Emile and the Dutchman

by Joel Rosenberg

  Our billet was in the old wing of Wingate Hall. As we were walking up the stone steps an empty beer bulb flew out of the door and hit me square in the chest.

  It was quickly followed by a cadet captain in an immaculately pressed set of ODs.

  I looked at Manny, and he looked at me; he gave the kind of expansive shrug that you're not allowed to use unless you've got sufficient Latin blood.

  Here we go again, I thought, nodding. We dropped our bags and came to attention.

  The cadet captain wrinkled up his smooth face. "What the—you the two pieces of new meat?" He shook his head, slowly.

  "Sir. Yes, sir."

  "My name is Jim Moriarty, not sir—outside of duty hours. And before you ask, yes, they call me Professor—outside of duty hours," he said, stooping to pick up my bag. "Hey, Julio—the new suckers are here. Get your ass out here and lend a hand."

  "Right away," sounded from inside the building.

  He looked from me to Manny, and then back to me. "And bring two beers. These poor bastards look like they can use them."

  I almost cried.

  IX

  "I don't need to hear about Alton. I graduated from Hell High, remember? I know all about shovel-the-shit on duty, have-a-beer off."

  "Right." I shrugged. "Well, in any case, that's how it happened."

  The Dutchman snickered. "That's not quite the way it happened." He nodded smugly. "I didn't think I could see you enlisting voluntarily in the Service. . . ."

  It was my turn to snicker. "Major, I don't know if you've noticed, but Naval officers live a nice, clean life. They don't—"

  "Shuddup. More specifically, Naval cadets—even ones that psych testing has indicated might make decent Contact Service officers—don't volunteer for transfer to the Service—"

  "Damn straight."

  "—unless they get a bit of persuasion." Norfeldt took the compboard off his lap and handed it to me. My eye quickly scanned down to the bottom.

  . . . despite more difficulty than this officer had expected with the assistance of Admiral Braithwaite, said officer was able to secure voluntary transfers from Cadets von du Mark and Curdova.

  At present, there are no further cadets at the Naval Academy whose psych profiles suggest that they would be more appropriate to the Service; accordingly, this officer hereby suggests and requests that he be relieved of his recruitment duties and detailed back to a Contact Team.

  Respectfully submitted,

  Ernest Brubaker,

  First Lieutenant TWCS

  (detailed RECRUITMENT)

  "Son of a bitch! "

  The Dutchman just chuckled. "Welcome to the real world, Emmy."

  Interlude

  von du Mark/Origin of the Contact

  Service/Eleven

  carpetbombs were particularly destructive of soft targets—humans, livestock, wood-framed houses—while the blastbombs burrowed their way into the ground, and then threw vast chunks of earth into the air. It is entirely possible that blastbombs were originally intended for nonmilitary use of some sort.

  Europe was the least hard-hit. Paris, Berlin, Bonn, Düsseldorf and Ploiesti were damaged, but not destroyed; a chain of burrowing blastbombs chewing northward from Trieste almost to Graz killed less than a hundred thousand, as Austria obtained a seashore and a deepwater harbor for the first time in its history.

  Perhaps the Xenos had some way of scanning for population density; the Chinese coast and the Indian subcontinent were among the hardest-hit. While one series hit People's China from Shenyang south to Phnom Penh, ten clusters smashed the Ganges plain; separate carpetbombs hit Nagpur, Poona, Hyderabad, Sholapur, and Bangalore. While large numbers were indeed killed by the bombs themselves, the vast majority died with the destruction of the fragile economic superstructure of that polyglot nation.

  No continent was left untouched. One small carpetbomb impacted on New Mecca, just south

  von du Mark/Origin of the Contact

  Service/Twelve

  of David's Gift; in Africa, fifty-seven were scattered across the continent, from the most northward, which spent itself uselessly in the Erg Iguidi, south to where the destruction of Port Elizabeth put a final exclamation point on the Greater Zimbabwe Race War.

  In South America, a burrowing chain turned the Panama Canal into the Panama Straits; other bombs missed the major cities, with the single exception of Rio de Janeiro.

  In North America, Mehico DF and Great Los Angeles were targeted squarely, while New York's bomb merely completed the long-pending destruction of the South Bronx. What was almost certainly intended to be the Philadelphia bomb hit nearby Harrisburg, putting an end to that city's long history of near disasters. Quebec was almost blown off the map.

