Barry was devastated of course. He wheedled and complained. But nothing – none of his pleading assurances about what his folks would say — had any effect. Principal Jeffers was firm. When it came to responsibility for a minor, rules were rules. No parent-signed permission slip? Then no exit from school grounds before the bell. Period. It would be just Mark and Alex plus one parent each.
Piloting everybody in his car, from school to the nearby base, Major Bamford seemed to have added about four inches to his chest, all of it pride. As he commented to Dr. Karen Polandres-Behr, Alex’s mother, “I’ve taken Mark around the world with me and shown him some amazing things. But now he’s outdone all that in just a few days.”
In other words, Dad knew that his own clearance and technical slot – as high as they were — wouldn’t normally let him anywhere near the alien. He was getting in today solely as Mark’s guardian and escort. Grinning, he didn’t seem to mind at all.
Dr. Polandres-Behr, by contrast, was already part of a large team that had been assembled to see to Xeno’s needs. But she kept taciturn about details. Though scientists from many nations were now involved, and an international committee had been appointed to keep an eye on things, this remained mostly a U. S. government operation. Information would be released through channels in an ‘orderly manner.’
Major Bamford had to brake hard at Melrose, giving way to a swarm of dark-clad men and women on great big motorcycles, who refused to have their band separated by something as trivial as a traffic signal. Mark saw the badges of at least seven big, national motorcycle clubs, emblazoned across scores of denim and leather jackets and the air fumed with smoke from gas-powered Harley bikes … electrics might be faster, sure, but no sissy here.
Dad muttered something low… then again as a mob of pedestrians undulated past, attired far more brightly, in colored dashikis and muumuus and Hawaiian shirts, with wide-brimmed hats to ward off the desert sun. About half of them were shaking rattles or tambourines, as they undulated toward the Base.
Mark had never seen traffic like this in sleepy little Twenty-Nine Palms. Every hotel was full, bought out by news organizations and special interest groups. The RV parks overflowed and nearby Joshua Tree Park had transformed into a forest of tents, many of them without permits. The empty zone outside the Marine Corps gate was now crammed with gawkers and demonstrators waving signs.
Overall, the mood seemed decent enough. Mostly hopeful and festive. Though some of the signs, especially along the last hundred meters or so, took on a darker tone. From demanding to downright hostile.
Ask The Alien About God!
Beam Me Off This Rock!
Sell Our Rockrap Stars: GET CURES FOR CANCER
Alien cuisine: I’ll buy a franchise!
SHOW US THE ONES WHO CRASHED EARLIER!
Make the Xeno Tell Us About D.E.R.P!
“What the heck does that one even mean?” asked Dad, gesturing at the last placard. Mark shrugged, not bothering to explain. Alex pointed to some signs that only bore strange smudges of dots on them.
“I heard about those. You point your phone…” she aimed her pen-cell, using it like a telescope. “The image deconvolves into a whole augmented reality display. Wow!” A puzzled look crossed her face, then she grinned. “It turns Twenty-Nine Palms into some kind of alien seascape! Like the whole town is underwater.”
Dang. Girls who can use words like ‘deconvolves.’ She spends way too much time around Barry.
Mark was tempted to dig into his pocket and pull out the Tru Vu specs. The reporters from Channel Ten had never asked for them back. They were so grateful for the news-scoop, that night, they probably would have given him half the contents of their mobile van and half of next year’s budget! If he put them on, and glanced at that code placard out there, presumably he’d see what Alex was peering at with her pen, only in full sensurround. But he felt sheepish about showing it to Dad. The prim Marine would probably make him give the specs back, no matter how much he had earned them.
At last, they reached the main gate. A brief show of ID cards let them past the first checkpoint onto the base, whereupon traffic cleared up considerably. They drove by barracks, offices and the Post Exchange before reaching a second guard post near the big airfield. Here a second inspection was more rigorous. Each of them had to get out of the car to face everything from sniff-dogs to sophisticated scanners, while the vehicle itself got a thorough going-over.
When that scrutinizing finished, they drove past the flight control tower and alongside a long runway. The howl of engines went bone-deep. A steady flow of fighters overhead escorted heavy transports as three of the heavier planes touched down, one after another, bringing experts and equipment from all over the globe.
Major Bamford bore left toward a cluster of buildings that stood at the far end, offset from anything else, bordering only a vast expanse of desert, dotted with spiky Joshua trees.
