by Eric Flint
"Beginner's luck and the special providence for fools is all very well," Spivey said, "but isn't this laying it on a bit thick?"
Reader, I despaired.
"Ve are here to drink blood and fuck chicks!" screamed Magni, or possibly Modi.
"Ve vant to burn churches and piss on ze rotting corpse of order!" cried Modi, or possibly Magni.
"You'll listen to your grandfather and do as he tells you or I'll tan your hides for you, you pair of disappointments," Thor rumbled.
"Yes, Papa," they both chorused, suddenly shuffling into contrite-schoolboy poses from the attitudes of moody menace they'd been affecting only moments before.
Metal fans to the life. At first glance, like they're studying hard to be the main attraction in a horror show, all violence and nastiness. On closer examination, smart sensible middle-class boys who do as their dads tell them, resent it though they may. A similar phenomenon is found among the youth wings of radical organisations, and, approaching it from the other end as it were, in the statistics relating to how many children of hippy households end up serving a term in the armed forces and voting a straight conservative ticket until well into their thirties. These things get to be clichés because they're true. And mindsets that prevalent have to affect gods, who I was rapidly learning were—whatever their other powers—canaries in the coalmine of the cultural zeitgeist. And if I was capable of thinking a thought like that with a straight face, I was clearly in need of a very strong drink.
"We'd better get back to Midgard as soon as possible," I said. "Preferably by way of a bar. We'll pick up leads when we're there, eh?"
I doubt I could have made my intention to shirk any clearer. Remember, I was only a junior lawyer at that time and my skills of obfuscation and delay were not yet complete.
"Certainly," Odin said. "Mister Spivey, see them to a churnel. Thor, take Mister Watters to a bar as you promised. I will see that you are fully briefed as soon as you've steadied your nerves. You have a dangerous mission ahead of you, and you must gird your livers and loins appropriately."
Looking back, I should have taken more notice of that smug little smile on the Allfather's face. As it was, I just wanted to get on the outside of some real beer, get trashed, and chuckle over a narrow escape through the mists of tomorrow morning's hangover.
Besides, I was desperate for a pee.
* * *
To be continued
Eric Flint is the author of many novels and some short fiction. He has also edited a number of anthologies.
Dave Freer has written a number of novels and short stories.
Andrew Dennis has co-authored books with Eric Flint. This is the first time the three have worked together.
Common Ground
Written by Mackey Chandler
Illustrated by Mike Rooth
After years of patiently straining to catch a cosmic whisper, the first alien radio signal heard by humanity was blasted at the com dish on the International Space Station from meters away.
Sergei Vasilevich Dvoinikov had finished the official traffic for the day and was speaking with his wife when he was cut off and the speaker spewed a burst of strange tones. The pattern to the noise didn't register the first time at all. It was odd, like somebody attempting a turkey call on a clarinet. His tour with the two Americans was making him comfortably bilingual, so he carefully grabbed the pull handle for removing the radio unit from the rack with his left hand and firmly smacked it with his right fist, repeating the magic restorative phrase—"useless piece of crap"—between each thump. When the English incantation failed, he sighed and pressed the button that would run the self-diagnostic program for the unit. In seconds it informed him that the radio and supporting systems were in perfect condition with no failures or errors despite the abuse. That left nothing to do but call Jed Yoho the American, who was not sleeping and conveniently the most experienced with electronics, to ask his help.
"Cowboy!" Sergei yelled. "Is Japanese radio. Is not supposed to bust. Help me figure out what's wrong with friggin' hunk of junk." The mic was still open.
Jed's voice came through the open hatch. "Maybe it isn't tracking. Have you checked that the dish is pointed at a ground station, Sergei?"
"Diagnostic checks that, too. Lying piece of shit says all is well."
"Let me pop in the observation blister. Maybe the miserable thing finally fell off." The sounds of Jed moving around were audible through the open hatch over the steady drone of cooling fans and ventilation that never let up. Sergei gave the unit another half-hearted smack, more to pass the time than with any real hope.
Jed's voice came loudly from the other module with a hollow ring like from the end of a great pipe. "Holy shit!"
That didn't worry Sergei. The silence that followed did.
"You okay, Jed?" There was no reply. "Talk to me, cowboy!" He was more worried about the continued silence than any radio trouble. He twisted around on his left-handed grip and lined up for a quick jump for the hatch.
"Get me a camera, now!" Jed roared from the next module. Jed was commander, but Sergei had never heard such a tone of voice from the easygoing American. He switched objectives and instead jumped over to the equipment cabinets and withdrew a case with a Canon digital SLR. Turning it on, he pressed a button and checked the battery strength in the viewfinder. The bar showed almost a full charge.
Just then the radio put forth a fresh batch of the odd tones.
"Oh my God, that's him on the radio!" Jed yelled, which left Sergei puzzled. Allen was sleeping and there wasn't anyone else on board. "Turn it up, turn it up, and where's that camera?"