  Although there is still much speculation as to why the Xenos attacked at all, it is interesting to note that the how isn't as yet settled, either. Careful examination of the remains of most sites left it beyond doubt that the Xeno bombs, both blast and carpet, used neither atomic fusion nor fission. Early testing might have been able to determine whether the weapons were based on some powerful chemical explosive, or—perhaps more

  von du Mark/Origin of the Contact

  Service/Thirteen

  likely—employed subatomic fission or fusion as their powering principle. There is no evidence that the boron-11 propulsion system known to power the Xenos' battleships was in any way involved in their bombs.

  Everyone was too busy to conduct research. A high priority among the newly formed World Government Council was the location and execution of the incompetent leaders and representatives of the former "United Nations" regime. Interestingly, much of the move was led by the Chiefs of the "United Nations" Navy, perhaps in an attempt to divert attention from their own guilt.

  After the destruction of the original SolGate, the priorities were as executed: the reconstruction of the planetwide economy, the building of the lower-level SolGate and the five Mercurian "trapGates," and the substitution of the twin AlphaGates as the gateway to the Solar System.

  What surprised many contemporary observers was to what a great extent life went on as before.

  During the early years following the Xeno War, there were suggestions that the proper policy was to continue the exploration program, but simply to exterminate any possibly intelligent species we might find. But wiser heads prevailed, and the present policy of

  Communication

  I

  I wasn't surprised when the Dutchman slouched back in his chair as the ambassador and his aide walked into the briefing room, although the other two were. Three, if you include Ambassador Vitelli.

  Maybe four, although I couldn't tell anything about the aide; she kept her smooth face impassive. Without a word, she crossed her long legs as she seated herself at the table at the front of the room, then opened her briefcase, removing a multisteno; she shrugged her shoulders to clear the hair away from her ears as she plugged in the earpiece, and then turned, either to face the ambassador or to give us the benefit of her profile.

  Or both. It was a spectacular profile, at that—then again, I've always had a weakness for well-built redheads.

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen," Vitelli said. "I am Ambassador Dominic Vitelli. This is Consul Janine Urdway, my secretary and aide."

  I was on my feet, of course, and so were the new weapons and comm officers of our Team.

  Vitelli looked at me. "You are?"

  "First Lieutenant Emile von du Mark, pilot."

  "You?"

  "Second Lieutenant Akiva Bar-El," the huge, ugly man said. "Weapons officer." There was no particular expression on the flat face that sat above his bull neck. He was just answering a question, neither taking offense at Vitelli's brusque tones nor caring if Vitelli took offense.

  Bar-El's voice was moderate and airy; there was nothing overt in his manner to offer a threat. In itself, that was almost threatening. He wasn't like Kurt Buchholtz—when he looked at someone, Akiva Bar-El wasn't deciding whether or not he
could take them; he was deciding how.

  "And you?"

  "Second Lieutenant Donald Kiri N'Damo," the dark little man said. Donny was just a bit overweight, delicate, and nervous. "Comm officer." His fingers fluttered up to touch the tip of the psi symbol on his uniform blouse.

  "And you are Major Alonzo Norfeldt?"

  "Kinda," the Dutchman said. He puffed on his cigar thoughtfully. "But what I really am, right now, is bored stiff of chickenshit."

  Vitelli raised an eyebrow as he glared at the Dutchman. "Your general ordered only you and Lieutenant von du Mark to report to me here."

  "So?" Making no effort to get to his feet, the Dutchman eyed him coldly, blowing a foul cloud of smoke Vitelli's way. He settled farther back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk. That he'd managed to get and keep mud on them on such a bright, clean day amazed me.

  "You are AWOL, Major."

  "Oh?" The Dutchman raised an eyebrow. "You mean I'm not here?"

  "AWOL is defined, Major Norfeldt, as not being at the proper place, at the proper time, in the proper uniform. For one of you people, that means a full Class A uniform, complete with pistol and knife, both properly holstered—"

  "Scabbarded."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Scabbarded, for the knife," the Dutchman said. "It isn't holstered, it's scabbarded. Or sheathed. You ex-Navy, Vitelli?"

  "Ambassador Vitelli. And yes, I used to be a Naval officer, although I can't see as that's any of your concern, Major."

