"It's thirteen mega-klicks away," Nicole said, "yet one look was all we needed to recognize it as a spacecraft. Think about that a moment."
"Very big," Andrei mused, looking from the data screen to the schematic and back again.
"Huge, more likely. And something else besides."
"Alien," Ciari said flatly.
"Come on," Hana scoffed. "That thing's over thirty times the distance from Earth to Luna, and we're using an improvised computer set-up."
"Your pictures, your set-up—no faith?"
"I know its—and my—limitations. You can't be so certain."
"Dr. Murai," he responded with finality, "I've seen or sailed or crewed just about every class of spacecraft in operation today. Take my word for it, that vessel was not designed or constructed by human hands. Humanoid, perhaps—but not Terrestrial human beings. Not from Earth, nor any colony. Alien."
Again, there was silence. Nicole had imagined countless rescue and death scenarios, but First Contact with an extraterrestrial life-form was something she hadn't anticipated. Like every cadet at the Academy and officer in NASA, she'd assumed that, sooner or later, Humanity would discover that it wasn't alone in the Universe. There were simply too many stars in the sky, too many planets near the Sol system capable of supporting human life. Somewhere there had to be a culture at least as old as our own, as advanced. Or more. Or less. But it had to exist.
This time, Hana broke the silence. "Wherever that ship came from, it's beautiful. The builders were as much artists as engineers."
"A criteria for civilization?" Andrei wondered.
"Define civilization," Nicole responded quietly. "Look at us, are we civilized? Hell, as a species, we're not even housebroken."
"Profound," Ciari snorted, "but not terribly helpful."
"Have you any ideas, Nicole?" Andrei asked her.
She transmoded the display back to a real image of the starship and stroked a finger along the short, sleek curve of its visible hull. So many dangers. A misstep could have horrendous consequences. "Like it or not," she said, "we have to make contact."
"They might not be friendly," Hana said. She shrugged. "Have we a viable alternative?"
"Nicole, we're none of us trained in making a First Contact." Hana looked to Ciari, hoping her assumption was wrong, but he shook his head.
"You suggesting we sit tight and watch it sail by?" Nicole snapped back.
"There's more here at stake than our four lives," Ciari said. "Dr. Murai is correct, we aren't trained in First Contact. We'll be improvising, Shea, running on instinct and experience, none of which may mean shit under these circumstances. A mistake here could trigger an inter-stellar war. Can we afford to take that risk?"
"Can we afford to pass it up? We're in the boonies, Ciari; we may be the only people who know the ship is even here! If we do nothing, it may keep on going, out of the Solar System, with no one else being the wiser. My original survival plan may work. We may end up rescued. We may not. If we run the cautious program, we may be throwing away an unparalleled, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
"NASA—even the Air Force—is more than a new breed of soldier; we're explorers. And if that"—she pointed at the display—"doesn't represent a major chunk of our reason for being—of my reason for being here—then I don't know what the hell does. I say, go for it!"
"That an order, Lieutenant," Ciari asked softly, "or an opinion?"
She looked from face to face, then at the deck, finally into Ciari's eyes. "It's an order. For the record, the decision is mine alone, and the responsibility as well. But I hope you all agree. I think the gamble's worth the risk."
"So, actually, do I," he said. Nicole turned to Andrei and Hana.
"It's scary," Hana confessed. But she nodded assent. As did Andrei. Hana held out a hand, and Nicole took it, Hana smiling, a little sadly, Nicole thought, as she gave it a gentle squeeze. Then, Nicole faced the image on the main display.
"Okay, crew," she said, "let's get to work."
Chapter Nine
She heard a dull booming sound, as if someone had whacked the outer hull with a giant sledgehammer, and then the Rover was still. For a long while, no one said a word, then Nicole heard Andrei's hushed voice crackling in her earphones.
"We made it," he breathed.
Nicole nodded, suddenly too weary to even think about cheering. A rude voice within her head groused, why bother. There was a stimpill dispenser built into her helmet ring, but they were a last resort. True, they would give her all the energy she needed—and then some—but the effects wouldn't last long and when they finally wore off and she crashed, she'd be out for days. Instead, she contented herself with some water.
