Advance to Contact (Warp Marine Corps Book 3)

by C. J. Carella

  Her English was just like what you heard from news readers or other public speakers. The words themselves… What did Heather call them? Special Snowflakes indeed. Magnificently unique, every last one of them. Except if everyone is special, nobody is.

  “Today, I am Helena,” the alien spokesperson went on. “My name and shape were inspired by your legend of Helen of Troy. My Core’s role is that of Priestess.”

  Shape-shifters? With nanotech you could alter your physique a great deal, but the procedure wasn’t something you did lightly, and there were limits. If you changed enough things, staying alive became difficult, if not impossible. At least not at the common Starfarer tech level.

  No, not shapeshifters. Body-jumpers. That had to be an artificial body, used like a drone. That was still beyond even a Level Five bio-fabber’s capabilities, but it was easier to believe than a species able to alter its entire structure at will.

  “And you must be Michelle Raina Goftalu, Secretary of State of the United Stars of America,” Helena added, turning towards the leader of the delegation. “Your first name means ‘Gift from God.’ The middle one means ‘Queen.’ And your surname can be translated as ‘She Who Stands in the Center.’ I can see they all apply to you and make you a unique and precious individual who is here to speak on behalf of your people. May I hug you?”

  Secretary Goftalu didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

  Helena stepped forward and warmly embraced the Secretary as if they were old friends meeting after years of absence. The senior diplomat hugged her back in good grace, even though their nearly one-foot size difference meant her face ended up pressed against Helena’s breasts. Lisbeth was sure that the Security Detail would proceed to scan Sec-State’s clothes and body down to the molecular level, looking for anything the direct contact might have left behind. Pheromones, mind-control nanites, or just plain alien cooties; they were all possibilities. Galactic diplomacy wasn’t for the faint at heart.

  “If you will all follow me, I shall convey you to the reception prepared in your honor.”

  The wide corridors of the habitat were covered with colorful glass and stone mosaics, the kind of thing one could find in museums. Earth museums. Both the style and depictions were of Greek or Roman origin. Lisbeth’s imp quickly informed her that the dress Helena wore was a variety of Greek chiton, a tunic commonly worn back in pre-Christian times.

  “I chose the motifs for the decorations that would greet you upon your arrival,” Helena said. “It was I who selected them. Do you like them, Michelle?”

  If the Secretary minded someone of undetermined status calling her by her first name, she gave no sign of it. “It is truly magnificent, Helena. I couldn’t imagine a more gorgeous sight.”

  Helena actually giggled like a little girl at the compliment. Giggled and pranced ahead of the group.

  I’m no expert, but I don’t think Starfarers usually go for prancing as a form of expression.

  Lisbeth looked around at her companions. The top diplomats in front of her seemed bemused. Captain Fromm looked tense. She could sympathize. Unusual, seemingly childish behavior was never a good sign. An erratic alien could go from friendly to hostile without warning

  The walk to the reception wasn’t very long, maybe fifty meters or so, so they were still right on the outer edge of the massive space habitat. Another large set of doors slid open, revealing a party in progress.

  Where the corridor had been decorated with ancient Greek mosaics, the reception hall – big enough to fit a basketball court and an audience of a few hundred spectators – was shaped to look like a massive grotto, covered in Paleolithic cave paintings. Colorful depictions of prey animals in assorted poses filled the walls, broken up by clusters of painted handprints immortalizing the original artists. The huge artificial cavern ants its painted walls were given an eerie cast by flickering lights that were the only source of illumination, clearly meant to mimic torches or campfires. Lisbeth wasn’t sure if the setting was meant to flatter human achievement, or to draw a cruel comparison to the splendors of Xanadu. She knew that this particular station long predated the original cave paintings by several millennia.

  I’m going to go for insulting, she decided. ‘Look at what these pitiful primitives were doing when we ruled the galaxy!’ That’s what they’re telling us. Assholes.

  The thought barely had time to cross her mind before her attention was drawn to the gathering waiting for them in the wide center of the cave.

  About two hundred people in a dizzying variety of costumes were cavorting inside.

