Second Contact

by Mike Resnick

  “No,” answered Magnussen. “No, I don't think so.”

  “You'd have reported me to your superiors.”

  “Probably. You know that half the space service is out looking for you, don't you?”

  “Only half?” said Becker with an amused smile. “Well, it's early yet.” He put his gun into a pocket. “Don't make me pull it out and use it, Jim,” he continued. “Just hear me out and nobody will get hurt. Now let's go sit over on that bench, where we won't be so conspicuous.”

  “What the hell did you do, Max?” asked Magnussen, leading the way to the bench and sitting down. “You mention a code name I've never heard of, and suddenly, even though no one has told me directly, I get the distinct impression that you're Number One on the service's Most Wanted list.”

  “I am,” answered Becker, seating himself opposite Magnussen, but leaving enough distance between them so that he could withdraw his gun before Magnussen could reach him.

  “But why?”

  “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

  “Aliens again?”

  “That's right.”

  “Max, there aren't any aliens!” exclaimed Magnussen.

  “Then why is the space service trying to kill me?”

  “I don't know—and if you think it's because of aliens, then you don't know either.”

  “They kidnapped Jaimie Nchobe last night.”

  “Who the hell is Jaimie Nchobe?”

  “A friend of mine.” Becker paused for a moment. “She saved my life more times in the past four days than I can count, and now those bastards have got her locked away somewhere and are probably torturing the hell out of her.”

  “If that's so, you should file a protest,” said Magnussen.

  “With who?” demanded Becker ironically. “Everyone who outranks me is trying to kill me.”

  “Except me.”

  Becker nodded. “Except you. That's why I chose you, Jim.”

  “You want me to try to find this Wild Card?”

  Becker shook his head. “I already found him.”

  “He really exists?” asked Magnussen, surprised.

  “He exists,” said Becker. “I know who he is, and I know where he lives.”

  “By that same token, shouldn't he, with all the resources he's probably got at his disposal, know where to find you?”

  “Right now he thinks I'm hunting up a friendly journalist. He's probably staked out every major newspaper and magazine office on the East Coast.”

  “Then let me ask you again,” said Magnussen as a large truck raced by. “What do you want from me?”

  “I can't go to the press,” said Becker. “I'm a marked man. Besides, they wouldn't believe me. The space service would see to that. But if anything happens to me, they might listen to you.”

  “Max, I don't believe you either.”

  “You will, soon enough.” Becker reached inside his jacket and brought out a large brown envelope. “I'm giving you this because you're an honorable man, and once you've examined it you'll do what's right.”

  He slid the envelope down the bench to Magnussen.

  “What's in it?” asked Magnussen.

  “Everything you'll need to corroborate my story,” said Becker.

  “Paper or disks?”

  “Eighth-level DVDs. They contain proof that the space service purposely misled the defense in the Jennings case, that they planted false evidence of a drug ring, that they hid any witness who might have corroborated Jennings’ testimony, and that they tried to kill me and Jaimie Nchobe when we found out what they were doing. It also lists their covert chain of command, culminating in Wild Card.”

  “Can this stuff be independently corroborated?” asked Magnussen.

  “Once you know what you're looking for, get yourself someone who's good with a computer—and I mean good—and you can corroborate every word of it.”

  “Including the fact that there are aliens who look identical to humans?” asked Magnussen.

  Becker nodded. “The clues are subtle, but the conclusion is inescapable. It's an operation that's been going on for over a decade, Jim.”

  “I still don't believe it.”

  “You will, once you examine what I've given you.”

  “You're no computer expert,” said Magnussen. “How did you tumble to it?”

  “Jaimie Nchobe's the expert. And they've got her, Jim; they grabbed her right off the street last night.”

  “Why?”

  “The same reason they're after me. She knows too much.”

  “She knows who this Wild Card is?”

  “Everything but that—though she's probably met him by now.”

  “These disks,” said Magnussen, holding up the envelope—"how are they formatted? What kind of machine and system do I have to use?”

  Becker shrugged. “I don't know.”

  “You don't know?”

  “She's the expert, not me. Before I left her apartment today, I told the machine to make a record of everything we had discovered, everything she had done.” He paused. “Evidently it took me literally, because it filled up three disks.”

  “That's fifteen books worth of data!”

  “It includes all her false starts.”

  “It could take forever to find what I'm looking for!”

  “Get yourself an expert,” repeated Becker. “Everything you need is on those disks.”

  Magnussen stared at Becker for a long moment.

  “All right, Max,” he said. “Let's say for the sake of argument that you're telling me the truth, and that my expert extracts what you say he'll extract. What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Nothing, for the time being,” said Becker. “In fact, I want you to lock those up in a safe place and forget about them for at least a week.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then, if I don't contact you, you can safely assume that I'm dead, at which time I want you to extract the data in absolute secrecy.”

  “And then?”

