Advance to Contact (Warp Marine Corps Book 3)

by C. J. Carella

  “Holy shit,” he subvocalized via imp. “That’s the Ambassador. What’s left of him.”

  “What Ambassador?” Grampa asked.

  “Jasper-Five. The remfie that almost left us hanging.”

  “What did they do to him? I’ve seen three-day old corpses that looked better than that.”

  “Forced labor on Venus.”

  “That’s rough.”

  The outer doors opened. An alien in human form was waiting for the former ambassador. She – it – looked like a hot chick. Russell wondered if they’d get any liberty at this port. These tangos were hot to trot, and unlike other Eets Russell had been with, they looked mighty fine. Not to say all aliens were repulsive, but the old saw that there were always five things wrong with every other species you met, one for every sense, was true more often than not. That had never stopped him before, of course. Any docking slot’s good when you’re horny, that was his motto. But it’d be nice to make it with an alien that looked just like a human, and a human supermodel at that.

  The remfie and the alien walked off and the bubbleheads came back aboard. The airlock doors closed behind them.

  “That’s one lucky bastard,” Gonzo said.

  “Count no man lucky until he’s dead,” Grampa replied.

  * * *

  Javier Fitzpatrick Llewellyn had too many grievances to count. But perhaps Providence had found a way for him to repay some old debts.

  “Please come with me, Ambassador,” the gorgeous extraterrestrial said, her welcoming smile the first friendly expression Javier had seen in many months.

  Ever since his undeserved fall from grace, the only grins he’d seen had been in the faces of people about to do something despicable to him. Like the first time he’d spoken to his shift supervisor at the tunneling operation in Venus. All he’d done was offer his skills as an engineer, for God’s sake! Granted, he’d never been much of an engineer, but he’d made it through school, even if he’d needed a bit of help along the way. He still had his certifications. If he was to spend any time in that unbearable hellhole, he should at least do it in the relative comfort that someone with his accomplishments deserved.

  At first, he’d thought the foreman’s smile had been friendly. He’d only found out just how wrong he’d been after his second straight shift without a break, sweating copiously inside a hardsuit with its life support settings locked in at the bare minimum that would keep him alive. That had been his first day on the job. First of five hundred and seventy-nine, each a little worse than the last.

  The woman reached out to place a soft hand on his shoulder, but stopped when Javier involuntarily cringed before she touched him. Getting beaten up regularly had a way of doing that to a man.

  “You poor thing!” she said, and the sympathetic tone in her voice almost made him burst into tears. “What did they do to you?”

  “Scapegoat,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “They needed a scapegoat for their failures. I only did what was best under the circumstances.” It was as if a dam had burst inside him. “They lied about me! First those filthy primitives in Kirosha made me watch… horrible… gruesome, barbaric things, and I did what any red-blooded American would, I told them in no uncertain terms those things were unacceptable. I… I…”

  She stopped and took him in her arms. The woman was taller than him, and for a moment he felt like a child, held by one of his many nannies – Mother had usually been too busy – and thus safe. Safe for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Javier couldn’t hold back the tears.

  “Hush, darling,” the woman said, stroking his hair. “I am the Priestess, and I will tend to your needs. And eventually, you will tend to mine. Yes, go ahead, let it all out.”

  He sobbed like a child. “Then, then, I tried to save everyone’s lives. Everyone! Except for a few war criminals. That’s all the Kirosha wanted, a few war criminals to punish. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “From our perspective, most of your people are criminals,” the Priestess said. “Killers and exploiters without pity. They take what doesn’t belong to them. Worst of all, they didn’t value your uniqueness, did they? They couldn’t stand that you didn’t want to measure up to their toxic, violent impulses. They rejected your individuality.”

  “Yes.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “I want to ask for asylum. I am a political refugee!”

  Most Starfarers didn’t even have a word for political asylum, and refugees were welcome only if they could pay for the privilege or were useful in some other way; otherwise they would be lucky to be enslaved instead of being killed out of hand. But an ancient civilization like this would surely be more enlightened and merciful. And hopefully they would not blame him for the sins of his morally-wretched country and species.

  “My dear Javier, do not worry about such things,” the Priestess said. Her smile became positively dazzling. “You will never have to worry about your fellow Americans again.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He almost started crying again.

  “I will take you somewhere nice and quiet, and we’ll talk. I want to know everything. Especially about the people who were at Kirosha with you, the Marines most of all.”

  “Of course. Anything you want.”

  There was a glint in her eyes that would have been a little disquieting if he’d been more alert. He just was glad he could make her look so happy.

  Seven

  Heather McClintock was beginning to believe you could be literally bored to death.

  “Your entertainment productions are truly wonderful, by the way,” said the Snowflake who’d been glued to her side for nearly an hour. This would be the third subject he’d explored well past any desire she had to pursue it.

