Outside Context Problem: Book 01 - Outside Context Problem

by Christopher Nuttall

  He lifted his M16 as a dark shape flashed overhead and into the distance, but held his fire. It would have been nice to have something to fire back at the aliens, yet it had become increasingly clear that cannon and rifle fire did nothing to them. They just shrugged it off and kept going. Two bases had attempted to coordinate their machine guns in hopes of overloading the alien craft and bringing it down, but it had failed, although no one was quite sure why. Post-battle analysis had suggested that they just hadn’t been able to hit the aliens hard enough to make them take notice. It wasn't as if there were any protesters outside the base any longer. The aliens had slaughtered enough of them – probably by accident – to convince the remainder that perhaps they’d be safer protesting elsewhere. It would be hard to continue to believe that ET was coming back to Earth – bringing peace, love and Elvis – when alien plasma bolts were blasting their fellows apart.

  “Incoming,” someone shouted. George ducked on instinct as an alien fighter flew overhead, weapons sending pulses of light towards the ground. He saw a hangar explode violently as a series of plasma bursts found their target, sending flaming debris flying everywhere, and then noted a missile reaching up towards the alien craft. He had a moment to curse the idiot who’d fired it – the craft would explode over the base and actually cause more damage – before throwing himself to the ground. A moment later, the alien craft flipped over and plummeted towards the ground, crashing right into the hard surface. By some miracle, it didn’t explode.

  George pulled himself to his feet, wincing slightly. He’d hit the ground hard enough to hurt, yet there was no time to delay. The briefings had been clear on what to do with a crashed alien ship – it had taken them weeks to come up with a procedure, far too late for George and the men who’d found the first crashed alien ship – and it had to be secured at once. A crowd of airmen had already assembled, staring at the downed alien craft. It had clearly been badly damaged in the crash – George doubted that anyone was going to be flying it up to the alien mothership and blowing it into a pile of debris anytime soon – but it was still largely intact. He remembered seeing the first craft and the awe and fear he’d felt when he’d realised just what it actually was. Now, looking at a crashed alien craft, it was merely another problem to solve.

  “Get the area cordoned off,” he barked. In every other crash site, the aliens had been dead – killed, apparently, by their own people to prevent them falling into human hands. George figured that there wouldn’t be any aliens coming boiling out of the craft, intent on shooting their way to freedom, but taking chances had never been his thing. The reluctant crowd dispersed back to their work, as if they’d never seen a crashed UFO before. George and the remainder of the security team had found themselves very unpopular once the rumours had been confirmed and the base’s personnel had realised that they’d prevented them from seeing a genuine alien craft. “Move it!”

  The heat from the alien craft was fading rapidly, although George wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. It had scorched the surrounding area when it crashed, but luckily it hadn’t set fire to the surrounding area. Rumour had it that at least one alien craft had come down in a National Park and set fire to the forest, forcing the evacuation of the entire area. Fire-fighters had fought valiantly, but the aliens had kept attacking their aircraft, apparently unaware that they weren't military craft. The net was full of conspiracy theories suggesting that the aliens had intended to burn the forest down on purpose, although no one was quite sure why. The most popular theory had something to do with Global Warming.

  Up close, he could feel a tingle in the air surrounding the craft, as if he was tasting iron and feeling sparks in his mouth. Several people had collapsed up close to an alien craft, although there seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to who collapsed, or why. The general theory was that it was the result of coming so close to a craft from another world, but George didn’t believe it. Repeated exposures didn’t seem to render someone immune. Carefully, he touched the hull, ready to snatch his hand away at the slightest hint of burning, and was relieved to discover that it was cool. The alien fighter was safe to touch.

  “Here,” he said. There had been twelve other craft recovered – not counting the first craft he’d seen personally – and the daily briefing had included information on how to open the hatch and get inside. The aliens seemed to favour the KISS principle – Keep It Simple, Stupid – for their craft, something that seemed oddly akin to humanity. He found the latch and pushed at it, expecting resistance, but it opened as easily as a car’s front door. He stepped backwards sharply as the spicy scent assailed his nostrils and peered into the gloom. There was nothing to see apart from a handful of lighted consoles, so he drew his flashlight and shined it into the compartment…

  And found himself staring into a pair of very dark eyes.

  “Shit,” he breathed, staggering back and grabbing for his pistol. The idea of meeting a live alien had seemed remote, impossible. No one had met a live alien apart from on their terms. “You…stop!”

  The last was addressed to two of his men, who’d stepped up with their M16’s pointing at the alien. It recognised the weapons for what they were, for it quailed backwards, trying to avoid their notice. Now his eyes were more accustomed to the gloom, George could see two more aliens in the craft, both clearly dead. Liquid was leaking out of their ears and their faces were contorted with agony. It was a very alien expression, yet it seemed to transcend the cultural and social barriers between races.

