McCollum - GIBRALTAR STARS (8 page)

But he had not known humans that day. He had been blissfully unaware of their existence up until the moment they boarded the
Hraal
to rescue him. By the time they came aboard, he had used Muulbra’s backup controls to ensure that he was the sole survivor. The precaution might have been unnecessary, but a Master does not take chances with his own life, not where subservients are concerned.

At first he thought humans were merely a species with which he was unfamiliar, and that it would be a simple matter to order them to take him through their gate to somewhere he could arrange transportation. He was anxious to report the assassination attempt to his clan leaders.

However, it soon became clear that his savior/captors did not recognize who and what he was. That, of course, was impossible anywhere inside Civilization. Which meant that he was nowhere
inside
Civilization. Whoever these strange bipeds were, they must be a wild species, as yet unknown to the Race. That thought left him trembling from both fear and excitement.

To discover a wild race was both a danger and an opportunity. The danger was that they would kill him when they discovered who and what he was.  However, the opportunity was worth the risk. For ancient custom ceded control of any newly conquered star system to its discoverer and to his clan. Once Sar-Say got word back to Civilization, the beautiful blue-white world of humanity, along with its ugly gray moon and all of their other possessions, would be his to command.

So, not knowing how much, if anything, the humans knew of Civilization, he decided not to risk a lie. When he learned enough human language to allow him to communicate, he told them the literal truth, save for his own identity.

Twice since humans ‘rescued’ him, he had come close to winning his freedom. The first opportunity came when the humans took him along on their expedition to scout Civilization. Although confined to the ship, he had been confident he could convince them in time to add him to their shore party. Once in contact with any native species, he would issue an order to seize his companions.

It had not come to pass. Through bad luck, Mark Rykand had encountered a member of the trading species that Sar-Say pretended to be. As a result, the expedition fled before he had a chance to cry for help.

On their return to Earth, his captors fell to arguing among themselves about what to do. It had been during this period that he was transferred from his orbital prison to confinement on Earth.

The transfer allowed him to make his second escape attempt. With interest about his species high among the humans, he quickly found himself an ambassador, although one continuously guarded. Sar-Say used all he had learned of humans to charm those he met. Eventually, he found an individual whose personal avarice outweighed loyalty to his species.

As sole representative of the Broa on Earth, Sar-Say was in a position to promise his confederate wealth beyond imagining in exchange for aid in his escape. The plan worked perfectly, but his freedom was short lived and he was recaptured before he could put the rest of his plan into action.

He did not regret the attempt, but it worsened his situation considerably. The thought of what would have happened had he obtained a starship galvanized the humans to action. In a fit of insanity peculiar to their species, they decided to forego hiding from his race.

Tiny Earth had declared war on Civilization!

Sar-Say’s personal situation deteriorated as well. He was quickly transferred to the humans’ most secure underground prison on their airless satellite. And his status changed from prisoner-ambassador, to just prisoner.

His imprisonment was far from odious. They did not mistreat him, save for the indignity of periodic physical examinations. They provided food; nutritious, if not exciting to the palate. They gave him access to their public information channels to the point where he had become a minor critic of their dramatic art forms. And for one full hour each week, they allowed him to wander their arboretum.

When he wasn’t answering the interminable questions his interrogators posed each morning, he avidly watched human news programs in order to gain knowledge of their preparations for war. After more than two years of such activities, he was beginning to wonder if the thought of tiny Earth attacking Civilization was as ludicrous as it once seemed.

#

The bullet train leaped the gap between accelerator rings as the barren New Mexico desert slipped by at 300 KPH. Susan Ahrendt rested her lithe 175-cm frame in a cushioned seat and gazed out the window, wondering what she was doing here. The record chip with her orders was safely secured around her neck and the meager belongings she had been allowed were folded neatly in her kitbag beneath the seat. Yet, not even the unfamiliar rolling grasslands and distant sculpted mountains could divert her from the feeling that this was all a mistake.

