Retread Shop 1: First Contact

by T. Jackson King

  “Of course, Corin.” He and Bethrin both reached up their right hands and placed fingers on Corin’s red-dot painted, shaven forehead. “May the Hearth and the Clan go with you! And may the Hunt be fruitful! The memory of the Clan goes with you.”

  Bethrin’s voice sounded strange as she added a Hindi blessing pertinent to the local gods of Chennai. Only a Communications specialist would know how to do that . . . .

  Corin held them both tightly.

  He smelled the Horem-normal scent of his son, overlaid by strange alien scents synthesized aboard Hekar. Bethrin spoke into the family huddle.

  “Corin—have you taken leave of Smelan?”

  Corin gripped their shoulders once more, then stood back, all business, his manner professional. The mention of his wife of twenty years had sobered him.

  “As best I could,” he growled low. While his eyes were covered, Sargon read his body posture as showing sadness. “She . . . she could not bear to see me off. She is with our youngest in the habitat.”

  “Corin! Ready to go?” called the strong voice of Kagen.

  “Yes.” Corin turned away from him and Bethrin, moving back through the small clusters of similar partings as others saw off his teammates Kagen, Hola and Magen, her chest tightly bound by a colorful sari dress.

  In the cold of the hangar deck, Bethrin took his arm and leaned against him, resting her head against his shoulder as they watched Corin and his friends walk up the ramp and into the courier ship. Lights flashed around its apex globe, signaling the start-up of repulsion field energization.

  “Sargon.”

  “Yes, my love?”

  “Will he come back? Alive?”

  He squeezed her toga-clad waist, feeling old with her. “I believe so. Kagen is a good leader. They are prepared as best they can be.”

  The four-globe Strelka ship lifted up in a whine of magnetic fields that pushed hard against the metal plates of the hangar deck. The ship drifted sideways through the inner lock as its massive portal raised up, disappearing into the outer airlock as the portal lowered back down, cutting off their view. Sargon didn’t bother to watch a nearby Imager pedestal that relayed the blackness of local space around the asteroid l0 Hygiea. Their new hiding place.

  “Bethrin.”

  “Yes?” She turned to face him, yellow eyes saddened and yet proud.

  “How well does Corin know this Tamil language?”

  She laughed slightly with her headcrest. “Well enough that I can’t tell the Chennai dialect difference between him and several local radio station broadcasts.” Her headcrest flared reassuring. “And he speaks well the Hindi national language, which is spoken by most merchants and business people.”

  “Good. Let’s go home.”

  They walked to a nearby transit tunnel and boarded floater disks. On the way home, Sargon recalled the protocol of the Probe team’s approach to Earth, looking once more for any flaw in their planning, any error that could cost his son his life.

  The courier ship would emit no exhaust flare, would arrive over the Indian subcontinent at night and would approach Chennai low over the sea and below the radar resolution capability of the city’s two airports, Sriperumbudur and Chennai International. It would land on a moonless night near the country village of Ambhe just east of the city. After only minutes on the ground to drop off a prefabricated, metal and wood jitney-cab copied from Indian educational TV broadcasts, the globeship would streak straight up and out of the planet’s atmosphere. It would be shielded from over-the-horizon, orbital monitoring and local radar by a layered electromagnetic concealment system far in advance of the ‘stealth’ efforts of the Humans—it could absorb even high-energy pulse doppler signals, while shielding its own infrared and ultraviolet emissions. The two Indian aircraft carriers were well south, far out of detection range. And local airspace was often busy with national and international aircraft flights.

  But Bethrin’s question haunted him.

  Sargon had no desire to perform the intricacies of Horem funeral rites. Especially not when his own father Salex was so aged.

  This must be a time for life, not death.

  CHAPTER NINE

  One year later, Sargon stood nervously in starboard hanger 6 awaiting the premature return of his son and the rest of the Probe team. Conflict Commander T’Klose stood beside him, clawed feet scratching the hanger’s metal deck plates as the Arrik impatiently fumed. A mild ammonia smell was the only sign that T’Klose was as nervous as Sargon.

