by Alex Deva
Aram glanced at Zi, who, as he hung by one hand, slowly raised the other hand above his head. Well, that’s one way to make contact, they both thought. Deep, booming noises came from one of the cockpits, sounds that made no sense to either of the men, but that seemed to have a pattern. When the pattern repeated, they knew it was a form of communication. Zi switched on his suits’ external speakers and, feeling kinda silly, uttered tentatively, in English:
“Hi.“
The sounds stopped for a few seconds, as if whoever was inside the ships was having the same trouble making sense of the English syllable. Then, the sounds reemerged, in a slightly different pattern.
The two men looked around them. Aram, half-out of his cockpit, and Zi, treading water, both in their sealed spacesuits, surrounded by the flying alien vessels, hundreds of thousands of kilometres away from the rest of their team, most of which was severely incapacitated, and who knew how far away from Earth.
Aram chose one of his favourite Dacian words and muttered it very silently under his breath.
* * *
A single, battery-powered light shone in the round room. Doina was lying on her back, with her head gently resting on a bit of insulation that Mark had torn out of the lamp’s container box. The light itself was pointing in the opposite direction, and slightly up, towards the conical ceiling. The girl breathed slowly but regularly, and Mark took her pulse every couple of minutes, trying his best to focus even though there was desperately little to focus on.
He stood up and stretched. He counted six seconds, then four more, then he took a deep breath and sat back down on the empty crate. He didn’t have a watch to go by, but he thought it was probably about time to take another pulse count — it was, anyway, the only marginally useful thing he could probably do for the rest of one of their lives.
As he leaned forward to check the girl’s small wrist, a shadow fell over his feet and Doina’s body. A chill went down his spine; he quickly brushed aside the very first thought (we’re supposed to be alone in here!) and took an entire tenth of a second to evaluate his options.
The closest things to weapons he had were the metal crate under his arse, the clothes on his back, and the nearest light stand, which stood about seven feet to his right.
Very well, then.
He stood up, turning around and ducking in the same fluid motion, ready for anything.
The very same chair — the one where he had found himself for the first time, after the starship had taken him — had appeared behind him out of nowhere. It was empty. There was nobody else around.
The Brit walked slowly to the object, and inspected it with some distaste. His last experience in it had not been painful or particularly uncomfortable, but it had been, by any definition, invasive. Volunteering to sit in it would definitely contribute to the sense of vulnerability which was already threatening to take control of his mood.
Still, it could be nothing else but an invitation from the starship — the first sign of activity, of life, that they had encountered since the accident, blackout, or whatever it was.
He went back to Doina and took a whole minute counting her heartbeats. Sixty-four, he thought. Just like before. He gazed back over his shoulder; the chair was still there. Sighing, he stood up and rubbed the back of his head. He moved to the chair, turned and sat slowly, trying to find a relatively comfortable position, and holding his arms carefully up.
“This won’t take a minute,“ he said to Doina, half thankful that she couldn’t hear the total lack of conviction in his voice.
Then, he laid his hands on the armrests, and felt the familiar, gentle pricks in his wrists and ankles.
* * *
When the huge submarine ship emerged from under the waves directly under them, Zi had to wave to Aram to remain calm. The Dacian had never seen anything like that, and his first impulse had been to duck back inside his own little ship. But, partly because of Zi’s signal, partly because he wanted to stay cool, and mostly because he didn’t want it to feel like he was leaving his comrade alone, he resisted it.
As the great platform touched Zi’s legs and, breaking the water surface, brought Effo up with it, the soldier felt gratified in realising that he’d been right. The flying amphibious scout crafts could not have appeared out of nowhere; there had to be a base of some sort nearby, and it only made sense that it would follow its scouts. On Earth they would’ve probably done something similar.
The scouts flew away in formation, and the atmosphere calmed down. The numbers in Zi’s helmet showed about ten percent oxygen and less than one percent nitrogen; of the other gases it was built to measure, only carbon dioxide registered, along with a fair amount of water vapours. What made the rest of the percentage was anyone’s guess. His portable air supply was good for another hour or so; he guessed Aram’s numbers would probably be marginally better, as he’d only sealed his helmet after landing.
A great conning tower loomed in front of them, as the vessel stopped its ascent just a little above surface, with waves gently washing its deck. A door opened in the tower, and two aliens emerged.
They were very tall, vaguely humanoid, sporting two legs and two arms, and a telescopic torso that slowly elongated and collapsed in what had to be breathing motions. Zi and Aram instantly recognised the physiology of Jox, the ambassador of the Saudade Conglomerate. And, Zi thought, that could mean only one thing: Right Conglomerate. Possibly even right planet.
Feet forward, Aram slid down from Effo, whose cockpit closed soundlessly and became as opaque as the rest of the ship. He walked next to Zi and touched his suit.
“You alright?“ he asked, quietly.
