Annie nodded uncomprehendingly. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Yup.”
Salomon looked at her. “Forgive me my digression. Are you here to employ my services?”
“No! Sorry, buddy, nothing personal, but I’ve no curiosity in that direction, y’know?” She backed towards the door. “I’ve things to do, but don’t switch yourself off if it’s gonna freak you out. We’ve got plenty of power, and you guys don’t use much.”
Salomon nodded. As Annie left, she heard him speaking quietly to himself. “One hundred and two days. Gone in the blink of an eye. Would one hundred and two years be any different? Should it be…?”
Annie shook her head in befuddlement as the door swished shut on Salomon’s musings.
Since when are robots philosophers?
* * *
Despite what she’d said to the ACM, Annie was actually planning to spend some time writing and listening to music. On the way back to her quarters, however, she was intercepted by Barbara Young.
The gardener – or Hydro and Aeroponic Engineer, to give her her full title – was waiting in ambush just outside the door that led into the corridor where the robots were housed.
“So there you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
“Doubt that; you could find me by my wristband in five seconds. You’re just scared of people seeing you heading into the red-light district and thinking that you fritz the ACMs. Which you totally do, by the way.”
Barbara’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond to the dig. “The hydration system’s not working properly; my plants are receiving too much water. The rota says you’re off duty; take a look at it, would you? I imagine it’s a quick fix.”
“You’re missing the word ‘please’. Actually, ‘I know how valuable your free time is, respected sister-explorer, but please spare some of it to look at my problem’ would be even better…”
“Are you going to help or not?”
“Maybe…” Annie tilted her head to one side and stroked her lips in a mockery of careful consideration. “If you do me a favour in return. I’m writing a novel, and I need feedback on -”
Barbara exploded. “For goodness sake, no-one wants to read your mindless drivel! You’ve no talent at all! How can you be wasting time thinking about that trash when we’re dying a trillion miles from Earth?”
Annie’s ginger eyebrows rose. She was genuinely taken aback by the outburst – Barbara was often sour or grumpy, but the flashes of anger she’d displayed recently were something new. In the periphery of her vision, she saw a couple of women near the entrance to the gym looking over curiously.
The older woman abruptly sagged. “I’m sorry. Just … will you look at it, please?”
If anything, the apology was more unnerving than what had come before it. Annie quietly acquiesced, and the two women walked the short distance to Barbara’s domain in silence.
The garden was a pleasant place. Banks of greenery filled the middle of the room: lettuce, radishes, onions and many other types of vegetables besides were grown here for the crew’s consumption. A mix of aeroponic and hydroponic techniques were employed; in space, Barbara liked to say, it was best not to put all one’s eggs in a single basket.
Rotating cylinders of plants lined the walls. These were chosen for their ability to provide clean oxygen – dracaena, philodendron, aloe and the like. Here and there were free-standing plants, added partly for aesthetic effect: chrysanthemums, azalea and peace lilies providing brilliant splashes of colour. With so many functional grey rooms on the Bona Dea, it was small wonder that many of the crew came here in their off hours to relax, read, and breathe the cleanest air on the ship. The soft hum of lights and an occasional gentle trickling of water meant even the sounds of the little haven gave a feeling of peace. Annie herself seldom visited, on account of her hostile relations with the garden’s curator, but she had to admit that Barbara had the touch of an artist about her in the way she handled the place.
The gardener indicated a tangle of machinery above a series of philodendron cylinders. ‘That’s the problem. I’ve checked the equipment; nothing seems wrong with it.’
“Probably an uneven power flow, or some such; I’ll check out the distributors. Be needing a ladder…”
Soon, Annie was atop the ladder, half in and half out of the crawlspace above the garden. In the past, Barbara had made some rather frivolous requests of the technicians, but it appeared that there was, indeed, a faulty distributor. Annie temporarily rerouted power around the affected area so that she could safely replace the fatigued unit. Gravity was substantially lower up here, but she’d spent enough hours conducting crawlspace repairs that she barely noticed.
She was, however, aware of the awkward atmosphere in the room. Barbara had said almost nothing since her outburst, but Annie was aware of the other woman’s eyes upon her as she worked. The technician herself had been silent, save for the occasional comment about the task at hand.
It wasn’t until Annie was finishing up that Barbara broke the silence.
“It’s never bothered me, you know. The danger. I’ve made dozens of trips, spent years at a time in fragile outposts on worlds where taking a mouthful of what passes for air could kill you in a dozen nasty ways. I’ve seen it drive folks mad, that constant knowledge of how close death can be, once you leave the cradle of Earth.
“Me, I hardly gave it a second thought. I’d watch other people flipping out, and congratulate myself on my mental toughness, my nerves of steel. But now…” Her voice faltered.
Annie climbed slowly down the ladder. She gave the older woman a quick hug, hesitating only briefly on account of their past friction. Drawing back, she saw tears glistening on Barbara’s cheeks.
