DS02 Night of the Dragonstar

by David Bischoff

  “I just want the announcement to be heard by everyone, and I want to make the press conference as short as possible,” Kemp had said. “I’m going to leave it to my documentary to straighten out the whole picture. In the end, the show will be what people and posterity will remember, not all of this nonsensical hype that’s been going on.”

  “You can’t expect people to find out that an alien artifact is floating around in the solar system, that it may be the factory for life as we know it on this planet, and not be curious,” Colonel Waterford said in his soft but clear voice. “We’ve been feeding them only the barest facts and a few pictures, and look at all the furor that’s been caused. I for one wish we could dispense with the whole story right now.”

  “Don’t you understand, Colonel?” Kemp’s gray eyes blazed above his no-nonsense features. “This isn’t something that people are going to accept with just a story and some pictures. This may well change the course of human history. If the people of the world are not properly informed, God knows what they’re going to make of it.”

  “And you’re going to be the one to tell them, eh Phineas?” A dim smile played over Waterford’s bland features. “Center stage.”

  “That’s my duty as I see it,” Phineas replied curtly. “I was there. I have the command and the authority and the sources. This is what the board has decided. The project has been underway for the past month, and now that we have set a date, we can announce it and perhaps dispel some of the controversy.”

  Waterford shook his head. “Haven’t changed a bit since you were last Earthside, have you, Phin?”

  Damn the man! thought Phineas Kemp as the sleek, chauffeur-driven car eased up the horseshoe driveway to the front entrance of the Sheraton. Gus Waterford had always been a pain in the butt with his laconic attitudes, ever since Phineas had known him at the Academy. How he had achieved his high rank, Kemp could never understand. Perhaps the service figured they needed a token cynic to anchor their attitudes. If Phineas Kemp was the IASA’s head in the stars, then Gus Waterford was the ass planted firmly on solid ground.

  “What’s going on up there?” Kemp said, suddenly realizing that there was a crowd of people by the entrance, all waving their arms excitedly as the black limo approached.

  “No harm, sir,” said a spit-and-polish corporal named Garcia, seated by him. “Just the Saurie Friends. At any rate, we’ve stationed the proper security, and there won’t be any crazy crowds at the conference.”

  The car stopped. Only the armed guards prevented the large, frantic crowd from happily charging.

  “That’s nice to know,” Kemp said with distaste as he warily eyed the motley crowd. “Saurie Friends, huh? Just who are they?”

  Corporal Martin, up front, chuckled. “You must have been on the Moon, sir,” he said, and they all laughed at the joke. “No, sir. The people of the U.S. have taken the news of the existence of another group of intelligent beings in an ... interesting way. But look for yourself.”

  The people hailing his arrival wore T-shirts, buttons, and hats, all emblazoned with images of the Saurians, the intelligent dinosaurs Ian Coopersmith and Becky Thalberg had encountered behind that amazing wall at one end of Artifact One.

  “Incredible,” Kemp said. “I’ve been out of touch.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garcia said. “There are Saurie toys, Saurie bubble gum—the IASA really should have put a franchise on the little guys—we could have financed our whole project for a year with the income. They’ve already got TV shows and movies in the works. The Saurie Friends are a group formed to welcome the critters to Earth, should they ever come.”

  Kemp grunted. “Well, let’s get down to business.”

  The chauffeur opened the doors. Kemp put on his best media smile, with just the right amount of the boyish American charm that the country had come to expect from their astronauts, and made his way quickly through the path that parted the crowd.

  “Tell the Sauries we love them!” a fat, breathless woman screeched. Autograph books were waved in his face.

  A chant started. “We love Sauries! We love Sauries!”

  Kemp gritted his teeth, smiled, waved, and got through the cheering crowd as fast as he could, feeling a curious elation at the attention. When he stepped through the doors of the Sheraton’s lobby and met with his welcoming committee, his feeling of nervousness and stage fright had evaporated into a definitely up mood.

  “Colonel Kemp,” said a striking brunette, holding out a welcoming hand. “I’m Kathleen Ennis of NBC. I’m the field producer for your news conference.”

