Analog Science Fiction and Fact 01/01/11

by Dell Magazines

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  Novelettes

  At Cross Purposes

  Before you come to an agreement with somebody else, you have to understand what they want—on their terms, not yours.

  Juliette Wade

  1. Lynn

  The more sector done; we shuck off our helmets with a groan and strap into the shuttle, guys in back and me in the pilot’s seat. Six hours in a suit dusting rigs and adjusting chemical mixes will pretty much wear you out. I take us up in a wide circle, as a kind of salute to the part of me I’ve left in each of these big machines over the years. In glaring sunlight, the newly cleaned rigs twinkle like a pattern of tiny stars against the gray desolation of Kasemsarn’s world—a.k.a. our big experiment.

  But eyes can’t see what we’ve really accomplished.

  When I look at K’s world, I see the color of numbers flowing. Numbers in the ice trees that branch under the soil; numbers in the still-too-thin atmosphere that tell me our machines are working, shifting molecule by molecule until the balance tips. Numbers will bring life to this place, they say, in our lifetimes.

  As I pull out of the curve, a shadow on the instruments grabs me by the heart.

  A cloud?

  It’s ultra-high altitude, around 200 kilometers. I can’t help my adrenaline reaction—I’m tempted to abandon course and go looking for it.

  “Sung, Kenneth,” I say over my shoulder. “Can you guys see this?”

  No answer. The guys always like to gossip in back, and right now they seem awfully excited. I glance over my shoulder, dip in an ear just as Kenneth says, “Bloody hell, you got this from the Headmistress? I’d heard the rumor, but—”

  “Seriously,” says Sung. “A hacker in the system.”

  My blood vessels freeze stiff. We might call her Headmistress, but Doris Grabko is Chief of Information Security. “Kenneth, what are you talking about? A hacker?”

  “I know, unbelievable, right?” he says. “But people have been talking about it, even though there isn’t a ship anywhere near enough to pick up our comm traffic, much less hack our systems.”

  Sung snorts, “So either she’s imagining things, or someone’s hacking from the inside.”

  “It can’t be,” I say, and my voice breaks. “Everybody knows Doris is a control freak.” I just hope she doesn’t have Sung’s grasp of logic! Could she have found what I did?

  “Don’t stress, Lynn,” says Sung. “It’ll be okay—if there is a hacker, the Headmistress will destroy him long before he can ruin all our work.”

  As if I’d ever ruin our work! I’m trying to save this project—from an oncoming asteroid, an earthquake, or who-knows-what disaster. Dr. Kasemsarn struts and puffs about his genius terraforming concept, but he hasn’t given a single thought to the devil in the details, not since they gave him a planet with his name on it. He spent almost ten years gambling the entire project’s success on a centralized control program. Single point of failure, hello?! Anyway, I didn’t really hack his baby; it’s still purring along in its own little machine. I’ve just borrowed enough processing power from each rig we visit to give that baby a twin inside a distributed, virtual machine—a backup that no single catastrophe can shut down.

  “Guys,” I say, grateful for an excuse to get off the topic. “Can you look at this reading? Does that look like a cloud to you?”

  Kenneth and Sung sit up straighter. “Cloud! Where?”

  “I’m not sure.” Suddenly the red comm light flashes beside my right hand. “Just a sec—” I punch it. “Shuttle Five here.”

  “Hey, Shuttle Five.” It’s Kelly from Base, and she sounds scared. “We’ve got an emergency shaping up. Three unidentified shuttlecraft, incoming.”

  “What?!”

  “They’ll be down here in less than a minute—George is taking the defense team out to meet them. You guys better hold tight there for a while until we can confirm their intentions.”

  “Okay.”

  Stunned silence in the cabin. We pass our coordinates for the next set of rig checks without even slowing down.

  At last Sung says, “How can there be unidentified shuttles with no mother craft?”

  “Shuttles don’t come out of nowhere,” Kenneth agrees.

  A thought clenches my heart into a fist. “Unless what I’m seeing isn’t a cloud. Two hundred kilometers is low orbit. ”

  “Shit,” says Kenneth. “If Base is in trouble . . .”

  My hands are already flying over the controls.

  2. Tsee

  Unexpected aliens—truth! Oh sing, sing!

