by Janet Morris
Reice headed carefully along the scaffolding toward the Blue Tick, watching his feet. Then, when he was almost to his ship's air lock, he looked up, toward the Ball.
It loomed behind the station as if it were a planet, beyond a ship in orbit.
Pink. Blue. Lavender. Gold. Ripples ran over the sphere, tides of color. Once. Twice. Three times.
It seemed to spark. Sparks flew. Little sparks that grew. Grew large. Grew in substance. Grew in number.
Reice's mouth opened wide. Inside his helmet he could hear his deep, raspy breathing.
This was the damnedest hallucination yet.
Or was it?
Reice said, "Reice to Blue Tick. Patch me to Remson's office. And to ConSec HQ, simultaneously. Secure lines."
As he waited for the com patch to be completed, he kept blinking his eyes.
But the sparks he'd seen didn't go away. They didn't get any smaller. In fact they were getting larger. And they weren't just sparks anymore.
The sparks that had seemed to come out of the Ball hadn't come out of the Ball—couldn't have, Reice reasoned dully, with the part of his mind struggling to hold itself aloof from the chemical tide of fear sweeping through his body. His pharmakit was struggling to normalize his reactions, and his mouth alternately tasted of peppermint, eggs, iron, and copper as his suit tried to bring his blood chemistries to within normal limits by injecting drugs into him via his wrist cuff.
Maybe the fear would go away. Maybe his suit-management systems could keep him from peeing himself, but nothing was going to make those sparks go away.
They weren't sparks anymore. They were ships.
One. Two. Three alien ships. Not spheres. Teardrops.
The sparks he'd seen were some sort of exhaust plumes, because the ships were braking.
They were coming around the sphere and parking.
Reice looked up.
The huge belly of one of those ships was going to park right over him. The three ships were taking up positions around the Ball.
And they were like no ships Reice had ever seen. Nobody human had ships of that design. No UNE ships had coruscating hulls. No UNE ships could have maneuvered the way these had.
They had seemed to come out of the sphere, but of course they hadn't. They'd come around it. They must have.
Reice said, "Emergency. Emergency alert." Very flat. Very crisp. God, let me not be crazy. "ConSec Lieutenant Reice, EVA from Blue Tick, reporting three alien spacecraft at the Ball site. Repeat: three alien spacecraft of unusual design. Parking here. I'm going into my ship if I can, to await further orders. I'll leave this channel open."
Could anybody hear him? He couldn't tell. He tap-scrolled through his com parameters, afraid to voice-command his heads-up.
Everything seemed okay. But Reice needed to be assured that his transmission had been received. Or at least that what he thought he saw was real. He moved very slowly toward the lock of his spacecraft.
No need to let them know they'd scared him. No need to spook them, whoever they were. No need to have them think he was running for cover or looking to make some aggressive move.
As he reached his ship's hull and slapped its lock open, he tried to contact the team in the science station: "Anybody read me in there?"
Silence.
Oh, shit. If his coms were jammed, then was it by accident or on purpose? An aggressive act by the huge ship over his head? Or just some weird glitch at the worst possible moment?
Had he overloaded his own systems somehow, looking for self-tests and long-distance comlinks on open channels while he was trying to contact the science station?
He dumped the long-distance link and tried again: "Anybody home in there? If you read me, get out here. Now. Repeat, evacuate science station. Return to spacecraft. Departure imminent."
He wasn't sure if departure was imminent, but he wanted it to be. He wanted somebody to tell him to get the hell out of here.
So he tried to get somebody to tell him that, not waiting for an answer from the science station.
"ConSec, this is Reice. We need reinforcements out here, somebody to watch what's happening out here. I want to come in with my data. Or I want to dump it now. Please indicate if you copy."
He wasn't going to beg.
He was inside the Blue Tick. The lock closed behind him, shutting out the suddenly hostile space around him.
In his mind's eye he could still see that huge, teardropshaped ship, gliding over the Blue Tick. He wanted to go to the bathroom.