  T’Klose’s power had grown over the last year. Grown insufferably. Now, he must be here for the return of the team. And perhaps for the moment of crisis in their Contact efforts. Sargon sighed. All compromises are like that—some sweet with the sour.

  A light flashed on the inner lock. It rose, a wall of metal disappearing upward. The Strelka four-globe courier ship drifted in to the launch platform and settled down, its whine of mag repulsion dying off. The main hatch opened and extruded a ramp. First in the hatchway was Kagen, Trader-In-Charge, followed by Corin, Hola and Magen—who was limping!

  T’Klose snarled. Sargon held back from rushing forward.

  Kagen’s Human-like form came toward them, looking strange without his wig. At least it gave Kagen’s headcrest free movement. Kagen stopped in front of them.

  “Watch Commander, I regret that communal violence among the Humans forced us to cut short our Probe monitoring program,” Kagen growled low, his headcrest flickering with nervousness. Corin came up behind Hagen, helping Magen. “We felt our safety demanded a return to Hekar.”

  T’Klose flapped one wing. “What happened to Biomedical Technician Arel Magen Begax?”

  “She was caught in a religious riot between Parsis and Hindus—a rock struck her,” Kagen said.

  Sargon sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that. But such riots occur fairly often in India over the major religious holidays. Is this why you left?”

  “No,” Kagen said, looking back at Corin. “Corin can tell you better—he’s the one who translated the communications intercepts. But it seems the India and Russia Clan alliance is about to go to war against the nation-Clan of South Africa. Over some kind of resource dispute. Australia and Indonesia are fighting naval battles. America claims the Russian Moon colony is storing thermonuclear weapons. The EU nations are facing economic challenges due to Trade embargoes by nation-Clans in South America. And China is massing troops on the border of unified Korea. It accuses the Koreans of sabotaging its Manchurian factories. Hola’s sociopolitical projections suggest planetary war in less than three years, unless unique factors are introduced.”

  “I told you!” T’Klose whistled sharply, turning on Sargon. “These Humans are unstable! Hekar must have no Contact! We must leave as soon as refueling is completed!”

  “No!” called out Corin, stepping forward. “Conflict Commander, the Humans are violent. But they are also much like us. They have promise.” His eyes bored into Sargon. “Father, we must make First Contact! Perhaps when they realize there are other people in the universe they will be deterred. We are a unique factor—in their experience.”

  T’Klose growled. “And perhaps they will add Hekar to their targeting lists when they learn about us! This is reckless. I’m going to the Council.” The Conflict Commander turned and stomped out of the hangar, wings flapping wildly.

  Sargon could only stand, feeling uncertain. No First Contact?

  Kagen and Hola both came forward as Corin turned to support Magen, whose swollen left leg could not support her weight. The team had signaled for a medtech and awaited one’s arrival. Behind them, the Strelka courier pilot came down the ramp to join their group.

  “Watch Commander,” Kagen growled. “I agree with Corin. The Trade prospects are incredible! This Earth is filled with wonderful things. Exotic foods. Lifeforms of incredible diversity. Natural resources in great abundance. And oceans of deuterium! We can’t pass it by.”

  The Strelka pilot swayed toward them. “Brothers-In-Though
t, the emotions of this planet are delicious! And so varied. Give Contact a chance.”

  Sargon shook himself. “I agree with you, Kagen.” Corin looked up, hopeful. “I will talk to Clan Coordinator Maran and see what he can do in Council. Until then, come, make yourselves my guests at my home. Bethrin will alert your families and spouses. We will have a welcome-home party!”

  A floater disk arrived with the medical technician. They left Magen with the Gosay medtech and boarded floater disks for the Horem habitat. All the way there Sargon wondered if they would get so close, and yet never know these Humans. Such a loss that would be to all on Hekar . . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Five hours later, the Compact Council held an emergency meeting in Bubble H12, reminding Sargon of better moments, moments when Alis still lived and the adventure of finding a new sapient intelligence had been fresh. And with fewer problems than now. These Humans had progressed quickly—as he had hoped. But with spiraling progress came social upheavals and new conflicts. The Human planet fairly simmered with thousands of special interest subgroups, Clan-sized and smaller, all wanting something. While many were willing to work for the good of all, the new UN Space Authority could not force peaceful attitudes on planet-bound nation-Clans. He and Maran had earlier discussed these issues with Bethrin, Grethel, Peilan, Lorilen and his father Salex, who attended the Clan Conclave on a life-support floaterbed. The central garden atrium had been taken over by Corin, his wife and Probe friends, and the younger set. Arax Home Clan on Horem had also joined in, supporting the decision to press for continued Contact—but earlier than planned. All Horem wanted the Contact to go forward, but his people were only one of eight species. What did the others think? Would this be the day that the Horem lost their leadership position?

