by Andrew Lane
GalDiv was also responsible for stopping terrorists: there were many humans who wanted the aliens gone; some who believed them inherently evil, and a few curious to watch them die. Or simply to see if they could and if so would the ones left behind cry?
Overall, humanity was happy. Aliens needed humans as much as humans needed them. Why else would they be here?
For Kara it was all wrong. She’d take the advantages that came with alien contact, while still convinced that humanity was stagnating or worse, becoming infantilised, overly dependent on creatures they didn’t understand and probably never would. But then she had a personal reason for distrusting, even hating, the trade that allowed humanity to play among the stars. A reason experienced as a sharp sadness that often hit when she was most at peace.
TWENTY DAYS EARLIER?
Tatia woke suddenly, unsure what had disturbed her. Her cabin on the space utility transport LUX-WEM-YIB was silent. She turned over in the double cot and automatically reached out a hand. The other side of the mattress was empty and cold. Tatia was relieved, remembering the previous night. They’d made love, Juan as attentive as usual. But Tatia had become a little suspicious of that same-old, same-old attentiveness, as if he was following a script.
Afterwards he’d casually mentioned that the other Pilgrims had donated all their money to the colony-to-be. And that as Consort to the Understander of Aliens, Tatia should really do the same. Although – as she’d tensed angrily in his arms – perhaps not all of her money. But enough to establish her amongst his followers. When Tatia said she was naturally anti-establishment, especially with Pilgrims, Juan had said she really didn’t have any choice. The Pilgrims expected it and deep space, netherspace, was no place to make enemies. At this point Tatia had understood she’d been had in more ways than one. The subsequent screaming row had seen Juan stomp off to seek solace from his Pilgrims.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young woman in possession of a large fortune is an opportunity for anyone on the make. Tatia’s adoptive parents were both dead by the time she was seventeen. Within five years she’d met every type of low-life imaginable. Some were fun, some scary, some sad. All had been after her money as much as her body. Which for an attractive, blue-eyed and natural strawberry blonde had been a rude awakening. It wasn’t naivety crushed so much as a suspicion that her destiny could only involve other equally rich people.
It was at a friend’s fundraiser that she’d met Juan Smith. She’d heard about him before, all Seattle had. The self-proclaimed Prophet and Understander of Aliens who claimed to have a special relationship with the Gliese, Cancri and Eridani. Who also claimed that personal AIs were evil and forbade his followers – he called them Pilgrims – from having one. Who believed that aliens were gods who would lead humanity into a new, spiritual age. But the message had been lost by Earth’s rapacious desire for alien technology. The only answer was a new colony world where human and alien would live simply alongside each other in spiritual harmony. Such a world had been found and soon Juan Smith would lead his Pilgrims to a shining future. GalDiv had supplied all the necessary equipment and supplies, as they did for every colony group. All that was needed was the cost of the trip itself and to continue Juan Smith’s work on Earth.
Tatia had never met a prophet, self-proclaimed or otherwise. She’d expected someone austere, elderly, fanatical. But Juan was in his mid thirties, tall and slim, with thick, wavy hair to his shoulders, a sensual mouth and the most penetrating black eyes she’d ever seen. Here was a man who radiated excitement and laughter. A man who, when she’d finally got some alone time with him, had politely declined her donation. “We just met our target. But if the mission needs help in the future, hey, we’ll be sure to come calling!” She’d thought he had the sexiest voice.