A pair of old hangars had been hastily augmented with several white, inflatable structures. Dr. Polandres-Behr explained that nearby trailers supplied air conditioning and environmental services. Vans came and went as Mark watched people in lab whites emerge through tunnels equipped with triple doors.
Airlocks, he realized, recalling how Mr. Castro had described the awful effects of ‘alien’ diseases on native populations, here on this very continent, just half a millennium ago.
Maybe I wasn’t invited after all. Could this be just an excuse to get me into quarantine? Because I was exposed —
But that didn’t make sense. The same thing could have been accomplished during the weekend. And he would have been quick to cooperate.
A blonde lieutenant met them at the entrance to the biggest inflated structure, checking their identifications on an electronic clipboard. She accepted Mark’s California driver’s license, confirming its coded information, but then frowned over Alex’s learner’s permit — not exactly a secure credential. Well, anyone could tell she was barely sixteen. How much threat did they expect from a kid!
(Well, okay, a kid with a second-degree black belt, who could scurry up rock walls like a spider. And say words like “deconvolve,” for heck-sake.)
Finally, something flashed on the lieutenant’s smart clipboard and she stepped aside. “Please suit up. Coveralls and booties. Don’t put on gloves or masks unless you’re asked to by your guide.”
Dr. Polandres-Behr smiled and explained as they entered.
“We’re still taking precautions, though by now we’re pretty sure the chance of cross-infection is minimal.”
Deeply relieved, Mark passed through a sealed pathway. It felt like walking in a long, slender bubble. Their group passed two more sets of hissing irises before entering a large chamber where slick-textured dungarees hung from hooks along one wall. Dr. Polandres-Behr helped them put on slipperlike shoe-covers and snug caps, leaving only their hands and faces exposed.
“We have a filtered laminar airflow system. Nobody wears masks anymore unless they get real close. It looks as if the Garubis’ microbial parasites don’t have a clue how to attack Earthling body cells, and vice versa.”
“Garubis?”
Dr. Polandres-Behr glanced at Mark.
“Oh, that’s right. You haven’t heard. It’s all coming out in a press conference, this evening. The news couldn’t be more exciting.” She smiled and suddenly Mark glimpsed what Alex might look like, when she grew up a little more. If her luck held.
“First, we know their species name. They are called Garubis. And there’s more. Helped by a worldwide network of experts with high-speed computers … and some gifted amateurs who joined in via the web … we’ve managed to crack the language barrier.”
“So fast!” Alex said, beaming at her mother. “That seems impossible.”
“He helped us.” Dr. Polandres-Behr gestured ahead of them, toward the next enclosure they were now approaching. “In fact, that’s why you two kids were invited here today.”
“Um,” Mark nodded. “Invited?”
The word still sounded improbable.
“That’s right. It was almost the first thing Na-bistaka asked for, once we started communicating. He wanted to see the kids who rescued him.”
It was almost too much to take in at once. Na-bistaka, the xeno’s name. And the word — ‘rescued.’
Mark suddenly realized that a knot of tension had been coiled inside of him for days, worrying about that. Had he and Alex really done the right thing? No matter what was said by the students at TNPHS — or adults, or the news media or government officials — only one entity had the right to decide.
He understood part of the reason when they rounded the next corner and saw the alien’s new accommodations.
Good-bye kennel cage, hello Plaza Hotel!
Well, that might overstate the difference. It was still an enclosure and the ‘visitor’ wasn’t exactly free to depart and enjoy every nearby tourist spot. But the glass panels had curtains on the inside, which evidently could be closed whenever the occupant chose.
Within, a kind of nest had been created on top of a four-poster bed, using strips of fabric. Nearby, some small tables and chairs must have come from a children’s furniture store. Mark spotted a refrigerator, a microwave oven and a food processor, arrayed in a half-sized kitchenette … plus a stainless steel bucket with a spring lid that had sticky, grayish-red dribbles down one side. He shuddered, knowing what that was for.
This strange creature can cross the gulf of stars. But doesn’t bother to maintain cleanliness in its own living space?
One end of the room was jammed with top quality audio-visual and computer equipment — six or seven giant flat-screens and a pixelated wall — while a trestle table lay strewn with all kinds of objects, from books to dolls to construction toys. Three humans stood near a second table wearing gauze masks, but these had been pulled down to let them speak more freely. One fellow tapped excitedly on a big display that showed bright pinpoints, annotated with letters and numbers.