  I dance eager rhythms with my feet, even while we maintain control of our planet-diver. By my side, Chkaa my brother shares this excitement, observed: His eyes are bright, his whiskers held forward in anticipation. Together we bring the planet-diver down to rest on the gray glimmering dust, and leap from our control station in the same second, exhilarated, ready.

  This planet was supposed to be lifeless, witnessed. It was supposed, overheard a thousand times, to be for the Purpose of others. How surprised, then, were the architects and constructors, choreographers and dancers when we discovered live creatures in our ship’s witness! For a dead planet may serve the designs of the Form Purpose and the celebrations of the Performance Purpose, yes, but aliens properly belong to followers of the Great Tree Purpose.

  To us—joy!

  Hereby we claim them, bringing down our own planet-diver alongside those of the other Purposes, landing beside the largest of the alien constructs—the alien nest-place, speculated.

  Quickly we prepare a linguistic model-projector for the interaction. Hail the Great Tree Purpose, which beckons to us from outside this door, calling, Pursue, pursue! Chkaa looks at me—we touch noses—ready. We activate our protective bubbles and hop out.

  The aliens come to meet us. Eight, counted. In physiology their heads resemble the inhabitants of the Diditsaatsi planet, observed, inside transparent helmets; beneath their opaque suits the similarity continues, likely, for the limb positions match. Pointed at us are weapons, deduced—these aliens are as wary as the Rodhrrrdkhi, suspected. But unlike Rodhrrrdkhi they allow us to step free of the planet-diver into their midst.

  “Oh, Tsee, sealed suits. They really are spacefarers,” croons Chkaa, merging our bubbles, leaning his whiskers close to mine. He touches our hands together in rhythmic patter—his habit when excited with Purpose.

  “Speculated,” I caution him. But my heart drums, truth! For to travel space, a creature must possess the glimmer of higher intelligence, necessarily, and higher intelligence requires an understanding of a pfaa—the duality that holds agreement in one hand and conflict in the other. Apfaa is a law of nature: for one side, always the other to match—truth!—and for one force, always its equal opposite. Those who live as isolates are planetbound, witnessed. And no aliens have ever lived as apfaa, like us, but neither have any traveled the stars.

  The nearest aliens cry out thin sounds that wake the model projector between my hands, a subtle vibration within its dome, and they wave their weapons at us, keeping their bodies between us and their low, ugly building. Energy weapons, deduced—but whether strong enough to penetrate our bubbles, unknown. They need our reassurances, surely, and we need more of their talk. So we set the projector in the dust and hold out our hands. The most successful approach to wary aliens, witnessed, is that of joy.

  “We are ChkaaTsee GreatTreePurpose. We dance our apfaa,” I say, and Chkaa, “Apfaa, apfaa.” We raise our voices in harmony and dance for them. My brother is big, his movements fluid. Chkaa is the deep-water shadow, beauty, his dark fur a mystery beneath the white labyrinths he has painted on his body. I am smaller, sharper. Tsee is the glint of light on ripples, and my golden cape-net sparkles with jewels, beauty, in the unnatural bright light. We are the apfaa ChkaaTsee, truth, and our dance brings the spirit of the river to this lonely, dry dust.

  The aliens slowly lower their weapons—oh, welcome! They speak more sounds. Projected fro
m their helmets, speculated. The sounds are thin in the half-breathed atmosphere of this ice desert, but enough, it seems, for capture by the flickering model projector.

  “We come here for Purpose,” says Chkaa. “Our species is named Cochee-coco: Pursue-Purpose, pursue, pursue.”

  “Truth,” I chime. “And our ship is Star-Pattern-Celebration.” We’ll have to say this again later when the projector is fully functional, certain, but for now it’s enough just to make talk. “What is your species?”

  “Hear, hear,” says Chkaa. “And what is your Purpose?”

  A dark-faced alien takes a step toward us, speaking sounds. We strain to catch vowels, consonants, but then, ow!

  A terrible shrieking sound breaks all understanding—it’s coming from the low building behind them, observed, where lights now flash crazily, red and white. The aliens raise their weapons at us—ah, no—four of them run away toward the building and the remainder yell at us. Anger, certain.

