by Trevor Wyatt
Jeryl, to his credit, says nothing. He’s reading the data, looking at the video feed. What we are looking at is a completely black triangular craft about half a kilometer long, side on to us, with a faint glow of ionization from its tail section—a drive plume? It has circular lights in a single row along its side. Portholes.
This is an alien vessel. Non-human. Who or what is looking out of those ports?
Jeryl
I’m so stunned by what I’m seeing on the screen that I can’t say a damn thing. For one thing, I’m caught completely off guard. I’m in my quarters, relaxing with a novel on my tablet, on which Ashley’s ALERT window has popped open over the text. It takes me a good thirty seconds to fully absorb the fact that I'm looking at what can only be an alien vessel. My brain creaks into motion at last. We’re nowhere near a planetary system; therefore this is an interstellar craft.
Length estimated at a hair under a hundred meters. That’s big. That’s bigger than a seagoing battleship, way bigger than The Seeker. Assuming whatever life form is aboard is about human size, the crew of that beast could easily be ten times the size of ours.
Even as numbers cascade through my thoughts, a realization overrides them: this is the bastard that destroyed The Mariner.
This is not what I expected for First Contact with an alien species. I toss the tablet to one side and get my rear to CNC as fast as I can.
Back in my Academy days there was only one course that ever discussed First Contact, and that, oddly enough (or maybe not so oddly), was a class in Humanities. The instructor, Professor Guss, devoted exactly one day to it.
The whole discussion was purely hypothetical, of course, because by that time we’d been exploring the volume of space around Sol system, and although we’d found worlds where various forms of vegetation flourished, we never found any kind of animal that could be considered even marginally intelligent. In fact, our scientists had never discovered anything much bigger than a large cockroach.
It began to sink in that there was no intelligent life anywhere in the stars, at least, not in the nearby stars. Our ships could achieve a top speed of about one light-year per day, which seems impressive until you realize that the Milky Way galaxy is estimated to be a hundred thousand light-years in diameter. Divide 100,000 by 365 and you get just a shade over 273,972. That’s how long it would take you to cross the galaxy in years, at that speed. Not days—years. If you want to know the number of days, do the math.
That’s how our first class in First Contact began: with a discussion of how big space is. Being well-grounded in astronomy, us students knew that already, but our teacher, Professor Guss, reviewed it anyway. He was a tall man with ears that stuck out, and a big nose, but no one ever made fun of his appearance because he was smart as hell and a nice guy on top of it. We all liked him.
“So we’ve found nothing in our own solar system except for some microbes under the ice at Enceladus and Europa,” he said in the first lecture. “Nothing on Mars, not even fossils. Nothing on Venus, of course. Nothing on Titan.” He spread his hands. “Now, this is not to say that I believe that life on Earth is unique in the universe, or even the galaxy. We’ve just finished talking about how big space is. There could easily be a civilization elsewhere in the galaxy, but it could simply be too far away for us to ever discover it.”
“But the Drake Equation,” someone started to say.
Guss waved a hand and she subsided. “There are still too many variables in that for us to be able to make a reasonable guess,” he said. “Everyone knows what the Drake Equation is, I take it?”
I cast a glance around the lecture hall. If there was someone who didn’t know, he or she wasn’t admitting it.
Using a finger, he wrote the equation on the large screen floating beside him: N = R* x f(p) x n(e) x f(l) x f (i) x f(c) x L.
“Let’s take this apart,” he said. “N is equivalent to the number of civilizations in our galaxy whose electromagnetic emissions are detectable.” He looked around at us. “Anyone?”
I raised my hand. “A given civilization might not be using electromagnetic means of communication,” I said.
