by Rod Galindo
Bouchard made his way to one of the four elevators that would bypass the inner ring and take him directly to the hub. Once the doors closed, the trip took all of fourteen seconds to take him to his destination. He passed the time by using his watch to initiate a full diagnostic on the magnetron, which was the next stop on his eyes-on inspection. He exited the lift and, now weightless again in the Deck Three tunnel, fired himself toward the stern of the ship. Soon he was at the magnetron housing, which hugged the tunnel like a foam "coozie" does an ice cold can of beer.
Beer, Don thought.
A couple of years ago, he and Mags had tried their hand using the 3D printer to create something almost, but not quite, entirely unlike beer here on the ship. They won't be making that mistake again. Mag-Lev talked about doing it the old-fashioned way, actually brewing it from scratch after printing out hops and barley and other needed supplies. Don suggested they wait and try such an endeavor after they had completed their Voyager refit mission, when they were bored beyond belief, and the world—and their bosses back on Earth—weren't watching so closely.
Bouchard tapped on a screen to pull up the control panel of the ever-humming, giant machine that protected them at all times from so many external dangers, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end in the powerful field it generated. It tickled his insides. He readily admitted he kind of enjoyed it.
As he waited for the full diagnostic to complete, he tried to imagine the faces in the Mission Control Center at the Space X Florida campus when they get his message sixteen hours from now, the time it normally took to get a radio signal between Explorer Two and Earth at this distance. Some poor sap will be sitting at his comms station trying to stay awake when the transmission comes in, and it will probably take a full minute to register exactly what was said. There will be repeated playings to ensure he heard correctly: "Not of natural origin." He would call a co-worker over to see what he or she thought. Then a supervisor. Then finally Flight Control would be notified. Then people would start talking into their tele-implants. Darmstadt would be called to verify at the European Space Operations Centre. Then Korolyov. Then Beijing. Finally Washington D.C. He chuckled. "And then the arguments would start."
Don mused that NASA et al might figure out some guidance to pass along in six to twelve hours. But then he'd have to wait another sixteen hours before he could receive a response. So it would be well into tomorrow before he obtained any guidance from Earth. "Thirty-three hours, minimum," Don muttered. Hell, we could all be dead in another thirty-three minutes!
He tried not to think of such things and busied himself with his work. After the magnetron returned a plethora of green bubbles and bars, he moved on down the long tunnel. Next stop: the storage bins, which carried all manner of supplies and materials for their mission, and the crew’s comfort and survival.
Near the bins was located two printing platforms for 3D printer #2, the one that worked fine only yesterday, and tried to print a tube of silicone sealant. A third platform was located outside the ship, to print extremely large items; this they will need to create repair parts for their broken vessel. Printer #1 was located in the maintenance bay, and wasn't working perfectly at the moment. It would need to be fixed by the time they reached Voyager. In two years. Mags figured had plenty of time to fix it, but he hadn't exactly counted on an alien attack.
A minute later, Don's order appeared on the smallest of the two interior platforms as if by magic, and he scooped it up and stuffed it in a zippered pocket. "Well, that's a relief." Larry just received a stay of execution, he thought. The fact that so many things were still working despite the ship nearly being torn apart was testament to the multi-national, multi-organizational craftsmanship of their wayward home.
Don spoke into his implant again. "Mags, it's Darko. I just printed out a tube of sealant for the crack in the command cabin's window."
"Oh, good," Larry replied, "that's one less thing weighing on my mind."
"You and Treads making any progress out there?"
"There's a crack in an AlON5 window!?" exclaimed Treads.
Crap. "Nothing to worry about, sweetheart. It's more of a scratch, really."
"When are you gonna realize you're a terrible liar, Donnie?"
He fell silent.
Luckily, Liev came to his rescue. "Boss, we're more-less finished out here with our inspection, if you want to hear it."
