I think I sensed something about the alien pilot even before Cochran turned to me with the results of his findings. Even now I can’t say where that feeling originated or where my present thoughts are directed. I only know that the moment seemed full of import and grand purpose; something about the alien triggered a change in me that is beginning to overshadow my entire life.
From the personal journal of Major General Rolf Emerson
General Emerson’s official car (a black Hoverlimo with large tail fins, a purely decorative vintage front grill, and an antique, winged hood ornament) tore from the Ministry’s parking lot at a little after three o’clock on the morning following the liftoff of the enemy fortresses. Rolf was in the backseat, silent and contemplative, while his young aide, Lieutenant Milton, felt compelled to issue cautions. Monument City felt like a ghost town.
Emerson had logged two hours of sleep when the call from Alan Fredericks of the GMP had awakened him: something interesting had been discovered near the liftoff site—an alien pilot, alive and apparently well.
Rolf asked himself what Fredericks was up to: he had brought the alien to Miles Cochran’s lab, and had yet to inform Commander Leonard of his find. With rivalry running high between the GMP and the militaristic faction of the general staff, Frederick’s position was suspect. Perhaps, however, this was merely the GMP’s way of making up for the hatchet job they did on the first captured Bioroid pilot. Emerson knew when he recradled the handset exactly what he could be setting himself up for but felt the risk justified. He had asked Colonel Rochelle to rendezvous with him at Cochran’s lab, then called for his car.
“This is going to look suspicious, sir,” Milton told him for the third time. “The chief of staff racing out of the Ministry in the middle of the night without telling anyone where he’s going.”
“I know what I’m doing, Captain,” Rolf said brusquely, hoping to put an end to the man’s ceaseless badgering.
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied, sullenly.
Emerson had already turned away from him to stare out the window once again. At least I hope I know what I’m doing, he thought.…
Rochelle, Fredericks, and Nova Satori were already waiting at Cochran’s high-tech lab on the outskirts of Monument City. The good doctor himself, a bit of a privateer who walked that no-man’s land between the GMP and the general staff, was busy keeping the Bioroid pilot alive.
Emerson stared down at the alien now from the observation balcony above one of the lab’s IC rooms. Cochran had the handsome elfin-featured young android on its back, an IV drip running, a trach insert in its neck. The pilot was apparently naked under the bedsheets, and surrounded by banks of monitoring and scanning apparatus.
“Our last captive died through official mishandling,” Rolf was telling the others, his back turned to them. “I want to make certain that doesn’t happen again.”
“Yes, sir,” Fredericks spoke for the group.
Rolf swung around to face the three of them. “Who found him?”
Nova Satori, the GMP’s attractive raven-haired lieutenant, stepped forward and offered salute. “I did, sir. Out where the fortress was.”
Emerson’s eyebrows beetled. “What were you doing out there, Lieutenant?”
Satori and Fredericks exchanged nervous looks. “Uh, she was looking for one of our agents,” Fredericks said.
Emerson looked hard at the hawk-faced colonel. “And just what was one of your agents doing out there?”
Fredericks cleared his throat. “We’re trying to determine that ourselves, General.”
Satori related her brief explanation, purposely keeping George Sullivan’s name out of it. But it was the singer/spy she had been looking for; more important, the terminal he’d been carrying when last seen—something Dana Sterling had better be able to account for. Nova had heard sounds coming from one of the downed Hovercrafts and upon investigation had discovered the alien pilot. He was ambulatory then, but collapsed soon after being taken into custody, as though someone had suddenly shifted him to standby mode.
“And he seems fluent in English,” Nova concluded.
“All the more reason to let Cochran handle this personally,” said Emerson. “And as of this moment I want an absolute information blackout regarding the prisoner.”
Rochelle was saying little, waiting for Emerson to finish; but he now felt compelled to address the issue that had been plaguing him since the general’s phonecall some hours before. It was a privilege of sorts to be included in Emerson’s clique, but not if it was going to mean a court-martial.
“General,” he said at last, “are you proposing that we keep this from Commander Leonard?”
Satori and Fredericks were hanging on Emerson’s reply.
“I am,” he told them evenly.
“Exactly what do you want us to do with the specimen?” Fredericks asked after a moment.
“I want you to run every test you can think of on him. I need to know how these creatures breathe, think, eat—do you understand me? And I need the information yesterday.”
“Yessir,” the three said in unison.
Just then Professor Cochran stepped into the observation room, removing his surgical mask and gloves, while everyone questioned him. He waited for the voices to die down and looked into each face before speaking, a slightly bemused expression on his face.