The inner lock opened. His ship looked fine. Nothing appeared to be malfunctioning. Her lights were on. Her electronics were reading the way they should. His flight deck showed no sign of attempted—or successful—jamming.
Without taking off his helmet he dropped into his command seat and tried to contact ConSec again, this time using the ship's system.
And a voice said, "What's going on out there, Reice? Haven't you heard a thing we've said?"
Reice nearly babbled with relief. He said, "Get me Remson in Mickey Croft's office, ConSec Control. There's three ships out here that aren't like anything I've ever seen before. And I don't think anybody else has, either."
CHAPTER 8
On Your Watch
Mickey Croft, Threshold's Secretary General, couldn't believe his luck: He had Richard Cummings, Jr., on his ass, demanding an investigation into the disappearance of his son and heir; he had the mysterious Ball parked at Spacedock Seven, which clearly had something to do with the disappearance of Cummings's NAMECorp freighter, his son, and his son's Muslim girlfriend. And to top it off, now he was about to become the first contact ambassador to a whole new race.
And not just any race. A race that brought an armada with it when it stopped by to say hello.
Well, it was Monday, so what could you expect?
Croft unwound his long, lanky frame from his chair at the Secretary General's desk and walked over to his window. He was a privileged person. He could glimpse the sea of stars outside, if he looked out and up. The stars twinkling there didn't look very different, considering that Reice's news had caused those stars to shift in their courses.
The human race had never made contact with an alien spacefaring race before. If "spacefaring" in this case meant "superior," Croft hadn't the faintest idea how humankind was going to handle the news.
Croft left the window and began to pace around his desk.
He'd worn a track in his carpet over the years. If he could have, he'd have left this office now. He'd be on his way out there, to the Ball site, to see the ships. But he couldn't just pick up and leave. He had to prepare. He had other responsibilities.
But he had none so pressing. Croft hit his desk com and said, "Get me Remson, Mr. Dodd. Get me Riva Lowe. I need them both as soon as possible."
He didn't wait for young, fat-faced Dodd to acknowledge his orders.
Throughout its adventures among the stars, nothing had occurred to shake humanity's image of itself as God's most evolved and beloved creation. Everywhere humanity had gone the species it had found had been less evolved, less artifactual, less mechanically inclined. If man had crushed any brilliant civilizations of nonartifactual Einsteins the size of bacteria underfoot, he'd never noticed.
Some of UNE's member states still purported to long for a contact with another "intelligent" race—with a race from whom it could learn, or at least with whom it could share the study of the universe's wonders.
What the hell was Croft going to do about Cummings, in the midst of all of this?
He stopped before a holographic view of Earth's Grand Canyon and stared into the canyon's depths. Richard Cummings wanted to take Riva Lowe and a few others, including Croft himself, to Earth. This magnanimous gesture was part bribe, part show of power. A few minutes ago Croft's participation would have been inappropriate.
Now, it might be necessary. The last thing Croft needed was Cummings, Jr., trying to cut some trade deal with this alien culture before Croft had a chance
to ascertain who, and what, humanity was about to deal with.
Mickey Croft had never wanted to be the man who put mankind's professed longing for company to the test. UNE held uneasy sway over its member states. The Cummings boy and the Medinan girl, Dini Forat, had discovered that when they'd fallen in love and found themselves sentenced to death by Muslim law.
If Reice was right, and those three ships now confirmed to be out there really were alien ships, the UNE was in for one hell of a shock.
"Riva Lowe on the line, sir," said Dodd's voice from Croft's desktop com.
Croft nearly lunged to take the call. "Riva, tell Cummings you'll be glad to accompany him. Get going as soon as you possibly can. Don't take no for an answer."
"Ah..." The tiny face of Riva Lowe blinked up from his desk communicator in surprise. "I see. I understand, sir. Shall I take South with us then, as we discussed?"
