The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology)

by Craig Martelle

  “Have you ever communicated with someone who doesn’t speak your language? They’re trying to establish a line of communication without a central frame of reference. How long do you think that will take?”

  “But they killed our people!”

  “Where’s the proof?” Kenny came unhinged. He’d had enough stupid to last a lifetime. “Aren’t we supposed to dig until we find the truth? When’s the last time you dug into anything?”

  “Enough!” the editor shouted. “Freeman. My office.”

  The reporter smiled with his smug victory. Kenny gave him the finger before following the editor storming through the news room.

  Kenny entered the office and shut the door. He crossed his arms and prepared to lose his job. His plan of playing nice until the time was right was coming apart.

  The editor blew out a long breath and reached into his desk drawer to pull out a stack of papers. He dropped them in the middle of his desk. He then pulled out a bottle, took a swig, and put it back. “Do you know what these are?”

  Kenny shook his head.

  “All the articles that asked the hard questions, got close to the truth, the stories we didn’t print.” He let that hang in the air like a cloud of acrid smoke. Kenny knew that none of his work was in there. He had been a team player. “Our role in society has changed over the decades. We used to be the government’s watchdog, but then we realized how much we could help. We keep the peace. We lower crime. We help people live better lives.”

  Kenny blinked rapidly, his arms falling to his sides. “But that’s not what reporters do,” he tried to counter.

  “It’s exactly what reporters do. Is a society ready to go to war with each other better? We can shape public opinion in a way that’s best for the people.”

  “Who decides what’s best for the people?”

  “We do,” the editor said in an old, tired voice. “Take the rest of the day off. Come back if you want. Turn in your badge if you want. You’re a good writer, a good member of the team. It’d be a shame to lose you.”

  “Maybe I’ve lost myself,” Kenny whispered as he showed himself out.

  ***

  Hold him steady as we get ready to punch him right in his bug face! the scrip read. Kenny watched it scroll by twice before returning to his notebook. There was always someone who thought they knew what was best for everybody else. He thought he knew what was better, too. Tell the truth and let the people decide what’s most important. But then ratings might fall. People might stop paying their subscription fees.

  Fear of the aliens, the bugs, which may not even be bugs. Fear of a war that wasn’t happening, or was it? Fear of losing one’s job, from the lowly reporter all the way to the president. Not just a job, but careers. Who determines what’s best for the people? Kenny’s internal voice cried in despair. He sat on his bunk, expecting to get kicked out at any moment. He hadn’t quit, but he hadn’t confirmed that he wouldn’t.

  His career. He added a few more paragraphs to his story before going back to the beginning to edit his words.

  Words had power, as the editor had confirmed, but he already knew that. Write the words and make them the best ones possible, but leave the conclusions to the people. Stop telling people how they should feel, he thought. He laughed when he found a sentence. “You must be outraged!” He pencil-changed it to, “I am disappointed in how you’ve been misled.”

  When Kenny finished his review, he closed his book. He needed to go to the office because he had one last report to post. His phone rang. He decided to answer it, just in case it was the hammer falling. It would save him a walk on a dreary day. The voice on the other end wasn’t who he expected.

  ***

  “I need to talk with you alone, Mister President, on an issue of national security,” the Secretary of Defense said, glaring at the Press Secretary.

  “Then we need him in here, because we don’t want to send the wrong message. He’s an expert in shaping the message.”

  “So he says.”

  “Polls suggest,” Press Secretary Boyd started, “that you are beginning to look weak on the aliens. Maybe the military can give us a little something for the evening news?”

  “What say you?” President Bjornskaal asked.

  “I say that I need to talk with you alone.”

  “Fine,” the president agreed, waving his hand for the Press Secretary to go, before fixing his Secretary of Defense with a steely gaze. “He’s already told me what you’re up to, undercutting my orders, so you better have your A-game.”

  “Second liar never has a chance,” the admiral quoted. The Press Secretary winked as he strolled by. The general resisted the urge to punch the man. Maybe resigning was in everyone’s best interest. He was fed up.

  Once the door closed, the president crooked a finger to his Defense Secretary. “Say your piece or rest in peace.”

  “I believe Captain Woods has made contact with the aliens and is attempting to communicate. We have to give the aliens the benefit of the doubt. They shot down a drone that was coming at them, but they haven’t attacked us in any other way. If you want humanity to be a leader in this universe, we have to understand what’s out there. If they flew between stars, their technology is already lightyears beyond ours.”

  “You were all for announcing the war!” the president snarled.

  The admiral shook his head and pointed toward the door. “We came along for this ride because he made it sound like it was the right thing to do. I didn’t know that the reports regarding the outpost attack were fabricated. By then, it was too late. We’d already chosen our path.”

  “We’re still on that path. What’s changed?” The president leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and pursing his lips.

  “What’s changed is that our people are smarter than we are. The Space Force wasn’t going to race to a war they couldn’t win with an enemy that isn’t an enemy, not yet anyway, but there’s one way to guarantee they’ll be an enemy and that’s by shooting at them.”

  “What I hear is that your people are afraid. You need better people, Admiral.”