  “They have a vitality and a delight in simple melodrama that most cultures in the galaxy find too pedestrian for their tastes,” the alien added. “The arts among most civilizations are meant to be savored only by those who are learned enough to appreciate their nuances. This has the unfortunate side effect of making them incomprehensible to outsiders and even most of their working classes, and an absolute bore even if you can understand what is going on. Movies like 33 Days in Kirosha have a simple directness, a natural savagery if you will, that us decadents have sadly lost. They remind us of the basic joys of survival, or fighting for one’s life, joys we have all but forgotten.”

  “It’s not all that joyful when you do it in real life,” she said.

  “I suppose not. You didn’t play a large role in said struggle, if I remember correctly. I’m sure it was a terrifying ordeal, being surrounded by barbarians and knowing that any moment they might break through and murder you, perhaps after defiling your still living body!”

  And I can see that the mere mention of defiling someone has gotten you worked up. Or rather, even more worked up than you already were.

  In between the interminable speeches, the alien – dressed like an Egyptian pharaoh – had made no less than three passes at her, with decreasing subtlety each time. At that rate, his next move would be to hump her leg with his ornate mini-skirt-covered crotch.

  “Ramses, listen…” she began to say when her imp ringtone went off.

  Unknown Caller.

  Her imp should have been able to provide her with the source of any incoming message, unless it came from a highly-secure system, the kind only a heavy-duty spook would have, and as far she knew there were only two of those in the diplomatic party. The Unknown Caller must be one of their alien hosts.

  She answered it while pretended to listen to Ramses. Luckily another Tah-Leen joined in, this one wearing a pink feathered boa over a Waffen SS uniform. The uniform looked fairly accurate except for the high-heeled ruby slippers on the Snowflake’s feet. The two aliens started an animated conversation about the Kirosha movie, and Heather figured they would be happy enough if she merely smiled and nodded while she answered the call.

  The male face that appeared on the visual display was also human, and rathe
r ordinary-looking. He was dressed in a conservative business suit, in sharp contrast to the outlandish outfits all the other Tah-Leen were wearing.

  “Heather McClintock,” the man said. “First of all, let me assure you that this call is completely secure, both from your people and my own. In fact, no records of it will remain in your system. Security is of paramount importance in this matter.”

  “I see,” Heather subvocalized through her vacuous smile. Holding two conversations at once was going to be a chore, even if one of them consisted mostly of pretending to listen and politely keeping two aliens from groping her.

  “I would approach you directly,” the Unknown Caller on the imp explained. “Except for the that fact that I am not very popular among what passes for the authorities in Xanadu. I perform an important but universally despised task for my people, you see. But enough about me. I am here to warn you that you and the entire human delegation are in grave danger.”

  “Why tell me? Should I connect you to the Secretary of State?”

  “Do not do that, please. I contacted you because we are in the same line of work. You are a field officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. And I am the Seeker of Knowledge, which is a long-winded way of saying the same thing. Two spies, in other words.”

  Heather kept her feelings under control and laughed at some inane joke the feathered Nazi made. Being identified was among the worst fears of an intelligence officer, second only to being captured, which in this case was the most likely thing to happen next.

  “Do not worry,” the Seeker of Knowledge went on. “It is not my intention to denounce you to my people, who have even less liking for enemy spies than they do for their own. Besides, where is the fun in merely squashing you like a bug? I think we can go a few rounds in the Great Game, you and I. I am even prepared to offer you a number of incentives to play it.”

  “Such as?”

  “A chance to turn the tables on the Hierophant at his own game, for starters. A chance to not only leave this system with many of your original passengers and crewmembers still alive, but to gain what you sought: free passage for you and your allies, and no transit rights for your enemies. But you will have to do something for me first. I have a rival among the Multitude of the Unique. He is known as the Scholar, our lore-keeper. He leads a faction that opposes mine. For all his learning, my rival is not very smart, but he is dogged and stubborn. He was one of the instigators of this particular game, insisting in bringing you humans along, and one of you in particular. I need you to find out why. In return, I will provide you with some aid. Just enough to give you a fighting chance.”

  “It’s not going to be easy to spy on your people.”

  “You will be given enough access to break into the Common Conduit. From there, you will use your skills to penetrate my enemy’s private files and uncover his plans. If you are found out, I will deny any involvement in your activities. Discovery will mean certain death. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  She also understood that if this so-called Seeker didn’t like her answers, certain death would likely follow. Going along seemed like the only safe choice.

  “You must also agree not to divulge this arrangement to your people. That could lead to your discovery. Your communications are thoroughly compromised, by the way. Breaking your implants’ encryption codes is child’s play for our devices. Your exchanges with me are secure, but none other. Are we in agreement?”

  “Yes,” Heather said. She had every intention of cheating, but only when an opportunity presented itself.

  “Very well. I will contact you when it is time to start working for me. Even without my warning, it will soon become apparent to all of you that the Tah-Leen do not have America’s best interests at heart.”

  The call ended, leaving her alone with the duo of chatty aliens. More smiling, nodding and fending off advances occurred while she tried to process what had just happened.