Guss nodded. “Right, and that’s the first thing wrong with the equation.” He turned to the equation again. “R asterisk stands for the rate of formation of stars suitable for the development of intelligent life. F modified by p is the fraction of those stars with planetary systems. Well, we know now that there are a huge number of planets out there. The lower case n with the e subscript stands for the number of planets per solar system with an environment suitable for life, and f l for the fraction of planets on which life actually appears. We have good numbers for all those parts of the equation, but from here on it really breaks down. The f (i) is the fraction of planets on which intelligent life emerges, and to date that number is exactly one: Earth. The next component is also equal to 1, because it stands for the fraction of civilizations that have developed a technology that releases detectable signs of their existence into space. The last component describes how long such a civilization will continue to do so.” He shrugged. “The search for extraterrestrial life has been going on since before we became a spacefaring species. And yes, it was exciting to discover microbes, and later plants in other solar systems. That proved that life could and does arise on alien planets. But so far it seems as if we’re the only world on which intelligent life has developed.”
All of which led us to a rather enjoyable discussion of science fiction and possible life forms, but Guss cut it off before it went very far, because it was all purely speculative. What he wanted to talk about was how humanity would react if another intelligent species were ever discovered.
The consensus was that we’d wave hello, maybe put out some trinkets on a blanket if they were aboriginals, or go the Carl Sagan route with simple diagrams and so forth if they had developed a higher civilization.
And that was it.
Now, I knew that the Union had a number of contingency plans for contact with an advanced species, but most assumed that the aliens would be friendly. There were a few who assumed our new neighbors might be unfriendly, or very unfriendly. No one wanted to talk much about the latter two instances, in part because they weren’t considered to be realistic. An advanced spacefaring species, the reasoning went, would've gotten past the aggressive stage.
Yeah, right. All anyone had to do to explode that idea was to look at our own internecine disputes with the Outer Colonies. We hadn’t taken the lessons of our ruined planet very well to heart. The necessity of repairing its damaged environment after World War III led to the creation of the sort of benevolent “world state” envisioned by many. It had come about more or less out of necessity, but the Union wasn’t a government as much as it was a coordinated rescue operation.
Now that the restoration of Old Earth was almost complete, thanks to the resources sent home from the rest of the Union, the old plague of nationalism was making a resurgence. That was what the Union spent most of its time and resources combatting.
Because of that, they taught us in the Academy, was what led us to the pissing matches with the Outers that ballooned into the Schism. The Outers were the biggest threat to the Union’s stability, or at least that what the Union thought. Me, I wasn’t so sure, but they hand out the paychecks. I’m happy to be on their side. I love my job: it’s as simple as that.
But I never expected to be the guy on whose shoulders the burden of First Contact would rest.
* * *
As I hurry into CNC and drop into my command chair, I see a view of the alien on the main screen. There is a lot more detail visible. The craft isn’t smooth-skinned. It seems instead to be covered with a myriad small square plates or segments, almost like scales. There is a buzz of excited conversation around me as my officers converse among themselves.
“Okay,” I say, lifting a hand. “Belay the chatter, people. We have work to do. Stay on point.”
The talk dies away. I know what they think—it’s th
e same thing I think, that this ship destroyed The Mariner. But...we don’t know that, and until we do I am going to play this by the book.
“Dr. Lannigan,” I say.
He’s not in CNC, but I know he’s following the drama from the lab. “Sir,” he responds at once.
“Prepare sensor scan and telemetry reports and send them via emergency broadcast to Edoris Station. I want them on Admiral Flynn’s desk before I breathe ten more times.” I squint at the bogey on the main screen. It’s unmoving. It shows no sign of knowing we’re here.
Yeah, right.
“Helm,” I say.
“Sir?”
“Take us in closer. Dead slow.”
All right, I think. Let’s see what you’ve got.
Ashley
Jeryl doesn’t so much as look at me after he enters CNC and takes his chair, but I don’t expect him to. The situation is far too fraught for any sort of personal interaction. All of us are totally focused on the moment.
It's a moment like no other in human history. I know we’re all aware of this, but no one says it. No one needs to say it. In any event, we’re all too busy.
