by Mike Resnick
Stuart paused, then continued. “To this day, we still don't know what precipitated the incident, nor do the Chebotti. Despite our propaganda to the contrary, nobody knows who fired the first shot, or why. I suspect it will remain a mystery for all eternity. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Where are your cigarettes?”
“Cigars. They're in the top left-hand drawer of my desk.”
Becker pulled his gun out. “Pick them up very carefully.”
“Thank you,” said Stuart, slowly opening his drawer and withdrawing two large imported cigars. “Would you care for one, Major?”
“Later.”
Stuart shrugged. “As you will.” He lit the cigar and took a deep puff on it. “Anyway,” he continued, “about twelve years ago the Chebotti made covert contact with us.”
“Who is us?” asked Becker. “The United States?”
“Actually, it was China that first picked up their signals. They made them available to the other three star-faring nations, which agreed to pool their resources and respond with one voice. It took our most powerful computers almost three months to create a common language with them.” He smiled suddenly. “I think if your friend Ms. Nchobe had been working for us, we could have cut the time in half.” The smile vanished. “At any rate, we began a dialogue with them. They also had no idea what had precipitated the tragedy. They had come to assess our military and expansionist ambitions.”
Stuart set his cigar in a large ashtray, leaned his elbows on the desk, and clasped his fingers together.
“By rights, there should be no problems. After all, neither of our races can use the same type of planets. Oxygen is poison to them.”
“Why didn't they just blow us away if they were worried about us?” asked Becker. “Any race that's got the technology to travel from one star system to another ought—”
“Their technology developed along totally different lines from our own,” interrupted Stuart. “They have found a means of entering hyperspace and circumventing the law that says one cannot travel faster than the speed of light. On the other hand, if it ever came down to a shooting war, not only are our weapons far superior to theirs, but the tight molecular bonding we developed for use on our titanium hulls since our first meeting with them is virtually impregnable to their weaponry. Basically, they can outrun us and we can outgun them.”
“Still,” continued Stuart, taking another puff of his cigar, “there are an awful lot of them out there, and they're very well-entrenched in this section of the galaxy—the Spiral Arm, as we call it. We have assured them of our peaceful intentions, as they have insured us of theirs. Still, because of that initial meeting twenty-three years ago, neither of us quite trusts the other.” He stopped and looked at Becker. “Can you see where this is leading, Major?”
“I think so—but I don't understand what kind of powers they must possess to pass themselves off as men, or why, given those powers, you'd give them access to our technology.”
“They don't have any powers,” Stuart assured him.
Becker frowned. “Then I don't understand after all.”
“Actually, you were closer to the truth than you realize, Major,” said Stuart. “After we'd been in communication with them for more than a year, we hit upon an agreement—a secret agreement—whereby we would put various spy devices in some of their ships. Due to their physical and sensory limitations, their race has become quite advanced in the science of cybernetics, and in exchange for their installing our devices, we agreed to let them place a number of androids in our own ships: fourteen here, and thirty-seven aboard ships from the other three countries. Then—still according to the agreement—after a period of some 25 years of mutual observation, when each side was totally convinced of the other's goodwill, we would make the facts of this second contact known to both races, and then we would all be free to spread throughout the Spiral Arm in peace and harmony, neither side taking anything the other side could possibly want.” He paused. “I was placed in charge of the day-to-day American operation of what came to be known as Operation Wild Card. I keep in daily contact with my counterparts in Russia, China and Brazil, and of course our scientists constantly analyze the input from our spy devices. The only computers in America that can access our files are in this building and in the White House, and the same degree of secrecy has been maintained in each of the other three countries. I have retained the rank of Colonel in order not to call any attention to myself. Theoretically,” he added with a wry smile, “the service will make it up to me when I retire.”
“This is an awfully small headquarters for such a big project,” noted Becker.
“The tip of the iceberg,” answered Stuart. “Although all the businesses in this building are legitimate, the structure itself was designed and erected by the space service. Operation Wild Card takes up five entire levels of the sub-basement. That's where we've been keeping your friend Ms. Nchobe.” He noticed that his cigar had gone out, and he re-lit it.
“To continue: Everything functioned smoothly for more than a decade. We took advantage of an air disaster to introduce the fourteen American androids into deep cover positions about a decade ago, while simultaneously installing our spy devices into their ships. Given the delicacy of the operation, it's truly amazing that we made it for an entire decade without a serious problem.”
“And then Jennings came along,” offered Becker.
“And then Jennings came along,” agreed Stuart. “The problem began when he somehow spotted something wrong with the androids. They'd been passing for human for ten years, but he saw something nobody else had seen.” Stuart sighed. “I suppose it's a consequence of placing command in the hands of your best and your brightest. Whatever it was he saw, he became convinced that there were two aliens on his ship—he couldn't know they were androids—and he killed them.”
“Was Gillette an android, too?” asked Becker.