  “Ship,” I cry, “speak, what has happened?” And Chkaa, “Speak, speak!”

  The aliens scream when they hear our voices. They shoot weapons at the model projector, and energy reflects from its curved surface—bounces away, observed, but leaves behind a dull glow that suggests power enough to damage it, possibly, certainly enough to damage u s. The weapons are at our faces now; if we try to f lee, do they shoot? I recurve my back, making myself smaller, and raise my hands to them.

  “Peace, peace . . .”

  “Peace,” says Chkaa.

  Then voices from the ship speak out of the sphere-of-witness strung around my neck. “The Form Purpose pursue the improvement of this ugly alien edifice, but the aliens attack them!” “Unprovoked, witnessed!”

  Not unprovoked, perhaps—I speak low. “Have the Form Purpose tried to construct? Have they changed the edifice?”

  Aliens jump at us, screeching, weapons pointed at our noses. Punished for speaking? Oh, disaster! Another grabs the model projector. Now we’re seized by the arms and dragged through the rough dust into the building.

  A room of no color, tables and couches all squared, observed, and around it lie long-limbed alien bodies, unmoving. Dead or alive? Impossible to tell.

  This is the Form Purpose’s doing, truth! We must speak!

  “Ship, stop the Form Purpose fast!” I cry, and Chkaa, “Fast, fast, put back what you’ve changed, the aliens are dying!” And I, “Truth, witnessed!”

  An alien shoots me. The bolt of energy hits my bubble, which spits and heats—I smell my fur singed—Chkaa shrieks in horror. I recurl myself, quick, and shut my mouth. Forceful hands against our bubbles shove us forward, help, we’re propelled down a hall toward a door and through. Inside is another featureless room, flat image-projections of the gray planet on its walls, observed, and below them banks of colored lights and switches. One alien is lying on the floor, motionless, while another alien, wearing a suit, is standing.

  One alive, one dead, oh horror! Has this one been severed? Does it berserk?

  It draws a weapon.

  What to hope for, oh, that this alien be isolate, knowing nothing of apfaa so it may not behave as the severed and kill us in rage? But how can we hope for this, how, how, when we’ve dreamed of alien spacefarers for so long?

  Quick bursts of talk come from the aliens who hold our arms, answered by this lone creature who guards the inmost room. Is it enough, hoped? Will the model projector be satisfied with its intake soon, oh please, enough to allow us to pursue our Purpose, at least to try to communicate, to right this terrible wrong? We could call to the Martial Purpose for help—oh tempting—but to call them would be to relinquish our claim on these aliens in return for aid. No, truth, we must pursue!

  The aliens who brought us here release our arms, but—late realization—they’re leaving. They abandon our model projector on a raised table alongside the armed alien, observed; it’s flickering silently. The armed alien continues to threaten us, alarming, and doesn’t speak again.

  Chkaa invites my gaze to his—welcome, but how shall we pursue Purpose now?

  Chkaa gives a low whistle, brave, brave, and starts to sing. Oh, I can’t breathe! The armed alien listens a second, two, then speaks a sharp sound, disapproving. The projector flickers—oh please—but doesn’t wake. My brother sings again; I dare a note—

  The alien whirls toward me and shoots. Pain—Chkaa shrieks in fear and rage—the alien turns on him instead and shoots once, twice, three times, sparks flying—

  “CHKAAAA! Brother, apfaa!” Oh, he lives but his bubble sputters—if it fails, only a single held breath keeps him from death. I dive to him, merge our bubbles, oh, let it be enough!

  We will not be severed, truth! As together we were born, so together let us die!

  3. Lynn

  That’s not a cloud.

  I’m looking at the thing, and I’m still guessing. I adjust the view, magnify. “Damn.”

  “It’s no pirate frigate,” says Kenneth. “No configuration I recognize.”

  Sung murmurs, “Guess it’s not company goons from New World or Awaken Enterprises, then.”

  “But you guys agree it’s a ship.” It has to be. It’s shaped like a coral reef, a lakeweed, or a sea sponge—but it’s too symmetrical, and too solid at the middle. It shimmers with a million colors. “It has no edges—that’s how it screwed up our sensors. Take a look at this energy reading.”

