Second Contact

by Mike Resnick

  * * *

  Fictionwise Publications

  www.fictionwise.com

  Copyright (C)1990 by Mike Resnick

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines. Fictionwise offers a reward of up to $500 for information leading to the conviction of any person violating the copyright of a Fictionwise ebook.

  * * *

  To Carol, as always

  And to Pat and Roger Sims—

  intrepid travellers,

  dedicated gourmets,

  damned good friends

  PROLOGUE

  The Menninger/Klipstein Tachyon Drive, without which Man would never have been able to physically explore his galaxy, was theorized in 2029 A.D., created in 2032, and successfully field-tested in 2037 after a number of minor mishaps.

  Mankind's first contact with an alien race was made on March 5, 2042 A.D., on the outskirts of the Epsilon Eridani system.

  Nobody knows what precipitated the events that followed, nor in what order they occurred, but this much is known: within a matter of minutes both the Earth starship, Excelsior, and the alien ship, name and class unknown, had completely destroyed each other.

  To this day no one knows which ship fired first. There is no record of any action by either side that might have invited such a reaction. No messages were sent back to base during the ensuing battle. Neither ship tried to escape once the conflict began. There were no survivors.

  It took Man almost a decade to regroup, and by that time all space exploration was under the control of the military. Only the United States, the Soviet Union, the People's Republic of China, and the Republic of Brazil continued to send ships into deep space. By 2065 A.D. there were fourteen starships exploring the galaxy, each mapping and charting the stars and planets while fruitlessly searching for signs of alien life. Five of these ships belonged to the United States, four to Russia, four to China, and one to Brazil. Of them, the largest was the Lenin, a massive Russian ship. The best-armed was the one-year-old Russian starship Moscow. By far the fastest was the Chinese ship Confucious.

  But the ship that made all the headlines in 2065 was the Theodore Roosevelt, which was currently orbiting the Earth while the fate of its captain was being decided hundreds of miles below it.

  1.

  Max Becker rode the airlift up to the fifth floor of the Pentagon, walked rapidly past a row of holographs of former Chiefs of Staff, and finally came to the office he sought. The door's sensors scanned and identified him and allowed him to enter.

  “Good morning, Major Becker,” said the gray-haired man who bore three stars on his shoulders and was seated behind a large chrome desk. “I've been expecting you.”

  “May I request the meaning of this, sir?” demanded Becker, waving an official-looking document in the air.

  “I should think it would be self-explanatory,” answered the general. “It's your next assignment.”

  “I haven't had a furlough in more than two years,” said Becker. “I've already bought my tickets and paid for my hotel.”

  “We've arranged for your money to be refunded,” said the general.

  “May I respectfully point out that I don't want a goddamned refund! I want a vacation!”

  “Respectfully?” repeated the general, arching an eyebrow.

  “I've worked my tail off for this department for two years. I've got five weeks’ leave coming to me, and I want it!”

  “I'm afraid that's out of the question, major.”

  “Why?” demanded Becker. “And, more to the point, why me?”

  “You're the best man for the job.”

  “I'm not even Navy!” protested Becker. “This guy ought to be defended by one of his own.”

  “There is no differentiation of services in the space program, major,” replied the general. “I'm sure you'll find the Navy eager to cooperate with you in every way.”

  “I doubt it, sir.”

  “Why should you say that, major?”

  “Because if this case is as open-and-shut as it's supposed to be, anyone can handle it,” answered Becker. “So when you bypass 300 Navy lawyers who work in this building and choose me, I can't help feeling just a bit suspicious.” He paused. “May I respectfully ask why I was selected?”

  “It wasn't my choice,” responded the general. “We asked the computer to select a name.” He stared at Becker. “You look dubious, major.”

  “If it was programmed to select the best criminal lawyer in the service, it would have picked Hector Garcia.”

  “It did. You were its second choice.”

  “Well?”

  “Garcia's on leave.”

  “And I'm about to go on leave.”

  “He outranks you.”

  “May I point out to the general that I outrank 200 other lawyers who can handle this case in their sleep.”

  “The computer picked you.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  “If you refuse with cause, we'll give the case to someone else—but I personally guarantee that it'll be at least a year before you get that furlough,” said the general. “If you refuse without cause, I'll demote you a rank and offer you the job again. I can keep that up all the way down to Private.”

  “May I speak frankly, sir?”

  “I thought that was what you were doing, major,” said the general wryly.

  “There must be hundreds of would-be Clarence Darrows who actually want to defend this fruitcake,” said Becker. “Why don't you just ask for volunteers?”

  “We don't need any Clarence Darrows making grandstand speeches for the press, Major,” said the general. “We want this affair wrapped up as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  “Then why try him at all?” persisted Becker. “He's already confessed, hasn't he? Why not just lock him away?”

  “There must be a court martial,” said the general. “It's too late to cover anything up.” He paused. “The whole world is watching us, Major.”

