by John Ringo
As Berg backed away, he could see the glow expanding throughout the material. There was outgassing from it now, a lot, and it read as mostly carbon, which meant the radiation source had really increased in energy output. He'd gotten about fifty meters from the chunk of material when it just blew up.
The explosion had no effect on him—explosions propagate poorly in space—but it was spectacular. The chunk of lunglike material ballooned outwards and popped with a huge rush of gasses and a flair of intensely actinic light.
"Well, that was special," Smith commented. "What just happened?"
"At a guess, whatever was keeping the reaction stable was part of the overall matrix," Berg said. "Californium is a very hot isotope. There was probably more in the chunk than necessary for critical mass. When we cut that bit out, it went critical."
"So we were just right next to a nuclear explosion?" Himes asked. "That's not happy making."
"It was a very small nuclear explosion," Berg pointed out. "A lot smaller than a grain of sand that actually blew up. The suits are barely reading the rads. And there's a way to get the generators on these suits to do the same thing. And bigger."
"Really?" Himes asked. "I so didn't want to know that."
"Neither did I when I found out," Berg said. "Which was when an SF sergeant on the last cruise blew his up."
"I've seriously got to find a new line of work," Smith said.
"So we've got three survivors of an unknown alien species, a couple of pieces of wreckage from their ship and a blown up bit of what was probably a Dreen ship. Does that about sum it up?"
"Pretty much covers it, sir," the XO said.
"But not the important parts, sir," Weaver said. "There is another race out there, it seems pretty friendly, and it has an FTL drive. Of course, the Mreee seemed pretty friendly at first. These guys might just be Dreen slaves for all we know."
"A happy thought," the CO said. "And anyone but Dreen would tend to be friendly if they were rescued from drifting in space. Miss Moon? Anywhere on their language?"
"As I suspected, most of it is ultrasonic," the linguist said with a note of exasperation. "The problem with compressing that down to where humans can hear is that it's like compressing a voice down to bass. You lose a lot of timbre and intonation. Between that, their remarkable calm and the fact that I'm having to sort out the language from their general sonar functions . . . No. I'm not getting very far on their language. And we can't even show them pictures. They are simply blind to us and we are just as blind to them. It's very frustrating."
"Well, keep at it," the CO said, frowning. "It would be nice to be able to talk to these people eventually. Tactical?"
"We've been going over the traces that Astro pointed out," the TACO said. "We think we've got a good algorithm to use the method in the future for tracking. Be that as it may, there's a pretty clear path headed outward from the system. I'd suggest we just follow it, sir. They apparently are not in warp, or theirs works far differently from ours. I'm not sure of speed, but if they're not in warp, we should be able to catch up to them fairly easily. Perhaps their main ship has some gear that will permit us to talk to them. Those are a lot of ifs, sir . . ."
"But that's what being a Junior Spaceman is all about," the CO said, nodding. "Sounds like a plan. XO."
"Make it so, sir. Aye, aye."
"The bunk is where the heart is," Smith said, stretching out.
"I dunno," Berg replied. "It was nice to finally get out of the ship."
"Anything on that bit you grabbed?" Himes asked.
"Guzik said he was going to take it to the aliens we picked up and see if they could do anything with it," the sergeant replied. "Get some shut-eye. We don't know when we're gonna have to get to work again."
"Can I ask one question, Sergeant Bergstresser, sir?" Himes asked.
"Go."
"Why do we always get point?"
"Because we're the best team—"
"In the best platoon in the best company in the—" Himes muttered.
"In the best Corps in the whole damned Galaxy!" Smith finished, grinning. "But really, why?"
"Because Top hates me."
"I thought Top loved you. You two are going to have children together."
"With First Sergeant Powell, it's a fine line."
"First Sergeant? Moment of your time?" Gunny Neely said, knocking on the open door to Top's stateroom.
"Come on in," Top said, looking up from his computer screen. There was a projection of the alien device Berg had snagged on it. Offhand, it looked something like an electrical motor, except that there appeared to be no moving parts.