“Oh, yes—he had to be,” replied Stuart. “The androids could pass just about any social or psychological test, but a thorough physical examination would have found them out. Gillette was the third android aboard the Roosevelt, and Jennings was bright enough to figure it out when Gillette jettisoned the bodies into deep space.” He paused again. “Thank God he didn't kill him! Only four of our androids replaced doctors; they've each been in deep space almost continuously for the past nine years. We don't dare send an android out without an android medic to certify his weekly physicals.”
“So there are androids currently serving with Gillette aboard the Martin Luther King?”
Stuart nodded. “Four of them.”
“So he wasn't put there just to keep him from me.”
“No. It fit in with the drug story, so we encouraged you to believe we were hiding him, but in point of fact none of the android doctors spends as much as a month on Earth between missions. Of course,” he added, “we've falsified their records to read otherwise.”
Becker stared at Stuart for a moment. “Why didn't you just hush up the whole affair?” he asked at last. “That seems to be your specialty.”
“We wanted to. Nobody wanted to see Jennings go on trial—a trial he couldn't possibly win—for making a proper decision to defend our security. But there had been too many witnesses to the killings. We couldn't cover it up; it was just too big. When the Roosevelt landed and the story broke, we took Jennings into custody and decided that the most efficient form of damage control would be for him to plead temporary insanity.”
“But he wouldn't cooperate,” said Becker with a smile.
“No, he wouldn't. He was convinced of the validity of his actions, and moreover, he was determined to alert the public to what he considered a planetary threat.” He looked at Becker. “That's where you entered the picture, Major. We wanted to make the trial look good, and that meant getting him a good lawyer.” He grimaced ironically. “How were we to know that you'd actually believe his story?”
“I didn't believe it,” replied Becker. “I thought
he was as crazy as you people claimed.”
Stuart frowned in confusion. “Then why on earth did you try to make a case for the existence of aliens?”
“Because that was the defense my client demanded,” answered Becker. “I thought it was a mistake. When I couldn't convince him to plead insanity, I asked to be taken off the case.” He paused. “My request was denied, and I had no choice but to follow my client's dictates until I could convince him that he was better off pleading insanity and throwing himself upon the mercy of the court. That's when I stumbled upon the phony drug ring you had so thoughtfully provided for me.”
“It wasn't explicitly designed for you, Major,” replied Stuart. “Part of my job is to anticipate any eventuality, including the fact that someone might take just the action that Jennings took. The drug ring was just the latest in a long line of creations that we hoped would never prove necessary; the information was changed and updated monthly, even to the deposits which your friend confiscated from our Swiss bank account.” He paused. “Just out of curiosity, Major, what gave it away?”
“I bought it lock, stock and barrel until I visited Montoya in the hospital. Then Montoya—or whoever he really was—said a couple of wrong things.”
Stuart sighed. “The human element. I was afraid we might have buried some of the drug data so deeply that you would never find it.”
“I never would have. That was Jaimie Nchobe's contribution.”
“Still,” persisted Stuart, “we couldn't make it too easy to find, not if it was to have the ring of truth about it.”
“Speaking of Captain Jennings, is he still alive?” asked Becker.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I thought he'd sooner die than change his plea. All he wanted to do was have his day in court and tell his story.”
“When it became obvious that you had seen through our ruse, I personally approached Jennings and told him exactly what I have told you.”
“And that's all it took?” said Becker unbelievingly.
“He is, after all, a military man, not a civilian, and his duty was and is the defense of our race. I explained to him that any action that could not be explained by insanity might very well result in the public becoming aware of the Chebotti's existence—and that, in turn, might abrogate our agreement with them before we're ready. He agreed wholeheartedly, and changed his plea.”
“Before we're ready for what?” demanded Becker.
Stuart sighed deeply. “Ah, Major, now we come to the crux of it.” He paused and stared directly into Becker's eyes. “Why do you think this is a military operation rather than a scientific one?”
“You tell me.”
“Twenty-three years ago, the Chebotti destroyed a ship containing 873 men and women. Maybe they fired first and maybe they didn't—but we cannot risk the future of our race on their word alone. Our spy devices are learning more about their technology and capabilities almost daily, while we've taken great care to put their androids aboard those ships of ours on which the armaments are all but obsolete.” Stuart allowed himself the luxury of a superior smile. “They may be as technologically advanced as we are, but they're not as devious. We are already performing successful experiments in hyperspace, while at the same time I doubt that the efficiency of their firepower has increased five percent. When the time for public disclosure comes, we'll be ready for peace or war.”
“Interesting,” said Becker noncommittally.
“And now that you know,” concluded Stuart, “I'm afraid you must make a choice: you can become one of us, or you will never leave this building alive.”
“Kill me, and by next week 500 journalists will know that you're dealing with aliens,” said Becker.
Stuart smiled and shook his head. “I don't believe you, Major Becker. You haven't the skill with a computer to manage that.”
“You'd better start believing me,” said Becker. “It was Jaimie's data. All I did was find a place to hide it—and make sure that it'll be disseminated all over the country if anything happens to me.”
