Chaos Forged
By
Kaitlyn O’Connor
(c) copyright by Kaitlyn O’Connor, April 2008
Cover art by Eliza Black, 2008
Published by New Concepts Publishing
Smashwords Edition
ISBN 978-1-60394-144-0
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
“Houston, this is Dr. Danielle Stevens aboard the ISS Pegasus. Do you read?” She paused, listening intently for several moments and then repeated the transmission. Nothing but dead air greeted her each time she switched from send to receive.
That was all any of the ten-member crew aboard the international space station had heard for weeks now. Dead air.
The news reports they’d picked up before had been frightening—the reported death tolls from the pandemic staggering, but the news had grown steadily worse as panic gripped the world and violence escalated.
Then—nothing.
The silence was more frightening than everything that had gone before.
Releasing a pent up breath, Danielle propped her arm on the console and her head on her palm, closing her eyes. They burned, feeling grainy from the little sleep she’d had … not that she was by any means alone. No one was sleeping. Everyone was wrestling with the big question.
What do we do now? Wait here to die? Go home and die with everyone else?
Swallowing past the painful knot that rose to wedge in her throat, Danielle lifted her head. It was too late, she thought, for the last option.
No one wanted to admit it. She didn’t want to accept it, but there was no getting around the fact that, the more time that passed, the less likely it was that anyone at all was left.
Impossible. Unacceptable. Unbelievable. And yet, what else was there to think when they couldn’t raise anyone at all?
“Any luck?”
Danielle swiveled her seat and stared at her friend, Dr. Lindsey Peterson, watching the faint hope in the other woman’s eyes die.
She swallowed with an effort, shaking her head. “I’ve only been trying for about an hour, though. With the delay … and there could be interference.”
They both knew she was grasping at straws.
Unable to bear the desolation that flickered through Lindsey’s eyes, Danielle swiveled around to face the console again. “Houston, this is Dr. Danielle Stevens …”
“Give it a rest! You’re using up battery power we can’t afford to waste.”
Danielle twisted to look at the doorway to the com room again. Clancy Morton stood next to Lindsey now, scowling at her. Danielle’s lips tightened. “What the fuck are we going to use it for?” she snapped.
Clancy’s scowl deepened. “Watch your mouth, Doctor Stevens,” he growled. “I’m still the head of this mission.”
“What mission, for Christ’s sake?” Danielle demanded. “They’re all dead! What the hell are we doing up here?”
“We’re doing our jobs!” Clancy snapped. “Some of us, anyway!”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Danielle shouted at him as he whirled and stalked off. She transferred her attention to Lindsey when he didn’t respond. “What the hell did he mean by that?”
Lindsey shook her head. “Raging at each other isn’t going to change anything.”
Danielle swallowed her fear, anger, and grief with an effort. “It makes me feel better,” she muttered, looking away.
“Does it?”
Danielle dragged in a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. “No,” she admitted reluctantly.
Lindsey was silent so long she thought the other woman had left. “Do you really think they’re all dead?”
“I don’t know.” She did, she just couldn’t bring herself to repeat it. She wouldn’t have said it all if Clancy hadn’t made her so furious. It was almost as if, as long as she didn’t say it, accept it, it might not be true.
“As long as we don’t know there’s still hope, right?”
Defiantly leaving the com open, Danielle thrust herself away from the console and shoved herself to her feet. “Hope?” She shook her head at Lindsey. “The very last communication we had was from Robert Rawlins. He said not to come home until we got an all clear because the pandemic was completely out of control. Don’t you think somebody would have contacted us in this length of time if there was anybody down there who could?”
“They could’ve closed down mission control. He said they’d been trying to get everyone into quarantine to slow the spread.”
Danielle had thought of that. It was what she hoped herself. They’d been ordered to stay put, told the seriousness of the situation. If the virus was spreading, and killing, as fast as Robert had indicated.… “Robert seemed to think the kill rate was in our favor, that the virus was killing off its hosts so fast it was slowing the spread. If it didn’t go airborne …”
Lindsey managed a tremulous smile. “That’s probably it. They shut everything down and quarantined people in their homes to stop the spread. The kill rate was only about sixty percent when he gave us the first report, right?”
