Outside Context Problem: Book 01 - Outside Context Problem

by Christopher Nuttall

“Indeed,” Roeder agreed. “As you can see.”

  He clicked a button on the desk and the plasma screen sprang into life, revealing a surprisingly luxurious apartment. Alex had once had an old girlfriend who had enjoyed watching reality television about a group of fame-seekers who’d locked themselves inside a house and been given a series of embarrassing and stupid tasks to complete, struggling not to be voted off for another week. It had been incredibly stupid, in his rather less than humble opinion, and had led to the break-up of the relationship. Looking down at the alien, poised on a chair, he felt faintly dirty. He’d spent days in secure environments before, where there were cameras everywhere, but he’d volunteered to be monitored. The alien – and the humans who would have stayed in that room if the base had ever been used for its intended purpose – hadn’t volunteered for anything.

  On the other hand, he reminded himself, it – he – was a representative of an enemy power that was attacking the United States. How could it reasonably expect to be treated?

  “Interesting,” Jane observed calmly. “That’s the same kind of alien as met the President first, but not the same as their apparent leader, or their spokesman in front of the UN. Have you tried to take blood and stool samples?”

  “The alien does not apparently need to go to the toilet,” Roeder said, looking faintly embarrassed. “The doctors say that it’s just a matter of time, but it was taken prisoner six days ago and hasn’t been to the toilet since, nor has it simply wet itself through lack of understanding. We haven’t done anything more than a handful of scans since he arrived here. We don’t want to accidentally harm the captive.”

  He frowned. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he added. “We x-rayed that massive head and found a set of implants embedded in the creature’s skull. We don’t think that it has a way of phoning home, but just to be sure we have the entire base firmly secure and heavily guarded. I have orders from Washington to ensure that the alien doesn’t return home alive unless a peace deal is worked out. He’s simply seen too much.”

  “Indeed,” Jane said, coldly. Only someone who knew her well could have picked out the disapproval in her voice. “He’s a helpless captive.”

  “He was flying a craft that was engaged in a hostile action,” Roeder corrected her, bluntly. “He was attacking Schriever Air Force Base when he was shot down and captured. He is a prisoner of war, Doctor, not someone to be treated as an innocent victim. I have no intention of torturing him, or killing him, but he represents a priceless source of information that we must have access to, whatever the cost.”

  “Schriever Air Force Base,” Alex repeated. “The aliens crashed there again?”

  “They’ve been getting a greater number of attacks than anywhere else that isn’t actually a fighter base,” Roeder pointed out. “I supposed statistically their chance of getting a live captive was as good as anywhere else.”

  He stood up. “Would you like to meet the alien?”

  “I think we need to get freshened up first,” Jane said, sharply. “We’ll call you when we’re ready to meet ET down there.”

  She marched out of the office and Alex followed her. “What an asshole,” she said, once the door was shut and she was raging down the corridor. “That alien is a helpless captive, not someone we can perform Nazi experiments on or cut up for the tabloids. We can’t…”

  Alex caught her shoulder. “Monitored environment, remember?”

  “Oh,” Jane said, and flushed. “I don’t suppose they’ll have kept the cameras out of the shower room, will they?”

  “Just go shower in the dark,” Alex advised, as they found their rooms. They were tiny compared to the alien’s quarters, although they did have the advantage of not being inside a Level Four Biohazard Zone. Alex was fairly sure that there was no biohazard any longer – if there had ever been one – but there was no point in taking risks. He put his bag down on one of the beds and chuckled to himself. “That’s what we used to do at those wretched exercises when we were playing at being Russians or Chinese and gaming out what we’d do if we controlled enemy forces.

  “And then someone decided to have a fit about it, so some of us accidentally on purpose blocked the cameras, or acted really badly in front of them…one of the men got a reprimand for masturbating on camera and one of the girls got a rocket from the CO for pretending that she was making out with another girl…”

  “You’re making it up,” Jane said, doubtfully. “Wouldn’t you all have been tossed out of the Air Force?”

  “I would have hated to have been the CO who had to give any of us a Bad Conduct Discharge for the offences,” Alex said. “It was just a way to blow off steam. Apart from that, we aced the exercise and several of us got promoted. The system works!”

  He lay back on the bed. “Go have your shower if you want,” he added. “We’ll go see ET in half an hour.”

  The entrance to the Level Four Biohazard Zone was comparable to the entrance back at Area 52, except that it was clearly more modern. The briefing papers had warned that secret stockpiles of Smallpox, Ebola, Lassa fever, Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever, and other various hemorrhagic diseases had been stored in the base after talks with the Russians broke down – again – on the issue of trust and verification. The ink on the treaties had barely been dry when the Russians had started cheating, forcing the United States and several other countries to follow suit. Alex had seen papers that suggested that the United States population had been secretly immunised against hundreds of different diseases, preventing a virgin field pandemic, although he privately doubted that the government could have been that effective.