“Yes. You?“
“Looks like we’ve made it.“
“Yeah. But I guess the easy part is over.“
“All we gotta do now is find Jox, get the anti-Square gun that doesn’t exist, figure out a way back to Doi, fix them, go back and win the war.“
Zi smiled wryly, gazing at the two aliens who stood waiting.
“Nuk ka problem,“ he muttered. “Piece of cake.“ And, ignoring the pain in his legs, started walking towards the open door.
* * *
Mark thought his eyes were open, but found himself unable to blink. He was still in the same room, or so it seemed, until he looked down and couldn’t see his own body. Trying to stay calm, he looked around, and immediately noticed a woman who was walking towards him.
“You must be Mark,“ said the woman, speaking the feminine equivalent of Mark’s exact type of Buckinghamshire accent. She had long, black hair, hazel eyes and could’ve been anything between twenty and forty years old. She smiled, but even though every detail of the smile was right, the whole of the smile was somehow inhuman. Then, her expression was instantly replaced — no transition there — by one of worry. “Where’s Keai? What happened? Why are you in… oh dear, he’s done it, hasn’t he? He’s tried the new engine and it went wrong! What…“
“Wait,“ interrupted the Brit. “Who are you?“
“I am Control,“ said the woman.
Mark was nonplussed. “Control?“ he asked.
“Yes.“
“Just that? Control? What does that make me? Soldier?“
The worry in the woman’s expression upgraded a notch, again with inhuman speed.
“Are you damaged?“ she asked.
If you only knew, thought Mark.
“If I only knew what?“
Oh, fucking hell.
“You’re not making much sense. You must be damaged.“
“Whose Control are you?“
“Fletcher Keai’s, of course.“
That took Mark by surprise. First, because he hadn’t considered that Ileana Toma might have been referred to as a “he“, although of course it now seemed perfectly possible. Secondly, because it meant…
“Are you on the Builder’s home world?“
“On one of them, yes. The Bla… I mean, Doi called me automatically. It reports distress.“
> Well, it would, wouldn’t it. So the starship dialled tech support, and you’re Keai’s private agent. Dacian, fletcher, soldier… girl. He stopped his thought abruptly.
“You are either not making enough sense, or I am experiencing difficulty understanding you. This is the first time I speak to an actual human. In fact, it is the first time any new crew speaks to a Builder, outside our territory. It is highly improper. What did you do to your ship?“
“Your fletcher fitted it with some kind of non-relativistic propulsion system.“
“Yes, that much I know. What went wrong?“
“No idea. We engaged it, and then Doina… our shipmistress fainted and now she’s unresponsive. And so’s the whole starship.“
The woman froze in thought. For a few seconds she looked like a wax sculpture, utterly immobile. After a spell, she came back:
“That is unprecedented.“
“Well, good to know we’re on the bleeding edge. With stress on bleeding,“ said Mark.
Again, she didn’t get it. “It is unprecedented because it worked,“ she said. “You are presently located in Saudade controlled space.“
Thinking about Aram and Zi, Mark felt a little relieved. Once again, to his annoyance, the woman plucked the thought right out of his head.
“Your Cub, and your other crew mate. They left for the planet looking for help?“
“Yes,“ said Mark.
“Well, they will never find it there. No-one there knows how to mend a Builder starship.“
The Brit realised that they were talking about different kinds of help, and fought to cancel the thought and redirect.
“What happened to Doina?“
Again, Control was stony for a few moments. “Exactly the same thing that happened to your starship,“ she said then.
“Can you help her?“
“I can reboot the ship remotely. It will take a while.“
“No, I meant if you can help Doina?“
Her eyebrows knitted instantaneously. “I know nothing about human medicine, although I have lived in this human body for rather too long. Even if I did, I am not truly there, as you are probably aware.“
Mark’s heart sank.
“However, I have every confidence that the starship will look after her as soon as it wakes up. I was given to understand that their bond was more than solid enough.“
The man nodded. “When?“ he asked.
“It has already begun,“ she said. “How long it takes depends on the self-integrity checks and their results.“
“What can I do in the meantime?“
“Life support is its own processing fibre,“ said Control. “It should be alive soon. I suggest you find whatever comfort you can, and prepare to wait.“
“When can I expect comms with Effo?“
“Doi will fix itself first, then take care of the Cub.“
“The ADM?“
“Even later. Rely on your own resources in the meanwhile.“
“If I sit in this chair, will I contact you again?“
“Only if Doi fails to restart. If it works, then, as per the original programming, contact with us will be restricted.“
“And if it doesn’t?“
“No Blank has ever been damaged so severely.“
“No Blank has ever been fitted with alien technology either.“
“I daresay not.“
“In other words, you have no idea.“
“None. I am not a fletcher; I merely control them.“
Mark nodded.
“In that case, I think I’ll go grab a bottle of water and the future’s answer to a Snickers bar,“ he said.