  Humans. They all looked like humans.

  Male, female, and androgynous. Tall and beautiful, except for some grotesque exceptions, representing just about every racial group imaginable. Their garments – other than a handful of completely naked revelers – were just as diverse. Lisbeth saw someone in full Samurai armor dancing with a woman wearing a black leather corset, a stovepipe hat that made her think of Abraham Lincoln, and 1950s style red Capri pants over silver platform shoes. Not too far away, someone in what seemed to be a very faithful replica of a Scots Highlander outfit, complete with kilt and Glengarry cap, whispered sweet nothings into the ear of a man wearing a pre-Contact astronaut suit, but with a gorilla mask in lieu of a helmet. Romans in togas drank with Beninese warriors in battle harness, French Crusaders in chain mail and Tibetan lamas in simple robes. And so on and so forth.

  Music was playing in the background, switching styles every few seconds, Gregorian chants swiftly replaced by tribal drumming before giving way to a jazzy sax solo, followed by something Lisbeth had to Woogle to identify as a Polynesian melody. Smells filled the cavern as well: cooked, fried and grilled food from various cuisines, tobacco smoke, incense, assorted perfumes and some disgusting stenches that her imp ID’d as crack cocaine and methamphetamines, wafting in and out her olfactory range.

  This is ridiculous.

  For several seconds, the party went on, ignoring the new arrivals. Finally, Helena clapped her hands over her head. The resulting noise was as loud as a gunshot – 195 decibels, her imp helpfully informed her – more than enough to cut through the noise and silence everyone.

  “The Human Americans are here,” the Priestess said.

  The gathering of weirdos exploded in loud cheers. Streamers and clouds of confetti popped out from both sides of the entrance, showering the US delegation with glittering crap. Somebody started chanting “USA! USA!” and soon all the Tah-Leen took it up, making the whole thing sound like a stadium at a football game.

  I guess it’s better than ‘Death to America,’ but this is beginning to feel like a bad trip.

  A figure emerged from the mob of revelers and floated over their heads. Unlike the majority of the Tah-Leen, the hairless pseudo-human was fat to the point of obesity. He was wearing golden robes that left most of his ample gut uncovered and carried prayer beads in one hand and a small cloth sack in the other; his costume was that of Budai, the Chinese folk deity of prosperity that had eventually become associated with the Laughing Buddha popular in Asian art.

  “It is well and truly wonderful to finally see you, our new American friends,” the floating Budai said after the cheering had subsided, his voice artificially magnified so it was almost painful to hear. “I am the Hierophant, Keeper of the Lore of Tah, given the task of guiding the True Individuals as they each pursue their unique path towards happiness.

  “Here there is no want or strife, except for amusement’s sake. This is a place of safety, happiness and comfort for my people, and my primary purpose is to keep it that way. Your arrival here has been a source of much merriment among us. In that, the Multitude of the Unique is unanimous. So today we celebrate your arrival, by getting to know one another in informal, pleasurable ways. Tomorrow we shall discuss the very important issues that brought you here.”

  Even though his smile didn’t waver, Lisbeth thought there was a hint of a sneer in it as the Hierophant went on:

  “Admittedly, their
importance is relatively minor to us. We, the True Individuals that comprise the Celebration of Diversity, desire very little from our younger cousins among the stars, although we have a great deal to offer them, especially to vigorous civilizations still finding their way in the universe. But those things can wait. Tonight, we party like it’s the last day of the last year of the last eon of our existence!”

  The crowd roared its approval.

  A furious flurry of implant communication ensued as the American diplomats and the rest of the entourage smiled and nodded while they insta-messaged each other.

  The orders from the State Department came quickly enough. Do not indulge in alcohol or any mind-altering substances; have your bio-implants alert you of any signs of intoxication or toxicity. Scan all food and drink carefully before consuming anything. Do not engage in sexual congress with the locals. Be friendly and polite. Ignore verbal provocations and anything less than direct physical assault.

