by John Shirley
Bill shuffled through the papers littering the desktop, finally coming up with a printout of the map Santiago had created earlier from the transmitted coordinates. A glance confirmed the match. This was the same map, only brighter, clearer.
He looked back at the computer screen. The dots had begun to flash. One by one, they winked off, then on again: Boston, Detroit, Chicago, New York, Milwaukee . . .
Hair stood up on the back of Bill’s neck. “You flashing those lights, son?”
“No sir. She—it, whatever it is, it’s got direct control of the receiver. It’s in the driver’s seat, now.”
“Is Kurt there?” Santiago asked, his voice tight and anxious.
“Nope. Still closeted with that NASA guy. Look, Sandy—may I call you Sandy? Kurt isn’t here and Pioneer needs an answer. And I think I got one. Will you send it?”
“If Dr. Costigyan okays it—”
“It’s a repeat of an earlier message, so he’s already approved it.”
“A repeat?” said Gita.
“Yeah.”
“Kurt’s not available; I’m his second; I’ll approve it,” she said.
There was a moment of silence, then Santiago said, “Okay, Bill. What am I sending?”
“He what?” Peter Grace sat heavily in the swivel chair, rolling backwards several feet before coming to a stop against a workbench.
“He had us repeat a sequence,” said Santiago, “from an earlier transmission. Then he excused himself and took off.”
“Why?”
“Why’d he take off?”
“Why repeat the sequence?”
“Oh. Because of the map.”
“The map?”
“They . . . she . . . Pioneer sent a map of her own. Should still be on screen over there.”
“They sent this?” asked Kurt, leaning over Grace to see the screen better. “It’s not our construct?”
“What you see is what we got. They’re apparently quick studies tech-wise. They drove this right through our MCSA.”
“Oh, God,” murmured Grace.
“Anyway, Bill had me send the sequence and—”
“Whoa, that was quick,” said Gita.
“Oh, God,” said Grace a second time. He pressed a finger to the map where a lone spot of brilliance now blinked steadily. All the others had dimmed.
“Which sequence did you send?” Kurt asked.
“The third sequence.”
“The signal, Sandy. Where’s the signal coming from now?”
“Approaching Saturn’s orbital plane. At that rate—”
“Sometime tomorrow,” Kurt finished.
The National Guard arrived first, elite units sealing off streets and rerouting traffic. It was an above-average spring day for Chicago, less blustery than usual. Clouds chased each other across a cerulean sky—they’d have no trouble seeing whatever was descending upon them—be it the remains of Pioneer 10 or an alien ship.
An alien ship. Kurt tried on the thought for size—wasn’t sure how it fit, after all. He was almost ready to believe this was an elaborate hoax. Something they’d simply not anticipated when they built all their security protocols and firewalls. Something loosed on them by a particularly clever hacker who’d been able to hijack their Signal Detection System and completely flummox two FUDDs . . . and the NASA tracking computers, and the sophisticated radar arrays of any number of nations whose every attention was on the object—much larger than the hapless Pioneer—currently on an obviously controlled descent to Earth.
Kurt shook himself. No, he wasn’t ready to believe that, after all. Occam’s Razor cut this particular pie such that the big half went to ET. And yet, he irrationally half-hoped it was a hoax. He had to wonder why, after all these years of daydreaming, anticipating, even praying for contact with THEM.
He looked up now into the cloud-draped expanse of heaven and prayed none of the fighter jets assigned to fly escort for anything that entered Earth’s atmosphere contained trigger-happy pilots.
He thought it was a bird soaring high overhead when he first saw it, but a second later, he decided it was a helicopter. Then realized it was neither. He straightened from the hood of the Army Jeep he’d been leaning against, catching peripheral movement as the soldiers around him stirred. Peter Grace, who’d been sitting in the Jeep monitoring radio traffic, slid out of the cab and stared skyward with everyone else.