  Sometimes I love my job.

  * * *

  Some party.

  Watching a bunch of ETs dressed up as humans was turning to be equal parts disturbing, annoying and disgusting. From the way a few aliens were boinking each other, they’d gotten their lessons on human sexuality from the kind of raunchy VR porn lonely spacers favored. Word from higher had come down to not accept any invitations to join in, and Lisbeth had politely turned down half a dozen come-ons and less politely slapped an ET’s hand away when he started getting a little too insistent. Fortunately, the aliens had taken the rejections with fairly good grace.

  The whole night had been pretty much pointless. The Snowflakes had provided no useful information about themselves. Every question she’d asked had been answered with useless generalities or empty platitudes. They wanted to have their questions answered, and they seemed to be mostly interested in what it was like to kill. At least the ones who’d pestered her had few questions about any other subject, other than asking her to ‘join in some joyous intimacy.’ As a pick-up line, it plain sucked even if you set aside the fact that these were aliens wearing human bodies the same way they wore their colorful costumes.

  At least it looked like things were winding down. The Secretary of State was making excuses and saying her goodbyes without being overtly insulting. Which probably took a lot of effort. The whole thing felt like a major diss to Lisbeth. You didn’t treat a diplomatic delegation like some curiosity to gawk at, make fun of, and try to have sex with. Starfarer traditions were very formal when it came to interstellar politics, and a race this old would be expected to follow them even when dealing with lesser civilizations. The Snowflakes clearly didn’t give a damn what anybody thought of them. In which case, why had they even bothered inviting the American delegation? The answer was bound to be something nobody would like.

  And here comes another one. Her fists clenched involuntarily when she saw the newcomer was wearing a pre-Contact Marine aviator’s suit. She might be relatively new to the Corps, but that didn’t mean she was happy to see someone pretending to be a leatherneck. That was the sort of thing that merited a violent response.

  “Major Zhang,” the Tah-Leen said, grinning ear-to-ear. “Tonight, in this incarnation, I call myself Gregory Boyington, in honor of the famous Marine pilot of that name. I would be most happy if you would call me ‘Pappy.’”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she replied. And I’ll call you Pappy after they hold the Winter Olympics in Hell.

  “I am very interested in you, Major. But do not be alarmed. My interest in you is not as a potential sexual partner, but as a warp fighter pilot.”

  She started to get a bad feeling about this. A literal bad feeling. Growing pressure spread from the back of her neck upwards: she’d gotten those not-quite headaches before, usually when something bad was about to happen. The last time she had that feeling, her squadron went on a sortie and lost Captain Van Allen. She’d felt Belter was in danger, but warning him hadn’t helped any; the poor bastard still blundered into a main gun blast, straight out of warp.

  The way Lisbeth felt, she was about to blunder into something even worse.

  “As you may know, we are the oldest Starfarer civilization in the known galaxy,” ‘Pappy’ continued. “Our historical records go back over half a million years, and include the annals of many extinct polities and species, many of which are totally unknown nowadays. The Tah-Leen were witnesses to the last Demon War, as a matter of fact, although at the time we were mere infants, mere decades after being lifted from barbarism by our benefactors and erstwhile masters, the Leenox. We know many things you humans would find very valuable.”

  Oh, shit. This was important, and way above her pay grade. Well, her imp would record everything, and hopefully she wouldn’t step on her notional dick before Greg ‘Asshole’ Boyington spilled the beans.

  “That sounds amazing,” she said, and managed to fake a big smile.

  “Oh, but there is more. What if I told you I possess an artifact that once belo
nged to the Warp Marauders of Kraxan? Would that be something you’d be interested in?”

  Did he say Warp Marauders?

  “Yes. I’d be very interested.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  She was interested enough to apply some enhanced interrogation techniques on the smiling asshole, right here and now, interstellar incidents be damned. Only the certainty that she and the rest of the human delegation would not survive that course of action stopped her. She smiled some more instead and even batted her eyelashes as the pompous alien.

  That was just the sort of information the Galactic Alliance would kill for, especially the Imperium. The aliens who’d pledged to eradicate humanity were obsessed with what they called ‘warp demons’ and ‘warp witches.’ She was sure that if someone told them about a group called the Warp Marauders of Whatever, they’d take the story and run with it, probably convincing another half dozen civilizations to join their crusade. Even the Puppies were beginning to get worried about humanity’s new weapons. Weapons that might be old, if the term Warp Marauders meant anything like what she suspected. It wouldn’t take much to turn everyone against Earth. She needed to see it, and hopefully figure out a way to keep it from the rest of the galaxy.

  The alien in the Marine costume stayed quiet for several seconds, letting Lisbeth digest the information, or maybe waiting for her to beg him for more. She figured that under the circumstances a little groveling was warranted.

  “So what can you tell me about these artifacts? And the Marauders of Kraxan and the Demon War?”