  Lisbeth knew precious little about diplomacy, but a wild party that appeared to be in the process of becoming an orgy – a couple of the locals had already gotten started, discarding their costumes and going at it on the edges of the party – surely wasn’t the kind of situation the diplo-rats had prepared for.

  And if someone screws up, I hope it ain’t me.

  * * *

  “My current persona is Henry the Eighth,” the Tah-Leen who’d paired off with Fromm said. He had a fringed beard and was wearing an outlandish outfit that a quick Woogle search identified as the garment of some old British king. “My Core identity it the Unpleasantness Prevention Coordinator, but I am a mere student of history at the moment.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Fromm replied in a neutral tone, sipping from a glass of alleged orange juice. According to his medical implants, it was chemically identical to the real thing, and it had no alcohol or mind-altering substances. All of which assumed the Tah-Leen hadn’t added something that his imp couldn’t detect, of course.

  “We like to reinvent ourselves,” ‘Henry’ went on. “Species, gender, shape, name, they are transitory, fluid things, easily altered by the likes of us. Why remain stuck on a single identity when one can be anything one desires? Or even be many different things at once?”

  “I can see why some would like that,” Fromm said. Sounds like a fucking mess to me, he thought. Being anybody was dangerously close to being nobody, as far as he was concerned.

  “My Core is dedicated to many things. I, one of its many extensions, study all things martial and warlike. I followed your adventures in Kirosha most closely. That must have been glorious, to slay dumb primitives by the thousands while they feebly tried to strike at you!”

  You may be able to switch species and identities at will, pal, but you are and always will be an asshole. Fromm kept the thought to himself, of course.

  Out loud: “No, it wasn’t glorious. It was ugly and brutal. Butchery. Its only redeeming quality was that it was necessary. They wanted to kill us, and there was only one way to stop them.”

  “Such modesty,” Henry said, his eyes gleaming, a nasty smile pasted on his flesh-and-blood mask. “Surely one cannot be that good at dealing death without enjoying the act.”

  A perceptive asshole.

  The off-hand comment forced Fromm to think about things he didn’t care to dwell upon. There’d been moments of savage joy in every fight he’d been in. He didn’t like what that said about himself, but he didn’t waste a lot of time wallowing in it, either. His job was important; he’d seen firsthand what happened to innocent people – to his people – when he didn’t do it. And to have some alien who clearly hadn’t had a hard day in his life try to get a rise out of him made him want to rip that grinning face right off its skull. He contented himself with shrugging and drinking some more fruit juice.

  “I may have inadvertently offended you, I see,” the Tah-Leen said. “For that, I apologize. You are brave and strong, qualities I admire. It is a pity you have subsumed your individuality in the name of duty, but I supposed that can’t be helped. I would love to see you in action.”

  “That’s up to my superiors,” Fromm said. He was sure Sec-State would make his company jump through hoops if it helped cinch the deal. Maybe he could run a few simulations somewhere in this oversized space station and impress the local yokels. The decadent, clearly bored and jaded local yokels.

  “That would be delightful. Humans are particularly intriguing. Most species who reach Starfarer status do so as the clients or, in many cases the slaves of an older civilization. Over time, the younger polity may, if it is fortunate enough, inherit some of its master’s possessions and learn its technology before it is destroyed or moves on. That should have been your relationship with your Hrauwah benefactors, except your so-called ‘Puppy’ friends found themselves unable to extend their full protection over you. Left mainly to your own devices, you had to strive for survival. Your struggles have been most impressive. The current one in particular.”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen large-scale wars before.”

  “Oh, having a few of the Great Powers decide that some upstart needs to be stamped out is hardly a rare occurrence. What is rare is that upstart not merely surviving, but inflicting several devastating defeats on said Powers.”

  “We do what we have to,” Fromm said.

  “Precisely! You would be surprised how many entities lack the fortitude to carry on in the face of adversity. Or to keep pushing forward, even after it seems pointless, hopeless, or both. My people once had that drive. Even to the unfortunate point where our individual desires were set aside for the ‘greater good,’ one of those nebulous concepts that usually mean whatever serves the interests of the few at the expense of the many. But I have to admit, we accomplished a great deal before we embraced the joys of personal fulfilment.”

