Second Contact

by Harry Turtledove

  “You must adapt,” Atvar said, knowing full well he could give no more infuriating advice to a male of the Race, especially one newly come to Tosev 3. “We have been over this ground before. They were on the point of developing this technology themselves when we arrived. Much of what they use is independently invented.”

  “Much also is stolen from the Race.” Reffet’s tone suggested Atvar had personally handed over the engineering drawings.

  “They developed rockets on their own. They were in the process of developing explosive-metal bombs when the conquest fleet came,” Atvar said. “They made it plain they would go to war and wreck this planet if we sought to keep them from doing what they had the ability to do. The colonization fleet would have had a thin time of it then.”

  “Had the conquest fleet done its job properly, we would not be having this discussion now,” Reffet snapped.

  Atvar wanted to bite him. All at once, he understood how Straha must have felt when he, as fleetlord, rejected the ambitious shiplord’s schemes one after another. For the first time, he even got some inkling of understanding why Straha had defected to the Big Uglies. At the moment, he felt rather like defecting himself. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with fools like Reffet, too hidebound to shed his own skin.

  “You were not here at the time,” he said. “No doubt we could have benefited from your wisdom.”

  “Truth,” Reffet said, not recognizing sarcasm. “Now we have to make the best of this bad situation. And I tell you this: even some from the conquest fleet are growing alarmed. My Security personnel and I have been bombarded with messages from a female named Kassquit, urging some sort of action against this space station.”

  “Have you been tasting ginger, Reffet?” Atvar demanded. “You know perfectly well that the conquest fleet had no females.” Yet the name Kassquit was familiar to him. He checked the computer records, then started to laugh. By the time it was through, that laugh was so enormous, it looked as if he were taking the bite he so desired out of the other fleetlord.

  “That is an offensive expression on your face,” Reffet said angrily, “and I will have you know for a fact, Atvar—for a fact, do you hear?—that no Kassquit with that identity number came from Home aboard the colonization fleet. Therefore, she must have come with you. I do not know how she did it, but I do know that she did it.”

  Atvar laughed harder and wider than ever. Almost shaking with mirth, he said, “I will have you know for a fact—for a fact, Reffet, do you hear?—that you are an idiot, addled in your eggshell before you hatched. Do you have any notion who this Kassquit is?”

  “One of yours,” Reffet answered. “One of yours, by the Emperor, which is all that matters to me. Try to evade it as you will, you—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Atvar told him. “Truth: Kassquit is one of mine, in a manner of speaking—but only in a manner of speaking. She is a female Big Ugly hatchling one of my research psychologists obtained not long after the fighting stopped. He has been raising her as nearly as possible as a female of the Race ever since. And because of her word you are jumping around as if you had parasites sticking their pointed little snouts between your scales and sucking your blood.”

  Reffet looked as if his eyes were about to pop out of the turrets that housed them. Atvar rather wished they would. At last, the fleetlord of the colonization fleet wheezed, “A Big Ugly? I have been taken in by a Big Ugly?”

  “Again, in a manner of speaking,” Atvar said. He had the computer file he needed on the screen beside Reffet’s reduced but still furious image. That gave him all the advantage over the other fleetlord he needed. “She is, however, a Big Ugly in biology only. In culture, she is a citizen of the Empire, as much as a Rabotev or one of the Hallessi.”

  “A Big Ugly,” Reffet repeated. He still sounded so disbelieving, Atvar wondered if he’d heard a word other than that. Reffet went on, “Well, if one can do it, maybe more than one can do it, too.”

  “And what are you maundering about now?” Atvar inquired sweetly. He hadn’t liked Reffet since the colonization fleet arrived. The more he got to know his opposite number, the more he despised him, too.

  But then Reffet brought him up short. “One of the things this Kassquit keeps complaining about is possible—she says probable—Tosevite penetration of our computer network. I thought that even more ridiculous than everything else the female was saying. But if she herself is a Big Ugly and tricked me into believing her a female of the Race, other Tosevites may be practicing similar deceptions.”