Excited to be out of his wife's line of fire, if only temporarily, Don excitedly answered. "Go ahead, Mags."
"Well, it's just as the computer reported. The accelerator tubes are all twisted up. We're going to have to recycle and re-fabricate all four. Gonna take several months."
"I figured as much," said Bouchard.
"The printers can only work so fast, you know," continued Mag-Lev. "It's funny to me; it was almost like a surgical strike. Seems like these E.T.s knew exactly where to hit us if they didn't want us to go any further, but still allow us to breathe and eat and limp… well, somewhere."
"Home," said Bouchard. "I think that was their plan, to send us packing. I guess they don't yet realize we'll need to expend every ounce of our fuel to completely stop. Forget about making it all the way back to Earth with what xenon we got!"
Mag-Lev laughed. "Hey, they're doing it for us, it seems!"
"That they are." Don checked his watch. The ship had slowed to 100,000 KPH and was holding steady.
"At least we still have thrusters," added Brea. "We can still spin this old girl around in the right direction if we have to. That's something."
Don nodded to himself. "I guess I'll take every little bit I can. Alright, let's get started. Maybe if they see you out there working, they'll lend a hand?"
"Here's to hoping. Mags out."
A new voice broke over the channel. "Commander, you might want to get back up to the command cabin."
"X-Ray..?"
"Pronto."
SIX
Bouchard launched himself through the hatch of the command cabin. He focused on the windows before him, but saw nothing that wasn't there earlier. There was the lumpy, spiky, alien ship, barely illuminated as before. He plowed into the back of his co-pilot/command chair with outstretched hands, then turned to look at Adrienne, who was staring off into space, literally. He turned his gaze back to the window and scanned the sky. After a few seconds, he looked back at Scalia.
Jack returned his glare as if to say, "Don't you see it?"
"What?" he finally asked.
"That!" Pearls pointed slightly off to the left.
Don looked again, but saw only the familiar star field. He squinted. Was one of them moving? He couldn't— Wait. There! A dark shape was moving just beyond the larger vessel. "I take it that's another ship?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Adrienne said.
"Have any more transmissions come through, Scales?"
Scalia shook his head. "You would have heard them, I think."
Bouchard shoved himself into his seat and buckled in once more. "X-Ray, what can you tell me?"
"Not much, Commander," Isley said over the intercom. "Except that the new arrival is significantly smaller than the first ship. And it barely has a heat signature at all."
A sound burst from the loudspeakers. Bouchard listened. It was faint, and it sounded like a human voice. A female voice. A bit gurgly and… strange. But the strangest thing wasn't the characteristics of the voice.
"Is that English?" asked Don. "That's not them, is it? Brea, M&M, was that either of you?"
"Did that accent sound British?" Treads replied over a different speaker.
"Wasn't me!" This from Melodi.
Bouchard thought for a moment. "X-Ray, that's not an echo of our own transmission is it?"
"No, Commander. I've pin-pointed the source. It's definitely coming from the new arrival."
"Maybe they're broadcasting one of our old reports to Mission Control back at us?" suggested Scalia. "One that Adrienne recorded?"
; Adrienne scowled and glanced over her shoulder. "Do you really think I sound like that?"
The voice returned over the loudspeakers, more clearly now. "Alright, alright!" It grew in volume, as if the speaker was now closer to the microphone. "I got it from here. Still just the seven, yes, ß7ylÎx? You haven't picked up any others? No new spacecraft or anything?"
Chirping.
"Okay. Are we on their frequency?"
A strange set of sounds spurted from the speaker. It sounded to Don like crickets chirping and clicking underwater.
"Oh what's the big deal, Constable? What are they going to do?"
A growl this time.
X-Ray spoke softly over the internal speaker system. "That growling is coming from the larger vessel, Commander."
"Oh, please!" said the woman. "Surely you scanned their craft. Tell me they have the capability to—"
More growling.
"It's absolutely the point!"
A gurgle.