Danielle shrugged. He’d actually said they thought the kill rate was around sixty percent. The last report had it at closer to eighty percent and the plain truth was that, once it began spreading like wildfire, nobody knew what the hell was going on.
“Well … a lot more people are sick than well. I imagine they have their hands full. We just need to keep trying until we reach somebody. Had you thought about trying another bandwidth?”
Guilt made Danielle’s cheeks redden. “I toyed with it a little,” she lied, avoiding Lindsey’s gaze. The fact was, she’d tried every channel when they’d lost contact with Houston and when she hadn’t been able to pick up any of the other stations, she’d begun frantically scanning the airwaves for anything at all. She’d picked up a few transmissions—all bad, all indicating a global pandemic, panic, riots—marshal law when the violence escalated to such proportions that the military had to be called in to try to restore order and then she’d lost even those. All was quiet on planet Earth. There hadn’t been so much as a radio or TV station broadcasting anything but static, or prerecorded shows on a loop, for over a week.
It was almost as if someone had set off a viral bomb.
There hadn’t been any indications, though, that it was viral warfare.
That didn’t preclude the possibility, unfortunately. It just meant that things had gotten so bad so fast that there hadn’t been time to investigate. They hadn’t had time for anything but trying to fight it and burying the dead—not to contain it, not to find a treatment or a cure. Hospitals and clinics had filled up and overflowed so fast, they couldn’t begin to keep up with demand and frantic calls for volunteers to help with the sick had gone largely unanswered because the same thing was happening everywhere at once. No one had enough personnel to handle the problem or enough volunteers or enough medical supplies or enough places to put the sick. The virus had traveled through every transit system as if they were the arteries of a single, living organism. Major cities all over the globe were already fighting for their lives before the realization hit home that it wasn’t an isolated epidemic and by that time it had trickled through the smaller veins and infected almost every population center. Anyone that traveled anywhere was a potential victim—and a carrier.
The abrupt surge of static from the microphone made Danielle and Lindsey both nearly jump out of their skin. Both women whipped their heads toward the microphone, holding their breath. “ISS Pegasus, this is Lymra Sabin Au-tere of the Galactic Federation flagship Mertosin.”
Danielle felt her jaw sag. She whipped her head toward Lindsey again. They stared at one another blankly in shock for an endless moment.
“Dr. Danielle Stevens, this is Lymra Sabin Au-tere …”
Danielle and Lindsey both let out a scream of hysterical joy, launching themselves at each other and bouncing up and down.
“Do you read? Dr. Danielle Stevens of the ISS …”
Danielle broke from Lindsey’s frantic embrace. “I have to talk to him. Run! Get the others!”
Her hand was shaking so badly when she flopped into her chair and grabbed the microphone that she nearly dropped it. “This Dr. Danielle Stevens of the ISS Pegasus speaking,” she said in a voice quavering with excitement.
“This is Lymra Sabin Au-tere of the Galactic Federation vessel Mertosin …”
Danielle’s mind went abruptly blank. “Who?”
“Danielle!” Lindsey called from down the corridor. “Come here!”
“I’m trying to talk to this … person!” Danielle yelled back at her impatiently.
“Don’t!”
Danielle swiveled around in her chair, frowning. “What?”
When no one responded, Danielle debated with herself a moment and finally got up, moving to the doorway. She could hear a rumble of voices coming from the main cabin area. After glancing at the com again, she finally stepped into the corridor.
“We have communications!” she called.
“Get in here!” Clancy bellowed.
Danielle’s lips tightened but after glancing at the com again, she jogged down the corridor to see what was happening, skidding to a halt when she reached the main cabin and discovered that the entire crew was bunched around the viewing ports on either side, gaping at something outside. A wave of cold crested over her. Uncertain she could handle more bad news, Danielle moved slowly toward the nearest group and glanced outside.
A silvery gray object filled the entire view port, blocking out any view of space that would ordinarily have been visible. Danielle stared at it uncomprehendingly. Of their own accord, her eyes moved, recording, tracing the smooth surface of the gigantic sphere from top to bottom and end to end, noting view ports, lights—strange markings along the side of the vehicle—the space craft.
Feeling perfectly blank, she dragged her gaze from it after a moment, glanced at Lindsey, Clancy, Bud, Joyce, and Richard and finally turned to look across the room at the other group. There was another ship like the first hovering on that side of the space station.