  Kemp took her slender hand, noting what a nice smile she had and the sparkle of her eyes. “Nice to meet you. Are you a Saurie Friend?”

  She shook her curls, throwing her head back in a sexy laugh. “No, I’m too addicted to men. Just call me Kate, okay? This way, please. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of reptile fanciers.”

  She guided him down the hall toward the room where he would speak. People in the foyer stopped in mid-conversation, turning his way as he passed, recognizing him, no doubt, from pictures. “We’ve got a green room with refreshments from which you’ll make your entrance. “

  “Are all the satellite hookups functioning?” Kemp asked.

  “Yes, that manly uniform will be seen all over the world.” Her fashionable outfit swished as she walked.

  “An Arthur C. Clarke special, eh?” Kemp joked, loosening up thanks to her casual presence.

  “Yes,” the pretty producer said, clearly flirting with him. “Satellite communication can be such a ball, can’t it?”

  She led him to a small room adjoining the larger hall where the podium and cameras were set up.

  “Believe it or not, it’s actually green,” Kate said, an attractive laugh in her voice. “And there’s someone here I believe you know, Colonel Kemp. Oh, Becky dahling,” the woman said, doing a Katharine Hepburn imitation. “The colonel’s come to call. Now you two please excuse me, I’ve got a dozen things to do in the next half hour.”

  “Hello, Phineas,” said Dr. Rebecca Thalberg, getting up from a chair. She gave him a chaste peck on the cheek, which felt strange coming from a former lover. “I’ve decided to accept your invitation.”

  * * *

  The news conference was as large as any the Sheraton had ever given, though representatives from the media had been restricted to one reporter per magazine, TV station, or newspaper.

  As per Colonel Kemp’s request, he and Dr. Thalberg were announced as simply as possible. Kemp and Rebecca made their way through a blaze of flashbulbs to the podium. Becky assumed a straight-backed seat nearby while Kemp instinctively grabbed the podium, letting the applause die down.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I would like to read a statement first, and then I’ll welcome your questions.”

  Kemp pulled a piece of paper from an inside pocket, unfolded it, and carefully placed it before him.

  “I’m sure you are all acquainted with the essential facts provided by the IASA concerning the discovery, the exploration of, and the subsequent conflict aboard the alien artifact popularly known as the Dragonstar. You also no doubt realize that as the Chief of Deep Space Operations for the IASA, Artifact One, the Dragonstar, is my direct responsibility.

  “At the present time, I am also responsible for introducing the world to this incredible discovery. This is quite a complicated task and one that I do not take lightly; the Dragonstar and the discoveries we have made aboard it are potentially monumental in our race’s development.

  “Therefore, rather than content myself with a skimpy report, I have taken upon myself the task of producing a documentary in conjunction with some of the finest individuals in television and science today.

  “This documentary, produced by World Media Corporation, will be shown May 15, 2028, and will be made available to all networks or television stations capable of receivin
g a signal from the TranSatNet, which will beam our partly recorded, partly live telecast.”

  Kemp looked up to see what response this announcement had brought. The reporters were literally sitting on the edge of their seats, waiting to hurl questions.

  “The purpose of this telecast will be threefold:

  “First, to show to the people of Earth the scope of the cylinder in audio and visual terms. Our cameras will take a tour of Artifact One, exterior and interior, complete with coverage of the denizens of the interior, both intelligent and nonintelligent.

  “Second, to fully document and describe all of the events from astronomical location of the cylinder in its cometary orbit through the numerous misadventures, tragedies, and conflicts experienced before the successful placement of Artifact One in a stable position relative to the Earth and the Moon.

  “Finally, to introduce, live, the intelligent life-form we have come to call ‘Saurians’, and to discuss the implications of what was discovered in the control sections of the ship, which are even now being explored and analyzed by the IASA scientific team headed by Dr. Robert Jakes.

  “The IASA feels that the people of Earth are owed more than the basic facts, facts which hardly disclose the depth and scope of our experiences with the ‘Dragonstar’ and barely touch upon its future.

  “This is a privilege and a challenge, and to undertake such an endeavor takes time.

  “We ask only your patience. I can personally assure you that you will be amply rewarded.”

  Kemp smiled for the first time.

  “Thank you. I’d also like to thank my colleague Dr. Rebecca Thalberg for joining me today. We will now take fifteen minutes of questions.”

  As Becky joined him at the podium, reporters leaped to their feet, struggling to be called upon.

  Kemp picked a reporter at random. He was amused at presidential news conferences the President seemed to know each of the reporters, and he, Kemp, hardly knew a one.

  “Jack Talent, Cablescope Newservices. Colonel Kemp, the term ‘misadventures’ seems hardly adequate to describe the incredible series of foul-ups and catastrophes experienced by the IASA, at a cost of many lives. Will this be fully covered in your documentary?”

  Kemp cleared his throat. “Yes. From the loss of the mining snipe and its two pilots to the Dragonstar’s defense system through the massacre upon the entrance into the rotating cylinder, through the confrontation with the Third World Confederation over ... ah ... media rights to the vessel.”

  The crowd laughed.

  Another hand was acknowledged.

  “Richard Whiting, Washington Post. This question is addressed to Dr. Rebecca Thalberg. Dr. Thalberg, you, along with Ian Coopersmith, were marooned inside the Dragonstar after dinosaurs attacked and killed the rest of your boarding party. Your struggle for survival while waiting for rescue has excited much speculation. Will you and Captain Coopersmith take part in this documentary and fully recount your experiences?”

  “I can only speak for myself,” Becky said. “Captain Coopersmith is presently on extended leave from the service and at this point does not intend to take part in media coverage. However, in the interest of getting all the facts straight, I have agreed to cooperate with Colonel Kemp and his crew in whatever way I can ... yes? In the back row ... ?”

  “Louis Stathis, HM Wireservice. Those dorks in the TWC are still screaming bloody murder. They claim that the IASA are imperialist barbarians who welcomed their aid with bullets and blood. They are particularly upset about the loss of one Marcus Jashad, leader of their ‘friendly’ expedition.”

  Kemp snorted with laughter and anger. “Sounds like they’re talking out of their assholes to me.” He colored as he realized what he had said.

  The crowd broke up as Kemp tensed and attempted to reclaim his stiff military demeanor.

  “Perhaps I should rephrase that last statement,” he said with the faintest of smiles. “I’m surprised that the TWC even acknowledges that such an expedition was sent. I think the record shows that Jashad and his crew were terrorists, intent upon claiming the Dragonstar—and any stardrive—for their own. The protests of the TWC are clearly a smoke screen for their embarrassment. Fortunately, the combined forces of the greater world powers are lenient, and no strong measures have been taken against that organization for its cutthroat efforts. The message the originators of the Dragonstar have placed there is for all of us. The IASA program will be available to all countries that care to accept the transmission.”

  More questions were hurled at the pair. Questions about the reactions of fundamentalist religions to the implications of life on Earth formed from an alien pattern. Questions as to the meaning of the Dragonstar to IASA Deep Space Exploration. Questions concerning the possibility of the alien architects of the Dragonstar (and by implication, human life on Earth) returning to visit. Kemp and Thalberg fielded them all expertly, referring any complex issues to either the upcoming documentary or the official report to be issued the following year by the IASA.

  To Kemp, the proceedings seemed to go incredibly fast; to Thalberg, who enjoyed public attention much less than did her former lover, it seemed interminable. She didn’t even know why she had involved herself, wishing now that she had kept to her promise to herself to continue her work as biomedical specialist on Copernicus Base, the IASA lunar colony. But something unfinished had nagged her into finally agreeing with Kemp to assist on his program.

  “Well, that was quite a show,” Kate Ennis said, stepping up onto the platform. Impetuously, she kissed Kemp on the cheek, then shook Becky’s hand. Kemp smiled, a little dazed by her perfume. “I can see you have political designs, Colonel Kemp,” she said playfully.

  “Political? No, no, I’m afraid not. And just call me Phineas, please.”

  “Don’t be so hasty, Phineas,” Becky said, observing with mixed feelings the producer’s clear interest in her former boyfriend. “I’m sure you’d make a fine PTA president someday.”

  Kate Ennis held her hand against a spray of ruffle emerging from her sharp suit and laughed charmingly. “Now, you must come and partake of the spread that your IASA Media Relations have prepared. I’ve seen it, and it’s not bad.”

  “Pâté modeled after an alien cylinder, perhaps?” asked Becky as they walked to the back of the room, where the media people who had not rushed to their terminals were chowing down.

  “Nothing so phallic, I’m sure.” Kate lifted an amused eyebrow. “Am I interrupting anything here?”

  “No, of course not, Kate,” Kemp said, picking a glass of white wine off a tray after the women had taken theirs. “As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk to you. I like your style. Have you had any experience in documentaries?”

  “I used to be a field producer for Ninety Minutes. I’ve no special contract with NBC and I happen to have some leave coming up, and I’d love to help you with your show. Here’s my card. Perhaps we can have dinner while you’re in town.” She flashed a smile. “Now you must excuse me.” And she was off.

  “Miss Jaws, 2028,” Becky said, laughing. “I do believe she has her eyes on you, Phineas, so watch out. They tell me that Swedish girls lock errant boyfriends in saunas to sweat out their sins.”

  “Do I hear a faint note of jealousy?” Kemp asked. Their conversation was interrupted by a number of media folk who had noticed their arrival and wanted to continue the press conference on a less formal level.

  Several glasses of wine and much ego-stroking later, Phineas found himself seated, a plate of cold cuts and olives on his lap, for a blessed time alone.

  Becky saw him and had to smile. He looked like a kid at a church social, struggling with his cup of punch and chicken salad sandwich. She excused herself from the boring conversation in which she was engaged and carried her own wine glass and hors d’oeuvre over his way.

  “Hey, sailor,” she said.

  Kemp
smiled up at her, mouth full of sandwich. “’Lo, Becky.”

  “Track Dragonjaws down again?”

  “Uh ... yeah. Dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Turns out she did a Moon story and she’s got her shots and permit. Damned fine credentials, too.”

  “I’m sure. What are we eating this crap for? This is my college town—let me take you out to a wonderful place I know in Georgetown—my treat. For old times’ sake. What do you say?”

  “What do I do with my limo?”

  “Send it back to the garage. I guarantee you there won’t be any Saurie Friends at this place.”

  “Sounds wonderful to me.” Kemp drained his glass. “I trust this place has good wine.”

  “Finest vintage, Phineas. A lot better than you can get on the Moon, let me tell you.”

  “Just don’t let me get drunk,” Kemp said, getting up.

  “Moi?” Becky said innocently.

  THE OLD MAN drank from his Jack Daniels bottle, belched resoundingly, then turned on his computer, keying in the dictation mode.

  “The Dragonstar Adventure,” he said in his rattly but resonant baritone, “by John T. Neville, King of the Hard Science Fiction Writers and the best damned lay in the universe!”

  Neville chuckled to himself as he watched the phosphorous words appear on the CRT screen. His secretary would process that last bit out, of course, but it always gave him a charge to hear it and see it in print. He slurped some more from the bottle as he gazed serenely over his patio to the walls that guarded his hilltop mansion. He wished for the umpteenth time that the stuff he drank was really whiskey, but he hadn’t been able to drink that wonderful nectar since his liver transplant thirty years ago, and he missed it every single day.

  Tapping a single key, he told the computer not to take down his next words. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, which actually held a specially concocted geriatric preservation formula he brewed in his basement, and settled his old frail bones back in his composing chair, conveniently close to the life maintenance equipment that he kept in every room. His gaze drifted casually across the shelves holding all four hundred and fifty-nine of his science fiction and popular science books (no goddamn fantasy!) to the enshrined picture of a crew-cut, bespectacled middle-aged man smoking a cigarette in a long holder.