“Even if you're telling the truth, it makes no difference,” said Stuart. “This is a matter not even of national security but of planetary security, and in such matters we really do have the authority to control the press. So please don't make meaningless threats.”
“If you can keep this out of the media, why did you let me live long enough to get here?”
“We didn't let you live, Major Becker, I assure you,” said Stuart. “You survived our very best efforts to kill you. Anyone who is good enough to reach this office is quite extraordinary—and while we possess ample cannon fodder, we are always in need of extraordinary men and women. By your very presence here, you've earned the right to become one of us, and to work on Operation Wild Card.” He paused. “We all hope that our two races will elect to share in a lasting peace—and if they do, there are numerous governmental bodies charged with working out the details. But if it should come to war, it's our job to make sure we don't lose.” He stared across the desk at Becker. “What is your decision, Major?”
“What happens to Jaimie Nchobe?”
“I haven't decided,” replied Stuart. “She knows an awful lot about us.”
“If you kill her, I'll kill you,” said Becker. “It's as simple as that.”
“I may not have any alternative,” continued Stuart with no show of fear.
“You offered me a job,” said Becker. “Offer her one.”
“I very much doubt that we could offer a salary that would attract her,” said Stuart dryly.
“She doesn't need your money. Give her the right job and she'll work for minimum wage.”
“What job did you have in mind?”
“The only thing that excites her is a challenge,” said Becker. “She found you in less than four days. Hire her to come up with a foolproof way to protect your secrecy.”
“Do you think she'd agree to do it?”
“I know she would.”
“Very well,” said Stuart. “Let's find out.” said Stuart. He activated his intercom. “Let me speak to Jaimie Nchobe, and put it on visual, please.”
A holograph of Jaimie's face appeared over Stuart's desk. She seemed totally unaware of Becker's presence on the other side of the office.
“Ms. Nchobe, your friend Major Becker has made a suggestion that may prove to be to our mutual benefit.” He paused. “Would you consider coming to work for us, with the specific assignment of hiding the existence of Operation Wild Card so well that no one—not even someone as talented as you—can ever find it again?”
“Becker suggested it?”
“That's correct.”
“Will he vouch for it when I see him?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do I know you won't kill me when I've finished?”
“You have my word on it.”
“You've spent the last ten years lying to everybody about everything. Why should I believe you?”
“How can I convince you I'm telling the truth?” asked Stuart.
“You can't. But let me tell you something that's true, and I don't much care whether you believe it or not.”
“What?”
“I've got a lot of friends that you would doubtless call unsavory. By tomorrow each of them will know that you're the one who ordered anything nasty that may happen to me.”
“If you feel that's necessary,” said Stuart with a shrug.
“I most certainly do.” She paused. “What about the money that I—ah—borrowed from Gillette's Swiss account?”
Stuart considered the question for a few seconds. “It's yours, in exchange for a written pledge of silence concerning our existence and the events of the past four days.”
It was Jaimie's turn to reflect upon her answer. Finally she nodded. “All right, Colonel. You've got a deal.”
“Now, concerning salary...”
“Don't worry about it,” she said. “I'm sure you'll be more than generous.”
&nbs
p; “I'm delighted to have you aboard, Jaimie.”
“That's Ms. Nchobe, Colonel.”
“My apology.”
He severed the connection, and as the holograph disappeared, he activated another channel on the intercom.
“Yes, sir?” said a voice.
“Release Jaimie Nchobe and inform me when she's left the building.”
“Do you want a tail on her, sir?”
“No. She's free to go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stuart turned back to Becker. “Well?”
“That was very generous of you, Colonel Stuart.”
Stuart smiled ruefully. “If I took the money back, she'd just steal it again. I suggest, Major, that you impress upon her in the strongest possible terms that it should be considered hush money.” He paused, and his expression hardened. “She must understand that if she ever tries to disseminate what she knows about Wild Card, she will not survive the experience.”
“I'll pass your message on to her,” said Becker.
The intercom hummed to life.
“Jaimie Nchobe has left the building, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Will there be anything further, sir?”
“I hope not,” said Stuart. He turned to Becker. “Well, Major, will there be anything further?”
“No,” said Becker.
“Then you'll join us?”
Becker stared at him for a long moment. “Before I answer, I want you to know that I don't like you, and I think your notion of problem-solving is nothing but legalized murder.”
Stuart looked unperturbed. “You're entitled to your opinion. Now: Will you join us?”
“I'll join you,” said Becker. “But you should know on the front end that it has nothing to do with your threats, nor do I personally give a damn about what you do or don't do with respect to the Chebotti. I'll leave the tactics and the duplicity to the generals and the admirals.”
“Then why are you joining us?”
“A few minutes ago you called me an extraordinary man. Well, I'm not. My concern is for those truly extraordinary men, men like Wilbur Jennings, who have the ability to spot a flaw in the facade you've built and the courage to act upon it. If they're to survive rather than disappear, they'll need a good lawyer.”