Clancy finally turned away from the port, staring at Danielle, or rather through her for several moments before his gaze finally focused on her. “You’ve had communications?”
It took Danielle several tries to find her voice. “Yes,” she managed to say a little hoarsely. “I couldn’t … he has an unfamiliar accent. It sounded like he said something about Galactic Federation.”
Their conversation seemed to snap everyone out of their shock. They all started trying to talk at once.
“It’s them. It has to be them! Who else would it be?”
“Houston?”
“Give me a fucking break! We haven’t heard from Houston in weeks. She said an accent!”
“What kind of accent?”
“Will you all shut up!” Clancy roared abruptly, sweeping a glare around the room. “I’m trying to think, goddamn it!”
“I left him on the com,” Danielle said uneasily. “What do you want me to do?”
Clancy’s lips tightened. Finally, he motioned her down the corridor and followed her. “Let’s try to find out who they are and what they’re doing here.”
Danielle swallowed a little convulsively, nodded jerkily, and preceded Clancy to the com room. When she’d collapsed weakly in her seat, she took a moment to try to collect herself. Striving to steady her madly pounding pulse, she closed her eyes and took deep, even breaths until she felt a little more calm. “This is Dr. Stevens. I apologize for breaking communications. Is that … are you aboard one of the vessels currently alongside the ISS Pegasus?”
There was a lengthy delay. Finally, the same deep male voice that had spoken before answered her. “Yes. I must apologize, as well. There is a delay in the translator.”
Danielle slid a wide-eyed look at Clancy. She saw immediately, though, that Clancy wasn’t going to be any help at all. Depressing the link again, Danielle spoke into the microphone. “What are your origins?”
“The Kirsian Galaxy,” Sabin responded after another lengthy pause.
“That’s bullshit!” Clancy snapped, uttering a bark of laughter that held no humor.
Danielle sent him another wide-eyed look. “Have you lost your mind? For god’s sake, Clancy! What if they’d heard you?”
“I don’t give a flying fuck! Kirsian Galaxy? Where the fuck is that? He’s trying to say they’re … aliens?”
Danielle stared at him. “You think they aren’t? Just who, on Earth, do you think would have ships like that? Did you see the size of them?”
Clancy ran a shaking hand over his face, glanced around the room, and finally dropped heavily into the only other chair in the room.
After studying him for several moments, waiting to see if he meant to give her any input, Danielle returned her attention to the console. “What is the purpose …? What are your intentions, Lymra Sabin?”
“The people of the Galactic Federation send greetings,” Sabin said formally. “We have come to offer aid.”
“I’ll … uh … I’ll have to speak with my superior and convey your message.”
The pause was longer that time. “Permission to board?”
Danielle stared at the console as if she could see through it to the being on the other end. “Clancy? A little help here. He wants to come on board.”
“We understand that the situation is dire. If it will help to work things out more quickly …?” Sabin said, almost as if he knew the chaos he’d thrown them into.
And maybe he did? What must their puny space station look like to beings capable of building ships like those surrounding them?
Clancy frowned, obviously considering it. “Tell him permission is granted.”
Danielle felt her jaw slide to half cock. “Clancy! We don’t know anything about these beings—nothing! Don’t you think we should discuss this among the crew …?”
Clancy glared at her. “I’m in charge. And just how the hell do you think we could stop them from coming aboard? We need to try to present a front of friendliness until we can figure out what’s going on!”
Danielle was almost as surprised that what he’d said made sense as she was that it hadn’t occurred to her.
She turned to the com again. “You have permission to board. You may dock with the starboard bay.”
“That will not be necessary. I will transport to the large central area of the station.”
Danielle turned to Clancy again. They stared at one another. “The rec room!” they both said at almost the same instant, leaping up and rushing from the com room.
Danielle saw when they reached the room that a blur of light had appeared in the center of the room. Drawn by her and Clancy’s entrance, the rest of the crew turned from the view ports, staring as the blur rapidly became more solid and finally vanished altogether, leaving a man—or at least a being of humanoid proportions—standing where the light had been only moments before.
Frozen, no one moved. Danielle didn’t think she even breathed.