"Status, people," she said automatically as she spread the moisture over dry lips with her tongue, hoping she didn't sound as mushy, and bitter, as she felt.
Ciari tapped some switches on the main panel, tossed a quick, comprehensive look across the scanscreens, then allowed himself a thin smile. "We've established a hard dock, Nicole," he told her. "We're hull-to-hull with the Alien spacecraft, our airlock facing what seems to be one of theirs. Magnaseals are active and registering a solid contact."
Nicole craned forward in her chair, looking up through the Rover's canopy at the looming, clifflike expanse of the Alien hull. Up close, its gleaming perfection seemed to go on forever, without flaw or break to mar its unearthly beauty. But Nicole knew that was only an illusion. She couldn't forget what she, and the others, had seen as they'd matched vectors in the Wanderer Command Module: a hole, seventy meters long by over twenty wide, punched through the spacecraft aft. The rim of the gash was a crazy-quilt mixture of jagged, force-twisted, heat-slagged hull metal, all too reminiscent of what their own ship had looked like as they pulled clear. It was obvious there had been a massive internal explosion.
When she saw that hole, and realized what it meant, Nicole thought her heart would break. They'd come so far, endured so much, only to discover too late that the ship on which they'd pinned their hopes was probably as much a derelict as Wanderer. The damage had been on the far side of the ship from their cameras, they hadn't been aware of it until their final approach, long after their separation from the Service Module. When it was too late to go back. Her orders had brought them to this, her words had condemned them.
Angrily, she yanked at the clamps on her neck ring and pushed the helmet away, covering her face with her gloved hands as the helmet caromed off the instrument panel and disappeared behind her.
Lost in her private purgatory, she didn't feel Hana's hand on her arm, wasn't aware of Ciari turning in his chair to face the others and say, "You two go aft and check the supplies, especially the airpacks and weapons. And take your time. I'll give a yell if you're needed." They took the hint and, silently, moved off the cramped flight deck.
Ciari took a moment to unseal his own helmet before reaching out to Nicole. At his touch, surprisingly gently, she flinched.
"Nicole," he said softly. And when she didn't answer, he tried again, a faint edge to his voice, "Nicole?"
"I hear you."
"I'm glad. What's the matter, Red?" Again, silence. "Nicole, I want to help."
She looked at him, on the brink of tears, though she made an effort to retain her self-control. And self-respect. "I know," she told him haltingly. "I... all of a sudden, I needed some air, and the stuff in my suit wasn't good enough. Funny—" she faked a laugh, wiping her eyes—"the moments you discover you're a closet claustrophobe." She sighed, a brusque outrush of breath. "I was looking at that ship—the Alien—and, I dunno, everything got to me."
"For instance?"
"Like, maybe, this is all for nothing. A goddamn waste of time and effort!"
"You don't know that."
Nicole snorted and turned away. "Give me a break, Ciari! You saw that ruptured hull. Add to that the fact that they still haven't responded to any of our signals, even when we were transmitting from a kilometer away, with every erg of power Wanderer
could generate. We tried radios—every frequency we could think of—lasers, spotlights, flares; if you count the noise we made in docking, we've even banged on their skin. Each time, no response. Hardly cause for optimism."
"Unwarranted assumption."
"Spare me."
"The hell I will. You want to give up."
"Part of me does, yes! I'm beat, Ben, and I'm scared. I feel like I'm supposed to be holding everything together all by myself. I'm supposed to be the rock the rest of you anchor yourselves to, the prop that holds you up, strong every frigging second of every frigging day. And I'll tell you, I figure I've been doing a pretty piss-poor pathetic job of it. I want to know who takes care of me, Marshal? Who the hell am I supposed to turn to?!"
"Yourself."
"Terrific. I tried that, chum; there's nothing there."
"Try harder, 'chum.' In the final analysis, that's what separates the front seats from the back, and the left from the right." He grabbed her by the shoulders and made her face him, his expression as fierce and unrelenting as Nicole had ever seen. "You're Spacecraft Commander because, deep down inside, Shea, where it counts, where it fucking matters, you're ruthless enough to do whatever's necessary to accomplish your mission, and strong enough to live with yourself afterward. Strong enough to carry, not merely yourself, but those around you. Your crew. You can do it, Nicole. You have to."