  “I think the general will find that nine-tenths of the world doesn't give a damn, and the rest probably thinks he didn't kill enough of his crew.”

  “That will be quite enough, Major Becker!” snapped the general. “This is your assignment, and you're damned well going to accept it!”

  Becker stared at the general and sighed deeply. “All right. When is the trial due to begin?”

  “A week from Tuesday.”

  “Does the general seriously expect me to prepare a defense for murder in less than two weeks?” said Becker disbelievingly.

  “Every day that we don't have the court martial, the press becomes more critical of the entire military establishment.”

  “May I point out that they'll be even more critical of a poorly-prepared defense?”

  “You'll be given all the material you need,” said the general. “As I see it, Commander Jennings’ only possible defense is temporary insanity, and we have three psychiatrists who are willing to swear that he was quite insane when he committed the acts in question.”

  “I'll have to interview Jennings immediately.”

  “This afternoon, if you wish.”

  “And if he's half as crazy as he supposed to be, I'll want an armed guard with me.”

  “No problem.”

  “Where are you keeping him?”

  “Bethesda.”

  “The same Bethesda that treats Congressmen and Senators?”

  The general nodded.

  “That figures,” muttered Bec
ker.

  “I didn't quite hear that, major.”

  “It confirms my opinion that Jennings isn't the only madman involved in this case.”

  “Oh?” said the general ominously.

  Becker nodded. “Whoever put him in Bethesda is as crazy as Jennings. What if he gets loose? You've got lawmakers and ambassadors on every floor of the damned building.”

  “He presents no threat,” the general responded. “He's under round-the-clock surveillance.”

  “Is he on any tranquilizers? I can't interview him if he's all drugged up.”

  “No,” said the general. “He hasn't been on any medication for almost a week.”

  “All right,” said Becker. “If we wrap this up in ten or eleven days, maybe I can still get some skiing in.”

  “That's a much more reasonable attitude,” said the general.

  “Who's prosecuting?”

  “Colonel James Magnussen,” replied the general.

  “Jim Magnussen?” repeated Becker, surprised. “From San Diego?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “About five years ago we spent a few months together, preparing a case against some military contractors. He's a good man. I thought he was still in California.”

  “He was.”

  “Why does he get to prosecute?”

  “He requested the assignment.”

  “I suppose it's too late for me to request to assist him?” said Becker.

  The general stared at him. “I admire your sense of humor, Major.”

  “I wasn't joking.”

  “Of course you were,” said the general. “Now get to work.”

  “How? You just told me I can't visit Jennings until this afternoon.”

  “But Colonel Magnussen is waiting for you in his office. He wants to go over some details with you. I told him you'd be there as soon as we were finished talking.” He paused. “We're finished. Magnussen's office is down the hall, third door on your left.”

  Becker saluted and walked to the door.

  “I commend you for making the proper decision,” said the general.

  “I had so many attractive alternatives,” said Becker dryly.

  * * * *

  Becker stopped at the washroom first, and ran a styler through his thick auburn hair. Then he walked to a sink, muttered “Cold", and rinsed his face. Then, refreshed, he stepped out into the corridor and rode it to Magnussen's office.

  He stepped off before the door, waited for it to identify him, and entered.

  The room was as cluttered as the general's office was neat. A number of law degrees hung on the walls, most of them at infuriatingly odd angles. Piles of transcripts and computer disks and cubes, all marked for disposal, sat atop three file cabinets. A late-model voice-activated computer took up one corner of the room. Magnussen was a smoker, and though Becker knew the office had been cleaned by the night staff, two ashtrays overflowed with cigar butts, and there were ashes on the floor.

  Perched atop an uncomfortable-looking stool in front of the file cabinets, a sheaf of papers clutched in a meaty hand, was Colonel James Magnussen. He was short, stocky and powerful, with the build, if not the height, of a football player. Just beside his eyes were a pair of relatively recent surgical scars, but in spite of them he wore extremely thick glasses, as if the operation, whatever it was, had been a failure. His dark hair was streaked with gray and seemed resistant to brushes and combs. He peered out from behind a thick cloud of cigar smoke.

  “Max!” he said enthusiastically. “How the hell are you?”

  “I was fine until twenty minutes ago,” said Becker. “And yourself?”

  “Doing great,” said Magnussen. “I'm married now. Got two little girls, three and two. How about you?”

  “Married and unmarried.”

  “I'm sorry to hear it.”

  “Ancient history,” said Becker with a shrug.

  “We've got a lot to catch up on,” said Magnussen. “Grab a seat.”

  Becker looked around. “Where?”

  Magnussen walked over to a chair and pushed a pile of papers onto the floor. “Right here will do. They just gave me this office two days ago,” he added apologetically. “I'm still throwing out junk from twenty years ago.”

  “Thanks,” said Becker, sitting down.

  Magnussen went back to his stool, grabbing an ashtray along the way.

  “Why the hell are you here, Jim?” asked Becker.