“Hey, we all gotta struggle from time to time,” Annie offered. “Often we don’t even know what sets us off, but -”
Barbara laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, but I do know! It was the moment our story started to go off script. For all the years I’d spent away from Earth, I’d never met a threat I couldn’t predict. Then we land on that planet, and the space guidebook goes out the window. Aliens! Living Planets! Guess I’d just been privileged before; never had to improvise. I can’t get my head around stuff like this, I’m not flexible enough. And now, when all I want to see is home, we’ve got to turn about and head dead away from there…”
“It’s fine, you’re gonna be fine. I reckon we’re all feeling what you’re feeling. I know I am.”
Barbara wiped at her eyes. “If that’s true, then you’re hiding it a whole lot better than me.”
“Aw, that’s just my act: blasé and irrelevant. Irreverent, I mean.”
As Annie had hoped, her deliberate tongue slip got a smile out of the troubled woman. “You got it right the first time,” she said.
“That’s the spirit! Say, are you sure you don’t wanna read my novel? It’s got barrel loads of humour, in amongst the sex and fighting with monsters.”
“Mercy! I think it might just push me over the edge.” Barbara looked at the young technician as though seeing something new in her. “But I appreciate the offer. Thank you.”
“Hey, any time. Us humans gotta stick together. We don’t want the next bunch of aliens we meet thinking we’re just a shipful of drama queens…”
VI
… This is the most momentous day in Ramiran history. Let us state that without reservation. Aliens – true aliens – have appeared in our system.
Many of us dismissed the story of a Legan force clashing with warriors from a distant star, but we must now confront the reality. While few details have been made available to the general public, sandstorms of rumour rage about every city and every town. The newcomers are said to be bipedal, but with faces and forms no gadi has ever borne. They are said to be intelligent and honourable, yet strange and unpredictable in their ways.
What do we know for sure? Very little, aside from the name of their planet: Rerutha. That, and the fact that they materialised as if from n
owhere on the fringes of Ramiran space – unaided teleportation is a possibility – and promptly set a course straight for our planet.
Grand Merchant Hajidomo’s first response was to mobilise the military, but he has made it plain that this is merely a precaution. Our first gesture shall be a peaceful one. Before the sun has set on the capital, a single, lightly armed ship will already have been dispatched to meet our visitors. The Grand Merchant himself will be aboard.
Will it be peace or war? Who can say, but be sure of this – nothing will ever be the same again.
These visitors are not of the same ilk as Vitana. They are not god-like and incomprehensible creatures of energy and thought. They are every bit as mortal as we are.
Out there, in the barren garden of the galaxy, another flower of organic life has bloomed.
We are not alone …
– Translated extract from the Ramiran Daily Shadow, Spring 57th edition
The Bona Dea had been less than a day’s travel from Ramira when they detected the ship approaching. Hunter immediately ordered a full stop, and for the message detailing their peaceful intentions, which they had been sending at regular intervals, to be transmitted once again.
They had received a response asking them to come no closer to the planet until their escort arrived. A brief message, somewhere between curt and courteous – that was Hunter’s impression based on what she knew about Matan speech. The captain had redoubled her efforts to learn the language since deciding to attempt contact with the colonies, but she’d always believed that one never truly mastered a tongue until one had spent a prolonged period of time in conversation with native speakers.
Hunter now watched as the Ramiran ship drew closer, trying her best to concentrate on her prepared words of greeting, and not to think about the approaching vessel slicing the Bona Dea to ribbons as soon as they got in firing range.
The ship had a number of protrusions at the front that could easily be weapons. Somehow, though, this didn’t strike the captain as a military vessel; the exterior was flashy rather than functional. At the front, a curving nose was embellished with dips and bumps, giving it the appearance of a playground slide. The rear portions were sleek and smooth, but also subtly asymmetrical, and the whole vessel was coloured in vivid yellows and oranges. The Bona Dea, grey and bulky, seemed ugly by comparison, but they weren’t here for a beauty contest.
The incoming vessel began to slow, jets located in the prow firing in short bursts as it glided to a stop less than fifty miles before them.
Hunter seated herself at the communications terminal and slipped on the accompanying headset. This conversation would be audio only, so there was no point in standing before the main screen. Around her, she was aware of Sandra Rivers, Doria al-Hawsawi and others conducting scans on the vessel; she was confident they knew what they were doing without any input from her, so she didn’t let it distract her from the task at hand.
After taking a moment to slow her breathing and bring her thoughts into focus, Hunter commenced broadcasting.
“I am Hunter of Earth. I greet you in the spirit of mutually beneficial interaction.” The awkward words were a set phrase, which had often appeared in the books that the women had found on Mahi Mata. She hoped that the greeting wasn’t an anachronism.
After only a brief pause, the Ramiran ship responded. The voice that filled the Hub was deep, rich and masculine.
“Haji of Ramira. I greet you in the same spirit. To be the first from my planet to address an alien is truly a dream made real.”
“For I, too, it is a great honour.”
“We’d heard about your arrival from our Legan cousins, of course,” said Haji, his tone abruptly less formal now that the initial greetings were done with. “They thought that you’d probably gone back to wherever you came from; we’re all wondering what the purpose of your visit is.”