  “I find that unlikely,” Atvar said, but it disquieted him just the same. “What do your Security males and females think of the notion?”

  “They reckoned it nothing more than the glow that comes from rotten meat—till now,” Reffet said. “With this new information, they may take the idea more seriously. With this new information, I know I take it more seriously.”

  “Have them transmit Kassquit’s allegations to my males in Security,” Atvar said. “They do have more experience of Tosevites than is true of your personnel. I shall be interested to learn if they, too, revise their opinion.”

  “So shall I.” Reffet used the affirmative hand gesture. “All right, Atvar, I will do that.” No Exalted Fleetlord from him, no. No It shall be done, either. Unique among all the members of the Race on and around Tosev 3, he was not Atvar’s subordinate. That was one of the reasons Atvar disliked him, even if Atvar might not fully realize as much himself. He had to hope Reffet would do as he asked; he could not insist on it. This time, Reffet had chosen to oblige him. He had to be grateful, which irked him, too.

  “I thank you,” he said, hoping he sounded as if he meant it.

  “And I will thank your Security males for their analysis,” Reffet replied. Now that they had found something to worry them both, they could be civil to each other. Reffet continued, “Having Tosevites pawing through our files is the last thing we need.”

  “That is another truth.” Atvar meant it. “Leaks of intelligence can prove disastrous, as our military history before Home was unified proves.”

  “Does it?” Reffet said. “I would not be surprised, but I am not the male who could prove it. You who were brought up in a Soldiers’ Time have a training different from mine.”

  Then why do you endlessly criticize what I did and did not do? You do not understand it. But Atvar did not drop that on Reffet’s snout, as he would have a little while before. All he said was, “I am sure the data will be valuable to us. On behalf of my Security force, I look forward to receiving them for analysis.”

  “I will send them,” Reffet said, and blanked the screen.

  Atvar promptly telephoned Security and warned them of what was coming. “Whatever you learn from these data, inform me before transmitting your analysis to Reffet,” he told the chief of the service, a male name Laraxx.

  “It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord,” Laraxx said. Unlike Reffet, he had to show Atvar proper deference.

  “I look forward to hearing from you,” Atvar said, and tried to pick up the threads of what he’d been doing before Reffet telephoned.

  Laraxx telephoned back much sooner than he had expected—soon enough to distract him from the work he had begun to gather into his hands once more. “Exalted Fleetlord, we have seen this material before. There is nothing new here,” the Security chief said.

  “You have?” Atvar said in surprise. “Why was I not informed of it?”

  “Why?” Laraxx sounded surprised, too. “Because we paid very little attention to it, is why. That Big Ugly the researcher—Ttomalss, his name is—keeps for a pet is utterly mad, you know. She cannot be blamed, of course, but still. . . In any case, we most assuredly did not think we should waste our time or yours with this.”

  “I see,” Atvar said slowly. And Laraxx did make some sense. How could Kassquit, hatched (no, born; revoltingly born) one thing, raised another, be anything but addled? As the Security male said, no blame could attach to her. But, as the saying went, being add
led wasn’t always the same thing as being wrong. The fleetlord said, “She may have found something interesting after all. Do a thorough analysis, as if this were new data.”

  Laraxx’s sigh was quite audible. So was the resignation in his voice as he said, “It shall be done.”

  Over the next two days, Atvar forgot all about Kassquit. Irrefutable evidence reached him that the agitator Liu Han had succeeded in reaching Peking, the leading city in the Chinese subregion of the main continental mass. He had hoped the accursed female would not succeed in returning from the United States. The Japanese Empire had let him down. So had the Chinese working for the Race along the coast of China. He wondered whether that was treason or ineptitude, then wondered which he dreaded more.

  He was still trying—without much hope of success—to straighten out that situation when Laraxx called again. “Well?” Atvar demanded testily.

  “I have the analysis you requested, Exalted Fleetlord.” Laraxx sounded much more subdued than he had before.

  By the Emperor, he has found something, Atvar thought. “Well?” he said again.