  “And then make a million copies and send it to every newspaper and journalist in the country,” said Becker. “Don't make the mistake I made and assume that one of your superiors can give you a logical, comforting explanation for what you've discovered. All that'll happen is that they'll kill you and bury the data even deeper this time.”

  “Why wouldn't they kill me if I release it to the press?”

  “Once the cat is out of the bag, why should they bother?” replied Becker. “They'll have bigger problems than you to deal with, believe me.”

  “Why didn't you do it yourself?”

  “I told you. By the time I knew half of what's on those disks, General Roth already had a couple of hundred men trying to kill me. The only way you can handle this is in total secrecy. You can't let them know what you've got until you're ready to make your move.”

  Magnussen looked from Becker to the envelope and back to Becker again.

  “All right,” he said with a sigh.

  “I'm counting on you, Jim. If anything happens to me, you're the only person who can alert the public to what's going on.”

  A red sports car whizzed by, and Magnussen pretended to cough and covered his face with his hand.

  “God! I've been holding this envelope for five minutes and I'm getting as paranoid as you!”

  “Remember what I told you a few days ago?” said Becker. “You aren't paranoid if they're really out to get you.”

  “Well, they seem to be really out to get you,” said Magnussen. “What will you do—go into hiding?”

  “Hiding won't solve anything. Sooner or later they'll find me.”

  “So what do you plan to do?”

  “I've got to get to Wild Card.”

  “If he's behind a ten-year deep-cover operation that's as big as you imply, he's got to be pretty well-protected.”

  “I'm sure he is. But he's got Jaimie, and he's got all the answers, and he's the only man who can take the hit off me.”

&n
bsp; “How are you going to convince him to do that?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  Magnussen frowned. “I won't be a party to murder, Max.”

  “Would you rather be a party to treason?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then protect those disks, and don't worry about what I'm going to do.” Becker glanced at his wristwatch. “You'd better be getting back before they start wondering what happened to you.”

  “Yes, I'd better,” said Magnussen, getting to his feet.

  “Hide the disks before you go to your office.”

  “I will.”

  “You know of a good safe place for them?”

  “I think so,” said Magnussen. “It's—”

  “Don't tell me,” interrupted Becker. “If I don't know, Wild Card can't pull it out of me.”

  They began walking toward Magnussen's car.

  “Where shall I drop you?”

  “You're going back alone,” announced Becker. “We've already been together for too long. If anyone sees me getting out of your car, you're a dead man.”

  Magnussen came to a complete stop.

  “What's the matter?” asked Becker.

  “I think I just realized the magnitude of what I'm getting into,” he replied. “And I don't like it.”

  “I'm sorry. I didn't know who else I could turn to.”

  “I'll do it,” continued Magnussen. “If there's even a chance that what you said is true, I've got to. But I can't begin to tell you how much I resent the position you've put me in.”

  “It couldn't be helped.”

  Magnussen resumed walking, and a moment later he reached his car. He opened the door, placed the disks carefully on the passenger's seat, and then climbed in behind the wheel. He slammed the door, started the motor, and rolled down the window.

  “If you had half a brain, you'd be on the first flight to South America, Max.”

  “They'd just find me.”

  “It's a big continent,” said Magnussen. “Bigger men than you have managed to lose themselves in it.”

  “They've still got Jaimie,” said Becker with a sigh. He paused. “And...”

  “And what?”

  “And I'm so goddamned close to all the answers, I can't quit now.”

  “Even if it kills you?”

  Becker patted his pocket.

  “If I die, I won't die alone,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “Good luck, Jim.”

  “The same to you, Max,” said Magnussen, putting his car in gear. “I have a feeling that we're both going to need it.”

  So do I, thought Becker grimly. So do I.

  23.

  Becker gave Magnussen a five-minute head start, then took a bus into the city. A pair of transfers put him in the Georgetown area, and he began approaching Colonel Stuart's house on foot. When he got within two blocks of it, he stopped to consider his next move.

  Stuart would doubtless guess that he was coming in civilian clothes, since his major's insignia made him a marked man. Furthermore, he had to have taken some steps to protect himself. Probably there were military personnel within the house itself, plus some sniper positioned within sight of the front door. A direct approach was out of the question.

  Suddenly two boys, not quite in their teens, walked by, dribbling and tossing a basketball between themselves, and he summoned them over.

  “Yeah?” said the shorter of them. “What do you want?”

  “I need your help,” Becker replied.

  “You don't live around here,” said the boy. “Why should we help you?”

  Becker pulled out his wallet and showed them his space service identification card.

  “I work for the government,” he said. “I'm on a secret mission right this minute.”

  Suddenly the boys’ faces came alive with interest.

  “What's going on?” asked the taller boy.

  “Do either of you know Colonel Stuart?” asked Becker. “He lives two blocks from here.”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Well, he's a very important officer, in charge of all kinds of undercover work,” continued Becker. “We've just received word that some agents from Paraguay may be planning to kidnap him.”