  “Sir, that’s…”

  “Get an ambulance up here,” George snapped. The alien was affecting them all, just by its sheer presence. Anyone looking at it could tell that it was a creature from another world. It didn’t seem to be injured, but they knew nothing about its internal anatomy or what kind of inhuman injuries it might have suffered. It was wearing a simple one-piece tunic that covered up any traces of sexual identity – it was impossible to determine if it were male or female, or either. For all he knew, he was looking at an asexual drone.

  If the alien had been a human intruder or terrorist, George would have treated it harshly. As it was, a single alien prisoner might be worth its weight in…well, anything. He leaned toward the alien, carefully returning his pistol to his holster, hoping that the alien would understand that they didn’t mean it any real harm. Human history tended to suggest a wide range of possible treatments for prisoners - an American captured by the Russians would be treated fairly well, while a prisoner of the Taliban would be better off blowing out his own brains before he was captured – and the alien might have been expecting everything from medical experiments to immediate death. It might even have a reason to expect to be dissected. The news about what the aliens had been doing at their polar base had caused widespread outrage across the globe. The aliens couldn’t expect any more mercy from humanity…

  Except, of course, they have the entire world as hostages and we have just one, he thought, looking at the alien. It wasn't the same as the two types of alien in the first crashed ship. It was taller, thinner, and seemingly more cerebral, although he wasn't sure how he knew that. Just for an experiment, he pictured an unimaginably violent scene of torture in his head, but the alien showed no reaction. It wasn't telepathic then, or maybe he just couldn’t recognise an alien reaction. Its face wouldn’t lend itself well to expressions. Its tiny mouth looked as if it was permanently on the verge of kissing someone. He wondered if the alien had a mate, or kids, and felt a sudden burst of sympathy for it. It had to know that unless its comrades organised a rescue mission, it was trapped among the human race for the rest of its life.

  The ambulance pulled up beside the crashed ship and, for the first time, the alien showed a reaction, quailing away from the vehicle. George stood up as the drivers opened the door and allowed the doctors to disembark. Someone had to have warned them because they showed no surprise at seeing the alien, but carefully recovered the other two bodies before turning their attention to the live alien. Geo
rge beckoned it forward and it slowly uncurled itself from where it had been crouching, coming forward into the light. He’d wondered, from the darkened interior of the craft, if bright light scared them or hurt their eyes, but it showed no reaction. Just looking at its walk made him shiver with the urge to stamp hard, like looking at a spider or something else completely inhuman. It made his skin crawl.

  “Should fucking crack its fucking skull,” one of the soldiers muttered, just loudly enough for the alien to hear. George had wondered if it spoke English, but again it showed no reaction to the words. “Or cap it, right now…”

  “Quiet,” George snapped. There was no time for a lecture on the proper treatment of prisoners – including not hurting them unless they tried to escape – not when the aliens could return at any moment. The alien seemed to be staring upwards, looking for signs of a rescue mission, but the skies were clear. He waved the alien into the ambulance and it climbed inside with weary dignity. It was easy, somehow, to feel sorry for it.

  “You’re being detailed to serve as his escort,” the CO said. “I’ve just been on the secure line to NORAD and they’ve issued orders for the captive to be moved to a secure location and the complete decontamination of this site. Take four men and whatever weapons you need, then ride up with the captive and get him to safety.”

  George winced. Complete decontamination was expensive, painful and humiliating for everyone involved, and it was probably unnecessary, even though he couldn’t blame the senior officers for wanting to ensure that there was no possibility of a biological contamination from the alien craft. Schriever had been through the same process when the last craft had crashed and no one had enjoyed it. It was too sadistic to be enjoyed even by a bondage-submissive.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. He glanced over at his men. “You, you, you and you, draw your weapons and equipment, then go get us a pair of hummers and some MANPAD weapons. You” – he addressed the soldier who had threatened the alien – “go report yourself to Sergeant O’Flynn and tell him that I am extremely displeased with your conduct and he’s to take corrective measures.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the soldier said. He looked unhappy and George didn’t blame him. A few weeks of cleaning out toilets with a toothbrush – assuming the base lasted that long – would teach him a lesson. There were some things that should not be said even in jest. “I’ll go now.”

  George watched him go and then looked up at the ambulance, feeling a chill running down the back of his neck. The alien’s big dark eyes were looking at him. It was a terrible absence of expression, no fear, no hatred, no love…just nothing. Its tiny hands, somehow inhuman in their very structure, seemed to twitch constantly. George wished that he’d read more science-fiction as a kid. It might have helped him learn more about the alien. For all he knew, the aliens communicated by sign language and they literally couldn’t talk…no, that was untrue. The aliens had spoken to the President and then to the UN. They knew how to speak English…

  But not all of them would know how to speak English. George’s brother-in-law had seen service in Baghdad and he’d had hundreds of horror stories about American soldiers who hadn’t known a word of Arabic. The confusion that had resulted had been terrifying, with soldiers accidentally insulting civilians or giving them inaccurate information. There had even been cases of signs being switched around to cause more confusion and irritation. It was easy to understand why the President had quit in disgust. He watched as the doors were closed and the ambulance drove off to a holding area and smiled to himself.