  "Figures. Navy always bathes in chickenshit. You can fuck off, sailor boy."

  * * *

  It was interesting to watch Vitelli get himself under control; for a moment, I thought the little man was going to burst a blood vessel in his neck.

  Finally, he shook his head slowly. "You'd like me to throw you in the brig, wouldn't you, Major?"

  The Dutchman just shrugged.

  "Why did you bring the other two without orders?"

  Bar-El's brow wrinkled. "No orders?" The big Metzadan turned toward the Dutchman. Akiva Bar-El was probably the ugliest man I'd ever met; even at twenty-three, his ruddy face was deeply lined, his nose a broken fleshy lump, his scraggly blond hair thinning.

  "Relax, jewboy, you had orders. From me. Okay?"

  Bar-El thought about it for a long moment. "Yes, sir," he decided.

  Donny just smiled, his bright white teeth standing out against his coffee-colored face. Donny was a full head shorter than me, and light-boned, almost like a bird. Where Bar-El was a big mass of flesh, Donny N'Damo was a little man with delicate features, almost effeminate in his movements.

  "In any case, I thought . . . but it may be my eyes." Norfeldt furrowed his brow and dug two grimy fingers into his shirt pocket, pulling out a flimsy and handing it me. "Yours any better, Emmy?"

  HEADQUARTERS

  Thousand Worlds Contact Service

  New Berne, Suisse

  SPECIAL ORDERS NUMBER 11938DATED:04/23/43

  EXTRACT

  *************

  19. MAJOR ALONZO NORFELDT TWCS 298373 Tm Ldr Con Tm 377 and FIRST LIEUTENANT (brvt fr 2LT; prmnt stat pndng) EMILE VON DU MARK TWCS 687657 pit & exec dsgnte Tm 377 are rcl CS Off Schl (PG) and detached Con Tm 377. NORFELDT dtld TDY Tm Ldr Spec Con Tm 377(a). VON DU MARK confirmed 1LT and dtld TDY pit & exec Spec Con Tm 377(a). SECOND LIEUTENANT DONALD N'DAMO TWCS 949873 Comm Off Tm 377 and SECOND LIEUTENANT AKIVA BAR-EL TWCS (prov.) 973267(M) Weap Off Tm 377 auth ninety days UNSUPERVISED TRAINING STATUS, not chg as lve.

  Spec Con Tm 377(a) will rpt soonest repeat SOONEST by avlble trans Rm 2119 DFR Building New Anna purp brfing in re ASSIGNMENT 7983, to which Spec Con Tm 377(a) herewith assgned. After compltn brfing, Spec Con Tm 377(a) will rpt via Mil TP abd TWS Magellan and place selves under orders AMBASSADOR DOMINIC VITELLI TWDFR as per Section 23 CONSERVRULREGPROP.

  By order Cmdnt, with the concurrence of CM Nav Ops, all CONSERVRULREGPROP and NAVREG requiring nonintercourse suspended duration of ASSIGNMENT 7983.

  Spec Con Tm 377(a) auth TPV, TPubV, Mil TP. Offs not auth civ clthing en route. Delay-en-route leave not repeat NOT auth. When tvling by Mil TP, Spec Con Tm 377(a) priority status AAB1, upgradeable to AAA1 upon dmnd.

  Copy of this extract is to become permanent part of all mentioned offs Pers files.

  *************

  BY COMMAND OF GENERAL DUPRES

  Anthony Snow, Major General, TWCS

  Adjutant

  I hadn't seen the orders before. When the messenger had brought the four of us out of a practice survival drop—an easy one; just Thule—the Dutchman had grabbed and pocketed all the copies. Under normal circumstances, he didn't exactly encourage his subordinates to question him, but for the last few days he'd been even more closemouthed than usual.

  I nodded; it figured. "So this is why you had me fly us over."

  Normal procedure would have been to voucher two seats on some airways, but the Dutchman had flashed the orders and our priority at a TP clerk and gotten us use of a Falcon, one of my favorite long-range birds.

  "I thought you'd enjoy the hop." He shrugged, then blew a particularly foul cloud of smoke my way.

