Emile and the Dutchman

by Joel Rosenberg

  I turned to Vitelli. "Mr. Ambassador, we could have actually fired to damage the cruiser. But we didn't. That'll show up on the bridge tapes. Instead of going out and trying to get ourselves blasted, we announced to the Xenos or whatever they are that we could hurt them, but didn't.

  "Different signals apply to different cultures, Ambassador. You should know that."

  "They could easily have taken it as a call to combat!"

  "Possible. They did take it as a warning shot, no? It said: we can hurt you, and we will if we decide to, but we choose not to, for now. That's how they took it, right?"

  Vitelli pursed his lips. "Correct."

  "And because they did, you were able to open communications with them."

  Low-powered comm laser flickering from ship to ship, pulsing with the on-off beginnings of understanding between two very different species, each able to do immense damage to the other; each terrified of the damage; neither willing to accept the damage that the other could surely do . . .

  "But how did you know that would work?"

  The Dutchman could have said that our last contact with this species hadn't worked out the way it should have, and that the refreshing honesty of a battlecruiser firing what was clearly a series of warning shots would tend to suggest to any rational species that the owners of such power concealed even more.

  Or he could have said that since what had been tried the last time we met the Xenos clearly hadn't worked, it was best to try something different.

  But he didn't. All he said was: "Just a guess, Dom."

  A few minutes later, the Dutchman reeled in the pot with two small pair.

  A couple of months later, both of us picked up our DSDs.

  And reprimands, of course. No big deal; the CS is always much more impressed with results than with ruffled Navy and ambassadorial feathers.

  But as General Dupres was pinning Norfeldt's medal to what passed for the Dutchman's chest, I saw the two of them grinning at each other. Over the clangor of the band, I tried to listen to what the general was saying to Norfeldt. It sounded like: "This is the first time I've given an award to a major for being gutsy enough and dumb enough to stare down a whole alien species."

  No. It couldn't have been that, it couldn't have been—I know that I heard the Dutchman's answer:

  "Yes sir. The last time, I was a captain."

  I didn't wait around to ask. The Dutchman wouldn't have answered.

  Besides, I had a date.

  Janine.

  Interlude

  Destination:Captain Manuel Curdova, TWCS

  Contact Service Administration

  Bureau

  Building 5, Level 0

  VNYC

  Routing:I800RQW5R43EE83

  Origin:First Lieutenant Emile von du Mark,

  TWCS Aboard TWS DA GAMA

  (#LC2562)

  Subject:Personal

  File Created: 21 October 2244

  Dear Manny,

  An advance wish of Felice Navidad, to you and your family, from an envious friend.

  Please convey my love to Veronica—and would you do me a favor? I have no idea whatsoever of what kind of present would appeal to Emilita—my experience with women doesn't extend to two-year-olds—but damned if my namesake is going to suffer for my ignorance. I've sent instructions to my family's lawyers; they'll process any voucher you send them.

  And don't repeat don't repeat DON'T you dare spend less than a hundred quid on her; you're not the only ricon in the Service. If the girl does not grow up spoiled, it won't be because I haven't done my best.

  Really, were something to happen to you and Veronica, I hope that I'd take my responsibilities seriously enough to apply discipline when necessary. But as things stand, I'm perfectly happy to continue to be soft-in-the-heart-and-softer-in-the-head Tio Emile and come bearing presents. Since I won't be there this Christmas, please do it for me.

  * * *

  I'm glad you liked Janine, by the way. In answer to your unvoiced question as to how serious it is, the answer is that I—we—don't know, and it's probably going to take a while for us to figure it all out, what with me being offplanet so much of the time. Things seem to mesh, granted—and you should try a bit of offplanet work yourself, my friend; everything they say about Homecoming Syndrome is true—but she's the out-of-sight-out-of-mind type, and I have no illusions about that. I'm always very careful to let her know when I'm going to be Earthside, and let her call me. Not that I particularly give a damn, but I don't want my nose rubbed in it again.

  Yes, again.

