Rogue Powers (7 page)

Lucille kept talking, barely stopping for breath. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. This was
it\
"They seem closer to reptilian than to mammalian, but that doesn't t mean anything. There won't be true reptiles or mammals here, of course. I say reptile, but I guess I say that because they don't have fur, their skin is naked—and by that standard, humans are reptiles.

"They aren't clothed, though some of them seem to have belts and wraps and bracelets on. I can't say why exactly, but none of it looks like decoration. All functional-looking stuff, tools and equipment There's definitely worked metal there, a lot of it.

"Scale. Hard to say precisely, but I'd call their body length at about a meter and a half, plus another meter for

the tail. And the head on those shoulders comes to about the height of a man. They're bigger than we are.

"Okay, they're maybe fifty meters away now. I've got the binoculars now. Can see the head better. The head is elongated, front to back, shaped sort of like an egg lying on its side. The neck attaches at about the center of the head, the balance point. I'd say the head is about 30 centimeters long, back to front, and maybe fifteen from top to bottom and side to side.

"I see eyes. All of them have dark eyes, black eyes, no white to be seen, just shiny round black spots. All of them look very much alike. It's a first impression, but it seems to me they would be very hard to tell apart except for the things they wear. But back to the heads. The eyes are set very far forward in the head. They probably have binocular vision like ours. I don't see anything we'd call a nose or ears, but there's something, some sort of low structure, on the top of the head, toward the rear. A mass of flesh with a complicated fold structure. It's moving with a breathing sort of motion, and as they get closer I can see what could be earholes on it.

"The mouth. Hard to see from this angle. It's small in proportion to the rest of the head. The jaw is hinged very far forward. Can't see any of the dentition, or ever if they have teeth in the first place.

"They've stopped. They are standing close to each other, clustered together, about twenty meters from here. One of the them, the one in front, is making some sort of gesture with his right arm. Those arms look very strong.

"They're waiting for us."

Lucille pulled herself away from the port and turned and look at Gustav. His face was pale, excited, and he seemed short of breath. "It's time for me to go out there," she said. "And I think the best way to do it is alone. You said we don't want to seem threatening."

Gustav opened his mouth as if to protest, but then nodded. "Dammit, you're right. McKenna, I want this ship at launch-ready. If we need to run, make sure we can

do it. Mansfield. Carlton. Suit up. No weapons, period. We don't defend ourselves. You two and I will stand in the lock while Lieutenant Calder descends to the surface. Let the—the natives see you. We'll make sure they know Calder didn't come by herself, but we don't leave the ship unless she's m trouble. Don't you leave the ship
until I give the order.
Lieutenant Calder—you realize that I might be forced to leave you out there. The information we've got already is more valuable than any of us. If I have to leave you to get it home, I will. And if they kill you, all we dare do is stand and watch. I don't intend to start a war, or get them started hating humans, whatever the provocation."

Lucille nodded stiffly. "I know. It's the only way you could do it. I'd make the same call in your place. We've got no choice but to take the chances."
And I don't know if I'm doing this for Humanity with a capital H, or curiosity, or glory, or the thrill, or to show I'm not scared, or to score points with the goddamned Guards to get the Cls a better deal. It doesn't matter. This is bigger than all those things.

"Then let's go," Gustav said. His voice nearly cracked.

There was more than being unfamiliar with Guardian suit design that slowed Lucille down. Her fingers shook, her mind wouldn't concentrate on the job of getting the clamps clamped and the seals sealed. Gustav and Mansfield finally had to help her after they were in their own pressure suits.

The four of them crowded into the lock. Gustav hit the buttons that ran it through the decontamination cycle. The inner hatch slammed to, and the air in the lock was pumped into a holding tank. Lucille could feel her suit swell up slightly as the lock's pressure reached a vacuum. The flash heaters came on, and the lock's interior was briefly above the boiling point of water. A poison gas was pumped in, held in the lock for 60 seconds, and then pumped back out. The procedure was intended to kill any bacteria or other microbes that might have been

in the air or on the suits. No one was really sure it worked. Maybe cross-contamination was impossible between Earth and Outpost microbes. Maybe there wasn't a need for pressure suits either, and they could get by with breathing gear. Now wasn't the time to find out.

Their helmets misted briefly as the cold, wet air of Outpost was introduced into the lock. "Pressure balanced," Gustav announced. "I'm opening the outer hatch."

Sunlight flowed into the lock. Lucille shuffled forward cautiously. She saw the world through the thin glass of her bubble helmet.

Suddenly, a long-forgotten memory burst into her mind. This place, these colors, all looked familiar. As a child, Lucille had often visited a cousin's house on the verdant southern coast land of Australia. The deep blue skies and dark, wet greens of Outpost's forests and meadows brought back thoughts of long-ago cool spring mornings, the fresh-scrubbed moments when all things seemed possible. No hint of Outpost's air came through her suit, but she recalled the rich, clean odor of a new-mown lawn, the heady fragrance of fertile soil after a good rain. Lucille breathed deeply and found only the soulless scent of sterile, sanitary canned air. Try as her frightened subconscious might to convince her otherwise, this wasn't home.

"Okay, everyone move up a bit so we can be seen," Gustav said.

"Where are they?" Mansfield asked. "McKenna, can you see them through the ports?"

"Just a second." McKenna's voice came through the suit radios. "Yeah, they were waiting around the other side of the lander. They must have heard the lock opening—they're circling around to find you."

"There they are!" Carlton said, pointing.