  Right. I'd enjoyed flying the Falcon, of course, but that wasn't why the Dutchman had ordered it out at Alton. With our priority, we could have bumped almost anyone off a liner, but, even at AAA1, our orders would have gotten us only two tickets. He wanted N'Damo and Bar-El in on this, despite the fact that they weren't supposed to be.

  But why did he want them in on it? And what did he want them in on? In between the refresher classes at Alton, Norfeldt had spent little time in his quarters—but he'd been spending a lot of time on secure phones. Maybe he'd heard something in the wind?

  "See, Dom," the Dutchman said, tapping the flimsy with a dirty fingernail. "After completion of barfing—"

  "Briefing," I put in. "Briefing."

  "Shuddup, Emmy, I can read good, good as you. —After we finish upchucking, Dom baby, Emmy and I have to report to you aboard the Maggie. Then we're under your orders. Not now. So start the fucking briefing, okay?"

  "I see." Vitelli stood silently for a moment, controlling himself with increasing ease. He had decided that the Dutchman wanted to have him lose his temper, although I didn't know if he'd figured out why. "You can include Bar-El on your special team. Not N'Damo. You won't need an esper officer for this assignment."

  "Damn." The Dutchman looked disappointed.

  "Well?"

  "Deal, Dom." The Dutchman dug out his wallet and handed Donny a card after scribbling a phone code on it. "N'Damo, you go on back to Alton, VOCO. You with the chest—yeah, you; Urdway, isn't it?—you go with him to Receiving and get his ticket punched."

  "But, Major—" Donny looked disappointed, the damn fool.

  "You're out of this one. Be grateful for small favors." Norfeldt jerked his thumb toward the door. "Enjoy the vacation. See you in a few months, peeper."

  At Vitelli's nod, Janine Urdway rose and preceded Donny through the door.

  The Dutchman waited until the door had closed behind Donny and the girl. "Nice stuff, Dom. You tapping it on a regular basis, or is it an only-when-you've-been-a-good-boy kind of thing?"

  Vitelli ignored him. "If you'll shut your filthy mouth, we can begin the briefing.

  "No need."

  "You're refusing duty?"

  "No." Norfeldt ground his cigar out on the seat of the chair next to him, then unwrapped and lit another cigar. "Not at all. Instead of telling me, let me tell you." The Dutchman leaned back in his chair. "As I understand it, a couple of months ago, a ramscoop dropped a new Gate around a star. . . ."

  * * *

  There is no such thing as a perfect vacuum. Which is both a problem and an advantage.

  The advantage is that it makes ramscoops possible.

  If a ramscoop could think, it would think of the one atom of hydrogen per cubic centimeter it finds in interstellar space as fuel. As the robot probe cruises between stars, its grabfield scoops up
the thin traces of hydrogen.

  Granted, a grabfield has trouble getting hold of hydrogen; at the ramscoop's top speed of just better than half the speed of light, it's lucky to pick up ten percent of the atoms that enter the mouth of the scoop.

  Which is why the mouth of a ramscoop's grabfield is more than five thousand klicks across, dwarfing the small center that is solid matter. Deceptively huge, the probe travels so quickly that enough free hydrogen is scooped up by the grabfield, gathered together to be fused, to power both the probe's transitional fusion engines and the Level 2 grabfield generators that scoop up more hydrogen, to power . . .

  But there is no such thing as a perfect vacuum.

  As the probe crashes through empty space, it's bombarded by the hydrogen nuclei that the grabfield has missed. In another context, we call being bombarded by hydrogen nuclei—protons—radiation.

  Very hard radiation.

  Which is why no humans ride ramscoops.

  Which is why we wait for the robot probe's limited, redundant mechanical mind to steer it toward an interesting star, one that just might have a planet that just might be habitable. It drops off one of its Gateseeds, quantum black holes, prevented from evaporating by a Level 3 grabfield. With its limited supplies of hydrogen, the Gateseed brakes, steering itself toward the star, then eases itself gently into orbit where the gravity gradient is exactly as far away from flat space as Outbound AlphaCeeGate's is from Alpha Centauri A.

  And then the Gateseed shuts itself off. With the grabfield dead, the quantum black hole inside evaporates, destroying the Gateseed, but leaving behind a naked singularity, a hole in space.

  Or, to be more accurate, a two-dimensional projection on three dimensions of a five-dimensional hole in the hypersurface of four-space: