Analog SFF, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Phillips snapped, “What the blue blazes—who are you?”

  “Mrs. Hope Edith Stubbins, 112 Inkerman Street, Gateshead.”

  Clare said, “Hello, Thelma.”

  Thelma asked, “What on Earth are you two doing here?”

  “I left Mrs. Stubbins with a walkie-talkie. She called me and said she wanted to be here.”

  Phillips said, “Why?”

  Hope laughed. “To save your bacon, Dan Dare. Not enough manpower, you say? Will this lot do?”

  “Good God,” Phillips said. “There must be a thousand civilians with you.”

  “More than that, bonny lad. We got fed up sitting in a field. So we came to do something about it. We left the bairns and the old folk behind at the camps, of course. The Geordie Army at your service.”

  “But you're unarmed.”

  Hope said, “So what? Let's get this sorted out.” She stuck her fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. “Forward, march!” With Clare at her side she was rolled past Phillips's party towards the base fence. The rest followed, in a loose column three or four abreast, their faces grey in the dawn light, and as they walked they began to sing softly.

  Phillips gave no orders. His soldiers, at their loose perimeter around the base, fingered their weapons nervously, but fell back before the civilians’ advance.

  Buck said, “They're walking straight for the fence. They'll be cut down.”

  Thelma said, “And bombed flat. Captain Phillips—please—the Vulcans—”

  “All right, damn it.” He lifted his radio. “Ground control to Vulcan 1. Phillips to V-1. Wave off. I say again, wave off.”

  Thelma felt as much as heard the jets scream over. But there was gunfire from within the base as the civilians approached.

  Buck said, “They'll be picked off.”

  “I think the Americans are firing in the air,” Phillips said, peering. “At least for now. But there are bound to be accidents.”

  As if on cue somebody screamed, from the head of the column.

  Grady said, “But they aren't trying to run or hide. Not one of them.”

  Thelma said, “Stern stuff, Sergeant.”

  “And—my God. They're singing!”

  Phillips said, “That's ‘Abide with Me,’ if I'm not mistaken.”

  Thelma grabbed Phillips's arm. “Captain. These people are doing their part. Grasp the opportunity.”

  Phillips hesitated. “Damn it! Give me that loudhailer, Grady.” He raised it to his lips. “This is Captain Phillips. Soldiers of Aldmoor. Look—you are a long way from home. I understand you are doing your duty. But your base commander is committing a horrific crime. Now is the time for a higher judgement. If you keep firing you will gun down civilians who have come to smother your bullets with their lives. I urge you to surrender.” He lowered the hailer and waited.

  His reply came from a distant tannoy. “Cease fire! This is Captain Greengage, acting base commander. Cease fire!”

  Thelma grinned. “Hope did it!”

  “Yes,” Phillips said grimly. “But how many fell? Right. Grady, take a squad, get through the fence and cut the power to that control room. Move!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  * * * *

  Jones said, “Hear that singing, Godwin? I rather think things are starting to unravel, don't you?”

  The light died, and the hum of the air circulation system faded away.

  “And there goes the power. It's all over, Commodore.”

  “Not if I can get my hands around your neck.” Jones heard him lumbering in the dark.

  Jones ducked behind a console. “More rage, Godwin? Well, you'll have to find me first—”

  There was a small explosion and a metallic creak as the door was blown in. Torchlight probed into the room.

  “Jones? Commodore? Are you in here?”

  Jones yelled, “Keep out of the light, Captain Bob. He's armed!”

  Buck Grady called, “I'm on him.” There was a crash of bodies and a gunshot. “No, you don't. That's enough killing for one night—” Jones heard a struggle and a single meaty punch. “Situation secured, Captain.”

  Jones stood up. “Phew! About time, if I may say so!”

  Phillips shone a light in his face. “Sorry about that.”

  Thelma clambered through the smashed door. “Jones?”

  Jones ran to her. “Thelma! Oh, Thelma! Are you all right?”