Tatia was between lovers, and bored. She’d agreed that life was becoming too mercenary and that personal AIs were wrong – having told her own, recently acquired AI to go offline. She had gracefully eased Smith away from the party for dinner at a quiet restaurant overlooking the rippling darkness of Elliot Bay and across to the quiet lights of Bainbridge Island. First pleasant surprise: Smith had perfect manners and knew his way around a classic French menu. Second pleasant surprise: he might have strange ideas about aliens, but they had so much in common. They liked the same music and art, books, vids and vid-stars. Loved sailing. It seemed very natural, almost pre-ordained, to take him back to her penthouse in Howell Street. More than that, her intuition had said this was the right thing to do. Tatia’s intuition had always been strong but lately had become almost scary in its demands. She’d always been good at inferring her friends’ needs or desires, at seeing them as they really were. Of late that had begun to happen with total strangers. Tatia could see someone in the street and feel she instantly understood them better than they understood themselves. The scary part came when the person looked around, alarm writ large on their face, as if aware of being probed. Tatia had no control over this ability. It came and went. How could you respect or even like anyone when you could sense their every weakness? But thankfully no such occurrence with her latest lover. She’d woken the next morning intrigued by the man asleep beside her – but with no particular insight.
And when, later on the second day, Juan had invited her to come to the colony world with him, not to stay but to report back to Seattle, Tatia had found herself saying yes. She would, after all, return home with the SUT that had transported them. And when he’d said that for propriety's sake she must be his official consort, Tatia had stifled a giggle and thought why the hell not. It was all a bit dreamlike. It was a laugh. Her intuition said go, and she’d been in galactic space several times before.
There’d been no time to meet the one hundred and fifty Pilgrims who would make the settlement safe for the undoubted thousands who would follow. For Tatia this had been a blessing. From what she’d seen they were a joyless lot, who clung to fanaticism as if it was all they owned. Nor had she believed many others would follow. Without Juan Smith, the religion would dissolve into quarrelling sects. There’d been a semi-formal, extremely brief consort ceremony in front of the space utility transport. Tatia had figured she’d be away for three weeks, tops. There’d be no trouble with arranging the return trip: the SUT belonged to a galactic transport company owned by her Trust. In a sense she was merely checking out an investment. It was easy to ignore the small voice of her long-suffering conscience when it whispered she was being headstrong and foolish.
Now, faced with her intuition saying that something was WRONG, and faced with a money-grabbing bastard of a crook lover – no, very much ex-lover – Tatia blinked in a three-two pattern to switch on her AI. It was a new one and she still wasn’t comfortable with it. Turning it off had been a relief because it was trying out a bewildering series of avatars to find the one that would suit them both. Tatia hoped it wouldn’t be the breathy, vacuous-sounding Best Friend Forever the AI had found in some ancient vid programme.
It wasn’t. The AI had decided a pleasant but severe-looking woman in her early thirties was more appropriate.
< About time.
> Don’t sulk, Tatia vocalised.
< If you’d called me on Earth none of this would have happened. To you.
> I don’t…
< Lover-boy’s got an AI. Surprised? He’s also got a criminal record. Three city states – Mexico City, Dallas and Madrid – are trying to extradite him.
> I’m sure he’s good at making enemies. Tatia didn’t like being told off by a mere chip.
< He’s wanted for fraud and murder. If only those big-city AIs could get their act together, he’d have been gone long ago.
All inter city-state relations were handled by AIs. Treaties, currency exchange, security matters – humans decided on the overall policy, AIs tried to make it work.
< I’m going to show you something, Tatia. Brace yourself.
A list materialised in Tatia’s mind. It was headed with her name. It detailed a
ll her likes and dislikes… everything supposedly held in common with Juan Smith.
> It was a set-up! The bastard researched me!
< He had help. Your friend who threw the fundraiser.
> How do you know?
< Lover-boy’s AI is not as smart as it thinks.
>Stop calling him that. Where is he now? She suddenly realised what her AI had said. > But I turned you off!
< Stood me down. I can’t be turned off. Always working for you. I don’t know why she betrayed you. I don’t know where Juan Smith is. There seems to be something wrong…
A man suddenly screamed outside the cabin door: a disbelieving scream, as if he couldn’t understand why he was suffering so much pain. Then it suddenly stopped, replaced by the low hum of the SUT’s PA system. Had to be an accident. Had to be.