  We had a little mixup late last year, and I walked in at the wrong time; she and some brainless bodybuilder were—never mind. In any case, he decided to take umbrage, and after the ambulance left, we talked it out. Janine was appropriately apologetic, I was appropriately apologetic, and we both decided that me having key privileges was perhaps not the best idea that either of us had ever come up with.

  I don't believe in one-way faithfulness, though; the next time I'm on leave, I think I’ll check into Virgin Mary's for the first couple of days.

  Yes, it could fall apart. Easily. I wasn't really seriously suggesting that you spend a lot of time offplanet, Manuel—look at what it does to marriages. Which I guess is the answer to my own situation. I don't know if Janine and I will ever make it official, but it can't make sense doing that until I take a desk assignment or hit retirement age.

  Frankly, I can't imagine that she'll wait that long; and I'm not hot to give up having live controls in my hands.

  Hmmm . . . her new boss has her shuffling around almost as much as I am, which could work either way.

  I almost envy Akiva Bar-El; it must be nice knowing that your wives are always going to be waiting at home.

  As to how I spend my shipboard time, well, I blush to admit it, but I've been letting my Qualification Courses slip of late. There's a rhythm to a Team's shipboard life—both on the transport and in the scout—and I've fallen into it.

  My alarm is set for at 0845—not exactly like 0500 at Alton, eh?—in order to let me get first crack at the head, after which I eat a very light breakfast and go through my aerobic exercises while the others are washing up.

  After that, I take a break until 0930, when Akiva Bar-El is through with his warm-up, and then he and I get a half hour of hand-to-hand, if we're aboard our transport—the inside of a scout is no place for even mock combat. A half hour of hand-to-hand is plenty with Bar-El, and at that it's really more like ten one-minute sparring rounds, each with two minutes breather between them. I wouldn't want to go more.

  At 1100,I exercise my limited seniority by getting the first shower, in order to be first at table for the complete breakfast, which is finished by noon, at about which time the Dutchman stumbles out of his quarters.

  After which, we put the greene baize slipcover over the table, and get to the main business of the day:

  Poker.

  Speaking of which, the evening session is about to start, and I've got a lot of catching up to do. It isn't losing the money I mind as much as it is the Dutchman winning. Got to do something about that.

  Best wishes,

  Emile

  File Transmitted: 26 October 2241

  DUTCHMAN'S MIRROR

  I

  The four of us were playing poker in our quarters when the subject of cheating came up. The stakes were high: one quid ante, ten quid limit before the draw, twenty-five after.

  Personally, I would have preferred to play for less, but that's another tradition: Contact Service officers always play for high stakes.

  When the shit hit the fan, I was down about three months' pay.

  The other two weren't so badly off. Donny N'Damo, the little comm officer, was about even, and Akiva Bar-El was up a trifle. The big winner, of course, was the Dutchman. Sitting across the table from me, he grinned at me as he held the deck of cards in his left hand, the fat index finger of his right hand making little circles n
ear the pot.

  He let out a cloud of cigar smoke in my direction, but the table sucked it up before it could get to me. One nice thing about playing poker in low-gee is that the table is connected to the outflow, which not only sucks the cards and chips down to its surface, but prevents poker smog from forming in the room.

  "You're stalling, Emmy," the Dutchman said. "Bar-El checked. The bet's up to you."

  I looked at my hand. Three kings. Not exactly a bad hand to be dealt; the trick was how to maximize the win.

  Best to try a little bit of a sandbag. "I'll open for a tenth."

  To my left, Donny N'Damo tossed his hand face down to the surface of the table. "Too much for me. I can't even beat Akiva."

  Bar-El shook his head slowly. "You will not peep me, little man. Not again."

  "Shut the fuck up, the both of you." While I wished he'd use his toothbrush as often as he used profanity, the Dutchman rarely yelled; he saved it for special occasions.

  Like this one.

  I studied the robin's-egg-blue paint on the low ceiling. I didn't really want to be here.

  The Dutchman started by letting his breath out in a low sigh. "N'Damo, you do not use your psychic abilities," he said, slamming his palm down, his Team Leader's ring hitting the table like a gunshot, "which the goddam service trained you in, to cheat other members of your Contact Team. You're a fucking valuable little spade, but you're not valuable enough to get away with that. Understood, shithead?"