His suit looked like nothing she’d ever seen, almost more like some sort of armor than a space suit, and appeared to fit him almost like a second skin. As she stared, he reached up and removed the helmet that completed his suit. Her heart slammed into her rib cage as the head slowly emerged … skin tones much like theirs, a square jaw and chin, a firm mouth. Long, inky black hair fell around his shoulders.
He’s human, she thought blankly, feeling lightheaded as she stared at the man’s face.
* * * *
Lymra Sabin Au-tere experienced an internal fluctuation of unknown origins as he materialized within the human habitat that spawned a flicker of unaccustomed surprise in him. His heartbeat accelerated to 2.5 beats more per parsect than normal. That circumstance disconcerted him, heaping another indignity upon the first, produced a veritable flood of unaccountable emotion, and succeeded in thoroughly disorienting him for a handful of parsects.
He dragged in a deep, calming breath and took a moment to examine the situation, deciding he could allow himself that since there was clearly no imminent threat of personal injury.
No doubt the lack of true gravity accounted for the surprise, he decided, which understandably produced the slightly accelerated pulse, and yet he wasn’t completely satisfied with that explanation, as logical as it seemed. After all, he’d expected it—should have. He’d carefully scanned the habitat and adjusted his suit’s parameters accordingly before he’d even stepped onto the transport. His body shouldn’t have been sensitive enough to detect the slight variation in gravity and pressure that his suit hadn’t been able to account for. It was miniscule.
On the other hand, mentally prepared didn’t necessarily mean physically prepared, he reminded himself. Undoubtedly, he’d miscalculated. His body had felt the difference even though he hadn’t expected that it would.
It bothered him that he’d miscalculated even to such a minor extent and, perhaps, that accounted for the uncomfortable fluctuation of emotion?
He realized after a moment that the reason he hadn’t been able to accept his first theory was because he was aware that the leap in his pulse had coincided with his first clear view of the inhabitants of the habitat, not his arrival. He’d simply tried to dismiss that unpalatable truth and now realized he shouldn’t have.
A certain amount of wariness was not only completely logical and understandable, but desirable under the circumstances since it raised his level of alertness.
As much as he’d learned about this species, he was conscious of the fact that their knowledge of the species barely broke the surface. There was sufficient data, however, to make it clear that humans were an extremely dangerous species, completely unpredictable and erratic in behavior except for one particular trait.
Their sense of self-preservation seemed to be the only instinct that had survived evolution virtually unchanged and undiminished—completely contrary to logic—despite the many incarnations they had manifested in their rise from beast to sentient beings. The advances in their civilization and technology should have at least tempered that vicious streak, and yet it hadn’t that anyone had been able to determine. They still viewed any creature that was different with suspicion and distrust and the slightest move might be, and usually was, interpreted as a threat—and they were extremely violent in the face of treat.
Lymra Sabin Au-tere didn’t particularly care for the fact that his reaction upon entering the habitat of the humans was so unrestrained as to elevate his pulse and produce so many uncomfortable emotions, but he decided he was pleased with the evidence that his own species, and he in particular, hadn’t completely lost their own instincts for self-preservation.
When one could not discount such a thing, he thought wryly, it was always best to look upon it in a positive light and consider the benefits of it.
The discomfort would abate when his senses detected a decrease in the hostility around him, he was certain.
Experiencing heretofore unsuspected latent traits within his own species should prove to be interesting—even though he was obliged to admit that he didn’t find it particularly pleasant.
Moments passed, though, and he could detect no appreciable decline in the level of emotion around him. Finally, it occurred to him that, whereas he could see them perfectly well, they could not see him—not beyond the obvious to determine that he was humanoid as they were. He’d been chosen because he was one of the highest ranking of the mahns aboard the federation vessel. They more closely resembled the Earth species than any of the others. It seemed logical that that would most likely be met with the least resistance.
Not surprisingly since the mahns were responsible for the genetic traits they had in common, but then that wasn’t anything it was safe for either the humans or the grundts to know.
The situation had been thoroughly analyzed before they’d arrived at that decision and, based on what was known about the humans, it had been determined that knowledge of the mahns tampering with their evolution was not likely to instill trust.
And earning their trust seemed critical to their plan.
Lifting his hands slowly, he disengaged the locking mechanism that attached his helm to his suit and just as slowly removed it so as not to startle them. When he’d pulled it free and tucked it in the crook of one arm, he studied their reaction carefully.