A quiet chime sounded and a light illuminated on the forward bulkhead, indicating that all passengers should resume their seats for deceleration. Susan snuggled deeper into the cushion and brushed a long strand of hair from in front of her eyes. After a thirty second delay, restraints rose out of her chair and enfolded her in their embrace just before a gentle hand pressed her forward into them. Other passengers, seated in rear-facing chairs, were likewise cradled, even as they sank deeper into the cushions.

Moments later, the car slid to a halt under the artificial light of a pod station. There was a double chime, the acceleration restraints stowed themselves, and the doors hissed quietly open.

Susan reached down, retrieved her bag, and then joined the line of people exiting the bullet car. She walked to the center of the station platform, stopped, and was reading the overhead signs when a voice behind her asked, “Miss Ahrendt?”

She turned to see a muscular man in the uniform of the Space Marines behind her.

“Yes?”

The Marine saluted. “Corporal Dennison, at your service. The program office sent me to meet you.”

“Do you know what all of this is about, Corporal?”

“Can’t say, Ma’am. I just pick them up at the station and drive them to the project. They’ll have someone explain things when you arrive.”

With that, Dennison scooped up her bag and led the way to the underground garage. Five minutes later, they passed into the sunshine and headed out at 200 KPH.

The scenery was monotonously the same for some 40 minutes. Corporal Dennison proved remarkably taciturn during the drive, generally answering her questions in monosyllables. Eventually, they turned off the superway and onto a two-lane road. The car switched to internal power with an audible sigh as it decelerated and they set off across a landscape dominated by scrub brush.

They passed through three separate gates at five kilometer intervals. At each of these, robots scanned their identities and signaled their acquiescence on the car’s windscreen display. Once inside the third fence, the road made a sweeping turn to the right, to reveal a mixed-office-and-residence compound situated in a small valley.

The little village consisted of mainly five-sided buildings of a style that had been in vogue eighty years previous. A fourth fence, the most complex yet, surrounded the village.

In the distance, at the far end of the valley, a single large box of a structure seemed to be half building, half machine. The outline was softened by the haze of distance and a paint scheme designed to blend into the surroundings.

Corporal Dennison pulled to a halt in front of a low building with red brick walls and a roof covered with power collectors. “We’re here, ma’am. Take your identification and orders inside. I’ll deliver your kit bag to your quarters. They’ll show you where to find them when you are through with processing.”

Climbing out of the car, Susan’s jet-black hair was ruffled by a steady, warm wind. She walked to the double glass door and stepped inside. There she encountered a guard station. In addition to the usual assortment of sensors, this one was actually manned. A Space Marine with a humorless expression sat behind a transparent shield that gave every appearance of being bulletproof.

She was used to the slow chest-to-foot-and-back-again circuit male eyes automatically make when they encounter an attractive woman. The guard’s scan was therefore familiar, but somehow different. It lacked any of the usual signals that he was interested in her femininity. The look was more in keeping with an ancient slogan she’d once seen in a history book: “Be polite, but have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”

“May I help you?” he asked.

“My name is Susan Ahrendt. I have orders to report here.”

“May I see them?”

She slipped the necklace from around her neck, detached her identity chip and slipped it into the indicated slot. It disappeared and then reappeared in the Marine’s hand. He slipped it into another slot and a machine somewhere beeped.

“Please look into the retina scanner, Miss Ahrendt.”

She did as she was requested and the machine beeped twice.

“You appear to be you. I will buzz Mr. Pembroke.”

A few minutes later, a rear door opened and in walked a balding man of about sixty. A noticeable paunch hung over his belt. “Miss Ahrendt?” he asked, extending a hand.

She rose and shook his hand. “Yes.”

“I’m Lee Pembroke. I will handle your induction.”

“Induction into what, Mr. Pembroke? They weren’t very specific at graduation.”