"Coming," Sergei yelled, rushing back to turn the volume up to full, then to the hatch edge to pull himself through. In the space beyond, Jed's torso and legs dangled through the grab hold ring surrounding the observation bubble. He was stuffed into the clear bubble just short of his elbows. One arm reached down blindly with his hand spread wide anxious for the camera. Sergei pushed it into his hand and Jed pulled it up into the blister without a word of thanks. His body hanging out twisted around as Jed positioned himself and worked the camera. Sergei heard several faint beeps as the camera took still frames. Then Jed emerged and swung aside, his face still showing he was deeply shocked by something.
"Wake Allen up. Tell him to hustle. If he tries to take time for more than a piss, grab him and drag him here."
"Yes, sir," Sergei acknowledged, and fled for the sleeping module. If Jed was so shook up he thought both of them together could drag Allen anywhere he didn't want to go while half awake, Sergei wasn't about to argue. It was shear fantasy. Allen was big and fast, and grumpy when he woke up. But when Sergei shook Allen awake, it was the look on Sergei's face that made Allen peel out of his sleep sack and hurry without argument.
Jed was still verifying he had good files in the camera when they returned. "Get in there," he ordered, pointing at the observation bubble. "You were designated mission specialist for this contingency."
"For what?" Allen asked, still foggy.
"Alien contact."
Allen searched Jed's face, and then Sergei's, to see if it was a joke. There was no humor on Jed's face, and a glance told him Sergei was shocked too, so he grabbed the hold ring and swung into the bubble without any more protests. Allen's eyes focused to look for something in the distance. Instead, there was a huge mass blocking almost the entire view of the Earth. He blinked a couple times, brain working to grasp the proper perspective. The sucker was big and close. Too close to be comfortable. Rock-throwing distance. In the middle was a clear bubble a bit bigger than his own with someone looking back. He had no doubt that it was a someone not a something. The large intelligent eyes were looking back at him with interest. It looked birdlike at first glance, patterned in bright colors like a parrot. No, he thought, looking at the head—more like an owl, with both big eyes looking forward instead of on each side like a parrot. His hand come up unbidden and, abandoning all the planned protocols for first contact,
he waved. In zero G you don't wave like a dog wagging its tail. That sort of motion whips your attached body back and forth in an unpleasant reaction. Instead he held his hand palm out and wiggled all his fingers in a rippling motion. The cute sort of wave a four-year-old might do. It was stupidly dangerous. There was no telling what any gesture might mean to an alien culture. The alien held up a big but delicate hand and rotated it back and forth like a radar dish sweeping. Allen laughed out loud and got a concerned, "What's going on?" from Jed.
"You know the funny little twisty wave the Queen does in England? The sort of wave you do to keep from hurting your wrist?"
"Yeah?"
"Our buddy does the same thing."
"You wave back?"
"Uh, I sort of started it."
"Nooo, Allen, you can't do that. It could mean anything. You might have just surrendered the station or insulted his momma. We're supposed to start with abstracts. Numbers first."
"Jed, the instructions we got were very general. They didn't know if an alien would be anything like us. I mean, it could have been something like a giant clam. This guy has hands and eyes. He talks and he's symmetrical like us. We should be able to understand each other," he insisted.
The radio gave another burst of sound. This time Allen saw the alien open its beak. It wasn't any seed eater, that was for sure. It had the hooked powerful bill of a raptor. There were big nostrils at the back of the beak, with a slight ridge around the openings and a ring of fluffy fur or feathers around the base that looked soft, and another big ruff of contrasting feathers ringed the neck like a collar. His blast of sound getting no response, the alien started repeating back what Sergei had transmitted unthinking on the radio, unaware it had been listening—"useless piece of crap"—then it visibly strained, beak opening wide, to do a passable imitation of a fist smacking into the radio housing. It was clearly coming from the alien's beak, but it sounded like a recording.
"Uh-oh. This is going to get really confusing if we don't straighten it out fast," the big American muttered. Allen held both hands up flat and interrupted: "Wait!" The alien stopped and blinked solemnly at him.
Allen pointed at himself. "Allen," he said. Would the alien understand?
The alien pointed across at him. "Allen," it said with Allen's exact voice and inflection. It was clearly speaking, his beak moving, not a recording. The creature was a perfect mimic.
"This is too easy," he mumbled. The alien cocked his head.
"Finger," Allen continued, holding his right index finger up. Then he turned his hand around hiding his thumb and wiggled all his fingers. "Fingers."
The alien started to lift a hand and seemed to think better of it.
Allen made a fist and wiggled a solitary thumb. "Thumb."
The alien curled its three fingers down on a palm and extended a hand, wiggling a thumb on either side of the single hand.
"Thumbsss," it declared, clearly excited. A collar of yellow swelled against the green body. There were bits of blue and red around the head, too. The big eyes were bright with other mixed colors.
"Thumbs," Allen agreed, waving both of his.
"You can't just take it upon yourself to do a first contact without any help," Jed protested from outside the dome, tugging on Allen's ankle. "We have a procedures manual you're supposed to follow and the first thing is to contact control."