  They stripped, went through the showers, and were allowed to dress on the other side, before passing through three airlocks and a host of automated sensors. Ominous signs warned that all cuts, bruises and other injuries might become infected and had to be reported instantly, regardless of how small and harmless they appeared. A smaller sign warned that the inhabitants of the secure zone were innocent victims and were to be treated as such, regardless of their visitor’s inclination. The final airlock allowed them access to the inner chamber and he caught himself taking a breath, as if it would be his last. He had to remind himself that the aliens themselves believed that there was no biohazard.

  “Unreal,” Jane muttered, as they stepped into what looked like a standard apartment. Alex silently agreed. It was a bizarre mishmash of the mundane and the strange. It would have been an ordinary apartment in any apartment block, save for the single occupant sitting on a chair, watching them with massive dark eyes. He – Alex resolved to think of the alien as a male until he knew better – seemed very alien. Alex had had over a month to mentally prepare himself for meeting a live alien and yet…it was hard to look the alien in the eye. The massive lidless eyes didn’t even blink.

  Up close, there was a faintly spicy scent surrounding the alien, as there had been in their crashed ships. It wasn't unpleasant at first, but as he breathed it in, it seemed to grow thickening, until he wanted to physically push it away. Maybe the aliens communicated using scent, he wondered, or perhaps it was merely part of their physiology and perhaps humans smelt worse to them. The alien had made use of the shower and a handful of other facilities in the room and so perhaps it was how they smelled normally. He realised his mind was wandering and forced himself to concentrate. Jane was staring at the alien as if he were suddenly the most attractive man in the room.

  “Hello,” she said, very softly, as if she were speaking to a child. “My name is Jane. What’s yours?”

  The great head turned to face her, but the alien didn’t speak. Alex couldn’t hear anything, except a very faint whispery exhalation as he breathed. He was suddenly aware of just how close he was to the alien, except that he looked too puny to inflict much damage. The alien warriors had fought viciously against the assault team at the South Pole, but what role did this alien play in their society? The different types of aliens, all coming from a single source, suggested that the aliens had a nu
mber of different castes – was he looking at a creature that had been bred to be a pilot? The entire concept was revolting and yet he knew that there were training officers who’d love the thought of pilots who were all natural talents.

  “I think you can understand me,” Jane continued, calmly. “I think that your people wouldn’t have let you down to Earth without some way to talk to the natives. We don’t know anything about you and we might kill you by accident. You’d have to be able to tell us to stop.”

  Alex suspected that it might have made perfect sense, to the alien leaders, to let their people fly without a translator of some kind. They gave their crews suicide implants and killed them when they crashed, even though they would have survived the crash and would have been well-treated. It didn’t suggest a mindset that cared about losses, even their own losses. It suggested a frightening lack of concern for the death toll. Every contact with the aliens had been on their own terms…until now. The mothership was approaching Earth, with invasion and settlement as its goal, and they’d have to deal with human governments, if only to negotiate a human surrender.

  Jane picked up a notepad and examined it. The alien had drawn strange diagrams on the paper, but little else. Alex peered over her shoulder at them, yet they made no sense to him, even though he had an inkling that he’d seen something like them before. Jane flipped over the paper and started to draw a mathematical diagram of her own, showing it to the alien. The long grey-green fingers took the pad and pencil, and then drew another image on the pad. The alien had matched her diagram and added his own. Jane wrote down a mathematical sequence and allowed the alien to complete it. Alex realised that the doctors had been right. The alien was at least as smart as a human, perhaps smarter.

  “We’ll be back soon,” Jane promised, at the end of a long hour. It had been fascinating, yet it was astonishing how quickly the unique became mundane. Humanity had rapidly grown used to the concept of alien life, even alien war. Somehow, there was nothing enchanting about it anymore. First Contact was over and any further contacts with other alien races would be…common. Who knew how many other races there were out there, waiting for the human race to meet them? “I promise.”

  The alien nodded, bowing his great head. Alex realised that Jane was right. The alien might or might not speak English, but he sure as hell understood it. It might not be an insolvable problem either. They could ask yes-no questions, or teach him how to speak or write English. The alien made a funny chattering noise – like a host of insects - that Alex chose to interpret as goodbye, although it didn’t wave when they stepped back into the first airlock. It was already drawing new diagrams on the pad.

  “He understood me,” Jane said, firmly. “All we need to do is teach him to speak.”

  Alex nodded. The thought of all that information locked up inside the hairless alien skull was unbearable. They needed to know what the alien knew, before the mothership entered orbit. It was only fifteen days away and then, everyone agreed, the situation would get really bad. If the aliens could inflict so much damage with only tiny fighter craft, what could they do with an entire mothership and a billion aliens?

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Washington DC, USA

  Day 57

  Nicolas could smell smoke as they gathered inside a large warehouse that formally belonged to a trucking company, judging from the markers on the wall. It was easily large enough to hold the hundred and twenty survivors from the assault force, as well as a small gathering of other personalities in the Special Forces world. He recognised some of them from prior operations and took the opportunity to bullshit a little with them about the successful assault, as well as outlining how the aliens had reacted to the human intrusion. Their warriors – no other term seemed to fit, although one of the soldiers had suggested Orcs – had been taken by surprise, but even so had fought savagely. Nicolas had spent most of his career trying to prevent nuclear explosions, not trigger them, but the sacrifice of the Wrecking Crew had probably saved their lives. If the aliens had come boiling out after them, across the ice and snow, it could have only had one ending.