“No, I doubt they were,” he said, palming the door control. He gestured for her to precede him as the door opened and a gust of wind ruffled their clothes. The air had a fine grittiness to it. “Over the next few hours, I will explain everything. We’re glad you are here. We are habitually short-handed in the creative department. We’ll put you right to work.”

#

Chapter Eight

Pembroke led the way down a concrete sidewalk decorated by a fine network of cracks from hot desert days and cold desert nights. They were in the central courtyard formed by six pentagonal buildings. The open area was graced by two shelters under which picnic tables had been arrayed, and walkways laid out in a Star of David pattern.

Strange, stringy plants—stunted trees, really—dotted the courtyard, providing shade to the walkways. They were unfamiliar to Susan. They did not seem be to be the cacti that her Canadian upbringing had taught her to be the hallmark of the North American Southwest.

In the center of the courtyard stood an oversize statue of a horse with a prominent mane arched above its neck. It was a stylized rendition of a horse rather than a bronze copy of the real thing. The sight caused a stirring deep within Susan’s memory. There was something familiar about it, but she couldn’t quite place where she had seen its like before.

Their destination was the second building to the right. Pembroke ushered her through a door and into a long hallway. A glance through open doors as they passed showed her that the building was laid out for offices, with their rows of cubicles and workstations. Pembroke led her through one of the larger rooms to a glass-walled office whose window looked outward toward the perimeter fence and the brown panorama beyond.

“Take a seat,” he instructed, gesturing toward one of the two chairs in front of his desk. He, in turn, moved to lower himself into the high backed executive chair behind it. There was a brief whirring of motors as the chair conformed to his frame. As it did so, he reached into a desk drawer, pulled out an old-fashioned file folder and laid it open on the desk. Even upside down, Susan recognized her résumé.

 “You have a good record here, Miss Ahrendt. One you should be proud of.”

“Thank you.”

“I see that you were a CSS candidate…”

“That’s the polite way to put it, Mr. Pembroke. I prefer ‘drafted,’ ‘kidnapped,’ or ‘shanghaied.’”

To her surprise, he laughed. “A lot of our people feel the same way. Here they were leading perfectly happy lives, minding their own business, when The Message pops up on their work screens: ‘Greetings. The government has need of your talents for the next few years.’”

“It’s not fair,” she blurted out without intending to.

“Fairness is overrated,” he said without missing a beat. “In fact, we all should get down on our knees and thank God that life is not fair.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pembroke?”

“Call me ‘Lee.’ We’re on a first name basis around here.”

“Very well… Lee. I’m Susan. You were saying…”

“Consider this situation from the standpoint of our enemies, Susan. If the universe were fair, we would still know nothing of the Broa. We would all be living our old lives, blissfully ignorant of the Sword of Damocles dangling a few light-years above our heads. If life were equitable, then it would have been they who discovered us, rather than vice versa.

“No, this one time the ball of fortune bounced in our direction. You do think we should do something about the Broa, don’t you?”

“
We
, meaning the human race,
have
to do something about them. I just don’t see why
I
have to be the one to do it. It’s a military problem. Let the military handle it.”

“Would that they could. Unfortunately, our adversaries outnumber us quite heavily. In fact, the imbalance is several hundred thousand to one,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. He slipped into the manner of a college professor lecturing a particularly slow student. Susan wondered if he was aware of the mannerism.

“Consider the tally sheet. We have but one home star system and a dozen or so colonies whose roots are barely planted. They have a functioning civilization that encompasses a million stars. Think of that! They have more stars than we have incorporated cities. Their population is at least one hundred thousand times greater than our own… and the ratio is only that low because the Broa apparently restrict their slaves’ breeding to keep their numbers manageable. We are grossly outmatched, woefully outgunned, and pitifully outresourced.”

 “Then it is hopeless,” she replied as she wondered where this conversation was headed.

“Indeed,” he said, nodding vigorously. “That is the first insight we impress on our staff. It is indeed hopeless if we treat the pseudo-simians as a conventional military problem. If it ever comes to a head-to-head slugging match, they win and we die.”