More specifically, he found his gaze zeroing in on the female who’d caught his attention the moment he became aware of his surroundings, but he could think of no reason to choose any one above the others. He needed to know how all of them responded. He saw no logical reason to resist beginning with her.
And yet the moment he met her gaze he felt that strange fluctuation again. It was more pronounced than before, impossible to deny.
Not that he would have attempted to. That wasn’t even logical. Ignoring a fact did not make it vanish. It only made it impossible to pinpoint the cause of it.
As it happened, he did not have to search hard to find the explanation. This time when his pulse rate leapt upward, it was followed almost instantly with sensations that could only be interpreted as desire. Heat pooled in his groin area and his genitals reacted to the visual stimulus—or perhaps it was a chemical reaction? His testicles tightened and enough blood surged into his penis to produce the beginnings of an erection.
Disconcerted—annoyed both with his reaction and the fact that it disconcerted him—he frowned and very deliberately glanced away from the female to study the others.
He could not determine from their expressions, he discovered, any lessening in the hostility he’d sensed before. In point of fact, the males seemed somewhat more hostile and both suspicion and disbelief were evident.
Clicking his heels together, he executed a respectful bow that was little more than a nod of his head and then followed with the military salute of the federation, crossing his left arm over his chest and striking his right pec with his fist. “I am Lymra Sabin Au-tere of the Galactic Federation.”
The man standing directly in front of him narrowed his eyes. He nodded but didn’t return the salute. “What Galaxy?”
“We hail from the Kirsian Galaxy.”
“I’m not familiar with that Galaxy.”
A twinge of amusement flickered through Sabin, but he was careful to keep it to himself. It was abundantly clear, even if his own species had not been more than a little familiar with humans, that they had no capability for intergalactic flight. Instead, he pondered for a moment and finally shook his head. “I can not reference the name you have for our Galaxy … if, indeed, you have one. Suffice to say, it is not your galaxy.”
The man’s lips thinned. Clearly, he wasn’t appeased in the least at the little joke—but then he didn’t strike Sabin as a being who had much of a sense of humor.
Reminding himself that the situation was not one where humor was appropriate, Sabin tamped the urge to smile. Very likely it would be interpreted as threatening in some way, he decided sardonically.
“So … you’ve led a military operation to our doorstep to help us in our hour of need?” the man asked coldly.
This time the slight jump in his pulse was clearly a warning that he had misstepped, Sabin decided. “I am merely a Lymra,” he responded with cool, but determined, politeness, considered for a moment what would be an appropriate analogy and added, “this would be similar to the rank of a major in your military. I have not led the expedition and our purpose here is not military in nature. I was merely chosen to represent the federation for the simple reason that my species is similar to your own and might make the meeting more … comfortable. The fleet was on routine patrol on the outer rim of our own territory when the distress signal was picked up and, as we have an extensive medical staff and supplies, the decision was made to offer such aid as we are able.”
Again the man’s lips tightened. “What aid do you think you can offer us? Obviously, this can’t be a virus familiar to you. It seems clear to me, given your assertion that you’re from a distant galaxy and not even the same species, that the odds would be astronomical that you could do anything at all.”
Sabin nodded, acknowledging the logic of the man’s conclusion. “We can not know that until we have had adequate time to study the situation. You are the leader?”
The man, whom Sabin judged to be of median maturity—certainly not young and possibly what might be considered elderly among his own people—drew himself up. Sabin decided the posture was not threatening as much as an effort to make himself appear larger and possibly more important. “I’m the leader of this expedition.”
The statement more than his demeanor surprised Sabin and led him to speak incautiously, an action so uncharacteristic for him that the notion assailed him that he was far more disoriented by his situation than he’d realized. He lifted his brows. “This is an expedition? Is this habitat not in permanent orbit around the planet?”
The woman spoke for the first time and Sabin instantly recognized her as the owner of the voice he’d heard aboard the Mertosin.
He was less pleased about his reaction to her than he had been the first time and that had not pleased him at all.
In point of fact, he thought for a moment that his translator had broken. When he looked at her, his mind went perfectly blank. It wasn’t until the translator repeated that he realized that it was his mind that had malfunctioned rather than the equipment.