  He looked up as they came to the meeting rock beside the sandy beach cove of brown sand and blue-green seawaters. No Arrik flew off the distant rock escarpments. Only those gathered around the meeting rock seemed to be populating the Bubble at an odd hour of the ship’s morning. Sargon sat down beside Maran and looked around.

  Maker-of-Eggs Looseen floated off-shore, representing the Ziks as always, along with Mother Esay of the Sliss, her tentacled black shape seeming somewhat agitated. The two aquatics talked among themselves in an untranslated form of claw-tentacle sign language, absorbed in themselves. To Sargon’s left, beyond flashily-dressed, somber Maran hovered the quartz globe of his friend Eeess, still representing the Thoranian Group MIND. On his right lay the coiled-up, centipede-like form of Swirling-Blue-Thoughts, his upper body swaying jerkily to the strong emotions that flowed around the meeting rock. Conflict Commander T’Klose stood rigidly still, clawed feet nearly washed by the beach surf, while off to the side Sargon saw the black hulking form of Lady Essene come galloping over a dune, her short, stubby legs churning in six-legged syncopation. The tracglobe of Algonesus clanked behind the Lady Essene, sand flying off its treads. In moments they were all gathered together. Including Hekar itself, one bronze-colored sensor cone already extended from the top of the meeting rock.

  “Greetings Sapients, may the Hunt always be fruitful,” said the Core mind of Hekar, opening the meeting. “Conflict Commander T’Klick T’Klose has called this emergency Council meeting. Commander T’Klose, state your concerns.”

  Maran’s headcrest flared slightly. Sargon could tell his uncle was pleased. Hekar seemed to be showing almost organic impatience at T’Klose’s insistence on a full Council meeting.

  T’Klose slowly unfurled his black, leathery wings, both arms crossed over his yellow-scaled chest, his central eye staring at all of them as he stood to one side, on the beach. His chest harness was studded with over a dozen ceramic allegiance disks, signs of his power among the Arrik.

  “Leaders, the Compact is threatened!” T’Klose whistled, flapping his wings emphatically. “The Humans are about to destroy themselves! You’ve all seen the Probe team report. There is a high probability of widespread planetary conflict within three ship years. No doubt it will include nuclear weapons use. I say Hekar should only refuel in this system and then leave! Let these wingless bipeds eat each other—not us!”

  Sargon waited for Maran to say something. He didn’t. Instead, Maran looked out at Looseen. Looseen raised all four perceptor stalks to fix the rest of the Council with her gaze.

  “Garbage,” she clacked. T’Klose’s single nostril flared widely. “Unsalted water!” T’Klose trembled, three-fingered claw-hands clenching. “Council—these Humans do tend to conflict a lot, but it is no reason to leave!” Looseen said. “Rather, it means now is the time for Contact, not later. Now while we have a chance for a positive influence, before the planet grows more unstable. Now while we can gain highly favorable barter terms for our products.” Looseen’s perceptor stalks swayed toward Lady Essene and Algonesus. “Friends, in an atmosphere of charged competition among the Human Clans, who knows how high the barter values will soar!”

  Ah, now he understood. An appeal to basic greed. He hadn’t realized that Looseen understood the Horem and the Compact so well.

  T’Klose spit. “Idiot! Wingless crustacean! You—”

  “I agree with Looseen,” interrupted the Lady Essene, one black eye watching T’Klose’s growing fury.

  “I too,” hummed Swirling-Blue-Thoughts for the Strelka Hive.

  T’Klose was nearly taking flight with anger. Sargon wondered what the Arrik’s breaking point might be.