I’m standing at the Communications station, where comms officer Mary Taylor is working her console as dexterously as a concert pianist playing Beethoven. I like Mary. She and I had an affinity from the moment she reported for duty on this ship, three voyages and two years ago. The previous comms officer, P'yŏng Kwangjo, had come with the ship, as the saying goes; and although he was a damn good comms man he didn’t interact much with the rest of the crew.
There was nothing surly or sullen about Kwang; he merely kept to himself when he was off duty, for the most part, being a dedicated amateur musician on a traditional Korean instrument, the gayageum. He wasn’t reclusive about it, and would occasionally play as part of “talent night” get-togethers, sitting on the floor with crossed legs, the head of the instrument resting on his right knee and the tail resting on the floor. For these performances, he always wore traditional Korean garb.
Jeryl snaps out an order about the sensor scans and gets an acknowledgement from Lannigan.
When Kwang’s commission was up he didn’t reenlist, as many had expected him to do, and so we were forced to apply to the Armada for a new officer. In Kwang’s place, we got Mary. Kwang was a small, dapper man. I think that somehow we were all expecting someone physically similar.
When the lift doors opened and she strode out, all expectations were immediately readjusted. She’s a tall woman of African descent, but with the light skin—and red hair—of what is still sometimes called a “high yellow” black. Beautiful she is not—striking she is. I don’t think there’s a man aboard (and more than one or two women) who hasn’t wanted to bed her. Mary isn’t against a bit of fun, for sure, but her primary focus is on being a comms officer, and she’s a damn good one. The most interesting aspect of this is that she is extremely hard of hearing, and has an implant to augment her hearing. She can crank her earbuds, but in everyday speech she sometimes can’t make out what you say unless she can see your lips.
She scans the electromagnetic spectrum for any hint of a signal from the alien ship. “Anything?” I ask in a low voice, though I know the answer.
“Not so much as a peep,” Mary replies. “I’m giving them the full treatment,” she adds, pointing her chin at her instrument panel. “Given that the illumination visible through those portholes is very close to what our sun puts out, we can deduce that they have eyes like ours. I’m taking that a step further and assuming that their audio capabilities are like ours, too.”
I nod, thinking it over. “Okay, I’m with you on that,” I say.
“Which means, obviously, that if they’re using anything on the spectrum I should be able to pick it up. Unless they’re shielded.” She sighs. “And I think they are, because like I said—not a peep.”
I’m so intent on what she is saying that I start when I notice Jeryl standing beside me. He’s risen from his command chair and has come up to us without me being aware of it.
“Carry on,” he murmurs when I turn to him. “I want a closer look at Taylor's readings, is all.”
The alien hasn’t moved since it appeared on our scanners. We’re closing with it at about 25 kilometers per hour. I notice a patch notice pop up on Mary's main window; the reports from Lannigan are ready to send to Admiral Flynn. It’s taken Lannigan longer than 10 breaths to get the reports ready, but not a lot longer. Mary sends them on their way without being told.
“Still no response on standard frequencies, Captain,” she says calmly. But I see a drop of sweat that’s been twinkling at the base of her hairline break loose and trickle down the back of her neck.
Then she gasps, and I know why because my fists clench when I see the alien begin moving away from us at exactly the same speed: 25 knots.
“Guess we’ve invaded their personal space,” I mutter.
Jeryl grunts softly. He blows his breath out. “Okay,” he says. He looks over at Pedro Ferriero, our helmsman. “Mr. Ferriero,” he says, “ahead 50 knots.”
“Aye,” Pedro says, never taking his eyes off the main screen. He doesn’t need to watch his controls; I know he knows them by heart. He could—and has, I’ve seen him do it—fly this ship blindfolded. Jeryl doesn’t know about that.
I think.
And as we move ahead at the increased speed, our triangular acquaintance ups his speed of retreat by exactly the same amount.