A star chart, Mark realized. Another person huddled over some kind of technical schematic, shaking her head.
All of that was peripheral, of course. The center of attention could only be a short figure on the left, standing next to the second scientist, wearing a hooded silk bathrobe — bright scarlet — that dragged on the floor, preventing any view of the wearer’s body. Mark did hear a voice, though — the same chuttering sound that he remembered from that brief encounter in Colin Gornet’s cabaña.
Soon, an amplified computer translation echoed from nearby speakers.
“No. No. No. Your electronic devices will not deliver the degrees of modulation necessary to create a quantum tunneling effect. It appears that I shall have to use up yet another of my precious emergency storage units, in order to recall the design parameters and draw them for you.”
The computer-generated translation conveyed a tone of resignation, plus something else. Was Mark just imagining disdain in the flat, toneless words? Well, a brainy alien envoy might well be entitled to feel some of that, stuck down here with cavemen.
“Wow,” commented Alexandra.
Her mother agreed with an emphatic nod. “Wow is right! I’ve been away just a few hours, and yet the level of syntactical abstraction has improved remarkably, along with grammatical construction. Those self-correcting language algorithms from Carnegie-Mellon are just fantastic!”
Alex shook her head.
“No, I mean wow … he’s teaching us how to make a machine that can do quantum tunneling? I thought that was just in Star Trek.”
Then she blinked a couple of times and glanced at Mark, who nodded back.
We are in Star Trek. Or something scarier. Either way, it sure ain’t Kansas.
“What’s the objective?” Major Bamford asked, standing on his toes to peer at the schematics. If they were secret, they had no business being out in the open like this. “What are you trying to build?”
Not a spacecraft or transport, Mark realized. The design looked way too simple, no fuselage or flight surfaces. No place for a passenger. Anyway, he doubted that Na-bistaka needed something like that right now.
“A radio,” he guessed.
Dr. Polandres-Behr nodded. “That’s right, Mark. Just as soon as we could talk to each other, Na-bistaka started teaching us how to help him to … well … phone home.”
She shrugged at using the obvious cliché. And for a moment there seemed little to say. Not until Major Bamford asked.
“Are we going to do that? Yell for his friends to come get him?”
“Good question. It’s a matter for debate … for the whole world to discuss. And after tonight, the discussion will be wide open. Nobody should be excluded.
“Obviously, there are ramifications. Right now, there’s still a chance to limit this contact — though at some moral cost. But once we’ve sent Na-bistaka’s message …”
She let the implications hang, for each person to finish in his or her own mind.
Once we’ve sent it, everything that we talked about this morning in Mr. Castro’s class will begin, Mark knew. We’ll enter a time of struggle and change. One in which we’re the primitives, underdogs struggling to catch up. Even if the aliens prove to be as nice as can be … there will be challenges and pain. More than any of us can imagine.
Mark couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about that.
He thought about those native Mexican tribes who allied themselves with Hernán Cortés, helping him conquer the hated Aztecs. Would those allies have treated the Spaniards so well, if they had an inkling about what would come next?
Should we help this creature? Or hide him somewhere deep and hope his friends never show up asking about him? Maybe Scott Tepper’s plan would have been better after all … a brief celebrity curiosity, that then vanished into legend.
Mark felt guilty for thinking that, too.
“So, do we get anything in exchange for helping?” Major Bamford asked. Dad was always the pragmatist — and the eternal optimist — of the family.
“Good question. We’re studying the capsule he arrived in. It seems to be just a life raft, lacking any of the really juicy technologies for interstellar flight. Still, the circuits and things he’s teaching us to build for the communication device may help us understand some key principles. As for any formal quid pro quo? We haven’t raised the issue of trade or compensation. It seemed … premature.”
Mark wondered what he would ask for, if the occasion ever came up. Then he realized, it might be very close.
Let’s say he suddenly offers me three wishes. What’ll I ask for?
Yeah, a dumb thought. But he found that his brain wasn’t working too well. In fact, it felt like mush.
The scarlet dressing gown abruptly straightened, rising a little taller, as if the wearer sensed something. The hooded figure turned slowly, until a pair of bulbous, golden eyes appeared, set weirdly on both sides of a slender snout. The alien face — even more unnerving than it had been in poor lighting — seemed to change as its gaze settled on Mark and Alex. Somehow, it conveyed recognition.