  “That could be weapons,” says Kenneth grimly. “We’re not equipped to fight something of that size. I’d bet it’s not even Allied Systems.”

  None of us say anything, but we’re all thinking it: We’ve made a serious mistake. If there’s a third spacefaring species out there, we’ve just entered a whole different game—lost our chance to try stealth, and these guys could shoot us down any second.

  My airways contract and my voice shrinks. “You think I should hail them?”

  “Base first,” says Sung.

  We haven’t heard from Base since the claxons stopped. I swallow and depress the button. “Shuttle Five to Base. Is anyone there?”

  A voice comes from the comm. “Shuttle Five, the defense team needs backup. Get down here now. ”

  That’s Doris, her voice tight enough to strip gears. It scares me almost as much as the cloud ship. I take us down, praying we don’t get vaporized before we land. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, waiting for lightning.

  Base looks weird. Emergency lights flashing—that I’d expect, but something else— they’ve painted it? Red, purple, green, gold, white. I can see the beginnings of a complex pattern from here. What the hell? And there’s another pattern on the ground around it, less color, more random; maybe if I magnify—

  Bodies.

  Oh my God, it must be half our crew, lying in the pale gray dust. No sign of whatever killed them.

  I bring the shuttle down—crappy landing—and fumble on my helmet; Sung hands me a weapon, but my hands are shaking so much I don’t know if I’ll be able to use it. Terrafirm Inc. never trained us for Armageddon. I follow Kenneth out the door warily, with an eye for trouble that doesn’t seem to be coming. Yet.

  We walk among the bodies. The defense team is past needing us—there’s George, recognizable because he’s lying face up. I lift his arm, but I can tell there’s no saving him, even though I can’t see damage to the enviro-suit, or any injuries. These marks in the dust could be footprints, but they’re vague, like the print of a knee, or a ball. Through the rasp of my own breathing, I hear Kenneth start to sing a lament.

  “Guys, quick,” I say. “Let’s get to the lock.”

  Dust puffs under our running feet. We shut ourselves in and activate the airlock. No green light; the inside door opens anyway.

  They’re all dead.

  Our workmates, fallen on the floor, or slumped on the tables where we used to talk numbers, play cards, or share the occasional piece of chocolate.

  Sung’s voice comes quietly from the speaker at my ear. “They’ve destroyed the life s
upport.”

  “Goddamn,” says Kenneth. “Do you think these bastards killed everyone just for the hell of it? Or was it to kill the project?”

  The project! Central Control—I’m already running down the hall.

  “Lynn!” barks Kenneth’s voice in my ear. “They could still be in there!”

  The door opens as I approach it. I jerk backwards in terror.

  No, that’s not an alien or a pirate. It’s Doris. She’s standing side-to-the-door, pointing her weapon at something—someone?—across the control room. “George, quick,” she says.

  “Doris, it’s Lynn.”

  She wheels around.

  I gulp. “George is dead.”

  Doris stares for a second, pale behind the faceplate of her helmet. Then she grabs my arm. “Come on.”

  She hauls me in—I almost trip over a body as she drags me to the main console. Oh, shit, that’s Kelly. . . . I crane over my shoulder, but can’t see what Doris was aiming at.

  “What are we doing?”

  “Kelly panicked and didn’t get to her suit,” Doris says, clipped and severe. “I need a second voice code.”

  She’s hurting my arm. I blink stupidly. “Voice code?”

  “To wipe the control program,” she snaps. “These dancing creatures are just a diversion, some backwater species picked up on the other side of the Systems.”

  “Dancing—creatures?! Where?”

  “Awaken Enterprises has been working toward active camouflage for years; what better way to test their new prototypes?”

  “But there’s an alien ship!”

  “Well, obviously they’ve fooled you.” She keys in a sequence of numbers, and an icy-calm computer voice speaks out of the air. “Terrafirm Incorporated, Kasemsarn Operation, omega omega omega. Requesting authorization one.”

  “Doris Grabko, Chief of Information Security.”

  The voice replies, “Accepted. Requesting authorization two.”

  I can’t speak. Why should we gut the system now? These are aliens, not industrial spies! I could give the authorization and trust my backup system to come online, but that would expose everything I’ve done. Doris would kill me.