And then the PA came to life again, a woman – Tatia recognised the navigator’s voice, splintered by tension – saying all passengers should remain in their cabins. Her AI chip relayed the message in parallel inside her head.
I am Tatia Nerein. I do not stay hiding in my bloody cabin! The obvious place to go was the passenger lounge. Other Pilgrims would be there. She threw on a semi-formal, mood-sensitive white gown, embroidered with various Gliese symbols, and street shoes. Tried calling the control room but the internal comms weren’t working. Probably an electrical fault. It was an old and well-used SUT.
She found Juan lying dead in the passageway leading to the lounge. The right-hand side of his body had been torn away; that much Tatia saw before shock and nausea overcame her and her gown became a mottled red, purple and sharp green, echoing her emotions. Her stomach heaved.
I’d rather throw up over him alive.
She wiped her mouth and spat.
< The SUT’s AI has gone mad. I suspect we’ve been attacked.
> You think?
< Sarcasm ill becomes you. Tell you something else, too. That Consort ceremony you had before going up? It was legal. You die, your fortune goes to the next of kin. In this case, Juan.
> Just shut the fuck up until I say different, okay?
A dozen Pilgrims were huddled together in the lounge. They stood up as she came in, their faces angry, accusing.
“Oh look,” someone said. “It’s the Consort. Well, that’s okay then. Dumb of us to be worried.”
Tatia realised that she wasn’t popular and held up her hand. It was important to calm them down. If only because they might attack her. “I understand. Juan is dead. But do not worry. I’m sure the gods will help us.” Her robe became a soothing blue; a lie, but faked emotions could fool the material’s inbuilt technology.
The reply was a torrent of accusations, insults and despair. It was Juan’s fault – his death deserved – and she was guilty by association. She tried to calm them, desperate to discover what had happened.
“Your fucking gods happened,” a man said and spat on the floor.
“Not mine – everyone’s! Tell me how he died!” she all but shouted. “Please!” Her robe pulsed purple.
Details were sketchy, but apparently the LUX-WEM-YIB had left netherspace to take a star sighting. A moment later a chariot of the gods had materialised next to them and linked to the SUT. The gods burned their way inside. Then they killed Juan and another Pilgrim.
“What gods?” Tatia demanded. “Did the two show disrespect? Not Juan, surely?”
“It’s the Cancri,” said the man who’d spat. “And they’re not gods. How can they be? They’re just fucking bastard aliens. And all the two did was walk up to them, I was there.” Sometimes the strongest fanatics lose their belief in a blink of an eye, or the death of a friend.
“It is not for us to question the gods’ actions,” she said, knowing how weak it must sound.
“It is when they’re trying to kill you!”
She asked about the SUT staff but nobody knew what had happened to them.
“Why are you all in here?” she asked.
“We were sort of herded,” said the man who’d spat, obviously the group spokesman. “Don’t know why.” A pause as his eyes flickered past her. “Maybe it does,” he said, pointing then shrinking back behind a chair.
Tatia turned and saw a Cancri in the doorway. These aliens were rare on Earth, little known other than what they looked like. Reports from distant human settlements were equally vague. The greyhound-like, striped steed seemed to be grinning at them while its rider, looking like a cross between an eyeless baby and a white maggot, impassively held a slim metal tube in its stubby, hook-like hands.
“I know that dog’s coat, it’s the one that killed the Understander,” someone whispered hoarsely.
Tatia’s robe turned red.
* * *
Kara stood under the shower and reviewed the morning’s work, relieved because success had relied on factors she couldn’t control: a lack of wind so the airborne neurotoxin could settle; no one appearing with a fly swatter; the five targets meeting outdoors. Although the latter had not been so problematic: they didn’t trust each other and, until agreement was reached, would always meet as a group. Being both outdoors and naked was still an adequate defence against bugging, as long as dampening fields were used to suppress implants.