  “Dirty, scared, lacking sleep—”

  “You managed to retrieve the data I asked for?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let's get cracking. Come on—”

  “Jones. Jones! Calm down. Just for a minute. Get your breath. And let me look at that hand. You've cut it somehow.”

  “I—oh, all right.”

  Buck said, “First aid kit here, ma'am.”

  “Thank you.” She opened the kit and, by torchlight, began to cut a bandage strip. “It seems you intend to speak to the Magmoids.”

  “Well, I can try. But the Magmoids may not listen.”

  “Why not?”

  “They aren't our sort of life, Thelma. A hundred different disasters could play out on Earth's surface, it could even be made lifeless, and the Magmoids wouldn't even notice. They are immune to history.”

  “All you can do is try.”

  “You know, the madman in here kept quoting Shakespeare at me. Called me Caliban!”

  “Caliban? Well, you've got the face for it.”

  “Oh, thanks very much.”

  “How does that lovely speech of poor Caliban's go—after he dreams—'And then, in dreaming, the clouds, methought, would open—'”

  “'And show riches ready to drop upon me, that when I waked I cried to dream again.'”

  “'This will be a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing—'”

  “'When Prospero is destroyed.’ Come on, Thelma, we've got work to do.”

  Phillips called the group to his command tent, outside the base gate. Jones, deeply weary, sat in a canvas chair, drinking tea and sucking in fresh air. Thelma was here, and Clare Baines with Hope Stubbins in her barrow.

  “So,” Phillips began, “Sergeant Grady, we've got the base locked down at last.”

  Buck said, “Yes, sir. But, Captain, we've now got a few hundred GIs expecting to be put into custody, and a few thousand civilians milling about the place—”

  Clare Baines put in, “And some civilians down, Captain Phillips. Shot.”

  Phillips said, “Yes, yes. Look here, Grady, you sort that lot out. Take Constable Baines. No doubt you'll find a way. And take this old lady in the wheelbarrow with you.”

  Hope said, “Old? Do you mind?”

  Thelma stood up. “Don't worry, Mrs. Stubbins, I'll look after you.” She glanced back at Jones, who nodded. With Clare pushing Hope, they hurried out.

  Tremayne bustled into the tent with Winston. “Captain Phillips! Where's Doctor Jones? We've got the data analysis he wanted.”

  Jones stood up. “I'm right here, gentlemen, fit and raring to go. These your results, are they?” Winston handed him a sheaf of paper, and he riffled through it. “You've done some jolly fine work here in the circumstances.”

  “An awful lot of it was down to young Winston.”

  “I'm not surprised.”

  Winston said, “What are you going to do with all this, Doctor Jones?”

  “Save the world. I hope! Captain Bob, have you any sappers handy?”

  “We've a unit on detachment from the Royal Engineers. Why?”

  “I'm going to want them to plant a network.”

  “A network? Of what?”

  “Of explosives, Captain Bob. Mines. Shells. Grenades will do if you can wire them up. Anything that can be set off remotely. A thousand should do it.”

  “A thousand? We don't have an infinite resource, Jones.”

  Tremayne said, “Jones—what kind of network?”

  “Now, that's where you come in. Do you have a sketch p
ad? And, Tremayne—how's your soldering?”

  * * * *

  In an improvised medical centre, Clare and Thelma sat beside Hope in her barrow, which was now lined with army-issue pillows. They had worked for half an hour, trying to figure out the problems they had to deal with and the resources they could muster.

  Buck marched in, competent and energetic as ever. “So what have we got?”

  Clare looked down a list. “Well, we've got about thirty dead, fifty injured.”

  Hope said, “The wounded need doctors. And everybody else needs to be took somewhere safe.”

  “I've also got a division of GIs waiting to be clapped in irons.”

  Thelma said, “Are there any medics among them?”

  “Of course there are.”

  Thelma said, “I think the solution's staring us in the face, for the short term at least. Look, those soldiers were only doing their duty as they saw it. So let them atone. Have them help.”