"No. Not anymore. Not me."
"You'd rather sit here feeling sorry for yourself?"
"I figure I'm entitled."
"Bull!" She thought for an instant he was going to strike her, but he lashed out with words instead. "You're alive, bitch. It's Cat and Paolo and Chagay and the entire Wolfe Clan who were atomized. Cut the cards any way you like, you've had a month's more life than they'll ever have; you have chances they never will. They bought you, and me and Hana and Andrei, that time—with their lives, Lieutenant, and you have the gall to feel sorry for yourself because of it? Because the strain of living is more than you can handle?" He tried to go on, he couldn't find the words.
Nicole looked away, "You don't pull any punches, do you?" she asked, after a time.
"Damn straight."
"When I was a kid, I used to imagine myself in the Air Force, soaring through space with the greatest of ease, battling raiders, facing down dastardly space scum, saving handsome princes—the usual heroic stuff. But in your dreams, you don't think about the fear, the pain, the cost of a mistake. I've seen friends die, Ben, and I'm face to face with the possibility—the probability—that I may die. And I'm terrified."
"Christ, Nicole, what makes you think you're so special? You think you're the only one who feels that way? We all saw that hole; we all know what it may mean." Ciari slipped out of his chair and around until he was in front of Nicole. "Nobody's asking for miracles, darlin'; just do your best."
The hatch chimed and Andrei stuck his head in. "My apologies if I am disturbing you," he began as Nicole waved him through, "but I wondered if you might find these useful?" Cradled in his arms were Nicole's guitar and Ciari's flute, in their traveling cases.
"What the hell are they doing here?" Nicole demanded incredulously. "I said we were to bring only essential supplies."
"These do not qualify?" Andrei wondered aloud, in absolute innocence.
Nicole stroked her fingers along the molded guitar case, itching to touch the instrument inside, and grinned hugely. "Thanks," she said, with a kiss for good measure.
She pulled off her head-liner and gave her scalp a fast, frantic rub, hopefully clearing the last cobwebs from her still addled brain, then shook her hair back into unruly place.
She keyed the intercom. "Hana," she called, "Nicole—status?"
"Like prime cannon fodder," came the immediate reply, "I sit and wait for those great minds to whom I have entrusted my fate to determine their next move."
" 'Great minds'?"
"Oh, sure. I mean, if you weren't so hot, you wouldn't be boss, right?" Then, abruptly, her bantering tone ceased. "Nicole, how are you feeling?" she asked seriously. "Is everything okay?"
"Better. As good a time as any to saddle up and take a stroll."
Ciari activated the magnaseals in his boots, his feet making a solid click as they touched the deck, and did some stretching exercises to settle his black Marshal's armor a little more comfortably on his body. Nicole released her harness and twisted up and around until she was floating perpendicular to him at eye level. She took hold of him and kissed him, groaning deep in her throat as he pulled her as close as their bulky suits would allow. The first kiss led to another and their senses blurred, leaving them both a little giddy, hearts racing and bodies tingling.
"Damn!" Ciari fumed, in outraged discomfort.
"What is it?" Nicole asked, worried.
"Just count yourself lucky your plumbing's different."
"Oh, Jesus, oh, Ben, I'm sorry—!" Before the sentence was finished, she was laughing.
"You're all heart, Shea," he grumbled. "Fortunately, this, too, shall pass."
"How's your suit?"
"Nominal. As usual, it's the human element that's the weak link. God, Shea, you've got me going like a teenager."
"Likewise. Why is that such a tragedy?"
"I'm not a teenager."
"Life is tough. Here's your helmet." She lowered the opaque globe over his head and snapped the latches shut. Back-stroking away from him, she killed the lights. "Scanner check, Ben."
"Infrared and radar image, nominal function," he replied. "Low-light and normal light scan, nominal. Bio-sensors, nominal. Combat systems, on-line and nominal. The brute works like a charm."