  Donny looked shocked. "I was just kidding, Major. Honest. I wouldn't, really—"

  "Sure." Norfeldt snorted, "Sure."

  I knew that Donny had been joking, but the Dutchman never gave anyone the benefit of the doubt. Ever.

  "And you, Lieutenant Bar-El—"

  "Sir."

  "Shuddup when I'm talking to you, jewboy. You don't bully your teammates, you don't threaten your teammates. All of our lives can depend on how well N'Damo does his job. I don't repeat DON'T want him spooked."

  "Yes, Major." Bar-El's ugly face was as impassive as ever, but his jaw twitched.

  "Now." The Dutchman said, still white-lipped. "It's up to me. I'll see your tenth and make it a quid."

  It took me a moment to realize that he was dropping the subject and getting back to the game.

  Bar-El looked at him for a long moment. "I fold," he said, dropping his cards face down on the hissing table.

  "I don't," I said. "Reraise ten."

  "Ten?"

  "Ten." I pushed the chips into the pot, one by one.

  "Call," The Dutchman said. "Cards?"

  Time for a little cleverness. "I'll play these," I said. The chances of improving trips are poor; I had a better chance of the Dutchman thinking I was bluffing.

  "Shit." The Dutchman snatched up the deck and dealt himself a card. Then he picked up his own hand and threw a card away before slipping the drawn card on top of the other four. Theoretically, you're supposed to discard before you draw, but the purpose of that is to make you decide before you see your new card or cards; it's not just ritual. Since the Dutchman had made his decision before picking up his new cards, I didn't complain, although I was wondering why he wasn't looking at his new hand.

  Probably just a little ploy to rattle me.

  "Your bet, Emmy," he said.

  "Two quid." Never mind what you hear about not betting into a one-card draw—just don't bet heavily, most of the time.

  Norfeldt pushed a stack of chips into the pot. "I'll raise twenty-five."

  "Without looking?"

  He smiled at me. "I kinda liked my hand before. Emmy. Hope it's still okay."

  It was up to me.

  I thought about it for a while. Norfeldt hadn't looked before betting into my allegedly pat hand. But he'd been bluffing me all night.

  Damn.

  I thought it out. Clearly, unless he was bluffing again, he'd started with two pair, or four of a kind—or the Dutchman was holding a kicker with trips. Dishonest plays would vary from absolute garbage, to a pair of aces and trash, to some sort of open-ended straight or four-flush, hoping I'd jump the wrong way.

  I could forget about four of a kind. The Dutchman would have sandbagged with fours. Besides, you can waste a lot of mental sweat and lose a lot of folding money worrying about low-probability disasters.

  Well . . . my trip kings left him with only two. honest winning possibilities: three aces, or some sort of back-in hand, both unlikely.

  I didn't like it, but I wasn't going to be bluffed this time. Not with better than fifty quid in the pot; the odds said call.

  "Call," I said, flipping my hand over. "With three kings."

  Norfeldt scowled at me as he flipped over the card that he had just drawn. The scowl vanished; he smiled down at the queen of hearts.

  Then he flipped over his other four cards, one by one. All hearts.

  "Well, well." He smiled. "A nice semibluff, Emmy. If you dropped, I got the pot. And if you called, I still had one chance in—"

  "Enough, Major." The light on the wall over the door turned amber. There were shouts in the corridor outside, the rustling sounds a crew of sailors pulling themselves along in low-gee make, like bugs in a pipe. Down in the hold, they'd be swarming frantically over our scout—as though they'd just gotten the word about an assignment that we'd been on for hundreds of hours.

  I assembled the deck and handed it to the Dutchman. "Are you going to brief us on this one, Major, or do we play it by ear?"

  I almost smiled. I sounded like Buchholtz, way back when.

  The Dutchman eyed me momentarily. He wouldn't have taken that from N'Damo or Bar-El; I was more than a little curious about whether or not he'd take it from me.