"I have a big-assed starship right in front of my dish blocking me from asking for any help. What do you want me to do? Wave him away? Tell him to move it or get a parking ticket?"
Jed sighed. "I'll get my laptop and keep track of what you're doing." By the time Jed came back with Sergei, they had gone beyond one finger, two fingers, and the alien held up three fingers in anticipation of the next numeral. After that it just held up one more digit in succession until Allen had counted off ten for it.
The alien held up a thumb. "Thumb."
"Thumb," Allen agreed, lifting one of his.
"Finger," the alien spoke like a challenge, holding the thumb out again. Allen felt a thrill at the brilliant ploy. It was a deliberate error, he was sure.
"No," he refuted, lifting a thumb and naming it.
"Thumb." The alien changed its statement, holding the correct one up this time.
"Yes, thumb."
"Finger," it tested, holding a single middle digit up. It gave a whole new meaning to being flipped the bird.
"Yes," Allen agreed without elaboration.
"Finger," the alien asserted, holding up a thumb.
"No," Allen corrected, waiting for it to expand on the idea.
"No finger?" asked the alien, holding up a thumb.
"Not finger," Allen explained holding up a thumb. "Is finger," he added holding up the proper digit.
This progressed until Allen put his hands up again and went back to the first word the alien should know: "Wait," and held very still for a moment. Then he ducked out and discovered Jed and Sergei sharing a laptop and a take-hold strap. They had a voice recognition program running and a vocabulary list in another window.
"I want you both to introduce yourselves. Just point at yourself and say your name. It might think Allen is our word for human."
At a gesture from his commander, Sergei went first and told his name. He hesitated, trying to engrave the sight of the alien in his memory, but he knew he wasn't the right person to be giving it English lessons, so he ducked back out and deferred to Jed.
After Jed named himself, the alien pointed at itself and let out a warble that sounded like a cell phone ringing. Jed ducked his head down and asked Allen, "Get me my micro-recorder off my desk, will you?"
The alien was fairly patient, just cocking it's head now and then while they waited. When Allen returned he pressed the small recorder into Jed's hand. The commander cleared it to use, finger poised to start it recording.
"Jed," he reminded the alien, pointing at himself. Then he pointed across at the other and hit Record. The alien pointed at itself and repeated the warble.
Jed hit Stop and held the recorder up, making sure the volume was turned up. He pointed to the alien and pressed Play. The machine repeated the warble. The beak opened and then closed without a sound. Then the big eyes blinked twice. "Yes," it agreed. "Wait," it added with the appropriate gesture. When he returned he had a laptop computer that could have been from Radio Shack if the keys had only been a bit bigger and fewer. He stuck a finger in his beak, wiping it on the end of a small cylinder and pressing the cylinder on the inside of his clear bubble. It stuck. With a little fiddling he soon had a video feed of himself on the screen from the little camera.
"Guys, pass the laptop up. You won't believe this shit, but he has one over there that looks so much like ours it's scary. If it had a Toshiba logo on it, you'd never look at it twice."
The laptop was a tight fit. He didn't have as much room in his bubble as the alien, and he suspected Allen couldn't have fit with the computer. When he got the computer up where it could be seen, the alien got visibly excited. Jamming his head against the dome, he finally managed to get the computer open with the screen tucked under his chin and the corners against the clear dome. Reaching in awkwardly from the side, he got the cam above the screen activated When the picture facing him showed his ship and his own image looking back at him, the alien used more of its own speech. It pointed at its screen and then back across at the humans.
"I think it wants to send us video," Jed called out to his mates. "Can you scan and see if it's transmitting anything that might be video?"
"Why don't you turn the wireless on?" Allen suggested. "Maybe it could detect that."
"Come on. What are the chances it'd have a compatible system?" Jed asked.
"Hey, if its people have a lot of experience at meeting strangers, the computer might be set up to scan and configure itself. But hold on a minute until Sergei shuts off the wireless node on our onboard system. I'd let it in the laptop's files, but I sure as hell don't want it messing with our environmental or atti
tude controls. Crap, I don't even want it snooping through my e-mails. Bad enough Houston can look at 'em."
"Okay," Sergei called from the connector. "I pulled network card to be sure. Go ahead and fire her up, Jed."
Jed folded the computer shut and struggled to turn it around for the alien to see the screen. It was tight against his chest and he had to reach in from the sides to peck with a single finger at the keyboard and mouse. He clicked on the network icon and activated the wireless. It showed a dead connection. He looked over the top of the screen, wondering if the alien would understand he was being invited to make a connection. The alien made the gesture for "wait". About thirty seconds went by and the icon came up on the screen showing they had a connection. It was slow, just a gig a second, but data was flowing in steadily. A cartoon figure very much like their visitor appeared on screen and started to go quickly through the words they had already established. The real visitor in the other bubble seemed satisfied with its cartoon version taking over and withdrew from the dome into his ship. "Well, that was easy," Jed told his shipmates.