“I do not…“
“Thanks for the help. My best to the Chief Builder. Now please let me out, I need to check on Doina.“
The woman’s face was still locked in “confused mode“ when Mark’s arms and legs bindings dissolved. He found Doina exactly where he’d left her, and that brought him a small measure of comfort.
XXXIX.
“So what are they?“
“No idea.“ The First Contact Responsible spread his long arms wide, leaning to a side. “Part of their physiology matches some of the races we know, like the thorax that expands the wrong way.“
The Chief of Warfare sighed and gently rapped her long fingers through the thin layer of water on her desk.
“Come,“ said the First Contact Responsible. “It would not be a First Contact if we knew what they were.“
“Yes,“ said the Chief, abstractly. “Yes, I suppose. And yet, the timing.“
The other made a noise, and said:
“I was not aware there was a calendar dedicated to First Contact events, Chief. They happen when they happen.“
“And they haven’t happened in a long while.“
“Which is why my job is not full time. Your point?“
Again the Chief sighed. “How is the protocol progressing?“
The First Contact Responsible was cautious. “As prescribed. We are trying to contact them by all the means at our disposal. Any luck with their ship?“
“No. It’s completely opaque.“
“Such advanced technology seems at odds with their lack of disposition towards communication. Do you suspect foul play?“
“Always.“
The Responsible nodded. “As you ought, I suppose.“
“One of them travelled inside, the other simply fell from orbit and was recovered only instants before splash; I am not sure whether what I suspect is foul play, accident or something entirely different. It’s the most insufferable state of affairs.“
“What worries me most is the environment,“ said the other.
“What worries me most about the environment,“ said the Chief, “is that here we have a race with advanced space faring technology, who went through our defence grid as if it wasn’t even there, then gave up any and all pretence at subtlety by splashing right on top of us, and who carry portable atmosphere and do not even bother to tell us what they want or how to accommodate their environment.“
“So now you suspect diversion. A larger attack somewhere? Although, if you could not detect these ones, you would likely miss the main attack force as well.“
The Chief looked away in disgust. “Or not — otherwise they would not need a diversion to begin with. The fact is, we know nothing, and…“
The door fell and an assistant walked in, his whole posture one huge apology.
“Yes?“ said the Chief.
“Your pardon, Chief. Lord ken Selloa is here.“
The Chief looked askew at the assistant. “Who the red death is ken Selloa?“
“Precisely,“ said a new voice. The assistant looked as if he wanted to melt into the floor. “He… refused to wait, Chief. I am so sorry.“
The newcomer was thick, imposing, and wore the marks of a High House. He entered, followed by two guards, who had their weapons drawn but carefully pointed down. They both looked expectantly for orders. The Chief inspected the intruder from head to feet for a few long moments, at the end of which, with affected exasperation, he slammed his hand on the wet table and produced his identification.
On the nearby screen, credentials appeared immediately. The Chief went through them at length, making sure that the checksums were in order and the proper decryption algorithms had been applied. When she was satisfied, she gestured at the guards, who put away their weapons with obvious relief.
“Your Lordship,“ she said. “I am not familiar with your house.“
“I am sure you will remember it from now on, though,“ said ken Selloa.
“In what capacity are you here?“
With a careless gesture, ken Selloa waved a file from his wrist computer in the direction of the Chief of Warfare, whose own wrist computer signalled receipt of a personal, confidential document. She brought her wrist in front of her right eye, and a quick burst of light sent the contents of the file directly into her optical nerves. She read the impression; then she read it a
gain, and again for a third time before it faded away.
“Leave us,“ she ordered. The guards did not wait to be told twice. “You too,“ she added, addressing the First Contact Responsible. “Wait outside.“
Waiting circumspectly for the room to be theirs, ken Selloa sat directly on the table. The Chief watched him in annoyance, saying nothing.
“You mustn’t think of us as the competition, Chief.“
“What should I think of you as then, General?“
“Come on. You have spies. We have spies. Show some professional courtesy.“
“We work in the open. And we do not spy on our own.“
Selloa laughed heartily. “Both of those statements are disingenuous, false, and honestly insulting. You spy on everyone, including the Table.“
“And the Table spies on us.“
“Well, of course we do. Isn’t that the key to the balance of power?“
“And on whose side are you tilting the balance these days, General?“
“The proper side, Chief. The correct side.“
“If you are implying that…“
Selloa gestured placatingly. “Now, now. I didn’t come here to fight.“
“What did you come here to do then?“
“I am here to meet our new guests.“
The Chief stared at him.
“Why? Who are they?“
“I am here on a mission from the Table, Chief. Sadly, the mission parameters do not include explaining it to anybody. I am sure you expected nothing less.“
“These aliens are highly suspicious. Their arrival…“
“We know. That is precisely why I was sent. Your First Contact team has not had any success —“ it was a statement, with perhaps one tiny drop of irony in it, but a self-assured statement nonetheless — “and now it is time for results.“