  Clare seized on that. “Yes. Buck, if you can point me to a senior medic—”

  “All right. Makes sense. There's plenty more work to do. We're going to want stretcher parties. And to set up some kind of emergency field hospital. Then there's water and food—”

  Hope said, “And if you can pick out some hunky GI to push me wheelbarrow for me I'll be forever in your debt.”

  “So we've got a plan. Let's get on with it.”

  * * * *

  Jones selected a reasonably level, reasonably bare patch of land outside the base for his “signalling station.” He had Phillips assemble a hundred troops at the centre, each of them carrying rolls of wire and baskets of small ordinances and hastily copied sketch maps. Most of them looked bewildered, Jones thought, and well they might.

  Tremayne stood with Jones, shivering a little in the dawn chill, and scratching his bare head.

  Phillips came up to them. “Ready, Doctor Jones?”

  Tremayne said, “I wish we could test this.”

  Jones said, “No time for that. But it will all be over soon, one way or another. Go for it, Captain Bob!”

  Phillips called, “All right, lads. Move out steadily! Keep the circle, keep your shape!”

  The soldiers moved out from the centre, consulting their maps, talking to each other quietly. Following the sketches they planted ordinances in the soft ground, leaving wire trailing between them. Here and there a more complex junction box was established, which sappers wired up.

  Jones said, “Good. Good.”

  Phillips said, “Well, I hope it works, Jones; we're draining our ammo like pink gin on ladies’ night.” He took off his hat and brushed back grimy hair. “And you say you're going to talk to the Magmoids with this set-up?”

  “Quite so,” Tremayne said. “But even I don't quite understand what you're going to say, Jones.”

  Jones grinned. “Have you heard of Project Ozma, Tremayne?”

  “Why, I don't—”

  “A young American radio astronomer called Frank Drake. Calculated that his new eighty-five-foot radio telescope in West Virginia could pick up the strongest terrestrial radio signals, if they were beamed from the nearer stars. So, back in the spring, he listened to the stars—simple as that—to Tau Ceti and Epsilon Eridani, if I'm not mistaken. Heard nothing, but it's a start—and what a visionary experiment to try! Drake has ideas on how the telescopes could be used to signal to those distant cultures, and even what sort of signal to send. Anybody capable of building a radio telescope or some equivalent instrument must have a grasp of mathematics and physics, you see—and therefore ought to comprehend a message based on those principles. For mathematics is surely universal.”

  “Ah,” Winston said. “And when the Professor and I analysed the Magmoids’ seismic signals, we did find traces of structure—sequences of repeating length, various correlations.”

  “Exactly.” Jones dug a grubby bit of paper from his pocket; it was covered with a grid pattern. “I've sketched out a signal here that exploits the Magmoids’ own framing system, and I've included a sequence of prime numbers, counting up from two, three, five . . .”

  Phillips nodded. “I think I see what you're up to. If these Magmoid chaps pick up your signal, they might recognise us as intelligent, rather than as some sort of pest—”

  “And permit us to survive. Exactly. My signal will be a balance, at least, to the aggression Godwin showed them.”

  Phillips scratched his chin. “But we don't have a radio telescope, Doctor Jones.”

  “Nor do we need one! For the culture we are trying to contact is not up in the sky but down in the ground. We must improvise, Captain.”

  A sapper ran up to Jones carrying a contact box, a simple Morse key with wires trailing to the network of ordinances on the ground. He saluted. “Ready, sir.”

  “Jolly good—thank you, Sergeant!” Jones hefted the contact and glanced at his script. “Well, there's no point in delaying this. There's only going to be time for a brief signal—but that might be enough. Ready? Minefield clear? Hold onto your hats.” He started to tap the key.

  In response small explosions clattered all across the ground.

  Winston stared. “Oh, my word!”

  Phillips said, “My giddy aunt, Jones, what are you doing?”

  Jones, still working the key, shouted over the din, “My signal has to be turned into seismic waves, Captain—pulses in the rock—that's how the Magmoids hear. And the only way to do that is through these blooming great bangs, courtesy of the Royal Engineers.”

  Tremayne said, “Ah. It's ingenious. And it should work. The ordinances will generate compressional acoustic waves—of course the attenuation will knock out anything much above a hundred Hertz—”

  Jones said, irritated, “I compensated for that, obviously.”