"Everyone take it easy, move slowly, calmly," Gustav said. The Outposters came into view around the side of the lander. They saw the hatch and stopped, swung around to face it, and waited.

"Here I go," Lucille said. Her voice sounded weak, young, reedy, even to her own ears.

One of the landing legs was directly below the airlock's outer hatch. There was a small platform atop the leg, and a set of ladder rungs bolted to the leg. Lucille stepped out onto the platform and slowly, carefully, made her way down the ten meters of the ladder. She stared hard at the polished metal of the ladder, watched her own gloved hands moving from rung to rung with a fascinated stare. The details of the gloves' stitching, the wrinkling and un-wrinkling of their fabric, the movement of shadows in the bright morning sunlight as she moved her hands, all seemed incredibly complex and important. She grasped for every mundane detail, memorizing it, cherishing the known and accepted as she went to meet something that was neither. There was a meter-and-a-half drop between the last rung and the ground. Lucille got to the bottom of the ladder and let herself go.

She forgot to allow for the mass of the suit and hit the ground heavily, nearly stumbled. She flung her hand out and balanced herself against the solidity of the landing leg. She turned out away from the lander, faced the natives.

There they were, a few meters away, separated from her only by the tall grasses.

Something was wrong. It was too quiet. No outside noise reached her. She kicked in her helmet radio with the chin switch. "Gustav! I forgot something! Does this suit have external mikes and speakers?" Lucille's stomach knotted in needless panic as she imagined crossing to the aliens, standing close enough to touch them, but unable to speak or hear.

"Yes, dammit, I meant to tell you. The switches are on the left arm of the suit, marked 'MIC and 'SPK'. Hit the one marked 'REL' too. That will transmit the outside speakers to us. I'm starting the recorder. We've got cameras on you and the Outposters, and the lander's external mikes are running too. We'll get it all, sight and sound."

Lucille lifted her left arm and found the switches. She

carefully pressed the three buttons, her movements made slightly awkward by the suit.

Suddenly the rustle of leaves, the small cries of far-off animals, the thousand small sounds of a living world, were in her ears.

She stepped forward toward her hosts. The grass was taller than she had thought, over a meter high, and the ground was wet and muddy. More and more, she felt divided out from her surroundings by the suit and the fragile glass bubble of her helmet. Would they think the suit was her skin? Could they see her head through the helmet, and know she was the living being instead of the suit?

She walked slowly, deliberately, toward them, avoiding any sudden motion. Fifteen meters, ten, five, three away from them. She stopped.

The Outposters shifted their stance nervously and looked at her through their black doll's eyes.

Lucille looked back at them. Their heads seemed huge and faceless. The eyes seemed expressionless, the mouth too small and unimportant. She noticed for the first time that the skin around the eyes and atop the head seemed to be moving, constantly and rhythmically. Perhaps it had to do with breathing. That structure on top of their heads seemed involved with the movement. It might be their version of a nose.

They seemed huge. Lucille decided they were about the size of a small horse or pony. Their skin was indeed naked, and leathery.

The nearest one gestured with his right hand. The fingers were strange. There were four of them, all mutually opposable, like four very flexible thumbs.

He—she, it, something else? Call them "he" and "him" for the moment—"he" made sounds. Deep, booming sounds that had odd timbres and tones. Lucille thought she heard what sounded like vowels and consonants, but nothing distinct enough to be noted as words. Was he shouting,

making a speech, singing, or yelling because someone had stepped on his tail? Was he welcoming or warning?

Lucille spread her own arms wide and opened her hands to show they were empty. She hesitated, searching for words, finally saying the best and simplest thing: "We come in peace." She stared hard at them and remembered the Guards and their fleets.
At least, I hope we do,
she thought.

The Outposter who had spoken came closer, and the work of meeting each other began.

Commander Terrance MacKenzie Larson, Republic of Kennedy Navy, turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped into the courtroom to face his court-martial.
I should have known it would come to this,
he thought.
But I did know, and it didn't make any difference.

I

It was a high-ceilinged, old-fashioned, somber sort of room, the walls and floors of polished oak, cut from Kennedy-grown trees. The judges waited behind the massive judicial bench, heavy red drapes behind them, the flags of Kennedy and the Navy set to either side. The wall paneling was intricately carved into friezes, scenes of erotism on the seas and in the sky, the proud moments in the ROK Navy's history. The courtroom was a deadly serious place.

Pete Gesseti followed Mac Larson and his chief counsel, Captain Brown, into the chamber, and looked over the friezes.
They should be carving one for Mac,
Pete thought,
but instead they want to nail him to the wall in person.

Mac Larson didn't like to hear it, but he
looked
like someone who belonged in a historic scene. Tall, blond, tanned, handsome, lantern-jawed, muscular, a very imposing figure in the jet-black ROK navy uniform.

Peter Gesseti, Republic of Kennedy State Department Assistant Undersecretary for League Affairs, was short, had a few wisps of brown hair left, and was a round-faced sort of man on whom all suits looked rumpled. His profession and his own poor skills of deportment had taught him the importance of looks. Pete was certain that Mac's appearance would be a help in the case: Mac certainly didn't look like a traitor. Pete also believed in playing every card: He had urged Mac to wear all his decorations. It never hurt to remind the court of the defendant's reputation.

Stern-faced, walking with a firm, measured step, Mac approached the bench, saluted the court, removed his side-arm from its holster and laid it in front of Rear Admiral Louis Leventhal, the presiding judge.