  “Really?” gasped the taller boy, obviously impressed.

  Becker nodded. “They won't move until dark, but we need to know how many of them there are. My face is known to them, but they won't pay any attention to a couple of neighborhood kids who just happen to be walking past.”

  “Are they wearing Paraguayan uniforms?” asked the smaller boy.

  Becker shook his head. “No, they're much too smart for that. They'll either be wearing U.S. space service uniforms, or else they'll be dressed in street clothes.” He lowered his voice. “What I want you to do is walk up one side of Colonel Stuart's street and down the other side. Keep your eyes and ears open. See if you can spot anyone sitting in parked cars, or hiding on roofs or in between the buildings. If you do, pretend not to notice them. Then report back here to me. And remember—your country is counting on you.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the taller boy eagerly.

  “Just a minute,” said the smaller boy to Becker. “If you want us to do your job for you, you ought to pay us something.”

  “Fair enough,” replied Becker. “But only after your mission is accomplished.”

  “How much?” asked the smaller boy.

  “A dollar,” said Becker.

  The boy shook his head. “If these guys are as dangerous as you say, we ought to get more than that.”

  “All right,” said Becker. “Five dollars.”

  “Each,” said the smaller boy.

  Becker nodded his agreement, and the two boys began walking in the direction of Stuart's brownstone, talking and tossing the basketball as they went. They were back ten minutes later, barely able to contain their excitement.

  “Well?” said Becker.

  “You were right!” exclaimed the taller boy. “There are three of them sitting in cars, and Jimmy thinks he saw another one on the stairs leading to the basement of the building that's directly across street from Colonel Stuart.”

  “Thanks, boys,” said Becker. “You did well.”

  “When are you going to take ’em?” asked the taller boy.

  “After it's dark.”

  “Can we watch?”

  Becker shook his head. “Can't have anyone frightening them off. Besides, we don't want any shooting in a residential neighborhood. Probably we'll have Colonel Stuart go out for dinner and take them after they start following him.” He paused. “You won't read about it in the papers or head about it on the holovision, because this is a secret operation, but your country owes you a debt of gratitude.”

  “And you owe us ten dollars,” said the smaller boy.

  “Right,” said Becker, handing a five dollar bill to each boy. “And a bonus,” he added, giving them each another dollar.

  They walked off, whispering furiously to each other, while Becker began retracing his steps. Obviously he couldn't approach Stuart at home, and in the long run that might be all for the best, since he certainly didn't have Jaimie incarcerated there. On the other hand, he certainly couldn't enter the Pentagon or the Space Administration Building, even in civilian clothes, without showing some kind of identification, and the one Jaimie had made for him wouldn't get him into a top-level military headquarters. Also, too many people in either building could recognize him on sight, even if he had false ID and wore his street clothes.

  Still, there was no way he was going to be able to hide in the back of Stuart's car—always assuming that he had one, and wasn't driven to work by some underling—the way he had done with Magnussen, nor did he feel confident about gaining entrance to Stuart's house even after the Colonel left for work in the morning. The kids probably hadn't spotted all the snipers, and he didn't dare approach the house until he knew where every one of them was hiding.

  He considered his various op
tions for a few more minutes, then took a bus back to the outskirts of the vast ghetto that sprawled over more than half the nation's capital. When he got off, he entered a drug store, asked where they kept their vidphones, and was directed to a row of pay booths. He checked each of them until he came to one that displayed a note stating that the camera was out of order, then entered it and dialed the Space Administration Building.

  “Please stand before your camera, sir,” said the receptionist.

  “I'm calling from a pay booth, and the camera's broken,” answered Becker.

  “One moment while I check, sir,” said the receptionist. There was a brief silence. “Very well; my computer confirms your claim. What can I do for you?”

  “I've got to speak to Colonel Lydell Stuart,” he said. “It's an emergency.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  He waited tensely for more than half a minute.

  “I'm sorry, sir, but there is no Colonel Stuart listed here.”

  “You're quite sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  He broke the connection, then called a military access number at the Pentagon, requested Colonel Stuart, and got the same answer.

  That didn't necessarily mean that Stuart was stationed elsewhere, since a number of high-level officers engaged in covert projects could not be reached through the main switchboard, but it did give Becker some slight hope that he might not have to show himself in either of those too-familiar buildings.

  Still, wherever he went, he was going to have to take some steps to hide his identity, and so he checked the commercial vidphone directory, wrote down the names of the nearest stores possessing those items he needed, and left the drugstore in search of them.

  His first stop was a military surplus store, where he purchased the hat, insignia, and bars of a second lieutenant in the space service. They'd be watching for a major or a civilian; a nice, nondescript lieutenant just might be able to sneak past. He had considered picking up a general's trappings, but decided that would call far more attention to himself; there were a lot more unknown lieutenants walking around Washington than generals.

  Then he walked into a cosmetic shop, picked up a black hair rinse, an artificial mustache, and a pair of facial pencils.