  Laraxx said, “Analysis of the messages issued by the male calling himself Regeya shows traces of syntax and idiom from the Tosevite language called English, Exalted Fleetlord.”

  “He is a Big Ugly!” Atvar exclaimed.

  “So it would seem, our previous belief to the contrary notwithstanding,” Laraxx agreed. “Investigation of how a Tosevite has penetrated our networks and how deeply he has penetrated them is now ongoing.”

  “You had also better investigate how many other Big Uglies, as yet undetected, are doing the same thing,” Atvar snapped.

  Laraxx looked startled all over again. That evidently hadn’t occurred to him. The fleetlord wondered what else hadn’t occurred to him. “It shall be done,” Laraxx said.

  “Good,” Atvar said, in lieu of something harsher. The Security chief vanished from his computer screen.

  Before Atvar could get any useful work done, Pshing rushed in, exclaiming, “Exalted Fleetlord!”

  That always meant trouble. “What has managed to go wrong now?” Atvar asked his adjutant.

  “Exalted Fleetlord, one of our reconnaissance satellites, one of those with a near approach to the U.S. space station at apogee, reports a sudden sharp increase in radioactive emissions from the station,” Pshing replied. “The significance of the increase cannot yet be established, but it is most unlikely to be beneficial to us.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Glen Johnson felt like whistling with glee as he eyed the Peregrine’s radar screen. Things couldn’t have been better if he’d scripted them himself. Since he wasn’t over the United States, he called down to a relay ship: “Requesting permission to visually evaluate Lizard satellite 2247, and to make orbital changes required for prolonged visual inspection.”

  “Have to check with Kitty Hawk on that one, Peregrine,” the radio operator answered. “Monitor this frequency. Somebody will get back to you.”

  “Roger,” Johnson said, and then, under his breath, “What the hell else would I do but monitor this frequency?”

  Kitty Hawk might remember he’d been too nosy about the American space station and refuse him permission to eyeball the Lizard satellite. Somehow, though, he didn’t think that would happen. Satellite 2247 and several others with similar orbits had been launched so the Lizards could keep an eye—or an eye turret—on the space station themselves. They were curious about it, too. He knew that from intelligence intercepts, from his conversations with their radio operators, and from his conversations with Major Sam Yeager.

  But were satellite 2247 and the others like it just designed to keep an eye on the space station, or could they also harm it? The Lizards said no. Johnson wouldn’t have wanted to take their unsupported word on anything that important. He didn’t think the people in charge of the space station would, either.

  After about five minutes, the word came back: “Peregrine, you are clear to change your orbit to inspect 2247. Burn parameters follow . . .”

  Johnson listened carefully, read the parameters back, and smiled to himself. They were very close to the ones he’d calculated for himself. They would put him up near 2247 when the Lizards’ satellite was close to the space station. He was glad he was flying Peregrine and not a Russian tin can. In one of those, he wouldn’t have been able to make such a large orbital change or to do so much of his own calculating. The Lizards might look down their snouts at Peregrine, but he thought he was flying a pretty fine bird.

  He made the burn on schedule, kicking himself up into a more elliptical orbit that would let him pass within a mile or so of satellite 2247’s path and within about ten miles of the space station. He actually was curious about the reconnaissance satellite. He was even more curious about the space station. His smile got wider. With a little luck, he’d be able to satisfy himself twice in a few minutes, which wasn’t easy for a man his age.

  “U.S. spacecraft! Attention, U.S. spacecraft!” That wasn’t an American relay ship. It was a Lizard, using his own language. “You are not to damage the satellite with which you are closing. Damage to this satellite will be taken as a hostile act. You have been warned. Acknowledge immediately!”

  “Acknowledged,” Johnson answered in the same language, thinking, You arrogant bastard. “No damage intended—inspection only.”

  “See that action matches intent,” the Lizard said coldly. “Out.”