  The journey back to the United States had been nightmarish. He’d felt a twinge of guilt as they viewed the remains of McMurdo Station, smashed by vengeful alien fighters, and remembered the expressions on the base’s scientific staff as they’d been bundled onboard the USN aircraft to return home. Their ability to carry out scientific studies in peace were what the military existed to defend and it hurt to know that they’d ensured the destruction of their station. The assault force had probably saved their lives by transporting them back home before hitting the alien base, yet they wouldn’t see it that way. Academics rarely understood the realities of combat missions.

  They’d made it to the submarines and had a few nerve-wracking moments before managing to board the boats for a fast journey home. The eleven days onboard the ballistic missile submarine had been claustrophobic, but Nicolas was used to that. Some of the other SpecOps personnel hadn’t coped nearly as well, despite the success of their mission, and had had to be sedated by the submarine’s doctor. The SEAL teams had been inserted into hostile territory by submarines before and had lived in far worse conditions. Nicolas had been glad of the rest and used it to write letters to the families of each of the men he’d lost. It was the duty of a CO, yet he couldn’t tell them the truth. Very few SpecOps missions were ever publicly acknowledged these days until long after they'd taken place. They certainly weren't going to get a trip around the White House and a chance to shake hands with the President.

  The discovery that their mission had been headline news around the world might have changed that, but instead they’d been given a day’s leave, strict orders not to mention a word to anybody, and told to meet up at the mystery warehouse the following morning. Nicolas had written his daughter a letter – keeping it bland and very casual – and spent the evening in one of the more upscale brothels. They’d been happy to see a man with money. These days, with an ongoing economic crash and alien fighters flying at will over the United States, even the whores were doing badly. It wouldn’t be long before they started attaching themselves to men who might be able to keep them safe. The news had been vague and probably censored, but it had suggested that vast parts of the United States had broken down.

  He looked around the room and scowled, once again, at the oddness of the concept. It wasn't the first time he’d met up with the rest of a team in a strange location, but downtown Washington would not have been his first choice for a covert meeting or debriefing. There were so many soldiers in the building that he would be very surprised if the media didn’t already know that they were there, perhaps even preparing to swarm the soldiers with cameras and shout inane questions. SpecOps personnel tried hard to stay out of the public eye and avoided cameras like the plague, yet for some reason hurting a reporter was considered bad practice. Nicolas had met some particularly unpleasant reporters in his time and only training and discipline had kept him from punching some of them out.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” a commanding voice said. “The President of the United States of America.”

  Nicolas came to attention automatically as the President entered the room. There was no mistaking him, even though he looked older and gaunter than the last time Nicolas had seen him on the television. The President might have been a regular soldier rather than a Special Forces soldier – and he’d been an officer, to boot – but he was all right in Nicolas’s book. On command, they snapped a salute, which the President returned. Unlike some other Presidents, he’d never appeared scared of the human wolves, perhaps because he’d been a soldier himself and knew that there was nothing particularly superhuman about a SEAL. Anyone could become a SEAL with the proper training and dedication to the role. It did require a great deal of physical and psychological toughness, as well as high intelligence, but they could be learned.

  “I am not here,” the President said, flatly. There was an icy note in his voice that discourag
ed questions. “Officially, I am currently hosting a meeting of the Boy Scouts of America. I am here merely to confirm your orders. You are about to receive a set of orders that you will find…unusual. You will feel inclined to follow your training and question them, or refuse to carry them out without further information. You must not do so. Once you listen to the briefing, you will understand why. If we had time, we would have asked for volunteers or taken other steps, but time is no longer on our side.”

  He looked over at General Wachter. Nicolas had a sudden flash of Déjà vu, remembering the meeting at Fort Benning, when he'd been told that he would be commanding the first strike against the aliens who had attacked Earth. There, a senior officer had confirmed the orders…and now the Commander-in-Chief himself was confirming the new set of orders. He sensed the realisation settling in around the room. This was some serious shit, all right, perhaps something decisive.

  “General Wachter will brief you on your mission and give you specific instructions,” the President continued. “You may not see me again, now or ever, but I expect that you will each carry out your orders to the best of your ability. The future of America – the survival of America – may depend upon it.”

  For a moment, his expression softened. “If we had time, I would reward those who attacked the alien base and ensure that you had the thanks of a grateful nation,” he concluded. “There is no time, but please know that you have my gratitude and that of the remainder of the Government. Thank you.”

  He stepped off the podium and vanished through a door, followed by a pair of Secret Service Agents. Nicolas had heard rumours of vast networks of bunkers and tunnels under Washington and guessed that the warehouse was owned by the CIA or one of the other intelligence agencies. It probably had a hidden access point to an underground railroad linking Official Washington and allowing politicians to move around secretly, without anyone being aware of their movements. He knew that he shouldn’t even speculate on the possibilities, even in light of the war. God alone knew what the enemies of the United States – or the entire human race – would do with the information.