Jim Baens Universe-Vol 1 Num 6

by Eric Flint

  Jed backed out of the bubble, joining Allen and Sergei with the laptop, but stayed right under the dome, scared he'd lose the signal. "It went back into its ship. I wish I had enough words to ask it to move it out of the way. I guess we'll just have to keep talking to his avatar here," he gestured at the screen, "until we can. It may take a while, so I think we should get back into a routine covering our essential duties and keep one of us working with the computer." Jed was commander, so his assessment was more than a suggestion. "Allen, you lost the last bit of your sleep period. Do you need more to function, or can I send Sergei off to sleep?"

  "I couldn't sleep unless you knocked me out. I'm up for taking a turn at the computer if you'll let me."

  "Fine, and I'll get some pix of the ship out there. As much as I can, without going EV. Then I have some environmental maintenance that shouldn't wait. You call us if anything really scary comes up in this program."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, if it wants us to surrender Earth to the Galactic Union or something. Anything involving it coming on board or moving the station. Okay?"

  "Yes, sir," Allen replied with unusual formality.

  Halfway through the work shift, the computer started interrupting the training program with questions about English words and phrases from radio and television. It was obviously multitasking, sampling all sorts of transmissions from Earth below to understand words and phrases. Some of the samples it asked about sounded suspiciously like cell phone intercepts. The questions kept getting more reasonable and detailed with unbelievable rapidity. By the end of the shift it was attempting slang and asking questions about regional dialects and use of foreign words. At some point the alien program stopped using their voices; Allen hadn't noticed right away. When Jed came back, Allen was exhausted and happy to have him take over. Right away the program asked, "Y'all from da South, ain't ya, cracker?" Allen then had to detail the depth of differences both linguistic and cultural between the Southwest and the Deep South.

  With the conversation getting very extemporaneous, and the number of stops to clarify meanings much fewer, Jed made something clear.

  "You know, I don't mean to offend, but it's impossible for us to say your name. I mean, there might be somebody on Earth who's really good at bird calls and can copy it, because that's what it sounds like, but the average human doesn't stand a chance of making a sound like that."

  "Yes, I figured that out as soon as you used a recorder instead of repeating back from your own beak, er . . . mouth, that is. I'd be happy to give you a database of our language, but I'm guessing the only way you'll ever speak it is using a computer to translate for you. Why don't you just call me George? And when you say anything to me, figure you are talking to the alien not the computer program. For all practical purposes that's true. George seems to be a fairly innocuous name that doesn't carry any negative thoughts. I don't see it being used as a joke or a curse on the net or in broadcast right now."

  "Oh, you got online okay from orbit? Gee, there's a lot of crap there that might be real confusing to you. I see some sites while surfing that look like they were made by another species instead of humans. How'd you hack in? Off satellite?"

  "No, I put a drone down and am online with free public wireless in Ann Arbor. I understand hacking in is frowned upon. No point pissing somebody off before I even set talon on the planet. So now I'm GeorgeA@Michtel.com. I applied for a bank account online. When my MasterCard comes I'm going to pay for more bandwidth than the free pipe."

  "Your MasterCard? You're really adapting quickly. What did you do for a Social Security Number? And, uh—where are you having it sent? We don't get mail delivery up here—very often."

  "It's going to George Alien. I thought about sending it to a homeless shelter but worried that might look bad. I hope you don't mind. I had it sent to your address. You were in the white pages and Sergei and Allen weren't. You'll have to help me make a deposit and activate the account. The Social Security number I got from a website that helps people from the Mexican nation adopt to living in your country. There was a whole list of usable numbers. Do you think that will work okay?" When Jed didn't reply for a while, George sounded worried. "I didn't insult you somehow, did I?"

  "That's okay. What the hell, why not, George?" Allen decided the complexities of illegal immigrants and green cards were more than he wanted to explain right now. At the rate George was drinking in data, he'd figure it out himself within a few days. "My vet thinks it's cute to send his bill out in my dog's name, so now I get credit card offers addressed to my terrier. I guess there's room in the mailbox for you, too. I'll warn you, though, you can't get rid of these people once they start sending you garbage. Wait and see."

  "Well, when I go down I really would appreciate some help dealing with things. I'm also going to have to go to the courthouse to register a DBA, or form a corporation. That's a real strange concept to me. I see a lot of places I want to visit. You know—play the tourist a bit. Were any of you planning on going down to the planet soon?"

  "Well, no. We were going to be up here another four months or so. They don't have a supply and crew launch scheduled before then. But I imagine you showing up is going to change things. There's going to be a lot of excitement about your visit, you know. That brings up something we have been waiting to ask you. You're parked right in front of our antennas, and they are probably going nuts down below not hearing from us. Do you think we could keep this link active, but maybe scoot your ship out of the way a tad, so we could talk to our people? We're going to have to do that if we're to arrange a visit like you're asking. If we stay out of contact too long, some of the idiots down below may think something bad is going on."