  “We used to be like that,” Fromm said. “Before First Contact, a lot of places had reached a point where you could stop caring about anything but yourself. After half our people were slaughtered, that sort of attitude sort of fell by the wayside.”

  “Yes. All of you had to make sacrifices. But perhaps you will learn something from us during your stay, something about the true value – or lack thereof – of such sacrifices.”

  “Maybe we will.”

  Fromm noticed a few of the Tah-Leen had stripped off and were going at it like so many farm animals in heat. Fromm didn’t think of himself as a prude, but the sight pissed him off. Their ‘hosts’ were playing at being human, and screwing in public felt like mockery.

  “Do you wish to partake? I’m sure many of us would be honored to become intimate with you.”

  “Regardless of which version of me you prefer,” said a scantily-clad woman who joined the conversation. Long blonde hair, Asian features and complexion, wearing about six squares inches of leather and lace, strategically arranged. “You can call me Henrietta,” she said. “I am another extension of…”

  “… myself,” Henry finished for her. “Why stick to a single body, or identity, at a time, when you can transcend such limitations? You could say I contain multitudes. And they all would love to know you better.” Both Henrys smiled promisingly at him.

  This was getting downright fucked up.

  “I’m sorry, but I have orders,” he said. “We are not allowed to fraternize.”

  “Yet another needless sacrifice,” Henrietta said. “Perhaps we will be able to change your minds later.”

  He shrugged again. The damn aliens weren’t interested in doing business. This was all some sort of game to them. And he was sure the game was just beginning.

  * * *

  “Still happy you’re not an officer, Gramps?” Gonzo asked. “Being a grunt means getting stuck on duty while the bosses get to go out and party.”

  “Don’t think they’re having much fun over there,” ‘Grampa’ Gorski said. “The Snowflakes are acting weird, and weird usually means bad, doesn’t it?”

  “Usually does, when it comes to E
cho Tangos,” Russell agreed. “You never know what’s going to set them off. And we’re right smack inside their turf. Betcha those ‘rats, remfies and bosses are all walking on eggshells.”

  “Looks like a good time,” Gonzo said.

  They were watching the feed from the Security Detail, which the Marines could access in case something came up and they had to invade the starbase. Bit of a tall order for a company of Devil Dogs, but you went where they sent you.

  “The tangos wearing human skins look like they’re having a good time, sure. Don’t mean nothing, though. They’re Eets. Just ‘cause they’re playing at being humans don’t mean they are enjoying themselves.”

  “Why do it, then?” That was Grampa, who’d spent all his life on Earth; everything he knew about aliens was second-hand. “What’s the point of any of that stuff? If they can build something this big, and change bodies like we change socks, they don’t need anything from us.”

  “No idea. You’re thinking like a human, though. Like a normal human at that. What makes sense to them may be shithouse-rat crazy to us. Word is lots of ships go missing around this warp junction. Maybe the Snowflakes like eating other Eets. Which means we’re next in the menu.”

  Gonzo chuckled. “Eets for eats.”

  “You busy, fuggheads?” Sergeant Fuller’s voice came through the squad’s channel.

  “Just standing watch as ordered, Sergeant.”

  “Good. Watch the main door. We’re opening it to let a passenger out.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Guess somebody missed the party,” Gonzo said through the private channel. The fireteam was on watch right by the dock’s entrance, just in case the tangos decided to play pirate. Waste of time, but you could say that about most everything you did in the Corps when you weren’t busy shooting stuff or training to shoot stuff.

  The inner airlock doors, which were big enough to pass a truck, slid open, revealing one civilian flanked by two bubblehead masters at arms. The civvie looked like shit, despite the expensive suit he was wearing. For one, his real age was showing, and he must be about as old as Grampa. Wrinkles, sparse white hair, eyes sunken into his skull; from the way skin hung loosely from his bones, guy had been on short rations for a while. It took Russell a while to recognize him while he and his team let the bubbleheads and their charge through.