"First Sergeant, I'd like to discuss personnel usage," the Gunny said, looking over at the SEAL who appeared to be asleep.
"Don't worry about me," Miller said. "I've heard more of these conversations than you've had hot breakfasts."
"Go ahead, Gunny," Powell said, spinning around in his chair. "Grab a bunk."
"First Sergeant, with all due respect, on the last two missions First Platoon has always gotten the hot seat," the Gunny said carefully. "And in three cases you've specified Bravo Team as the point. I know that you worked with Sergeant Bergstresser before and have . . . a high opinion of him. So do I, don't get me wrong. He's good. But . . ."
"But I keep putting him in spots where he's liable to get killed," Powell said. "And I don't rotate that."
"Yes, First Sergeant."
"Do you know anyone else in your platoon who would have recognized that there was a subcritical explosion about to occur?" Top asked. "Or that the material involved was californium and, therefore, had the likelihood of going critical?"
"No, but—"
"Unfortunately, there is no 'but,' " Top said definitely. "Berg is, alas, unique in this company. I don't know that even I would have been able to determine the material. And the best bit of equipment we recovered was the part he snagged, just standing on the hull. I put Two-Gun out front because he's incredibly knowledgeable and makes good decisions in the crunch. There are plenty of other Marines who make good decisions, don't get me wrong. But they don't have Two-Gun's knowledge and experience. That being the case, until we can grow some Marines that have his abilities, figure that First is going to get all the hot deployments and Bravo is going to be leading the way. That increases the likelihood that we'll lose that knowledge and experience. But if it had been, for example, Alpha First pulling apart the Dreen wreck, I think we'd be out a team about now, don't you?"
"I see your point, First Sergeant," Neely answered. "I also respectfully disagree with your conclusions. Among other things, it's creating an appearance of favoritism. There are a bunch of bored and, at this point, grumbling Marines in the berths. Two-Gun and his team have gotten out and done stuff, First Sergeant. The rest of the Marines feel like they're just along for the ride. Third Platoon spent a day wandering around ruins doing, as far as they could tell, exactly nothing. Berg's team did the entry to the base and ended up rescuing the lone survivor. It's all 'Two-Gun, Two-Gun, what's Two-Gun got to do today?' I respectfully request that you spread the load a bit. One extremely salient point was raised by a Marine I request to remain anonymous. But he asked me, point blank, if you trusted anyone in the company but Two-Gun. I told him that you did, but I know I didn't make my point very well because I wasn't sure of the answer."
"I'll take it under advisement," the first sergeant said, nodding. "We'll see what the next mission is like. Good enough?"
"Yes, Top," Neely said, standing up. "Thanks."
"It's not something I hadn't thought about," Powell admitted. "And discussed with the Old Man. He raised the same point, including the trust issue, and I gave him the same answer. So you're not the Lone Ranger."
"I trust Two-Gun more than I trust the rest of your company," Miller said after the hatch closed. "No offense. Kid's just good. And he's lucky. It's a tough combination to beat."
"Agreed," Powell said, turning back to the video. "The hell of it is, so do I.
It is favoritism. I just think it's pragmatic favoritism."
15
"Coils charged," Engineering Specialist Rorot stated. "Unreality generator coming online . . ."
"That does not sound good," Favarduro quipped as a hard vibration coursed through the ship.
"Structural integrity failure in Number 23 generator pylon," Rorot said calmly. "Shutting down."
"How very good," Ship Master Kond said quietly. "Time estimate?"
"I will need to go outside," Rorot said, standing up. "A team is on the way. I would anticipate at least two hundred kleg."
"Very well," Kond said. "Keep me updated when you have the time. Favarduro, maintain maximum watch."
"We have seen no indications of the Blin dreadnought," Favarduro replied. "It is possible it was destroyed by the Klingoddar and the fighters were remnants. Or it may still be out there, damaged as we are and effecting repairs."