“I have one important fact to report straightaway.” He turned and gestured down to the Bioroid pilot. “This alien … is Human.”
The three Masters summoned their Scientist triumvirate to the command center of the newly ascended fortress. The Zor clone had survived and was presently in the hands of the Micronians. The functioning neuro-sensor that had been implanted in the clone’s brain told them this much, although there were as yet no visuals. Schematics that filled the chamber’s oval screen showed that some damage had been sustained, but all indications suggested it was nothing that need concern them. It was clear, however, that the Scientists did not share their Masters’ enthusiasm for the plan.
“By capturing the Zor clone, the Micronians have played right into our hands,” Shaizan said by way of defense. It was certainly unnecessary that he explain himself to the triumvirate, but it was clear that a certain rebelliousness was in the air, pervasive throughout the ship, and Shaizan hoped to lay some of that to rest. “They themselves will lead us to the Protoculture Matrix.”
“And suppose the Micronians should attack us again?” the lavender-haired androgyne asked defiantly.
“One purpose of the neuro-sensor is to keep us appraised of all their military activities,” Bowkaz told him, indicating the screen schematics. “We will have ample warning.”
“Yes … and what happens if the Micronians should discover your precious neuro-sensor? What then?”
“Discover it?” Shaizan raised his voice. “That’s absurd! Recording of the hyper-frequency of the device is far beyond the realm of their crude scientific instruments. The idea is ludicrous!”
The scientist scowled. “Let us hope so,” his synthesized voice seemingly hissed.
Dana felt Sean’s gentle tap on her shoulder and heard a forearm chord of sharps and flats. She opened her eyes to sunrise, distant crags like arthritic fingers reaching up into pink and grey layers of sky. She had fallen asleep at the ready-room’s piano, although it took her a moment to realize this, head pillowed on forearms folded across the keyboard. Sean was standing behind her, apologizing for disturbing her, making some joke about her guarding the eighty-eights all night and asking if she wanted some breakfast. The rest of the 15th were scattered about the room, arguing and moping about by the looks of it.
“… And who the hell was snoring all night?” she heard Angelo ask in his loudest voice. “Somebody sounded like a turbo-belt earth-mover with a faulty muffler.”
Louie was off in a corner tinkering with some gadget that looked like a miniature Bioroid. Bowie was sullen-faced in another, distanced from the scene by earphones.
“I couldn’t sleep a wink,” Dana told Sean weakly. She remembered now that she had been thinking of Sullivan and his senseless death, been trying to peck out the melody of that old Lynn-Minmei tune.…
“You need to cut loose of that responsibility once in a while,” the former lieutenant was telling her. “Let your hair down and have some fun, take life a little less seriously.”
Dana got up, reached for the glass of juice she had left on top of the piano, and went to refill it at the dispenser. “There’s a war going on, pal,” she said, pushing past Sean. “Course you’re not the first soldier I’ve run across who’s found the call of the wild more attractive than the call of duty.”
“Look who’s talking,” Sean laughed.
“I mean, I wouldn’t want to think that the war was interfering with anything, Private.”
“I don’t let it cramp my style, Dana.”
Style? she thought, sipping at the juice. Let me count the comebacks to that one.… But as she said this to herself, fragments of last night’s dream began to surface. There was George, of course, but then he became all mixed up with the images of that long-haired Bioroid pilot she and Bowie had crossed lasers with weeks ago—Zor! And then somehow her mother had appeared in the dream, telling her things she couldn’t summon up now.…
“… and I’m definitely not into hopeless romances.”
Dana whirled, not sure whether she should be angry, having missed his intro; but she saw that Sean was gesturing to Bowie.
“Now here’s a guy who was operating just fine up until a few weeks ago. Now he’s out there where the shuttles don’t run. And for a dream-girl at that!”
Bowie didn’t hear a word of this, which Dana figured was just as well. Sean made a few more lame comments as he left the room. Dana went over to her friend and positioned herself where she could be seen, if not heard.
“Sean says you’re upset,” Dana said when he removed the headphones.
Bowie made a face. “What does he know?”
“It’s that alien dame,” said Sergeant Dante from across the room, his nose buried in the newspaper. “You better set your sights on something a little more down to earth, my friend.”
Dana threw Angelo a look he could feel clear through the morning edition. “Just like that, huh Sergeant? He just snaps his fingers and forgets her.”
“For cryin’ out loud, she’s an alien!… Uh, no offense, of course,” he hastened to add.
“No offense taken,” Dana told him. “I know your type can’t help it. But I don’t care if this girl Musica is ‘Spiderwoman,’ Angelo. You can’t tell someone to just turn her heart on and off like a light switch.”
“Her heart, Dana? Her heart?”