  "I'm glad that won't be a surprise. I'm monitoring the traffic, and they already are getting a little excited down there. They've seen my ship with telescopes, and some of their conclusions are just crazy. I was hoping we could do a conference call and you guys could introduce me and let them know I haven't eaten anyone or implanted brain-devouring parasites in your bodies. If maybe one of you would volunteer to go down with me, I'd be happy to pay you to be my guide. I can tell you how to make some neat stuff worth a lot of your money. I think the phrase is 'you'd be set.' I can run you down and lift a new crew on my shuttle if you're not ready to bring one up. I've got an empty shuttle hold big enough to lift one of your spaceships, if you'd like."

  "That's really nice, but the way our rules work it will be very hard for us personally to profit from meeting you. It would be considered part of our job—our duty as officers in our service. I'm not even sure they will want to allow you to just wander around out in public. They may be scared that you'll have some disease that will spread. For that matter, aren't you afraid you might catch something of ours?"

  "Jed, give me some credit for not being stupid. I've visited dozens of worlds and met lots of aliens. You'd stand a better chance of trading disease with a lobster. If they get all huffy about it, we'll just tell them we'll ask the Swiss if I can visit there. From what I've been reading, they seem like a very practical people. I need to stock up on some things before I leave and it doesn't really matter where I buy them. I'd have thought since your people had the only station in orbit you'd be more—progressive. But the offer still stands to be my tour guide even if I have to deal with somebody other than the Americans. I'd hate to take another day or two to learn German or French. Wouldn't you consider working for me if I can offer opportunities your current position can't?"

  "Okay, George, let me talk it over with Allen and Sergei. Sergei is Russian, you know. There are other partners besides Americans in this station, but he probably won't recommend dealing with Russians. It can get complicated traveling there, even for a simple foreigner. Allen is married with kids, so he might pass on showing you around. Just being up here is a difficult separation from his family. I'm single and wouldn't have any problem having you as a houseguest if you don't need some fancy environmental stuff. I won't even worry if you ruin t
he carpets."

  "Are you scared I'll frighten his kids? I've seen your cartoons. I mean, how threatening can I be next to those monsters or a purple dinosaur? I'm much prettier colors," he insisted, fluffing the ruff of yellow around his neck.

  * * *

  The computer screen at NASA-Houston showed a conference call, the three astronauts on one side and the feathered alien on the other. The screen at the space station displayed the alien on one side and the head of NASA, Bernard Sepulveda, on the other. Nobody called him Bernie. He usually insisted on being called Doctor Sepulveda. He didn't look happy.

  "How do you come to speak English, Mr. George?"

  "Just George. We don't do mister. I guess you could call me Mr. Alien, if you must. Your—" he hesitated, "—associates here have coached me for almost two full days. And I have a very versatile computer that could talk with them and listen to a number of radio sources and compare everything and assemble a vocabulary and grammar and feed it to me. I haven't memorized most of the words yet. When we talk the computer runs ahead, whispering in my ear, making suggestions and correcting me after I speak. That's even though my brain is wired, as I have read you people say as a metaphor, to remember sounds. No biggie. You have your own talents. I have mine. Your language is fairly straightforward. Although it about drove me ape-shit batty that you say eleven, twelve, thirteen, instead of ten-one, ten-two, ten-three, or even tensy-one, tensy-two, ya know? It's a wonder your youth will accept it without rebelling."

  "Oh, they rebel sure enough, but they tend to favor other causes." Jed grinned.

  "I'm sure we'll have many quirks and customs that will amuse you," Bernard agreed, grinding his teeth. It was obvious he didn't like George very much, or Jed for that matter. "I don't believe anyone can learn a language in a couple of days. You must have been listening much longer. But leaving aside why you'd deceive us about that for other agencies to pursue, right now let's consider your status as a visitor. I've consulted with my counterpoint administrator at Citizenship and Naturalization, and we are both confident that all the rules and legal provisions already exist to properly handle your case. Once you appear before a court and seek entry, we'll start processing your plea to have your political entity recognized for visa application purposes. That is, assuming you aren't seeking refugee status?" Getting no response, he hurried along. "Considering the biological isolation problems, we can do that by a video link. We used to release aliens whose status was undetermined pending a hearing, but that had so many problems we discontinued the practice. In your case that seems especially prudent given the public health questions your unique status brings to the table. We'll require you remain in Level Five isolation in a remote area, with a very limited number of volunteers having contact. However the President has expressed an interest in having a video conference with you once we have clear communications with no danger of misunderstandings or cultural offense. Most of the people aware of you are not yet appraised of your facility with languages." He smiled, a wry little disbelieving smile. "Once we have a full workup of biologicals and allergy hazards, both ways, we can consider allowing you contact with various academics and researchers who have an interest."