"Keep a watch," Kond replied. "Chaos ball generator?"
"That is on-line," Favarduro admitted. "So we have that at least. I'll fire the minute I see any threat."
"I wonder what their detection systems are like?" Weaver said, frowning.
"Say again, Astro?" the CO replied, watching the forward viewscreens. The trace of gasses was now displayed in false color and they were following the track at low warp.
"Well, unless they have some sort of detector which is FTL," Weaver said musingly, "then we're going to come up on them before they see us. Even what we're seeing isn't quite real time. We're, effectively, past the point that we see by the time we see it. If that makes any sense."
"About as much as everything else about this job," the CO replied, not correcting the former academic on his omission of the obligatory "sir."
"About the only FTL detector we know of, theoretically, is a tachyon detector," Bill continued, frowning now. "And as far as I've been able to determine, we don't give off tachyons."
"We're far too high class," Spectre quipped.
"Well, your astrogator's a redneck, sir," Bill replied. "But the point is, the neutrinos, quentaquarks and such like that we do radiate, propagate slower than light. So . . ."
"So we're going to get up to them before they can detect us," the CO said. "I like it."
"Yes, sir," Bill replied. "But the point is, we're going to get up to them before they can even see us. That's going to come as a surprise. And they just left a battle . . ."
"Visual on ship," Tactical called. "Zooming forward viewscreen."
There was a brief image of a ship. There was no reference for size but the ship was a long ovoid with dozens of sharp wings sticking out ending in oval devices that looked somewhat like jet engines without an intake or exhaust. The exception to the oval look was a hammerhead projection from either the front or the rear; with the way the ship was sitting it was impossible to tell which.
"Drop us out of warp," the CO said, swiveling his chair forward.
"Sir!" Bill called. "I respectfully suggest you . . ."
"Where did that come from?" Favarduro shrilled, his hand dropping to the Chaos cannon switch. There was a hum from forward and a ball of white flashed out, closing the intervening gap rapidly.
"Belay firing," Kond snapped. "That is not a Blin warship!"
"Oh, Drdunc."
» » »
". . . Belay that order, sir!"
"Conn, Tactical, we are under fire!"
"Pilot, warp us out of here!"
"Damn that's fast!" Weaver snarled, turning to his monitors. "What in the hell is it?"
The ball of what looked like chain lightning was closing the three light-second gap at nearly the speed of light. The Blade had barely dropped out of warp and was now trying to scramble back. The conversion was, unfortunately, slow.
Just as the ball of whatever it was reached their position, the Blade's engines finally converted them back into warp and the pilot, instinctively, punched in maximum warp up and to the side. They flashed by the alien ship in the millisecond that was left before the weapon reached them.
"Tactical," the CO said. "What was that weapon?"
"Unknown, Conn," the TACO said. "All our particle screens went ballistic. We couldn't even get a reading on it. In fact, we lost all our readings."
"Pilot, bring us around," the CO said. "Try to stop a bit farther out and be ready to go back into warp . . ."
"Where did it go?" Favarduro asked. "Where did it come from?"
"I am supposed to be asking you that question," Ship Master Kond replied. "Fortunately, it did not fire upon us. I am inclined to show them the same courtesy. If they come back."
"There," Favarduro said. "It is at two-one-six mark fifteen. Range sixty-two dreg."
"How much time from when it disappeared to when it reappeared?" Kond asked.
"Six treek," Favarduro said nervously. "It crossed over seventy dreg in six treek."
"That is faster than light," Kond said, wonderingly. "It has a non-node unreality generator."
"That's not theoretically possible," Favarduro pointed out.
"Theory is always superceded by fact, Senior Tactical Specialist," the ship master said. "And that is fact. Unless you distrust your instruments."
"I wish I could run a check," Favarduro said. "But I don't have such a system for my brain. Permission to speak to the Ungur."