  If their captive could learn to speak English, if it could talk to them, it might turn the war around. The things they could learn…they’d have to keep the prisoner safe, of course, and make sure that the aliens had no way to track him. They’d get a secure truck first, transfer the prisoner into it, and then move him by road to his final location. Air travel was unsafe these days and it would have been the height of irony to lose their alien captive to another alien attack.

  An hour later, they departed Schriever on the first leg of their journey.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Area 53, Nevada, USA

  Day 54

  “We got a live one!”

  Alex smiled as he followed Jane into yet another highly-classified base in Nevada. Like Area 52, its official designation had been stricken from the records and it had been re-designated – somewhat inevitably – as Area 53. According to Jones, before he set out on a road trip back to Washington, it had been designated as a place to take and examine alien captives even before the war had begun. Someone in Washington, for once, had been thinking ahead, even though not all of the ideas had been good. A former biological warfare laboratory would make an excellent prison, particularly as it had been designed to be comfortable. The base designers had assumed that terrorists would infect Typhoid Mary-like people – a civilian innocently spreading disease without even knowing what he or she was doing – and they would need secure, but comfortable accommodation, even if they were prisoners in all but name.

  The entire American Medical Association had demanded access to the alien bodies once they’d realised that the bodies existed, and Washington had been happy to parcel out the bodies from the other crashed alien craft, knowing that the more minds focused on a specific problem, the better. No one outside Area 53 and a handful of people at Schriever Air Force Base knew that there was a live captive, and Jones intended for it to stay that way. The aliens had made no attempt to recover any of the fourteen craft they’d lost in the war – the wrecked craft had been scattered around the country, with one being prepared for transport to Britain – but they might be desperate to recover a live alien. The real question was impossible to answer. Did they know that the suicide implant on one of their pilots had failed and left the pilot alive?

  There was no way to know. Jones and Santini had nearly gone ballistic when they’d realised that the aliens might have seen the soldiers escorting the alien into an ambulance, but no rescue mission had materialised. The secure truck might have passed unnoticed in all the confusion and the sudden increase in road traffic – all flights were permanently grounded now, apart from military fighters and support craft – or perhaps they’d been worried about accidentally killing their own people in any rescue attempt. The soldiers who’d escorted the truck all the way from Colorado to Nevada had been on edge, expecting an attack at any moment, but they’d made it safely. They’d been detailed to Area 53’s defences until they could be released, simply because they knew too much. They’d have to remain on the base until the President could decide what – if anything – to tell the nation.

  “Welcome to Area 53,” a man wearing a Colonel’s uniform said. Area 53 had never been shut down completely, unlike Area 52, and the entire base looked a great deal more professional. “I’m Colonel Brent Roeder, Base Commander. I understand that you’ve both been briefed on the base and the security requirements?”

  “Yes, sir,” Alex said. It was questionable which one of them outranked the other – the President’s authorisation had given them considerable powers over even officers of vastly superior rank – but there was no point in being hostile. “We’ve both been decontaminated repeatedly.”

  “My sympathies,” Roeder said. They shared a rueful grin. “The preliminary teams checked the alien, the soldiers and the truck they rode in and found no trace of a biohazard, but we are currently keeping the alien under Biohazard Level Four and decontaminating everyone who goes in and out. There are some doctors who have volunteered to remain within the biohazard lab wearing normal clothing, rather than lab clothes and biological suits, but most of the staff have gone in and out suited up. Do you wish to meet the alien in person first, or study him through the surveillance system?”

  Alex looked at Jane, who shrugged. “The surveillance system first,” she said, firmly. “Has he said anything or tried to communicate in any way?”

  “Nothing that we can detect,” Roeder explained, as he led them down the corrid
or into a small office. “We’ve tried talking to him in English, but it’s hard to be sure if he really understands, or if he’s just picking up on our body language. We’re not even sure if he can speak, as we understand the term. His mouth is too small to form all of our words.” He snorted. “He’s very clever though. One of the researchers gave him a Sudoku book and he started solving his way through it, faster than I could – and I’m pretty good at it.

  “We gave him some basic foodstuffs that analysis of the alien bodies suggested that he should be able to eat without problems, but he only took a few sips of water,” he added. “We’re not sure if he’s unwell, or doesn’t like the food, or if we’re accidentally poisoning him. The doctors think that he can eat pretty much everything on Earth without problems – they wouldn’t want our planet if they couldn’t live here – but he might be missing out on vital trace minerals or nutrients specific to their homeworld. We had all of the crashed ships searched and found a handful of what we think are alien foodstuffs, so we’re having them shipped here. We’ll see if our friend can eat them.”

  “Good thinking,” Alex said. He’d heard soldiers joking about preferring to starve rather than eat MREs, but he rather suspected that the alien would be glad of the food when it arrived. “If we have one of them analysed, we might be able to determine what they actually eat and produce it for ourselves.”