It descended swiftly, wavering not at all, bracketed by fighter jets. A deep thrumming filled the air, audible even beneath the scouring roar of jet engines. The fighters had to pull up when the alien vessel—the ALIEN VESSEL—continued to descend toward the corner of Addison and Wheatland.
Kurt devoured it with his eyes, his heart galloping wildly beneath his Kevlar vest. It wasn’t saucer-shaped, or cigar-shaped, or ice-cream-cone-shaped, or bristling with instrumentation. It was a perfect sphere of light-sucking black and had no distinguishing marks on the exterior except for . . . Kurt squinted at the image that sat at about the equator on the side the ship presented to him. It looked like a face. But before he could catch more than a glimpse, the huge black ball had dropped into Wrigley Field like a pop fly into a fielder’s outstretched glove.
Kurt found himself being swept along in a group that included Peter Grace, a four-star general named Garner, a tactical expert named Quinn, and a couple of sharpshooters. Walkways, staircases, and corridors unfolded in a blur as they made their way into the park through an access that brought them out behind the home dugout.
They came up short along the railing, staring at the alien vessel. It hovered above center field, a ramp extending down to the grass. A man stood at the bottom of the ramp, looking up. He wore an unfamiliar baseball uniform with a royal blue cap. A collar length mane of white hair stuck out from underneath.
“Who—” General Garner began.
“Kinsella,” Grace growled. “We need to get him out of there, the damned idiot.”
“No, wait.” Kurt put up a hand. “It may be all right. I . . . think he may speak their language.”
Peter Grace gasped, pointed. “The ship!”
Around them, the sharpshooters tensed. A figure had appeared at the top of the ramp, and now proceeded down it, out into the sun. It was shorter than Kinsella, but had two arms, two bandy legs, and a slightly too-large head with a pointed face. It was followed by a small squad of similarly built beings, all of which differed slightly in size and shape. Like most of the people currently in the confines of the ballpark, they were wearing uniforms—baseball uniforms.
Even as Kurt took that in, Kinsella reached out to shake hands with the alien leader and waved expansively at the field. They seemed, incredibly, to be exchanging words. Then the alien repeated Kinsella’s gesture and, without hesitation, the crew of the alien ship trotted across the outfield to the visitor’s dugout. From the home dugout, just below where Kurt stood, exploded a squad of human players, racing to take positions on the diamond.
“What the hell is going on here?” asked General Garner, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are they—are they going to play?”
“It certainly looks that way.” Kurt found himself tipping toward giddiness again. He could just see the headlines: Aliens Visitors On Field of Dreams! Or ET Goes the Distance to Play Ball!
“We got a small problem.”
Kurt looked down over the railing. Bill Kinsella stood just this side of the on-deck circle, grinning up at him. The blue cap sported a gray, heart-shaped alien face, the top of its head stitched like a baseball. Across the front of his uniform the words Las Vegas were embroidered in blue and silver.
“What uniform is that?”
“Huh? Oh—Las Vegas Area 51s—Dodger Triple-A affiliate. They were out here for an interleague against the Iowa Cubs. I tried to get the Major League Cubs, but they were down in Florida against the Marlins. (Stupid name for a ball club, if you ask me.) But this—” He flicked the bill of the ET-bedecked cap with a fingertip. “This was a real serendip, finding t
he Area 51s right next door.”
“But how did you—?” Peter Grace gestured at the field, from which he seemed unable to take his eyes.
“I’ve got friends in baseball,” Kinsella said. “I made some calls from the taxi.” He shrugged.
General Garner spoke now, his eyes on the alien players. “These . . . people . . . came all the way from . . . wherever they came from—”
“Oh, um, out Taurus way, manager said.”
“Out Taurus way?” repeated Grace. “He said that? In English?”
“Well, he started out in Japanese, I think, then switched to Spanish. I don’t speak Japanese, and my Spanish is pretty shaky, so he went to English when he saw I wasn’t getting him. Spoke it pretty well, too. Hardly any accent. A little trouble with the letter ‘p,’ maybe. Seemed as if his Japanese and Spanish were pretty good too, though not speaking any, I couldn’t say. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he said their star was out Taurus way. They’ve had their eye on us for while, he said. Or maybe ‘ear’ is a better choice of words. They’ve been listening in to space chatter, TV and radio broadcasts—that sort of thing—trying to figure out how to communicate with us.”