"I'm glad to see you have your balance back," Kond replied. "And nearly as glad to see your hubris pricked by our visitors. Communications, send standard first contact protocol message. Let us see if these are friend or foe."
"Conn, Tactical. I'm getting a pulse of EM and neutrinos from the target, designated Sierra One. It's powerful but it's not pulsing like radar. I think they're trying to talk to us."
"XO, we got an SOP for this?" the CO asked, looking over at Weaver.
"Yes, sir!" the executive officer said, pulling out a manual. "There are a selection of first contact protocols prepared!"
"Right," the CO replied, trying not to grin. "You try to find out what we're supposed to do. In the meantime . . . Commo, send them video from conn. See if their computers can parse it out."
"Sir," Weaver said. "Remember that Miss Moon thinks they 'see' with sonar. I'm not sure they have an equivalent of video."
"Commander Weaver, they have, presumably, a home-built FTL drive," Spectre said. "They have some sort of quantum torpedo thingy that goes faster than we do in normal space. I'm going to presume that they have better computers than we do and might actually have experience at first contact. We have a lash-up of human and Adar computers and a linguist that is pretty sure that squirrels are intelligent. They may even be aware that other species use visual light instead of sonar to see the universe. In other words, I'm going to let them figure it out."
"Point made, sir," Bill replied with a grin.
"And somebody get Miss Moon on deck. It's about time our linguist earned her passage."
"We are receiving various EM frequencies only," Communications Specialist Elav said. "There are neutrino and quark emissions, but I have determined that they are random and probably leakage from their engines. The initial communication was short pulses in a specific frequency of EM. Following that they began sending a continuous transmission on several frequencies but the transmission is odd. It varies in pulse and does not appear to be binary data. I have determined that it is probably their equivalent of sodee, but it does not parse correctly. I surmise they are primarily an EM detecting species. Thus they are sending us EM reflectance data instead of sonic reflectance data. I am attempting to replicate this for our own use and to translate our sodee data for theirs. There is also an audio channel, but so far I have been unable to parse it for translation. I deeply regret my failures thus far."
"They have a drive system that is far superior to our own," Kond replied. "Given the speed of their drive, they undoubtedly have far more first contact experience than we. If they are unable to translate our transmissions when they are that far in advance of us, it is unlikely that you
will do better. Continue to work on the problem, but in the meantime I think that we can leave it up to them."
"Their transmissions are giving me fits. I think it's some sort of binary, but there's no change in modulation. And most of it seems to be based on the neutrino emissions rather than the EM. I'm beginning to think that one's audio and the other video."
The commo officer of the Blade always knew that someday he'd have to figure this stuff out. But he also figured it wouldn't be this hard or that the other species would crack the human's code rather than the other way around. But the two ships had been sitting opposite each other at a bare light-minute for the last four hours, sending lots and lots of "stuff" back and forth and not getting anywhere.
"Sonar is three dimensional," Miriam said, looking at the signals. "Video is designed to create phosphors of light on a two-dimensional screen. A sonar signal would be designed to produce sound, but very layered and complex. What we really need is a sonarman working on this, sorry. Can you transfer this over to the lab? I'd like to play with it and let the three guys we picked up listen to it."
"Can do, ma'am," Commo said happily. "Should I send it over to Sonar and see what they can do with it?"
"Send it to Tactical, yes," Miriam said. "Tell them to try pumping it through their sonar systems and radar systems. It might look a bit like radar as well. Parse the neutrino pulses into analog data. I'll play with all of it at the same time."
"Getting anywhere?" Dr. Chet asked.
"I think so," Miriam replied. She had set up in front of a small flat-screen monitor and the desk was liberally covered with sheets of paper. Most of it was equations, but some looked like doodles. There were various half-shots of the faces of their visiting aliens. "I'm having to think what they would look like to each other, in sonar. I've been looking at what we have in the ship's computer on dolphin brain imagery, which is the nearest analog I can find. And I think I'm starting to get somewhere."