“We’re here to trade,” responded Hunter without hesitation. She had anticipated this question and decided not to let on for the moment how desperate their current situation was. “We have numerous artefacts from our planet’s many cultures aboard.”
“Trade!” boomed the voice. Hunter briefly feared that she’d somehow caused offence, but would later learn that shouting a word was considered an act of reverence on Ramira – reverence for the concept it conveyed. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to interest us. We’ll escort you to Habadimo, our capital; I look forward to seeing whether you look as strange as you sound. Follow this ship, please. Unless you’ve any objections?”
The question seemed tacked on as an afterthought. The Bona Dea would be exceptionally vulnerable once they’d landed, of course. But then, weren’t they vulnerable whatever they did? Hunter needed to take a leap of faith at some point, or she and her crew would never see Earth again.
“No objections – lead the way. In the meantime, there’s safety to consider. My senior doctor is on hand to discuss any quarantine procedures or similar you may wish to establish for our visit.”
“Good. We’ve a scientist aboard – I’ll put him on…”
Hunter made way for Dr. Little at the communications station. Bala was also on hand to discuss any potential harm that the Ramiran atmosphere might do to human biology. While the conversation went on, Haji’s ship reversed course with a smooth arc; al-Hawsawi, now in the pilot’s seat, soon had the Bona Dea following at a respectful distance. The two vessels moved toward the planet at a sedate pace.
That seemed to go alright, Hunter mused. Of course, our relations with the Legans started with plenty of promise …
The Legan incident had left a sour taste in her mouth; she still wondered, from time to time, whether there was anything she could have said or done to prevent a conflict. One of her personal business maxims was “focus on the next decision, not the previous one”, but it was much easier to stick to that principle when the currency she was dealing in was dollars rather than lives.
Haji hadn’t mentioned the fact that her crew had fought his “Legan cousins”. How much did he know? Would he care? Once they reached the planet, they’d have no prospects of escape if the Ramirans decided to seek revenge.
And what would he make of Chamonix?
Many questions. Few options.
Every once in a while, you just have to cross your fingers and hope.
* * *
Three days later, Hunter stood on the little observation platform at the nose of the Bona Dea. When the ship was spaceborne, this was a favourite meditation spot for her. Today, though, her gaze was filled not with the calm blackness of space, but with the inside of a Ramiran hangar bay, and beyond, through a broad opening in the front wall, a sweeping, sandy vista.
Ramira had proven to be a desert planet. Or at least, it was well on its way to becoming one – water covered less than five percent of the surface, and Kiaya Ferguson, ship’s geologist, had predicted even that wouldn’t last more than a few centuries.
While many of the crew found the vast, barren expanses they had seen while landing to be less than heartening, Hunter felt that the science team were looking more cheerful than they had done for months. She suspected that they were happy to have come across a planet where the usual laws of physics seemed to apply. No strange metamorphoses or bizarre lifeforms were in evidence here; the women could rely on their knowledge, equipment and skill to answer any questions they had. Ferguson was positively champing at the bit with eagerness to get out there and discover which mineral gave the sand here its slightly greenish tinge.
They were all keen to get outside, if truth be known. For two days – ever since the Bona Dea had landed and been rolled inside the hangar – the view from their windows had been the same. But safety must come first. It wouldn’t do to drop dead after contracting a local virus, like Wells’ Martians. There didn’t seem to be anything too vicious in the air, at any rate, and Haji’s scientists had kindly provided vaccines to guard against such bugs as there were. Dr. Little was preparing doses even now.
All being well, they should be out tomorrow.
Hunter’s wristband beeped, reminding her that the meeting she had scheduled was almost due to start. It was time to discuss their strategy.
* * *
“So,” asked Rivers, “how much are we to tell them of our plight? And should we let them know about our ‘passenger’, or try to conceal it?”
“Chamonix’s a ‘she’, not an ‘it’,” said Annie sharply.
Rivers shrugged. Again, most of the surviving crew were present for the meeting. And again, the same few were doing ninety percent of the talking, Hunter noted. This was inevitable – stronger personalities naturally came to the fore – but still disappointing. Still, this was hardly the time to do anything about it.
“I’ve given that some thought,” she said. “On balance, I’d rather they didn’t know, but I don’t want to make a big effort to hide Chamonix, and then get embarrassed when they discover her. For all we know, they’ve got advanced scanning equipment and they’ve found her already. So, I propose that we remove the ladder leading up to our guest’s room and close the hatch. With any luck, they won’t suspect that there’s anything up there, but if we do find ourselves in a position where we’d have to lie to keep our secret, we come clean.”
No-one looked particularly comfortable with the situation, but there were no objections.
Barbara Young drummed her fingers on the desk. “It sounds like you’re inviting the Ramirans aboard, Captain.”
Hunter nodded. “Yes, tomorrow morning’s programme has been agreed already. Firstly, we go outside the ship for a formal greeting, the usual diplomatic pleasantries. Next, Haji and Co. get the grand tour of the ship. Everyone on your best behaviour for that, please” - she glanced at Annie, whose eyes widened in a show of innocence - “as we want to make a good impression. Finally, they return the favour and show us a little of their city. Hopefully we can talk trade after that.
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