He knows us.
Abandoning the technician and schematics, Na-bistaka moved closer, facing the glass partition and dropping onto a pile of cushions. One gnarly hand lifted, raising a floppy sleeve, to point at Mark and his friend. More chuttering sounds emerged.
“You came.” said a wall speaker, conveying the computer translation. “In studying your primitive data stores, I found it culturally problematic whether larval humans would be allowed to attend me, even at my direct request. Does this mean you have advanced? Have you been promoted, because of your actions, to adult status?”
Mark glanced at Alex, recalling her learner’s permit, and thought about his own steep car insurance rates. And poor Barry, who could not come at all, because of the school district’s absurdly overprotective rules.
“Um … I don’t think so. We’re here with our parents.”
The golden eyes rotated independently — an eerie sight — to examine Major Bamford and Dr. Polandres-Behr.
“Superintended contact with an outsider. Consistent with low reproductive rates and high nurturing emphasis. Yet, from direct experience I know that the late-larval form is allowed to form undisciplined and unsupervised cultural association units.
“Moreover, these pseudo-tribal units may freely conspire against the interests of the common good! Is this a common pattern?”
This time, Mark had to think hard. Na-bistaka was talking about high school, about the cliques that form among teens … and about how some of them recently got carried away with their own sense of drama and rebellion, attempting to handle a major event — one with implications for all humanity — completely by themselves.
“It happens,” Alex answered. “Kids today have more freedom to experiment. Maybe too much. Or too little. There’s a lot of arguments.”
The alien castaway’s snout opened and closed a few times.
“Argument seems endemic to the peculiar culture that produces the most noise on this planet. One that is rife with mutual suspicion and recrimination. Disorganization and abandonment of tradition. These things I attempted to study from afar, before the malfunction.”
Mark squelched a temptation to feel insulted. After all, Na-bistaka wasn’t saying anything new about contemporary American life. The noise he must have been analyzing from some cloaked perch in space came from Earth’s electronic media. The ‘malfunction’ was presumably what led to him becoming stranded in the California desert, to be picked up by undisciplined larval humans.
“Argument can be a good thing,” Alex suggested, never shy, stepping closer to the glass barrier. “It’s how we negotiate. Point out each others’ mistakes and learn from our own mistakes when others point them out to us. Even mistakes that were … well … part of tradition.”
The bulby eyes seemed to glitter. The alien gabbled a bit in its own tongue, before the mechanical voice translated.
“So? Larval humans may question ancestral tribal wisdom? Based on what qualifications? What expertise?”
Alex blinked a couple of times.
“No … qualifications. I guess we’re encouraged to do it … for practice?” You could see her confidence ebb, as she spoke. “To … to become better at it?”
Na-bistaka never seemed to blink at all. The steady stare made Mark uncomfortable. Especially when one of the eyes turned to fix on him.
“To become better at disloyalty? Then why did you abandon that goal, and hand me over to authorities?”
Evidently, it was Mark’s turn. Visibly shaken, Alex seemed grateful for the chance to step back. Mark had no patience for theory. He went for the simplest answer.
“It seemed to us that … well, your life was in danger!”
Mark felt Dad’s hand on his shoulder. It came as both a comfort and an irritation. But he could not bring himself to shrug it off.
“Duly noted. This explains much. Suggests much,” commented the Garubis castaway. “I shall adjust my prognosis. My recommendation.”
Silence held, on both sides of the barrier. Alex swallowed, clearly shaken. Neither of the kids had come here expecting that their words might affect anything. The word recommendation sounded ominous.
“Well,” Mark ventured. “I’m glad things turned out all right.”
That brought a strange sound from the creature within the enclosure.
“Have they?”
Mark blinked.
“What?”
“Have they turned out all right?”
Somehow, the computerized translation sounded bemused. Ironic.
“Certainly my own position was improved by your intervention, transferring my custody to more responsible parties. You personally acted to divert destiny onto a fresh path, one with unforeseen future outcomes.”
Mark wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, in keeping with all of Na-bistaka’s statement’s so far. He swallowed, unable to think of anything to say.
“What do you mean?” Alexandra asked. Once again the alien stepped forward to the glass that separated it from the young humans.
“I mean that there will now be consequences.
“All actions have them.
“Are you prepared to reap what you have sown?”