  “My people are conscious of the situation. They’re out there. Not us. Why hire good people if you aren’t going to listen to them?” Admiral Stonebeck looked pointedly at the president.

  “All I hear is that you and the Press Secretary aren’t getting along. Boohoo. You’re the goddamned Secretary of Defense. Pull your panties up nice and tight and get to work.” The president grabbed a paper on his desk and made like he was reading it, studiously ignoring the admiral.

  “I think that finally I’m doing just that. Here you go, Mister President.” He placed a short, hand-written letter on the center of the desk. “I learned a lot and won’t let the door hit me on the way out. I had to cancel the one hundred billion in contracts since I wasn’t going to be here to provide oversight. Money like that makes the contractors do weird things.”

  The president looked up. He was angry, until the situation cleared in his mind. “To make this work, we have to destroy you. Nothing personal. It’s just politics,” he said sadly.

  “I expect that. I’ll disappear.” Ted Stonebeck faced the President. “You can save face and for God’s sake, please don’t start a war that we can’t win.” Stonebeck didn’t bother saluting. He left the president to his thoughts. The Press Secretary pounced the second the Secretary of Defense appeared. Before the bigger and younger man said two words, the admiral kneed him in the groin. The Press Secretary collapsed in a heap, holding his damaged goods.

  “I hope you all have a nice day,” Ted said with a smile, waving to the staff in the outer office.

  ***

  Woody, Reefer, and Hoss looked at the information on the screen. “I can’t make heads or tails of it. Computer can’t identify any patterns either,” the captain said.

  “Looks like computer code to me, just different from what we use. We’re assigning letters and characters based on our language. I’m sure we’ve screwed so
mething up. They’re probably scratching their heads, too,” Reefer suggested.

  “It’s been six days. We have lots of data and not a single thing of substance. What do you say we send a pad over? They can look at our stuff on our terms.” Hoss waved his computer pad in the air.

  “But then they’ll get some of our technology,” the captain started to argue, but stopped himself. “Maybe they’ll do the same thing and we’ll get some of their tech. I think that would make Hoss the universe’s number one interstellar trader.”

  “I’ll add a battery backup to give it longer life and launch it over. Let me configure the main screen’s icons—us, the solar system, some math, lots and lots of pictures...” He talked as he worked. When he finished, Reefer nodded that the drone was programmed. Hoss climbed from his seat and crawled into the rear section of the ship. He pulled himself along in the zero-gee until he reached the work bay.

  He strapped the pad on, left it powered up, and put it into the airlock. Once the system cycled, the drone maneuvered into space before assuming an indirect course toward the alien ship.

  Hoss returned to the small cockpit. His crewmates were engrossed in the flight of the drone. It moved quickly over the longest distance before slowing on final approach. “This is the distance where the other drone was destroyed,” the captain intoned. “Come on, little fella, make it past that. He’s your friend, say hello and see what there is to see. Good stuff, not a bomb, not a virus. He’s your friend.”

  Reefer chuckled while looking at the instruments, making minor adjustments to the drone’s flight profile. It closed to within a hundred meters of the alien ship before it stopped.

  “Now what?” Hoss asked.

  “We wait,” the captain answered.

  “We’ve had a lot of practice. We should be good at it, but I’m not feeling like a good waiter,” Hoss remarked.

  “Me neither,” the captain admitted.

  “We won’t have to wait for long,” Reefer said. “Check it out. They’re sending a drone of their own. Did you know that your camera is functional?”

  “I didn’t. It wasn’t turned on when I strapped it on.”

  Reefer smiled devilishly. “It is now.”

  The image transferred to the screen. All data feeds were pushed to the side as the three focused on seeing what no human had seen before. The alien ship wasn’t lean like Space Force vessels. It seemed to be carved from a chunk of rock, although it had a shape to it, more oval with a flat bottom.

  “Not a flying saucer, but a flying egg,” the captain muttered. The alien drone carried their gear into an airlock. The screen showed a mechanical arm removing the pad from the drone. A light flashed and the inner door opened. “Moment of truth.”

  “They look just like us!” Reefer said softly. The three men leaned close to the screen, fascinated by the first view inside the ship. It was light with fantastic artwork on the walls, carried by people, two arms, two legs, heads with hair. They wore uniforms, judging by their consistency.

  The captain checked to make sure it was recording, breathing a sigh of relief when he confirmed that it was.

  “Want to talk with them, Woody?” Reefer asked.

  The captain started to hyperventilate. “Until two minutes ago, I hoped that we would get something from them in days. And now I can talk with them? I have nothing prepared, but I wouldn’t be a pilot if I couldn’t wing it. Patch me through.”

  Reefer tapped a button. The alien’s expression changed on screen, suggesting that his screen was now filled with Woody’s face. “Welcome to our solar system,” Woody said slowly, clearly enunciating each word. “I am Captain Woods of the Space Force vessel, Lunar Star. I hope that this small gesture opens a greater universe for both of us.”

  The alien said something in a sing-song language.

  “Running it through the computer translator,” Reefer said and pointed to the side screen. Thank you for your welcome. I am Ablegar Fossik of the research vessel Eks Seven Four.

