by Linn Schwab
“Such as?” the captain prompted her.
She sighed and continued. “It goes back to something that happened three years ago ... when the existence of this world was first announced to the public. As you might imagine, when word of the Livingstone’s whereabouts got out, every telescope on Earth turned toward this solar system. Everyone wanted to know, why here? Why did the Livingstone’s crew choose this destination?
“Shortly afterward, something quite remarkable happened. Some of the researchers who had access to more powerful telescopes reported experiencing a strange fixation. They reported waking up in the middle of the night with a compulsion to look at this system again. After a few of them mentioned this experience to each other, they began to suspect it might be more than mere coincidence. What they found after conducting a quiet survey of their peers was that some of them had experienced this phenomenon before, but had simply dismissed it as being insignificant, and never bothered to tell anyone about it. Furthermore, they discovered the effect was far from universal. Only a portion of those who were surveyed reported having this experience. When they dug into the data a little deeper, a fascinating pattern began to emerge. Only subjects with blue eyes reported being influenced by this. Those with brown eyes appeared to be completely unaffected.”
Captain Reed appeared thoroughly unimpressed by her disclosure. “Interesting,” he said, “but hardly worth making the trip out here for.”
“I disagree,” Dr. Friedman insisted. “Look what we’ve found. A world that’s capable of supporting human life.”
“A lucky coincidence,” the captain argued.
Dr. Friedman shrugged. “It’s possible, yes. But there’s another possibility we’d like you to consider. One that might seem a little crazy at first, based on our current understanding of science.” He paused for a second to draw in a deep breath. “If you wanted to somehow mark the location of planets that are suitable for colonization, what better way to accomplish that than to use the light of their suns as a beacon?”
What? Foster thought, dazed and uncertain. Are they suggesting there might be aliens here? As much as he wanted to laugh at the idea, he couldn’t see anything in the scientists’ expressions that suggested they didn’t believe what they were saying. They can’t be serious, he told himself, wondering what they could possibly be up to. If there were aliens here, we would’ve known by now. There must be something else going on.
Captain Reed looked at both scientists as if he were entertaining doubts about their sanity. “And this beacon, I suppose, is some sort of signal embedded in the light which can only be detected by those with blue eyes?”
“It’s a possibility we’ve been looking into.”
“That’s pretty far–fetched,” the captain argued.
“I admit that it is,” Dr. Friedman agreed. “But even before this mission left Earth, we found other stars in our galaxy that have this same effect on people. If this theory turns out to be true, it could have enormous implications for us.”
“I’ll grant you that. If it’s true. But it could just be a naturally occurring phenomenon. And it still doesn’t explain why you feel it’s so important that the two of you take part in these negotiations.”
“Two reasons,” Dr. Friedman replied. “First of all, any civilization with the capability of creating such a signal is certain to be more advanced than ours. Since you seem to have some sort of contingency plan that may result in the use of force, don’t you think it might be wise to determine what you’re up against? If there are intelligent alien beings present here, or even if they just left some of their knowledge behind, you could be in for an unpleasant surprise if you attempt to launch an assault on this world. Dr. Klein and myself are uniquely qualified to determine the presence of advanced technology.”
“Sorry, Doctor, I’m not buying that one. The rudimentary state of their space program suggests they’re behind us rather than ahead of us, as far as the level of their technology is concerned. What’s your other argument?”
Both scientists shifted their eyes toward Foster. Up until now, he’d remained on the sidelines of the discussion, but it seemed as if that was about to change.
“Just this,” Dr. Friedman said. “Dr. Klein and I are scientists. The Livingstone’s crew was primarily made up of scientists. The population of this planet is descended from scientists. Why would you possibly want to exclude us? We’re perfectly suited for these negotiations.”
“I see,” Captain Reed responded with a grin. “You’re convinced that because the two of you are scientists, these people should be favorably disposed toward you?”
“Why not?” Dr. Friedman argued. “An entire society founded by scientific minds. Who can say how that might have influenced people — how it may have helped shape their outlook on things?”
Captain Reed chuckled and shook his head. “That’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it?” Dr. Friedman countered. “Is it any more ridiculous than presenting a lawyer as the face of our society? Think about it, Captain. This is absurd. We only get one chance to make a first impression on these people, and we’re going to set the tone of these talks by unleashing a corporate attorney on them. Is that really how you want to start things off?”
The captain grinned and looked at Foster. “He does have a point. Would you care to defend your position, Mr. Demming? You’ve certainly convinced me of your abilities. Perhaps you can make a believer out of him.”
Foster stepped closer to the two scientists, and channeled his negotiating persona. “It’s been my experience,” he explained, “that people tend to overestimate their understanding of this process. It isn’t as straightforward as open debate and discussion. The skill set is a highly developed art. Much as in the world of professional poker, just knowing the rules of the game is not enough. The ability to interpret your counterparts’ expressions is crucial to understanding what their motivations are. Likewise, controlling one’s own body language is vital to achieving success as well.”