"Yes, yes, I get it, Constable. But that's their only crime. Just turn those antimatter rails off, would you? I can see from here you've got at least eight weapons trained on them, which is seven, if not eight, more than necessary. Believe me, you and your men have nothing to worry about. As you can see, that's not a battlecruiser or anything of the sort! You've intercepted too many of their movies! That's all fiction, trust me on this. Just let me handle this incident as the treaty calls for, yes?"
A click.
"Thank you."
There was one last chirp, then a strange glopping sound boomed in Don's ears. If he didn't know better, he would have thought an octopus was clearing its throat.
"Attention, explorers from Sol," the woman said, louder now. "Please turn around and head back into your designated quarantined area. If you go now, the Constable will grant you amnesty for your encroachment. If you stay, I can't promise he will not destroy your pretty, white, slender, and very fragile vessel. Do you understand?"
Don wondered if her stress on "very" and "fragile" was less for his crew and more for the one she called The Constable. He scrunched up his face and remained silent. This wasn't how "First Contact" occurred in any training scenario he remembered.
"Hello?" came the voice again. "Am I broadcasting? Check again, ß7y."
Now it was Bouchard's turn to clear his throat. "Yes, hello, we're here. This is Commander Donald Bouchard. I am in command of the spaceship Explorer Two. I am pleased to meet you. Please understand we are merely explorers from the planet Earth. We have no weapons. Our mission is of a peaceful, scientific nature."
"Yes, even my small-minded military pals over on the big ugly ship can tell that," replied the woman, "which is why you're still alive."
"Great." I think. "So you know we don't mean anyone any harm. We are merely on a mission to find and explore the edge of our solar system."
"Well, you found it. Congratulations. Now go home."
Bouchard glanced at Adrienne, who looked like a deer staring into headlights, and couldn't help but chuckle. "Ma'am? I must admit I am at a loss. We just made what is possibly the most incredible discovery in all of human history! We can't simply turn and leave now that we—"
"What was that?"
"Um, I said we can't leave now that—"
"No, the other part."
Don blinked. "Excuse me?"
"What is your discovery? The biggest one in 'all of human history'?"
"Well, ma'am, I think it's obvious. My crew and I just discovered intelligent life actually exists beyond the confines of our world. We want to get to know you, to share knowledge, become friends, if possible..?"
"Look, Commander, I know you're a little behind in the current events department here, so I'll try to make this simple for you. The Constable, who is in charge of this sector, know your people well. Not as well as I do, of course, I have been assigned to study Earth in depth, but he knows humans well enough. Luckily for you and your crew, more level minds prevailed today, and I was notified in time… this time."
Another growl. Don guessed it once again came from the larger ship.
"Now, please," the woman continued, "I'm sure there are a thousand questions banging around in your meaty brain housings, but believe me when I tell you, there's no time for a big philosophical discussion about how and why you are only aware of the last forty or fifty ȴcoys of Earth's history. For your own health, and for the sake of everyone on Earth, turn your little tin can around, and don't come this way again."
Bouchard and the others exchanged glances. "But ma'am! I don't…we don't—"
"No buts," she said. "Now listen closely, this is important. When you get back to Earth, tell your world leaders that the ØÝ*)(*ÝØ Council is kindly restating, for the record, its mandate regarding the Sol quarantine, and not taking adverse action at this time for the blatant violation of the treaty. They will all know what you are talking about. In case they deny it, which they probably will, and refuse to share it with even other sections of their own government—like I said I know your kind well—I will read it to you. No. I will summarize, since we've only got another few more Mji1s before the General loses all his patience and mans his guns and pulls the trigger himself."
Don tried to speak, but his jaw merely hung slack.
"If you are not recording this conversation already," continued the woman, "I suggest you begin now. I will give you five seconds with which to do so."
A harsh glop resounded through the cabin as a grasshopper-hippo coughed.