  As he drew near the satellite, Johnson photographed it with a long lens and studied it through binoculars. It didn’t look as if it could launch a missile; he saw no rocket motors. But that didn’t necessarily signify. The Lizards were as good at camouflage as any humans around. The satellite wasn’t very big. But that didn’t necessarily signify, either. These days, nuclear bombs didn’t have to be very big, not even human-made ones. If the Lizards couldn’t build them smaller still, Johnson would have been surprised.

  Still, 2247 had the look of a reconnaissance satellite. It bristled with sensors and dishes, almost all of them aimed at the space station. A few swung from the station toward Peregrine as Johnson neared. What those said in electronic language was, If you do anything nasty to me, I’ll know about it. And what the satellite knew, the Lizards would learn at the speed of light.

  But Johnson didn’t aim to do anything nasty to it. He took a couple of rolls of photographs as Peregrine reached its nearest approach to 2247. That done, he set down the camera and took out a screwdriver. He used it to undo a piece of sheet aluminum not far below his instrument panel. That done, he reached in and detached a length of wiring. The wire with which he replaced it was almost identical, but had bad insulation. Whistling, he plucked the panel out of the air and screwed it back into place. One of the screws had drifted farther away than he’d expected, which gave him an anxious moment, but he found it.

  He waited till it was time to make the burn that would take him back into his lower orbit. When he flicked the switch, nothing happened. “Oh, damn,” he said archly, and turned his radio to the frequency the space station used. “Station, this is Peregrine. Repeat: station, this is Peregrine. I have had a main motor malfunction. My attempted burn just failed. I have to tell you, I’m glad you’re in the neighborhood.”

  “This isn’t a gas station, Peregrine,” the space-station radio operator said, his voice friendly as vacuum.

  “Christ!” Johnson hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms, but this went above and beyond, or maybe below and beneath. “What the hell do you want me to do, get out and walk?”

  The silence that followed suggested the radioman would have liked nothing better. But Johnson wasn’t the only one listening out there. The fellow couldn’t very well tell his own countryman to get lost, not unless he wanted to create an enormous stink and raise enormous suspicions. And so, slower than he should have, he asked, “Can you make it here on your maneuvering jets, Peregrine?”

  “I think so,” answered Johnson, who was sure he could: he’d done a lot
of calculations before he requested permission to change orbit.

  “All right,” the operator in the space station said. “You have permission to approach and suit up and come aboard. Do not— repeat, do not—approach by way of the unit on the end of the long boom there.”

  “Why not?” Johnson asked. He wanted to find out what was on the end of that boom.

  “Because you’ll regret it for the rest of your days if you do,” the radioman answered. “You want to be a damn fool, go ahead. No skin off my nose, but it will be off yours.” He had a very unpleasant laugh.

  Johnson thought it over. He didn’t much care for the sound of it. “Roger,” he said, and picked a course that took him over toward the space station’s enormous, untidy main structure, giving the smaller, newer section on the end of the boom a wide berth.

  “Smart fellow,” the radio operator said: he had to be tracking Peregrine’s slow, cautious approach either by radar or by eyeball. Did he sound disappointed that Johnson had listened to him, or was that just the tinny speaker inside Peregrine? Johnson didn’t know, and wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

  He didn’t have much of a chance to worry about it, anyhow. He was busy making sure his pressure suit—a distant, a very distant, descendant of the suits high-altitude pilots had started wearing around the time the Lizards came—was tight. If it failed, he had nobody to blame but himself . . . and he wouldn’t be blaming himself for long.

  “You want to kill as much relative motion as you can there,” the radioman said. “A quarter mile is plenty close enough.”

  “Roger,” Johnson said again, and then, with his transmitter off, “Yes, Mother.” Didn’t the fellow think he could figure all that out for himself? Maybe he wasn’t so glad to be visiting this place after all. It looked to be full of Nervous Nellies.

  He bled his cabin air out through the escape vents, then opened the canopy and stepped out. He had more time here than he would have had trying to bail out of a burning fighter plane. An air lock opened in the space station. Tiny in the distance, a spacesuited man waved in the lock.