Dr. Friedman seemed to realize his cause was lost. The sense of frustration was apparent on his face. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he said to Foster. “Here we have a chance to befriend these people, and you sound as if you’re planning to take them to the cleaners.”
“That’s not my intention at all,” Foster explained. “My primary goal in these negotiations is to determine if the people of this world pose a threat. In keeping with that goal, the documents I plan to present to them are part of a carefully constructed facade, designed to allow me to probe their intentions. The financial matters I plan to discuss are strictly of secondary importance. I understand that you want to participate in these talks, but I have to insist that you remain on board the ship. I can’t take a chance on you — or anyone else for that matter — upsetting the intricacies of my plan. Now if you’ll excuse me, Doctors. Administrator Maris is awaiting my arrival.”
He left the two scientists standing where they were, and headed for his quarters to retrieve his briefcase. Moments later, Captain Reed caught up with him in the docking bay and handed him a pocket–sized wireless communicator.
“Stay in touch with us while you’re down there,” the captain said. “Let us know if you run into any trouble.”
“Understood,” Foster replied. “Are the doctors upset about being left behind?”
“They’re not happy, I can tell you that.”
“What do you make of that story they gave us? About looking for signs of alien technology.”
The captain shook his head as if to dismiss the idea. “I think they’d say anything to get off this ship. Two years is a long time to stay cooped up inside. Still,” he said, apparently having second thoughts, “you might want to keep your eyes open just in case. If you see anything that might be cause for concern, be sure to give us a heads–up on it.” He held out his hand. “Good luck, Mr. Demming. I hope your plan works out well for all of us.”
“Thank you, Captain. I’ll do my best to make sure your men aren’t needed.”
FLASHPOINT 094
The shuttle emerged from beneath the Marco Polo, with Fletcher and Vought at the pilot controls. Foster sat behind them in one of the crew seats, peering over their shoulders through the forward windows. Only now did he notice they were both wearing sidearms — most likely at Captain Reed’s insistence. They’ll be guarding the shuttle, he reminded himself. He could argue to his hosts that it was just a precaution. A reasonable precaution on an unknown world. Not meant to be taken as a sign of aggression. He felt certain he could convince them of that. Two handguns shouldn’t give them any cause for concern.
He realized he was nervous. He was sweating the details, looking for anything that didn’t fit his story. Anything that might be grounds for suspicion. I have to stay relaxed, he told himself. I’ve had two years to go over this plan. I know every aspect of it, inside and out. He focused his attention on the planet for a moment and found that it helped him to clear his thoughts. Its colors were a visual feast for the eyes. He could only imagine what it must be like on the surface. “My daughter would’ve loved this,” he heard himself say, in a manner that suggested he was thinking out loud.
“How old is she?” he heard a voice say. He shook a daze off, and realized it was Fletcher speaking to him.
“She was two when we left Earth,” Foster replied. “I’ve had to watch her grow up in video clips.”
“I know what you mean,” Fletcher said. “My wife gave birth three weeks before we left. I’m grateful for all of the images she sends me, but I’d much rather be at home with them, watching my son grow up in person.”
“What about you, Vought?” Foster asked. “Did you leave any children back on Earth?”
“Yeah,” Vought said. “Two boys, six and three. The oldest was just starting Little League at the time. What I wouldn’t give to be there for just one of his games.”
“What made you sign up for this?” Foster asked him, suddenly curious how the other personnel had been chosen. He’d known from the beginning that they were all military, but was unclear on the details surrounding their recruitment.
“Didn’t have a choice,” Vought replied.
“Can’t say no when you’re in the service,” Fletcher added. “We’re on a four year, round trip, tour of duty, with no time off to visit our families.”
“I’m sorry,” Foster said. “I didn’t know that. I just assumed they would’ve asked for volunteers.”
“I’m sure they did,” Fletcher said. “But who the hell would volunteer for something like this?”
Foster shrugged. “Friedman and Klein.”
Vought let out a laugh. “Yeah, but I’ll bet neither of those eggheads left families behind. What about you, Mr. Demming?” he said. “Didn’t you once tell me you have three kids at home? Don’t tell me you volunteered for this gig. You seem to have a lot more sense than that.”
“It’s complicated,” Foster said. “I came out here because I felt obligated. The company I represent has a hand in this mission, whether I agree with the reasoning behind it or not. If things go wrong, people could end up getting hurt. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“That’s a noble sentiment,” Fletcher said. He exchanged a quiet glance with Vought, then both of them gave Foster a respectful salute.
A buzzer sounded on the instrument panel, corresponding with a blinking amber light. “Hang on,” Vought said, “we’re entering the atmosphere. The ride could get a little bumpy now.”
The descent went smoother than Foster had expected. Just a moment of turbulence as they passed through some clouds, then the shuttle eased into a broad sweeping turn. “Where are we headed?” he asked the two pilots.
Fletcher pointed toward a large land mass located in the planet’s southern hemisphere. “There’s a population center on the northern coast of that continent. That’s where their instructions tell me to land.”