  Eeess’ globe bobbled on the air currents. “Prospects for war, prospects for peace, equally likely, are. Trade Contact first effort, urged.”

  Algonesus’ tracglobe creaked with cold-heat contraction effects. “Why Humans . . . fight:argue . . . now:past?” asked the Thix-Thet Pod Leader. “Games:play . . . jokes:play . . . better:now?”

  T’Klose strode into the Council circle, kicking sand onto the meeting rock. “Because,” screamed T’Klose, “they are sick! Insane! They have no sense of loyalty to their planet. They—”

  “—are still growing up,” Hekar said from its sandy sensor cone. “Conflict Commander, I agree with you in one respect—there is an increased chance of isolated Human attacks on Compact representatives.” T’Klose froze, his wings not even flapping, apparently in shock. “For that reason, I suggest two things be done. First, the Contact should occur immediately.” T’Klose unfroze, raising one wing to object. “Second—Conflict Commander T’Klose should be instructed by this Council to prepare a fast-reaction fighter craft force capable of dealing with Human-initiated conflict on or near the planet. In case some Humans become unstable.”

  T’Klose only growled now. Maran broke his silence.

  “An excellent idea, Hekar. I support it.” T’Klose almost fell over, feet scattering sand as he turned swiftly to face Sargon’s uncle. “However, the prospect of imminent Contact requires a decision on picking a Trader-In-Charge of the Contact. I suggest Watch Commander Arix Sargon Arax. He is most qualified.”

  He? Trader-In-Charge? Of a planetary Contact? What would his father say . . . .

  T’Klose snorted, central eye glaring. “I am obviously outvoted. Since you will not recognize common sense, I will accept this new force formation as an addition to my duties as Conflict Commander.”

  Sargon smiled. T’Klose had retreated to fight again another day. But like all compromises—it wasn’t perfect. It would now fall on him to make this Contact work, or suffer the consequences, with his arch-opponent T’Klose looking over his headcrest, always ready to torch a few Humans if they acted up. Sargon began to appreciate Alis’ abilities of many years ago, and Maran’s obvious behind-the-scenes maneuvering with Looseen. He hoped he could do as well with the Humans.

  Algonesus moved within its nitrogen and methane-filled tracglobe. “Daring:caution . . . risk:security . . . like:support . . . Contact:Confict,” said the Thix-Thet.

  That was all it took. In short moments Hekar had Called for the vote. It was nine for setting up a fast-response fighter craft team from the Militar
y Compound, eight for immediate Contact, and nine for appointing him as Trader-In-Charge. Sargon looked at T’Klose, noticing the Arrik’s ammonia odor had nearly disappeared.

  “Thank you, Sept Ruler T’Klose, for your vote of confidence.” He looked around the Council leaders, realizing more fully the burden he now bore. “Thank you all. I will initiate First Contact in three ship days. But first, I must find and recruit a Human Liaison. Good Hunting! Good Trading!”

  Even T’Klose joined in with the traditional cheer.

  But Sargon wondered why T’Klose had voted for him. To see him fail? To deal with a known quantity rather than some other sapient with alliances that might hamper T’Klose’s own plans? Or was it the Arrik version of a curse? He doubted it had been meant as a compliment.

  Walking away from the beach cove with a thoughtful, quiet Maran, he realized there was one more thing he must do. He must see his father Salex, and get his advice on picking a Liaison among the Humans. Upon that choice rested all their fortunes—the Compact, the Humans, and the risk of war or Trade among vastly differing alien species.

  He wondered if his father still had his dry sense of humor. Maybe he would even laugh when he heard about T’Klose’s vote.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Salex stirred from his afternoon sleep as Sargon entered his father’s study, which lay next to his and Peilan’s bedroom. Half-covered by a pure white coverlet of Human silk fabric that Magen had brought home as a gift for her distant relative, his father quietly studied Sargon as he kicked off sandals and sat cross-legged on a stone pedestal next to his father’s floaterbed. Life-support monitor lights blinked and hummed at the foot of the floaterbed, sending remote signals to the household med computer. Sargon finally gave in and spoke first.

  “Father, they made me Trader-In-Charge of First Contact. Which will happen very soon. What do I do?”