly had no idea what he was supposed to do. How did one signal that thing? What had the message from the Unity said? "At the twentieth hour of this day, make your willingness known to us to move your Habitation beyond Pluto, where real commerce can commence between us."

  Everyone, including Croft and Remson, had assumed that the children had understood what the aliens meant.

  Croft sat staring at the Ball. It tended to open up, occasionally. He didn't want it to open while he watched. He admitted, only to himself, and only now, that he was loathe to float up to it in a Manned Maneuvering Unit on a space tether and knock on its surface for admittance.

  So he felt suddenly and completely embarrassed. He had scrambled every resource available and made a headlong dash to meet a Unity delegation that might not even be here.

  No one had seen it come. He could hear the staffers muttering in the comlink. And then the muttering stopped.

  In the monitor, as Mickey watched, aghast and yet relieved, the Ball disappeared, to be replaced by a face.

  And what a face. No human face had ever stared that stare. Sad eyes, deep and dark, regarded him. A harelip quivered and moved soundlessly. A skull or a crown or a coif of gold glimmered, surrounded by mist.

  A voice sounded in Croft's helmet. He had no idea whether the others could hear it. It was coming through his helmet speakers. It said, "Mickeycroft, can we make an embassy here? We cannot. We are permitting great thanks, but this is incorrect. Come you to the outer reaches, beyond gravity's sway, and we will be together, yours and mine, under less troubles. Can you make this thing without help, or needing us, find another way?"

  "I don't know, Your Excellency," Croft said, conscious that Remson could hear his response, and perhaps, if God was merciful, have heard the Interstitial Interpreter's remarks as well. "We will need longer to evaluate the situation. We're sorry you are finding this site unacceptable." He'd offered them the opportunity to build an embassy at the Ball site. After all, the Unity was already inhabiting those coordinates.

  "Not sorry. Not correct. Humans young can guide, if Mickeycroft can protect. Protect, Mickeycroft?"

  Protect what? Who? The aliens? The Cummings couple? He somehow didn't dare ask for a clarification. "Of course. The most important thing now is to determine whether we have the technical capability to do as you suggest. That will take some time."

  Time was what he needed, sure enough. Time to find out if he was talking to anyone that the others could see, or hear—if this was really happening. He didn't dare look up or move, or perhaps he could not.

  He couldn't get any closer to those aliens than this, that was certain. Not again.

  "Time takes," said the sad-eyed alien face. "All beings it takes. Children grow. Safety promises. Return children to us soon, and with love."

  Gibberish followed, and a shimmer in the transmission, a distortion that slid left, and right, and hardened into diagonal wavy lines that chased each other across the monitor from which Croft could not yet take his eyes.

  He heard a last, faint voice saying, "Must trust, Mickeycroft. No needing fears, anxiety, and runnings back and forth. Use access we have given, please, for future."

  He was just about to ask for a clarification when there was a spray of static that made him clap his hands to his helmet. The Ball reappeared in the monitors, leaving him confused, frustrated, and doubtful of what he'd accomplished here.

  The chatter of the technicians, excited and inconclusive, tumbled into his helmet and jangled around inside it.

  "Vince," he croaked on his private channel, "did you hear that? See that? Did the staff?"

  "They saw the image, but they didn't get the audio. Neither did I. Meeting finished, sir, with good results, I assume."

  Not a question, but Croft answered anyway: "Time, Vince. I think we bought some time." He was having trouble focusing. He wanted, desperately, to leave this place, now.

  As if reading his mind, Remson came to help him from his seat. "Sir, you have a meeting with Mr. Cummings that we can't cancel. Time to go, I think. Unless there's something else?"

  "No, Vince. Nothing else." Just get me out of here before I mess myself in front of strangers. Loose bowels and a heaving stomach weren't the worst of what Croft was feeling, but they were the most noticeable.