"Constable please, this will only take a Mji1 or two. Ready? 'Earthlings' —it technically translates to 'Earthers,' but that sounds strange even to me—'it is understandable you want to explore your environment. You may do so all you wish, but you must remain within the confines of your solar system, which is defined as, 'a radius of no more than one hundred twenty of your Astronomical Units from your star in any given direction', rather than merely stating 'the limit of your star's magnetosphere or heliosphere'. This way you may not take advantage of the irregular, teardrop shape of these regions. Due to past transgressions, ignoring or outright disregarding this mandate and entering interstellar space will put your planet at risk of invasion, up to and including societal annihilation by the Allied Federated Systems of *)(*.' That is it in a nutshell. What do you say… Ka-peesh?" Then, in a softer voice, "What? Well no, of course these humans won't understand, but the message will get to the right people on Earth eventually."
After that speech, Bouchard was so far from understanding that all he wanted to do was to curl up into a ball, stick his thumb in his mouth, and wait for his mommy to fly out past Neptune to come get him. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option at the moment. "Ma'am, I don't even know where to begin with regard to questions, but I can tell you that we have a bit of a problem on our hands when it comes to heading back to Earth."
"What's your problem?" she asked.
"Well, for starters, our engines are torn up, thanks to your friends in the big ship there."
"What?" The woman pulled away from her microphone and continued in a harsh tone. "You stupid Ωer¦! Why would you damage their engines if you want them to change course and head home?"
A deep gurgling and some clicking followed.
"Yes, it's very fragile! Had you bothered to run a quick scan before opening fire you would have discovered that!"
More chirping.
"Well I doubt it, or they wouldn't be about to commit suicide crossing the Heliopause, now would they?"
Well that doesn't sound promising, thought Bouchard. Would we not have made it?
"I can't believe you fired on such a vessel!"
Click, click, glurp.
"There are other ways to slow them down! This is why you were instructed to call me first before doing anything!"
Gurgling and chirping.
"Nowadays, yes! These humans of this era are not like the others."
A chirp.
"Orders be damned. Look what's happened now. You'
ve got a quarter of the fleet paralleling us, the Princess herself watching, and her mother threatening to clear her schedule for the entire ¥M_ just in case this situation gets out of hand. If it does, she'll have to answer to all Eleven Queendoms as to why her Navy couldn't properly contain the Scourge of Sector 189. Again!"
Don looked at Pearls.
Pearls look at Don.
Something resembling a scoff came over the speaker. "Can we send a repair drone over?"
Chirping. Squealing. Then what sounded like banging and smashing of equipment, then more squealing.
"Oh Constable, for Ωer¦'s sake!"
Don heard chirping again, then more sounds from what seemed like a different individual.
"They're doing what?" asked the woman, in a soft voice. Then louder, "Constable. No. Wait. Listen to me—"
Fluttering. Squealing. Buzzing.
"Damn your orders!" screamed the woman. "These are peaceful explorers, not soldiers!"
Don swore he heard cooing.
"For once, Constable, do the right thing. Just once. For me."
Squelching, gurgling, fervent clicking.
"Are you serious?"
Silence.
"Well, I should have known. Remember this, Constable. There will be repercussions!" the woman screamed. "But you will wait to carry out your orders until I follow my ministry's policy and have performed my scan!"
Two clicks.
"You have your job, Constable, I have mine."
Shuffling followed. Then a final, distant squeal.
"That man is impossible. Cockroaches," she muttered. The woman then addressed the Explorer Two one last time. "Earth ship. I would suggest you sit down and make yourself comfortable for the next thirty seconds. Our /B& scan is somewhat intrusive. It will have a much higher chance of success if you move as little as possible, no matter how uncomfortable you feel. Minor movements are fine, just no walking or jumping about. Do you understand? Commander Bouchard? This is very important."
"Um…"
"We must do this before we can commit to any kind of repairs," she added.