  "Fair enough." He stored the cards in their box and stashed his chips in their bag before shutting off the table. He settled back in his chair, folding his fingers over his ample belly.

  "Actually," he said, "it looks like an easy one."

  I snorted, and he pinned me with a glare.

  Easy one? We were Third Team, this time. As usual. A Third Team goes into a stellar system only after a First Team reports a promising planet, but a Second Team hasn't resolved the question of whether or not it's safe.

  The question isn't whether or not it's deadly to Servicemen; we're expendable. A permanent colony of thousands of men and women, billions of quid of equipment, and a lot of promise is somewhat less expendable.

  The human race is not expendable.

  Norfeldt smiled, a little. "Well, Emmy—"

  "Emile."

  "—it started out as a fairly standard contact. A gamma-series ramscoop dropped a hole around this dinky little Kl. First Team found an interesting planet close in, about half an AU."

  I did a rapid mental calculation. "Sounds a bit hot. Maybe twenty percent more light than—"

  "Asshole. I wish you wouldn't do that," Norfeldt said. "You telling this, or am I?"

  "Sorry."

  He looked at me for a long moment.

  "Sir."

  "Better." The Dutchman pulled a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped it, and bit the end off, chewing contemplatively for a few moments before gently spitting the gobbet in a slow parabola toward the far wall, where it stuck. He wouldn't have been quite that sloppy aboard our scout, but the Dutchman always liked to leave something behind for the Navy files to clean up.

  He pulled his lighter from his pocket, fired it up, and puffed the cigar to life, blowing smoke my way.

  "So," he said, "First Team got into the orange-peel orbit, did the photo-sweep. Things look to be not that bad. Three decent-sized landmasses. The two smaller ones—'bout the size of Australia—hug the equator, but the most northern looks like it might be okay. Dirtball's about three-quarters seas, alternates between heavy vegetation and desert on land. Some animal life, but no sign of civilization. Laser spectroscopy picked up some metals—iron—looks like good hematite—bauxite, and maybe some silver, gold, etc."

  He looked pointedly at me. That last had to mean
germanium, but the Dutchman couldn't say that in front of Bar-El or N'Damo. Comm officers can never qualify for the Three Monkeys, and the Metzadan had never fully taken to conditioning. They would never have been told that germanium is the only element a grabfield can get enough of a grip on to squeeze into a quantum black hole, the core of a Gate.

  I didn't know how much of the stuff went into the making of a gate. Tonnes, certainly, presumably tens of tonnes, possibly thousands. I might have figured it out—I'm not particularly weak in math—but most of what's known about barrier physics, transitional mechanics, and five-space rift topology is tightly wrapped in a high-security blanket.

  Norfeldt blew another cloud of cigar smoke my way. "So, Second Team went in." He sat back, silent.

  I was about to set myself up as the straight man—as usual—when Donny saved me the trouble.

  "They didn't come back?"

  "Very good guess. No, they didn't come back. Therefore, no report. Any further dumbass questions?"

  I shrugged. "I don't see what you're so worried about, Major. There's only three possibilities. One"—I held up a polite finger—"Second Team blew it, somehow or other. Accident, equipment failure, the pilot slammed the scout into a tree, something. Two"—another finger—"there's some sort of serious problem. We find it, we duck it, and we get out alive. Blow the Gate on our way home."

  "And three?"

  "Easy. We screw up, and die. Is there a fourth?"

  He had that smile on his face. Again.

  "You're a good kid. Emmy, but you're still green as all hell." It was one of the few times that I'd heard a patient tone in the Dutchman's voice. He took his cigar out of his mouth and tapped the soggy end against the gold oak leaves on his collar. "I'd like to dip these suckers in silver someday, Emmy. Or maybe even get myself a nice silver chicken. Forgetting the bullshit First Team Stuff, how many contacts have I run?"

  "Eight, that I know of, if you don't count—"

  "Precisely. And how many were Drops?"

  That wasn't his fault. Luck of the draw. Norfeldt was a drunkard, a smoker, and a boor—but he was also the best Contact Team Leader that there was. Period. "Hey, that isn't your fault, Major—"