The continent appeared to be largely savannah, dotted with scattered patches of forest. As the shuttle drew nearer to its destination, a single runway came into view at the western edge of a cluster of trees.
“There it is,” Fletcher said. “Right where the instructions said it would be.”
“Are you sure?” Foster asked. “I don’t see any signs of a city nearby. No skyscrapers, no warehouses, no office buildings. Nothing.”
“Well,” Fletcher said, “we’ve gotta land somewhere. I’m extending the landing gear now.” He reached for the landing gear controls and aligned the shuttle with the length of the runway.
Only in the final few seconds before landing did Foster’s eyes finally detect any structures. They were set amongst the trees and designed in such a way that they blended in nicely with their surroundings. “Alright,” he said, “I feel better now. Looks like there are signs of life here after all.”
“Looks like a resort to me,” Vought said. “If this is their capital, I like it already. Much nicer than our concrete jungles back home.”
After touching down and slowing the shuttle to a crawl, Fletcher steered it toward a clearing at the edge of the trees. A shuttle of similar design was parked there, along with two small aircraft devoid of any markings. There appeared to be provisions for refueling and maintenance, and a structure which resembled a small control tower. But there were no passenger terminals, no commercial jetliners, and no signs of any security at all.
“Not much of an airport,” Fletcher commented. “They must not travel by air much here.” He parked the shuttle, shut down the engines, and checked the external air temperature. “It’s a scorching ninety–nine degrees fahrenheit outside. I hope you like working in the heat, Mr. Demming.”
Foster nodded and pointed through the window. “Looks like someone is coming out to greet us.” A single figure dressed in off–white and khaki was walking across the pavement toward the shuttle. “Let’s go down and see what he has to say, shall we.” The three of them headed for the shuttle’s boarding ramp.
The outside air was hot and dry, just as the readings had indicated. Foster took the lead and walked down the ramp, with Fletcher and Vought a few paces behind. The lone figure greeted them all at the bottom, cordially, but without the slightest trace of a smile. “My name is Olaf Ericks,” he said. “Senior Advisor to Administrator Maris. Are you Mr. Demming?” he said to Foster.
“I am,” Foster said. “Pleasure to meet you.” The two of them exchanged a businesslike handshake.
Olaf then scrutinized Fletcher and Vought. His eyes seemed to gravitate toward their sidearms. “Will your pilots be attending the proceedings?” he asked.
“Their instructions are to remain with the shuttle,” Foster said.
The answer seemed to satisfy Olaf. “Very well,” he said, “if you’ll come with me, Mr. Demming, I’ll escort you to the Council Hall.”
With briefcase in hand, Foster walked alongside him, taking in as much as he could of his surroundings. As they approached the tree line, he formed a better understanding of how things were laid out in this community. Vought was right, he found himself thinking. This whole place looks like some kind of resort. The ground inside the tree line was largely paved over, in decorative patterns of brick, stone, and concrete, while planters of various sizes and shapes played host to vegetation in great abundance. The structures he could see were laid out in such a way that none of them formed a straight line with each other. There were no roads, no alleys, no streets of any kind. And no vehicles, or any of their associated ills.
The buildings had a very distinct design, and stood no taller than most of the surrounding trees. Their bases were constructed of polished granite and plate glass, while their peaks were fashioned from some type of light colored fabric, giving them an almost tent–like appearance. The overall atmosphere of the community made a very unique impression on Foster. It reminded him of a sprawling hotel complex patterned after a wildlife observation post, plucked straight
out of the African wilderness. If a lion were to suddenly appear in his path, he doubted it would seem at all out of place.
The people he saw were mostly dressed in like fashion, in various shades of off–white and khaki. Vivid colors seemed to be reserved for plant life. Everything else was decorated in muted earth tones. There were no billboards, no placards, no video screens, or any other form of advertisement screaming for his attention. In fact, the only thing he recalled seeing that resembled a sign was a marker back at the edge of the airfield — a rather nondescript block of carved stone engraved with the words:
BASE CAMP ONE
Could that be the name of this community? he wondered. The thought had not occurred to him when he’d passed it. “Mr. Ericks,” he said to Olaf, “that marker at the tree line. Is that the name of this community?”
Olaf nodded. “This is the site where our founders first landed.”
“I see,” Foster said. “So there’s some cultural significance to this location.” He wondered if that accounted for the apparent lack of commercialization. Perhaps that was considered inappropriate here, if this site held a special symbolic importance.
Off to his left, he saw what looked like an open air market, with bins full of colorful fruits and vegetables. Though people were selecting items from the bins, he didn’t notice any vendors collecting money, or even keeping tabs on what was being taken. They must be on the honor system, he decided, though he was more interested in knowing what was being sold. Pineapples, green beans, bell peppers, melons, and dozens more examples that were all familiar to him. Nothing jumped out at him as being alien in origin. Everything appeared to be a transplant from Earth.
Further on he noticed a decorative fountain, with streams of water spraying over a depiction of the planet, held aloft by a pair of oversized hands. An engraving around the base read:
BENEVOLENT FRIEND