"South?" For a moment Croft couldn't imagine what South, North, East, or West had to do with getting Cummings out of Threshold and back to Earth, where he'd be sheltered from news and too far away to interfere. Then he remembered the Relic pilot. "Lord, Riva, I don't know. Do as you wish, where he's concerned."
The little face frowned at him. Riva Lowe's slightly Oriental eyes gleamed with their most inscrutable look. She said, "What I wish is to take South out to the Ball site. I want him to see what's there. I haven't had time to update you, Mickey, but the Scavenger predicted all this. . . ."
"Don't get specific, even on this line. Fine. Do as you wish. You're saying you think the Artifact Task Force members may be uniquely qualified, I know. But I've got to get Cummings away before he hears."
"Too late for that. However, I think he'll go to Earth anyhow. If you'll trust me, Mickey, I'm sure I can help."
A fine woman. Too smart, but a fine woman. "I can use all the help I can get, Riva. As Customs Director, I realize you should be on hand for . . . whatever this turns out to be." The little face grinned. "Yes, sir. I certainly should. So I'll get Mr. Cummings thinking about packing and itineraries, and make sure he can't go where he's not wanted. Then I'll see you out there—at the site."
"Fine. I'll be looking forward to it." Croft gave Riva Lowe his most professionally warm smile and switched off.
"At the site." Already, this extraordinary occurrence had taken on its inevitable cloak of bureaucratic understatement.
"At the site." At the site of mankind's first historic meeting with an alien spacefaring culture.
Croft tried to think of what he'd say. Without realizing it he'd begun to pace again, and he paced until Remson came quietly into his office without knocking.
Vince Remson was a big, Slavic man with jutting features and a nimble intelligence. He was, despite various titles, chief advisor to Croft and in charge of Secretariat security.
"So, Vince, what do you think?"
"I think we're almost ready to take a trip out to the science station, Mickey." Remson flashed white teeth. He was as alert as a hunting dog, and clearly on the scent.
"I don't know that I'm qualified for this, Vince," Croft said, when he'd stopped pacing and turned to face the other man.
"Nobody is, sir," Remson said softly.
Somehow that simple truth made Croft feel much better, much stronger, much more competent.
"So we'll be blazing a trail together, eh?" Remson was the closest thing that Croft had to a confidant. In the Secretary General's position, even a single friend was rare.
But Croft had gotten here not entirely on his inherited money or his excellent education or his carefully cultivated manners or his inherent charisma. He had gotten here, as much as anything, by luck.
In his younger days Mickey Croft had been fond of saying that it didn't matter how good you were, if you weren't lucky.
Croft's luck was about to be tested as it had never been tested before.
The Secretary General of Threshold looked at his assistant and said, "Vince, if they're unfriendly, I'm not going to invite them into Threshold. I just want you to know."
"And if they insist on coming anyway?" said Remson, with a raised, pale eyebrow.
"Then we will do our best to protect ourselves. So you should call up SpaceCom—whatever reserves you can without causing a panic or tipping our hand."
Remson's pale eyes closed and then fixed steadily on Croft once more. "Mickey, let's assume that we can handle this. Whatever it is. I'm not saying I've been preparing for an alien invasion all my life, but I am saying that three ships hardly constitute an armed incursion. They're not encircling Threshold, after all. They parked out there at Spacedock Seven. I'd like to interpret that as an attempt on their part to obey the local customs and be polite."
"I wonder how much they know about us," Croft mused, half to himself.
"We can't very well bring a translator fluent in an unknown language. I can set up a language-analysis program on your ship, but that's it. So let's hope they know something. Enough that a first historic contact won't be one in which you go down in the history books as saying, 'Me, Croft. You, little green guy, what do you call yourself?' "
Croft smiled wanly. "You think perhaps they're prepared for us?"
"That Ball's been there a while. I reran Reice's reports. He thought they came out of the Ball, at first. Then he said they came out from behind it. They're surely not parking there by happenstance. We have Spacedocks One through Six, as well. So either the Ball is theirs, and they'd like it back, or—"
"Or," Croft interrupted, "they commonly send their spheres out first as greeting cards. Is that what you're getting at?"