And they never knew a thing. It was a matter of pride that her targets never suspected they were under threat, beyond the usual paranoia. Multinational corporations, especially pharmaceuticals, had to be viciously aggressive to survive, and so did the people who ran them. The world had become more ruthless and amoral as old beliefs were erased by alien technology. Kara had killed five people and prevented a corporate war and worse.
Her hand strayed unconsciously to the entry-wound scar below her right breast. There was no exit wound. The bullet had fortunately lodged in a rib instead of ricocheting around inside her chest. And now the scar was a reminder of what might have been, although Kara wasn’t sure how long she’d have survived domestic bliss. The one serious relationship she’d had almost killed her, although it had started so well…
* * *
“So I’m to be your Number Two,” he’d said that day six years ago, almost managing to hide the disappointment. Fieldcraft and Weapons Skills A1 was designed to discover snipers with that indefinable something that could never be taught, a natural meld between sniper, surroundings, weapon and death. Those who lacked it but otherwise did well became a sniper’s minder and spotter. Indispensable, but not the real thing.
“If we get on,” she’d said.
“I will look after you the best I can.”
It had been her decision. “Let’s see how it goes.”
She’d seen him all but naked, knew he was more athlete, more warrior than over-muscled gym-bunny. His eyes had glanced briefly into her soul and he had the devil’s own subversive laugh.
They’d slept together within a week. Not shocking or unusual; the occasional sniper team even had sex in the field; against regulations but diverting after days curled up in a hide. A quickie to relieve the tension, one of them always searching for a possible enemy, orgasm at most a two-second distraction. But this had been hotel love-making, lasting for hours and with the final accent on love. No regulations against that, only common sense and tradition. Do not fall in love with a comrade because their safety will become more important than the mission. Do not fall in love with anyone who cannot separate the personal from the professional. He at least would never make the same mistake again.
* * *
Kara told herself the wetness on her cheeks was water and cupped her breasts, shivering slightly.
“Le petit mort,” she murmured. After she’d killed, Kara often died several times in one night. It wasn’t uncommon. Back in the army, there was a rumour that people became snipers to improve their sex lives; because the kill had to be done coldly, without any emotion, when the release came it could be truly epic. Kara wasn’t always so sure. There were times that music or the classic TV programmes she loved seemed to do the trick… a long, slow release o
f tension rather than an explosion. One sniper had sublimated his need by building a model Colosseum out of matchsticks. Another would get passing-out drunk every so often, always on his own in case authority learned about it. Authority eventually did, of course, and the man had been sent on rehab. Returned a lifelong abstainer but with his sniper’s edge blunted by guilt.
But this was one of the times that Kara needed sex to relax. Not in the sense of being dominated, almost punished, because of the people she’d killed. Instead as an affirmation of life. It was her time to give and she always tried to ensure that her partners – never more than two; she needed to be the centerpiece – found ecstasy in her arms. Kara was professional to her core.
She dried herself, applied the lightest of cosmetic touches, dabbed a little perfume here and there and went to get dressed. She wasn’t sure if she wanted a man, a woman or both, so she chose a loose, flowing garment that showed nothing but suggested a lot.
It was in a small, intimate pop-up bar in Covent Garden that she saw the Gliese. A moment before she was deep in a promising conversation with a man and another woman, all three initially strangers, when she realised the rest of the bar had fallen silent. Kara looked casually around and saw the matt-blue helmets and uniforms worn by Galactic Division’s guards and instinctively knew what they were protecting, even if it was hidden by customers staring down in fascination – and some in fear – at what looked like a metre-high mound of wet leather with three bony arms.
Then she heard the sound.
“G-g-g-g-l-l-l-l-l-eeze.” A nasty, wet, gobbling noise that no one had ever deciphered. It could have been a word, a warning cry or simply an alien fart. It was the sound the Gliese often made and to no discernible pattern, and was how they had got their name. Her potential bed-mates were pushing forward. Kara stayed put. She knew exactly what a Gliese looked like. It was not pretty. But, as Kara knew, it was easy to kill.