Nicole in the lead, they made their way aft through the Jeep to the single airlock.
"Before we go," Nicole said, looking at each figure in turn, "some basic ground rules. Marshal Ciari's our pathfinder. He'll enter the Alien first and once we're aboard, he'll take the point. The rest of us stay together. No matter what happens—and I mean this—no one does a thing, not one blessed thing, unless I give the word. Or, should something happen to me—Marshal Ciari. We'll all be armed, but no one is to touch their weapon, much less use it, without a specific command from me. Until proven otherwise, these Aliens will be considered non-hostile. And we'll behave the same. We aren't going to take any chances, but we're also not going looking for trouble. Any questions?"
She turned to Ciari, whose features and expressions were hidden within the ebony helmet. "Ben, you're our heavy mob. What I said for the others goes double and more for you. No shooting unless I give the word."
"Even if I'm attacked," he asked.
Nicole nodded. "In this situation, we're expendable."
"Comforting thought," muttered Hana.
"Whenever you're ready, Ben," Nicole told him. Ciari hefted his flechette rifle, the sleek weapon looking curiously toy like and insubstantial in his gauntleted hand, and stepped into the airlock. Nicole activated a compad strapped to the left forearm of her suit, its display showing her the view from Ciari's helmet camera; reception was perfect.
After a minute, Ciari's voice crackled in Nicole's ears. She fiddled slightly with the controls on her cuff below the compad until the static faded. "I'm at the Alien's outer hatch, Nicole. You getting this?"
"Five by, Ben—sound and video."
"Good. Andrei's hunch was right; I think this is an emergency airlock. I mark it as a rectangle, three meters high by four wide. These people must be very fat, or the hatch was designed for multiple ingress. Whoops. Here's something interesting. See it?"
"Pictograph. They look like instructions."
"You're missing the obvious; look again."
"Eh?"
Hana edged close beside Nicole, who moved her arm to give the other woman a better view of the compad, and whistled softly in amazement. "They're humanoid," she said.
"What?!"
Hana pointed at the painted silhouette as Ciari zoomed his camera in for a close-up. "That's a gross outline," she told them, "on
ly basic features. But see what those features are: two legs, two arms, a central torso and a head. A biped that stands erect. Like us."
"The design of the hatch seems to bear that assumption out, Nicole," Ciari echoed. "The locking mechanism is built for our kind of hand. It's a snug fit. I'd hazard they're smaller than we, or wear slimmer pressure suits. But I can manipulate it, no problem. I'm following directions and opening the hatch."
He took his time, double-checking his moves every step of the way; only after he was finished, and everyone had cut loose with a collective sign of relief, did the others realize they'd been holding their breath.
"It's open," he said unnecessarily.
Nicole chuckled. "We noticed. First impressions?"
"The dimensions of the airlock match those of the hatch itself—three by four—and my Ranger says it's seven meters deep. Pretty big. Inner hatch matches the outer. Again, there are simple pictograph instructions alongside more detailed written ones. The controls are clearly marked and conveniently placed." The radio fell silent a moment. "Now, the fun beings. I'm going to cycle the outer hatch and pump some atmosphere in here."
"Whenever you're ready," Nicole said. Be careful, she thought.
"Here comes the hatch," Hana reported. Ciari was counting steadily upward from zero as it closed, Nicole echoing him a beat later; that way, if there was a loss of contact on either part when the lock finally sealed, they'd know it.
"Hatch closed," Ciari announced. Nicole acknowledged and told him that both audio and visual reception had deteriorated. On the compad display, the grainy image rocked back and forth fractionally as Ciari was jostled by the starship's atmosphere flooding the chamber.
"High-pressure pumps," he said, "designed to fill this place in a hurry. Well, I'll be—!"
"What?!" Nicole demanded.
"It's air. Within a couple of points of Earth-normal. Pressure's lower than we're used to—the equivalent, say, of living in Denver. Oxygen content is slightly richer, though; my analyzer also registers nitrogen, carbon dioxide, water vapor and noble gasses. So far, no unknown elements or organic/microbiological compounds—shit!"
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