Grace moved his head slowly from side to side like a man trying to shake off a decrepit gnat. “Did he explain why they chose baseball?”
Kinsella tugged at the bill of his cap. “Not as such. They’ve been picking up our baseball games, of course—trying to figure out our rules, he said. But when I asked how they came to be playing baseball in the first place, he just blinked at me and repeated the question. Didn’t figure we were going to get anywhere after that, so I suggested we play ball.”
Kurt looked up at the sharp sound of a ball smacking a catcher’s glove. An odd tingle of memory took him. A memory of sultry summer afternoons that passed in a timeless haze of cheers and chants, popcorn, peanuts, and hot dogs, all punctuated with the cries of hawkers and the crack of the bat meeting a little lump of horsehide.
Kurt dragged his eyes away from the gray-skinned batter who had taken his place in the on-deck circle to take his practice swings. “You had a problem, you said.”
“Well, seems they didn’t bring any umps with ’em and ours didn’t believe me when I told them where we were going and why. So, we were hoping maybe among the troops here, there might be some folks who’d be willing and able to umpire the game.”
“I’ve umped at my daughter’s little league games,” Kurt said. “Usually behind the plate.”
Bill Kinsella’s grin deepened. “Great! I’ll bet we can scramble some gear up from the clubhouse.”
“Actually, all I need is a mask. This helmet and Kevlar ought to do fine for gear.” Giddiness washed over him again.
Kinsella was looking up at Garner now. “General, care to spare a couple of your soldiers?”
The General finally managed to look away from the spectacle on the field. “You’re serious?”
“Well, we’ve got home field advantage, which means we play by home field rules. Rules say: in order for this game to be official, we need umpires.”
“You want U.S. Army troops to umpire an alien ballgame?”
“Well, not troops—we only need four—and an official scorekeeper, of course. The rest can watch.”
“Watch?” He swung his eyes to Grace. “Dr. Grace, you’re the space program expert. Your opinion of these proceedings?”
Grace seemed dazed. “These . . . people don’t seem dangerous, General. But the situation is . . . well, it’s unprecedented, and probably does bear watching.”
The General’s brows rose.
“What would you do?” Grace asked. “Capture them? Ignore them? This is First Contact, General Garner. That means it’s never happened before. There are no rules of engagement. There are no precedents. I guess we’ll have to set those as we go along.”
“Well,” said Garner, eyes going back to the sunny diamond. “They seem to pose no immediate threat. Under the circumstances, I suppose participating in a ritual of the visitors’ choice might be appropriate.” He swung around to the tactical officer beside him. “You ever do any umping, Tommy?”
Kurt didn’t wait to hear the answer. He was already over the railing and into the dugout. Bill Kinsella met him there, handed him a catcher’s mask, and walked him to the plate. He nodded to the Area 51s catcher, who flashed a brilliantly white smile from the depths of his mask then turned to receive the last of the pitcher’s warm-up throws.
A little painted alien face stared up at Kurt from the back of the catcher’s helmet. He glanced up at Kinsella, already on his way back to the home dugout. “What do the visitors have on their caps?”
Bill touched his own headgear above the bill. “Same as ours. Alien faces.”
The visiting leadoff hitter had stepped into the left-hand batters box. Kurt looked at the logo on his helmet. The face was human.
Kurt couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might be the same face that was etched into the anodized aluminum plate that had been aboard Pioneer 10. Along with the two human figures, the plaque had carried an etching of the solar system and various mathematical figures that had apparently successfully conveyed the pertinent information about base-ten arithmetic. He made a mental note to recommend a few modifications to the plaque before they sent up their next deep space probe.