Jeryl mutters something I can’t hear. “Seventy-five,” he says, in such a way that I know he expects the alien to match it.
It does.
Jeryl’s more annoyed now. “I don’t like games,” he says with a hint of a snarl in his voice.
“They are communicating with us, Sir,” Mary says.
“What do you mean?” The snarl is a little more obvious. “All they’re doing is—”
“They’re saying not to come too close.”
He thinks about that. “They, they, they...how do we know there’s a ‘they’ in there, Lieutenant? The thing might be automated.”
But I know he doesn’t believe that. I don’t think anyone aboard the Seeker believes that. Someone is inside that ship.
Tension in CNC is growing. The book says to do what he’s doing: stand off, try all hailing frequencies, observe. Union protocol says we have to do all we can to not appear threatening. That’s all well and good, but if this ship is responsible for the destruction of the Mariner, she’s got some serious firepower—one that could be turned against us at any moment if we make a wrong move.
Or maybe even if we don’t make a wrong move.
I’m dead certain that not one soul in CNC isn’t thinking about the Mariner’s wreckage right now.
I know Jeryl wants to do something, anything, aside from merely observing. Hell, so do I! If it were up to me I’d suit up and jet over there and knock on their airlock.
But it isn’t up to me, so I stand there at Taylor’s station, feeling my own sweat meander down my back beneath my tunic.
“The likelihood is that she’s an enemy vessel,” Jeryl says.
“Correct,” I say. “It’s just too much of a coincidence for this ship to show up here, so near to where the Mariner was destroyed by an energy weapon with an unknown signature.”
He says nothing, but he takes a very deep breath. “This could be a trap,” he says. “Their sensors may be as advanced as their weaponry. They could have seen us coming, and are lying doggo here while we come in too close to get away when she makes her move.”
I think back to that night on New Sydney. After we finished making love for the second time we took a break. We lay there in each other's arms, talking about ourselves and our goals in a way we had never done aboard the Seeker. That’s how I learned of Jeryl’s disappointment at not being on the front lines where he could face the Outers. I already knew he was driven to succeed; he’d never have won the commission to the Seeker otherwise. The military is full of overachiever
s; he’s one of the most aggressive.
But he’s got a sense of humor, and despite his drive he doesn’t take himself too seriously—most of the time.
Now here he was, confronted with an utterly unique experience in human history and he was toeing the Union’s line. Don’t piss off the natives.
I feel his frustration. Jeryl ordered Pedro to cut back to twenty-five knots. As soon as Pedro did, the alien dropped her speed, too.
“Ahhh, you booger,” Jeryl says, too quietly for anyone except me to hear.
It went like that for another ten minutes: we’d speed up, and the alien would speed up. We slowed—she slowed, always maintaining the same distance apart. We’d shift course to come at her from a new direction, she’d angle herself so that she always kept her profile to us. Back and forth, back and forth.
“Well, this is a waste of time,” Jeryl says at last. Addressing the CNC at large, he says, “We have to think of something else. All executive officers, meet in my office in five minutes. Let’s take a break and see if we can brainstorm a new approach. Mr. Ferriero, all stop.”
“Sir,” says Pedro, bringing the Seeker to a halt relative the alien, which immediately stops, too.
I turn with Jeryl to leave the CNC, but then Mary says, in a tense voice, “Captain? Y-you might want to take a look at this.”
Jeryl
“So,” said Professor Guss, “let’s take the problem of how many technical civilizations may live in the galaxy and put that aside for now, and look at a more complicated issue. How will we recognize intelligence when we see it?”
We, students, looked at one another. Trick question? At last, one of the other cadets raised his hand. “They’ll have machines,” he said. “You know—instrumentality.”
The professor nodded. “Extensions of their natural capabilities,” he said. “But be careful, here. We humans have built ourselves a complicated technical infrastructure to support us, almost like an exoskeleton supports an insect. He can’t live without. At this point, neither can we.”