  "Take me to your leader," George deadpanned.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I have no further wish to converse with you, Sepulveda. It's obvious you are a maladjusted bureaucratic asshole. You're already offensive with your smug conviction that I've lied to you. All I really want from you now is to connect me to President Rice. If she won't agree to treat me like a tourist instead of a lab specimen, and a disease vector, maybe the Swiss will welcome me. I'm starting to see why this quaint little planet isn't a famous tourist destination surrounded by clouds of spaceships dropping happy vacationers off. I'm guessing your sort would welcome us with a huge orbital parking fee and a full body cavity search on landing to make sure we don't have any Nova bombs."

  "You can call her yourself since you're so sure of our culture and language after two days," Sepulveda raged, with his face bright red. "I'll resign my position and go to the press before I'll be responsible for you spreading plague among the population." He shared his glare with the astronauts' and paused as if he expected an argument. "Besides questionable motives, it's obvious your kind have no concept of public order and proper decorum." He reached forward and stabbed the connection off.

  "Was that last part directed to you or me?" Jed asked. Everybody shrugged, even George.

  "Is there really such a thing as a Nova bomb?" Allen asked.

  "Shit, yeah. Heinlein wrote about them in Starship Troopers—would I make something like that up?" George sounded offended. "Hey, you guys have Rice's number?"

  * * *

  Within six hours they were sitting with the President. Whatever other qualities she lacked, decisiveness was not one of them. Their meeting was going so smoothly, President Rice felt free to offer, "If you'll be here long enough, I'd love to have a State Dinner for you." She seemed to mean it, not as a duty, but looking forward to it. Sepulveda would have choked to hear that.

  George's landing shuttle was sitting at Andrews, and he'd promised to run a new crew up to the station after meeting the President. Leaving the station crewless for a few hours without an elaborate shutdown had NASA sweating, but a direct order from the President had ended that controversy. If the Russians wanted another astronaut to go up with them, they'd better hustle.

  Sergei's inclusion tonight had already upset both White House security and the Russians, who had expected he would return home directly. He had made clear he now had other plans. President Rice seemed totally unconcerned about anyone who wanted to be upset. "That includes you three," she made clear to the astronauts upon her decisive invitation. On the way down, Jed had pictured them all seated in the Oval Office. Instead they were all in a much more intimate setting, in the private quarters, on comfortable upholstered seats surrounding a low table with a coffee service. He knew for sure that was special, because when Rice had informed the staff to serve them upstairs, after greeting them in the public rooms, here three pairs of eyebrows had climbed in genuine surprise. It was better than good—it was vindication when they'd wondered if their careers were ruined.

  George was wearing a big pair of slightly tinted glasses like computer gamer spex. Instead of looking bizarre, it somehow made him seem less alien. He was a fellow artifact user. He handled a cup and saucer like a pro, which was very interesting with a beak. The alien's lower body was more massive than they had expected, tapering out in a counter balance that suggested he would be a strong runner. The legs were not the bare thin form of a modern bird, but more like movies had depicted for a Velociraptor.

  "As long as you don't want me dressed in Colonel Sander's secret recipe," George joked. "I've already been roasted once today."

  The President stopped smiling and frowned. "What am I going to do about that man?" she asked seriously. When President Rice frowned with those electric eyes, even George showed signs of discomfort. Please don't do anything for me," George urged her. "If you start firing people who offend me, then we'll be creating a group of people who hate me and perhaps have a grudge against my people if more should happen along. One thing my people are pretty good at, besides remembering sounds, is getting along. And I'm sure the less I stick my beak in your business, the better we'll get along. Honestly, your system put Sepulveda there. If you put his number two man in his job, isn't it just a crap shoot whether the guy will be any better? You don't really have time to get to know the fellow, do you? I mean, for one agency head you couldn't invite him to hang around you for weeks or months and really get to know what he's like, could you?"

  "God, no. There aren't enough hours in the day. I'd never get through interviewing all the agency heads before my term was over. Nothing would ever get done. Is that what your people do?" she asked perceptively. "Do all your executives know their subordinates intimately? Are you birdlike by being flock creatures, too?"

  George made a litt
le squawk, which he turned into a laugh. "No, we're more like hawks. Territorial, and given to enjoying solitude like I am, traveling alone now. But all sapients share certain basic qualities we don't see vary much. Especially bisexual ones. I—uh, guess I haven't mentioned that. I'm male, otherwise I'd be Georgette or something. Anyway, we're so solitary we didn't develop big organizations until we developed com. And when we have a team running something, we tend to hire a whole team that has been together for a long time. We rarely assemble a new team for something important. And we'd consider four years not long enough to tell if they were going to do a decent job or not. If we had a team running a company or a mine, or designing software, we'd give them the equivalent of twenty of your years before we started bugging them about a performance review."

  The President's eyes jerked wider. "Then you live a hell of a lot longer than us."

  "Damn, I can see how you got your job," George admitted. "You jump way ahead from a datum. I was going to tell you, but I didn't want to quite yet."

  "Why not?"