Dana had her mouth opened to say something, but she noticed that Bowie was crying. When she put her hand on his shoulder, he shrugged it off roughly, stood up, and ran from the room.
Dana started to chase him, but thought better of it halfway down the corridor. Did her father have to put up with this from his squad? she wondered. Did her mother? And where were they, she asked the ceiling—where?!
Lieutenant Marie Crystal had slept well enough, thanks to the anodynes she received at the base hospital after the crash of her ship. But the pills’ effects had worn off now, and she couldn’t locate a joint or muscle in her body that wasn’t crying out for more of the same medication. She reached out for the bedside hand mirror and took a glance at her disheveled, pale reflection. Fortunately her face didn’t look as bad as the rest of her felt. It was deathly hot and dry in the room, so she cautiously got out of bed, shaking as she stood, and changed out of the hospital gown into a blue satin robe someone had been thoughtful enough to drop by the room. She left it open as she climbed back under the sheets; after all, it wasn’t as if she were expecting visitors or anything.
But no sooner had that thought crossed her mind when she heard Sean’s voice outside the door. Having literally landed in the arms of the Southern Cross’s ace womanizer was perhaps only a shade better than having piled into a mountain, but it was something she was going to have to live with for a while. She hadn’t, however, anticipated that the trials were to begin so soon.
Marie ran a hand through her short, unruly hair and pulled the robe closed; Sean was running into some Nightingale flack at the door.
“Couldn’t I just have five minutes with her?” Marie heard Sean say. “Just to drop off these pretty flowers that I picked with my own teeth?”
The nurse was resolute: no one was permitted to enter.
“But I’m the guy who practically saved her life! Listen: I won’t talk to her or make her laugh or cry or anything—really—”
“No visitors means no visitors,” the nurse told him.
Just whose side is she on? Marie began to wonder.
“Well isn’t it just my luck to find the one nurse in this whole hospital who’s immune to my many charms.”
Now that sounded like the Sean Marie knew.
“Here,” she heard him say now. “You keep the flowers. Who knows, maybe we’ll just meet again, darlin’.”
Marie’s pale blue eyes went wide.
She was wrong: landing in the arms of his Battloid was worse than having crashed!
* * *
General Emerson was in the war room when Leonard finally caught up with him. He had been dodging the commander’s messages all day, victimized by a dark premonition that Leonard had somehow learned about the alien pilot. And as soon as Leonard opened his mouth, Emerson knew that his instincts had been correct. But strangely enough, the commander seemed to be taking the whole thing in stride.
“I’ve been told that you’re keeping a secret from me, General Emerson,” Leonard began, with almost a lilt to his voice. “I thought I’d come over here and ask you myself: is it true that another Bioroid specimen had been captured?”
“Yes, Commander,” Rolf returned after saluting. “As a matter of fact, Professor Cochran is running a complete series of tests on him.”
Leonard suddenly whirled on him red-faced with anger.
“Just when were you planning to tell me about him, General?!”
Techs throughout the room swiveled from their duty stations.
“Or perhaps you were considering keeping this information from me!” Leonard was bellowing.
Rolf didn’t even get the chance to stammer his half-formed explanation.
“I’m taking the prisoner out of your hands, General. He’ll be analyzed by military scientists, not renegade professors, do you understand me?”
Rolf fought to keep down his own anger while Leonard stormed off, his boot heels loud against the acrylic floor in the otherwise silent room. “We mustn’t let this prisoner be destroyed,” he managed to get out without yelling. “We learned nothing from the last one. This time we must proceed impartially, and Miles Cochran’s our best hope for that.”
The commander had stopped in his tracks and swung around to face Emerson, regarding him head to toe before responding. And when he spoke his voice was loud but controlled.
“I’m sure our people could do just as well, General. But it seems to me that you’ve taken a personal interest in this prisoner. Am I correct?”
“I have,” said Emerson, and Leonard nodded knowingly.
“Is there something more I should know about this particular android?”
Rolf was tight-lipped. “Not at the moment, Commander.”
“Well then, since you’re so … determined.… But keep in mind that this one is your responsibility, General. There are too many variables in this situation already.”
Emerson saluted and Leonard was turning to leave, when all at once a novel blip appeared on the threat board. The power play forgotten, all eyes focused on the screen. Every terminal in the room was clacking out paper. Techs were hunched over their consoles, trying to make sense of the thing that had just appeared in sublunar obit out of nowhere!
“What is it?” demanded Leonard, his hands pressed to the command console. “Someone answer me!”
“A ship, sir,” said a female enlisted-rating. “And it appears to be moving in to engage the enemy!”