  “They speak an Earth language?”

  “Mandarin Chinese, it appears,” Reefer confirmed. “And it seems they understand us, too.”

  “Please look through what we’ve sent you,” the captain said, returning his view to the main screen. “We need to coordinate with the leaders of Earth and would like to talk with you again. You can control the pad by touching the small images on the screen. To turn the camera on and off, the controls are in the lower righthand corner.”

  Ablegar Fossik nodded, a very human gesture, and said something they all understood. “Thank you.”

  The image went dark.

  “I think my heart is going to explode,” Woody exclaimed.

  “You did it, Captain.” Hoss clapped the man on the back.

  Woody looked at the darkened panel. “Time to check in with the head shed. As soon as we make contact, transmit the video.”

  ***

  Kenny typed in the last of his scoop. He titled it ‘The Information War’ and listed the Secretary of Defense as his co-author. He wasn’t running it as part of the headlines because that would have put it through the quality control channels where it would be killed a dozen times over. He needed it to go out raw.

  He selected a broad range of social media channels, the new unit’s live feed update, its breaking news section, everywhere he could post directly. He put his personal items in his pockets and pressed send. He logged off, not bothering to power down, got up and walked quickly to the elevator.

  When the doors opened, someone started yelling. “Freeman, you traitor!”

  He got in and headed down, expecting to get intercepted on the ground floor, but no one was waiting. He left the building and once on the street, he started to run. It had taken all his courage to send the article. Now the fear hit him. He wasn’t a crusader. He was a team player, except he’d changed sides. His new team was the people. If they didn’t see it that way, he’d have no team at all.

  He passed a bar, ducking his head so he wouldn’t be recognized. They were cheering. He wondered if it was about his article because at this point in his day, he could think about nothing else. He went inside, but sat in a darkened corner.

  The news was showing the aliens speaking a familiar language. His first thought was what the source of the video was, and that it was fake. He couldn’t believe anything he was seeing. The next image was of the Press Secretary being led away in handcuffs. He was walking hunched over. And then, the talking head referenced Kenny’s article, calling it a revelation from the Secretary of Defense.

  Everyone was happy to point fingers at the other guy for manipulating public opinion. In a matter of minutes, all those pointing fingers had found a scapegoat.

  The Press Secretary was yelling at the cameras as they stuffed him into the back of a darkened car. “I was only doing my job!”

  Author Craig Martelle

  Craig is an Amazon bestselling author and writes the Free Trader series (a cat and his human minions fight to bring peace to humanity), the Cygnus Space Opera series, the End Times Alaska series, and the Terry Henry Walton Chronicles, co-written with Michael Anderle. See more at www.craigmartelle.com where you can find all of Craig’s publications and join his newsletter to get the latest updates and sales.

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  Checkmate

  By Jonathan P. Brazee

  Winning is everything, especially in war.

  “Come on, Lettie,” Jorge muttered as he popped up out of the fighting hole and snapped off a burst at the advancing Valks.

  He ducked back as return fire showered dirt and debris over the three in the hole.

  “What the hell is taking her? The damned Valks are closing in!”

  “Lettie’s on top of it,” Military Tech 2 Isaac Stein said, gripping his C
ompton-3 to his chest.

  He raised his rifle over the edge of their fighting hole and blindly emptied his mag, exposing only his hands for a few seconds. He knew he hadn’t hit anyone firing like that, but hopefully it would give the advancing Valks pause.

  “What are you worried about, Jorge?” MT3 Anatasha Dela Cruz asked, only half-facetiously as she pushed up the snakeyes. “PrimeMil takes good care of us. Only the best medical care for their miltechs.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t have exes and kids to support. I can’t afford to get zeroed.”

  “If you’d just keep your dick in your pants, you wouldn’t have to worry about that, lover boy,” Tasha said as she examined their field of observation through her commercial fiberoptics tube.

  Jorge rolled his eyes at Isaac, hoping for moral support, but Isaac was having none of it. Jorge was a horndog, pure and simple, and that was why he’d signed on with Prime Military Contractors, Inc. Seven kids by three women and court-ordered child-support meant he needed the money.

  “Better zeroed than ghosted,” Tasha said as she adjusted her line-of-sight.

  “Tell my exes that,” Jorge retorted.

  Aside from inconsequential fact that he’d be dead, there was a degree of truth to what Jorge had just said. If he was ghosted, his beneficiaries would receive a two-million-BC payment, courtesy of the United Alliance of Military Workers. If he was wounded and required anything over a Class 2 treatment, however, his entire financial holdings were subject to confiscation, leaving him with a big fat zero as his bottom line. Incentive, the contracting companies said, for miltechs to fight. Utter bullshit. They were on the hook for all medical costs for injuries, and they just wanted recourse to recoup at least some of that.

  Three jobs ago, Jorge had tried to run a backdoor to protect his earnings, having his new girlfriend open an account and transferring his money into it. Said girlfriend had left him a week before this job, closing the account and disappearing.

  “I’d be better off with the Valks,” Jorge said, firing off another burst. “Looks like they’ll be getting the winners’ share this time.”