"Calling cards, maybe. But yes, that's the way I read it. Of course, I could be wrong. I've been wrong before."
"When was that, Vince? Refresh me. I forget when you last indulged in the sin of human error."
Remson flushed. "I let the Forat girl and the Cummings boy get away."
"That's not over yet," Mickey promised his assistant, and then said, "I wonder what I should take with me. I mean, one wants a briefcase, at least, so that one appears prepared. But what shall I put in it?"
"Pictures," Remson quipped, and the two of them started trying in earnest to decide just what sort of artifacts would be appropriate when you were going out to greet so unexpected a flotilla of guests.
Hours later, aboard the UNE flagship, the George Washington, and accompanied by an honor guard of armed cruisers that Remson had insisted were there only as part of the space-borne pomp and circumstance, Croft was increasingly nervous about his level of preparedness for this meeting.
He kept trying to envision what he'd say when he met whoever was inside the teardropshaped ships with the magnificent coruscating hulls.
Reice had sent back video from the Blue Tick and Remson had put it through every possible analysis. Not all of Remson's work, nor all of Threshold's computing power or human brainpower, had been able to shed any light on the possible encounter to come.
ConSec Lieutenant Reice had been ordered not to contact the ships directly, or do anything more than send back a constant feed of reports.
So Mickey didn't know, as he paced around his stateroom, paneled with simulated rosewood, what he would say or what he would do when he stood face-to-face with the aliens.
Would they be short, green, and have tentacles instead of arms? If they were, how did one shake hands? Was a particular tentacle the greeting tentacle?
If they were ovoid, red, and ten-eyed, how could he look them straight in the eye?
If they had no heads and hence no faces, how could he be sure that his facial expressions were being properly read and understood?
If they were big worms with no front end, how could he be sure he didn't offend by talking to the wrong end?
If they were giant croissants floating in huge tanks of liquid, how could he make himself understood at all?
Perhaps they were gaseous. Perhaps they were energy creatures, providing physical craft only because humans would need physical evidence and a phy
sical focal point, a nexus at which to direct dialogue.
But no, they wouldn't be. Would they? One only created a spacecraft out of hard material if one needed a hard enclosure for life-support and was capable of manipulating hard substances. Assuming, of course, that whatever was in the teardrops had created them, not moved into them after they were vacated by some other species, the way hermit crabs moved into seashells.
But even hermit crabs had protective skeletons.
So they would have some sort of skeleton. They would have some requirement for ships in which to travel, for enclosing life-support. They would have come up from the primordial slime, along their own evolutionary chain, and learned to make artifacts and manipulate physics.
Otherwise there would be no ships out there. The ships were proof of a common heritage—the heritage of the toolmaker.
Having found this point of contact, this clear correspondence of nature, Croft finally sank down on his stateroom couch.
Reason is the only thing a person can count upon in a crisis, yet it is one of the most difficult and elusive weapons to bring to bear when emotions run high.
Between now and the moment when he first stepped out onto the scaffolding of the science station, hand outstretched in a time-honored gesture of friendship, Mickey Croft must be sure that reason, and not emotion, guided his actions.
For the sake of humanity, he must be sure of that.
CHAPTER 9
Hot Date
South, sitting on his bunk in STARBIRD, looked blankly at the machine wedged into the narrow space between his galley and the head. He didn't know why, but he'd assumed the "therapist" would be human.
The AIP/PDE (Artificially Intelligent Preprogrammed/ Pilotry Digital Evaluation) Therapist before him was about as far from that as you could get. Birdy must think this was really funny. South's AI was monitoring everything that went on back here, where, along with sleeping quarters, head, and galley, there was a redundant astrogation console.
The digital therapist had South flying STARBIRD around in circles while it monitored his reactions to various stimuli, including simulated control and power failures it was tossing into his aft control suite. Meanwhile, up front, Birdy had the real data and was making sure that STARBIRD went exactly where she was supposed to go.