“It is in permanent orbit. Its purpose is scientific research, however, and the crews who man it change out every six months or so … depending on the expedition, of course.” She smiled at him in a way that threw his system into chaos once more when he’d barely regained his equilibrium. “I’m Dr. Danielle Stevens. We spoke before.”
He nodded. “I am Lymra Sabin Au-tere,” he responded automatically and completely illogically, realizing the moment he said it how totally unnecessary it was to introduce himself again.
She responded with a soft sound that made his belly clench in response. Her eyelids slid downward, hiding her eyes with the sweep of her long, black lashes, and she looked away, her cheeks growing briefly warmer in color.
It seemed important to understand her reaction and most particularly the sound she’d made.
Laughter, he realized after a search of the data he’d accumulated, realizing with a jolt of bemusement that the behavior she’d displayed was generally accepted to be flirtatious in nature.
He realized after a moment that the little man who’d spoken so coldly to him before had extended his right hand. He stared at the hand and then met the man’s gaze curiously. “It’s a gesture of friendship,” the man said uncomfortably. “I’m Dr. Clancy Morton.”
Reluctance slithered through Sabin. Briefly, he debated whether to reciprocate or not. As repellent as he considered the notion of actually touching an alien being— particularly when it was considered unpardonably rude among his own people—he finally extended his own hand. The contact was worse than he’d expected. He felt his belly lurch as the man grasped his hand firmly and gave it a shake.
He was frowning when he released Sabin’s hand. “A limp handshake doesn’t give the impression you want to convey,” he said in a lecturing tone that annoyed Sabin.
He merely nodded, however.
Dismay filled him when he discovered the female known as Danielle was holding out her hand, as well. He wasn’t particularly pleased to discover his reaction to taking her hand was entirely different than the reaction he’d experienced before, though no less disconcerting. His pulse leapt again and the warmth of before flooded back into his groin.
Her hand was soft and warm.
She winced when he squeezed it firmly as he’d been instructed. “Not quite that firmly,” she said in the same melodious voice that had wreaked havoc with his senses before, a faint hitch of amusement in her voice as if she was struggling to contain the urge to laugh as she had before.
In all honesty, he’d begun to feel vaguely ill by the time he’d made the rounds and shook the hand of each and been offered their title and the name by which they were known, and he began to wonder if they had passed some dread disease to him by the contact. Instructing the computer to run a medical scan, he settled in the seat offered to him and set his helm on his lap not only because he was aware of the potential for contamination but also because he was uncomfortably aware that he was still in a completely incomprehensible half-aroused state.
Firmly pushing the urge to examine that strange circumstance to the back of his mind, he focused with an effort on his mission. “We have determined that the situation is dire and the sooner we can address the issues, the more likely that we will be met with success.”
Everyone sobered immediately. Clancy frowned. “That presents a problem of a … delicate political nature. We can’t authorize a landing. The question would have to be presented to our leaders and we haven’t been able to communicate with them.”
Sabin frowned himself, trying to ignore the irritation that swept through him. Their people were dying … or perhaps dead even now. Logic should rule and reason dictated action, not posturing and political discussions. “I understand and we certainly have no desire to do anything that might be construed as a threat. However, we can do nothing from here. We must land to collect specimens and determine the cause of the illness before we can have any hope of developing a treatment.”
Everyone looked around uncomfortably and, after a moment, Sabin stood decisively. “I will leave you to discuss this among yourselves and decide.”
Moving to the spot where he had transported aboard, he signaled that he was ready to return. Typically, when he transported, he focused on nothing in particular since it could be disorienting to focus on an object that was no longer there when he materialized in another location entirely. He found, though, that his gaze seemed to move of its own volition to the female who had so thoroughly rattled him.
* * * *
“What did you think of him?” Clancy asked no one in particular the moment the alien disappeared.
“You mean aside from the fact that he was alien and completely cold and emotionless over the entire thing?” Captain Nick LaRoche asked sharply. “I wouldn’t trust them any further than I could throw them. I don’t know why they’re here … unless it’s to benefit from our misfortune, but I don’t believe for one minute that they give a shit one way or another whether we all croak.”