  “I begged every brass I knew to get this assignment,” chuckled Magnussen. “It's the biggest case to come along in years.”

  “I thought it was open and shut.”

  “I meant big in terms of publicity,” replied Magnussen. “And to be perfectly honest, it's about time I left the service and went back into private practice—I'm not fourth generation military like you—and this case ought to get me into any law firm I choose.”

  “You're really quitting the service?”

  Magnussen nodded. “I'm not a kid any more, Max. I've got responsibilities, and to be quite blunt about it, I can't support my family on a colonel's pay—not the way I want to, anyway.”

  “Well, good luck to you,” said Becker.

  “Getting this assignment was all the luck I needed.”

  “Getting this assignment was all the bad luck I needed,” said Becker. “I was going up to Aspen for a couple of weeks. I even had my bags packed.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Becker shrugged. “It's not your fault.”

  “Have you met your client yet?” asked Magnussen.

  Becker shook his head.

  “Strange man,” said Magnussen.

  “Of course he's a strange man,” said Becker. “Normal men don't come out of their cabins and blow two crewmen away for no reason at all.”

  Magnussen stared at him for a moment, then spoke: “What, exactly, do you know about the case?”

  “Just what I've heard,” replied Becker.

  “And what is that?”

  “I gather he woke up one morning, walked up to two crew members, shot them, and then confined himself to his quarters and turned over command of the Roosevelt to his executive officer with orders to return to base immediately.”

  “That's about it.” Magnussen paused. “Ready to deal?”

  “So soon?” asked Becker with an amused smile.

  “The sooner we wrap this up, the better.”

  “I thought you wanted publicity for your new career.”

  “Just putting him away will be publicity enough.”

  Becker leaned back on his chair. “Make me an offer,” he said, waving some of the smoke away with his hand.

  Magnussen smiled. “The prosecution is willing to accept a plea of insanity.”

  “Temporary or permanent?” asked Becker.

  “Take your choice,” said Magnussen.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Becker. “We plead insanity, you accept it, and we all go home half an hour later. I might even get some skiing in after all.” He paused thoughtfully. “Besides, he has to be crazy to do what he did.”

  “He is,” replied Magnussen. “Though he does have his moments of lucidity.”

  “Oh?”

  “What I mean to say is that he's not a raving lunatic.”

  “You've spoken to him?”

  “Once,” answered Magnussen. “I took his deposition. He wasn't cooperative, but he wasn't ranting and raving.”

  “What's the prosecution's position if he doesn't want to plead insanity?” asked Becker.

  “We'll accept a guilty plea—but we'd much prefer insanity, for the good of the service.” Magnussen paused. “Have we got a deal?”

  “I'll have to speak to Jennings first,” said Becker.

  “Of course. But you'll urge him to plead insanity?”

  “Probably,” said Becker.

  “Good!” said Magnussen with obvious satisfaction. “That's settled!”

  “Not necessarily,” said Becker. “What if he wants to plead not
guilty?”

  “You've got to be kidding.”

  “It's not up to me,” said Becker with a shrug. “Ultimately it's his decision.”

  Magnussen exhaled a cloud of smoke and stared at his old friend. “If he pleads not guilty, I'll crucify him.”

  “I don't doubt it.”

  “I'm not kidding, Max. We've got his own log, the ship's computer's account, and more eyewitnesses than you can shake a stick at. If Jennings pleads not guilty, I'll nail him up and hang him out to dry.”

  “The general tells me you've got three shrinks who will testify that he's gone off the deep end,” said Becker. “Is that right?”

  “Not exactly,” said Magnussen carefully. “But they will testify that he was temporarily insane when he committed the murders.”

  Becker frowned. “But not before or since?”

  Magnussen shrugged. “Psychiatry's an inexact science.”

  “Not that inexact,” said Becker. “What makes a starship commander go crazy for only five minutes in the middle of a lifetime of perfect sanity?”

  “Ours is not to wonder why,” replied Magnussen. “Ours is just to take their testimony and run with it.”

  “All three shrinks are in agreement?” persisted Becker.

  “These three are.”

  “There were others?”

  “One other.”

  “And he thinks Jennings is sane?”

  “He doesn't know,” replied Magnussen. “At least he was honest about it.”

  “Jim, I'm going to need copies of all four statements,” said Becker.

  “Certainly,” said Magnussen. He got up, walked to a pile of holographic disks, withdrew one, and tossed it to Becker before sitting down again. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “I'll need Jennings’ service record,” said Becker. “And I'll want copies of his log and the eyewitness statements.”

  “I'll have them delivered to your office before the end of the day,” said Magnussen.

  “And the record of the ship's computer.”

  “No problem. Anything else?”

  Becker lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up. “Yeah. I'd like the service records of the men he killed.” He paused. “Also, I want any psychiatric profiles that were done on Jennings prior to his appointment as commander of the Theodore Roosevelt.”