  The small explosions died away. Jones lowered his key.

  Phillips said, “Well, that's it. All the ordinances are used up. Now what?”

  Jones said, “Now we wait to see if—”

  A tremendous explosion erupted from the centre of Jones's minefield. They all fell back; Jones found himself face down on the ground, and earth hailed around him. He heard the shriek of Grendels, and when he dared glance up he saw their quasi-spherical forms shoot up into the sky.

  Winston crawled towards him, coughing, “Doctor Jones!”

  “It's all right, Winston, I'm intact.”

  They stood, brushing dirt away, and peered into the fresh crater.

  Tremayne said, “My God, Jones, call that a response?”

  Phillips said, “It was a punch in the mouth, that's what. We're lucky to be alive.”

  Jones was baffled. “I failed, then. I can't understand it. They took my signal as more aggression. I was sure—”

  Tremayne gripped his arm. “We'll try again. We can re-establish the network.”

  Winston said, “But what's the point of doing the same thing over just to fail again?”

  “Mister Stubbins! There's always hope.”

  Jones said, “No. He's right. I was convinced this would work. I'm so terribly sorry.”

  “Nonsense, man. Come on, let's get back to work.”

  Phillips scowled. “I'm not sure what was supposed to happen here, let alone what did happen. But I'll keep the faith for one more try, Doctor Jones. I'll see about establishing another minefield.”

  Winston muttered, “We're missing something. We have to be. Something obvious . . .”

  * * * *

  Thelma approached Godwin. The Commodore had been manacled to a post inside a small green-canvas tent, with two uncomfortable-looking squaddies posted outside to guard him.

  “Ah, Miss Bennet, isn't it? Jones's friend. Come to see the toppled tyrant, have you? Oh, don't be cautious, you're safe enough. I'm manacled quite securely.”

  “I'm not here to make conversation. Here.” She handed him a metal cup of water.

  “Thank you.” With his one free hand he sipped the water. “Why?”

  “Not even a
man like you deserves to die of thirst, Commodore.”

  “How weak you are. I'd have had me killed.”

  “Then I thank God I'm not like you.”

  Jones appeared at the tent entrance. He looked crumpled, grimy, exhausted. “Thelma. They said I'd find you here. Should have known you'd be doing your bit, even for a man like this.”

  Godwin said, “Ah, Caliban! You look a bit less cocksure. Plans not going well? But what of it? We humans are like rats, like fleas. The Magmoids can't kill us all.”

  Thelma walked out of the tent. “Ignore him, Jones. Come away.”

  Jones said, “I let that man pollute my head for too long tonight.”

  “Is there really no hope?”

  “I can't think why it didn't work in the first place. Look, Thelma—we still have a choice to make. You and I.”

  Thelma said, “You mean, we could go back to London.”

  “This isn't your fight—you're a civil servant, not a soldier.”

  “But we can't simply leave, can we? Look—we came here by chance. We didn't know any of these people two days ago—Clare, Winston, Mrs. Stubbins. But they are decent, brave folk. It's like life, really.”

  “Is it?”

  “Certainly. When you're born you're dropped into a point of space and time, entirely at random, and you just have to do the best you can for the people around you.”

  “Hmm. Well, you're one decent, brave person yourself, Miss Bennet . . .”

  She heard Tremayne calling. “Jones? Oh, confound the man—where are you?”

  “Over here, Tremayne.”

  Tremayne came bustling over, almost as grimy as Jones, but looking agitated.

  Thelma asked, “What's wrong?”

  “What's right—I hope. It's Winston. He's got something. Come on!”

  Inside his tent, Godwin watched them go. He prised the handle off the metal cup Thelma had left with him, and began to saw at his cuffs.

  * * * *

  They hurried back to Phillips’ command tent, where Winston Stubbins was looking very nervous.

  Phillips said, “Right. This had better be worth it.”

  Tremayne said, “It's all right, Winston. Just tell it to Doctor Jones as you explained it all to me.”