  It took nearly the entire return shuttle ride to restore his equilibrium. Once they were back on the WASHINGTON, he had to prep for his Cummings meeting and look at the rest of the data that Remson's task force had assembled. There was no time for reflection, or for sick stomachs or pounding hearts.

  So he managed, as he always did, to rise to the occasion. One day, he might not have the strength. But today he had had it. Just.

  He sent Vince after the wayward lovers when the flagship docked at the Stalk and went alone to the meeting with Cummings. Not because he didn't want Remson with him, but because the children were becoming an ever increasing nexus of his concern.

  He must stop thinking of them as children, he told himself as he climbed into his Secretariat limo on the space-dock apron, and it sped away into the tubeway and upStalk, drawing him inexorably closer to his meeting with Richard Cummings the Second.

  He must remember to call them by their names, and to call Dini Forat-Cummings by her full name. From now on. They were becoming important players in this drama choreographed by an alien sensibility, and Croft could not afford to make a mistake in protocol.

  If you said things aloud four times in succession, the recitation helped you memorize difficult material. It shouldn't matter whether the material that one was memorizing consisted of Hamlet's soliloquy from Shakespeare, Latin verbs, or married names of Muslim fundamentalist daughters turned interstellar corporate heiresses.

  Shouldn't matter one whit. But it did. Mickey Croft was having trouble remembering to call Ms. Cummings, Dini Forat, by her married name. After all the modeler data he'd studied and transcripts he'd read that centered on the Medinan girl who was, to Mickey's sampler-modeler, identical in parameters to a Unity alien, he should be able to remember her name....

  Children of whom, were these star-crossed lovers? Or of what?

  Croft sat bolt-upright in his padded seat, uncrossing his long legs so that he kicked the console across from him and its video terminal came to life, showing a ready screen and waiting for instructions.

  Croft barely noticed. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Why hadn't he realized?

  Nobody on Threshold—himself included—had ever had the opportunity to model a Unity alien. There was no comparable data, no baseline data, nothing to support any assumption that Dini Forat-Cummings was any more alien than was Croft himself.

  Which, aft
er repeated alien contamination, wasn't saying a lot.

  But it was saying something. Croft pushed a button inset in the arm of the limo door and told the robot control system of the limo, "Back to my office. Now."

  The roboticized system enquired in a simulated voice, "Coordinates, please."

  Mickey usually used a consular car with a human driver. But not today. Today he had needed to be quite alone, before he confronted Richard Cummings the Second. Cummings was vocal and demanding of answers in response to what he'd seen in Mickey's modeling bay.

  To placate the corporate magnate, and to throw his adversary off balance through a bit of mental Aikido, Croft had offered to go to Cummings for this bit of confrontation, which Croft hoped to turn to his advantage through adroit summitry. In Aikido, one used the opponent's weight and force against him, never exerting, only directing energy.

  When Croft had agreed to the meeting, he hadn't realized that his staff's analysis of the Forat modeling data had been faulty. Must be faulty.

  Croft gave the robotic driver his Secretariat office coordinates and sat back in the plush seat, weak with revelation.

  Dini Forat had scanned as if she were a Unity alien. Cummings, Sr. had seen the scan in progress. But neither Cummings, nor Croft's staff, had been able to put the anomaly in context.

  Therefore, reasoning from an insufficient base, they had preferred to come to faulty conclusions.

  The blank video screen awaited his pleasure, humming softly to itself. The unit could be voice-controlled, which was a blessing. Croft felt as if he were at the bottom of a gravity well many times Earth-normal. He could hardly move. His entire body seemed far distant, a cavernous space on whose floor his paltry intelligence flickered. He told the vid system to put him through to Cummings, person-to-person, and the effort that speech took was prodigious.

  Croft was feeling too old and too inflexible to guide his star-flung people through this crisis. What was needed was a younger man, a fresher intellect, one who could see the pieces of this puzzle in all its multidimensional complexity and not quail.