The alien ship had withdrawn from the field of play now, moving to hover over the park at a respectful distance, and looking for all the world like game-day blimp. Kurt wondered if the aliens had the technology to transmit the game all the way home. An interleague game, indeed.
He looked out over the brilliant diamond, seeing the home team in their positions, the other umpires taking the field, and a crowd of spectators—mostly in khakis and camouflage—filling the stands. He felt the spring sun warm on his shoulders, smelled the perfume of grass and earth, and perhaps popcorn, though that might have been his imagination.
He did not imagine that unique, expectant hush that had preceded the first pitch of every baseball game since the beginning. He filled his lungs with air and officially opened the first encounter between humanity and beings from another world.
“Play ball!”
[Editorial note: The Area 51s are now the Triple-A team of the New York Mets. ]
Is chess just a game or is it a sport? At least at the championship level, modern-day chess demands physical fitness, mental stamina, regular training, and constant study. It’s also been known to have political implications, and not just internationally. As Garry Kasparov said, “I learned that fighting on the chessboard could also have an impact on the political climate in the country.” The future version of chess depicted by Timons Esaias is truly a deadly competition and involves both internal and external politics. But in this game, luck and skill make two pawns more powerful pieces than one might expect.
Pawn
Timons Esaias
What Winstead knew about Squire Yvor was this: the Squire was a pawnbroker. Years ago he had brokered the more important pieces as well—your knights, your rooks—but for several years now it was pawns only. Reliable pawns, but not the most expensive or the most stylish.
What Winstead knew about chess was nothing, but his boss had sent him down here to get some decent material, and suggested that his, Winstead’s, job might be on the line. Winstead knew that meant the boss’s head was probably pretty close to the block itself. O the times. O the business climate.
The real bitch of it was that he actually had to physically go to the place, with nothing but a monocle to keep him connected to the datastream. Brokers positively refused to deal material over the publink. Tradition or something. Customer had to get out of their workpit or pentsuite and march down to the shop to take responsibility for the choice themselves. And responsibility was another bitch in this bitchy business. Who took responsibility these days?
Taking responsibility stinks of bad form.
So anyway, there was this going out thing. Pitters like Winstead wore their agor
aphobia as a medal of distinction, an effing croix de salary. Took him an hour to bring himself to ask his monocle for routing instructions.
And another hour to get started.
Taxi had four-inch armor. “Yeah,” the drivebot complained, “had to have this slab a junk plated with another two inches. All these buildings running a mile high, and they never think of the effect on the driving public. It’s no biggie for the trucks, cause they’re all down in the substreets. But stuff falls off those monsters all the time, and smacks the ground pretty hard. City don’t care, insurance companies don’t care. Guess they both make money off filling in the impact craters. And you can’t just armor the top, neither, ’cause there’s no telling what funny ricochets stuff’ll take when it comes down.”
Winstead toggled the viewcamera up to vertical so he could see the subject being discussed. The sky was a narrow line, interrupted by causeways. If that was the sky, and not some balcony lighting. Winstead hoped, suddenly, that it wasn’t the sky, so that he’d feel more enclosed. This cab was twice the size of his workpit, though the thought of the armor made it more comfortable. Cozy.
“Say, since I’m taking you to the renowned Yvor’s, I should ask you. Are you a player yourself, or just running an errand? I used to play chess myself, with some of my spare processing time, the old chess that is. Not what you folks play today.”
Winstead flipped off the viewer. Instantly he felt better. “I’m just rounding up a pawn for a game tomorrow. Our corporation’s sponsoring a player in the summer tournament.”
“Ah,” said the taxi. “So what’s at stake in this tournament?”
He didn’t respond at first because he didn’t know, and then didn’t respond because he had never realized that he didn’t know.
“Yeah, I know, ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Think,’ right?” The taxi swerved, and then seemed to be on an elevator. “Forget I enquired. There are just two serious games in the world, and at your level, chess is it, I bet. Don’t worry, just hope it stays that way. Life only gets tougher if you outgrow chess.”