Danielle frowned, irritated with herself for the skip in her pulse when she glanced at Nick. It baffled her that she persisted in having that sort of reaction to being near him when there’d never been anything between them but sex—however, great the sex—and that had been so brief, and so long ago that she wondered about her reaction, especially under the circumstances. “He didn’t strike me as cold. Just … wary, maybe, which would be completely understandable.”
“He wasn’t too keen on the idea of shaking hands. That’s the closest he came to actually showing any emotion at all that I could see,” Su-lynn pointed out dryly.
Lindsey sent her an indignant look. “Who could blame him for that when, as far we know, everybody on Earth is infected? Obviously, it isn’t his people’s custom. It isn’t the custom in your native country either! Did you think about that?”
“I’m just saying I was disturbed by the fact that he clearly found it extremely distasteful, but he did it because he was trying to convey friendliness. It seems to indicate a great desire to win our trust and that makes me wonder why,” Su-lynn countered.
Andre` shrugged. “They have no need. They cannot for a moment believe that we have it within our power to stop them … whatever they have in mind. The comment about having intercepted a distress transmission was telling. They have been monitoring us for some time, no doubt. It seems very unlikely that we have many secrets.”
Danielle shot to her feet, impatiently. “This discussion is moot. We don’t have a choice of whether to trust them or not, and we all know it! They didn’t have to stop and ask permission. I think we should accept that as an olive branch and go from there.”
“As much as I’d like to disagree with her,” Bud drawled, “she’s right. It isn’t a question of whether we believe them or trust them. We can’t stop them. I think we need to make the effort to pretend we’re in charge here, pretend we trust them, and hope for the best … because we sure as fuck aren’t going to stop them from doing whatever the hell they want to.”
Danielle felt the fear she’d been keeping firmly at bay quiver along her skin. “So what do we do? We can’t contact anybody and that means if we ‘invite’ them down to the surface and, if there’s anybody left at the controls, they’ll probably be attacked … in which case, they’re liable to turn on us. It isn’t as if we have any clout with the president anyway.”
Everyone exchanged uneasy glances.
Clancy commenced to pulling at his lower lip thoughtfully, a habit Danielle had always found annoying and vaguely repulsive. Finally, he stopped, however. “We’ll have to lead them in,” he said decisively. “We’re near the point of having no choice but to return anyway—supplies are running out. I think what we’ll have to do is to broadcast our intensions as long as possible and just hope that, if there is anyone down there still manning the defense system, that they don’t blast us all to smithereens.”
He got up with obvious effort, looking far older than his sixty-five years. “I’d almost welcome it,” he muttered. “I’m not sure I want to see what hell has wrought.”
Chapter Two
It fell to Danielle to contact the alien fleet. Feeling butterflies in her belly, which weren’t entirely due to the fear and hope at war within her, she sat down at the console and hailed the Mertosin.
“This is Dr. Danielle Stevens aboard the ISS Pegasus hailing Lymra Au-tere on the Mertosin.”
Sabin felt his pulse leap with satisfaction when he heard the hail. Stepping forward, he spoke into the com unit. “This is Lymra Sabin,” he corrected her. “Or you may address me merely as Sabin. Have you arrived at a decision, Dr. Danielle?”
“Danielle’s fine … or Danny, if that seems easier to say,” Danielle responded, feeling the butterflies in her stomach riot at the sound of his deep voice. “We’re having problems communicating with ground control. It would be best, we’ve concluded, to lead a small party in and introduce you to our superiors. We’re prepping the shuttle now. We should be ready to launch within the hour.”
There was a significant delay in his response and Danielle tried to decide whether he’d tumbled to the fact that they didn’t particularly trust the alien forces or if he was having trouble understanding the time line she’d quoted. “This would be approximately 72 parsects,” he finally responded thoughtfully. “Yes. We will prepare a ship to accompany you to the surface.”
He paused again. “You should be aware that the federation represents a number of species from many solar systems. I will be a part of the descent team, but the mahns are the only species that closely resemble your own. It is hoped that you will not be unduly alarmed by the appearance of the others, although we are aware that it must be … something of a shock to your species.”
“Understood,” Danielle responded. “I’ll make certain to convey the message to the others.”
When she’d closed the com, she swiveled her chair to look at the others, crowded near the door, questioningly.
“I guess that means we should brace ourselves not to scream or faint,” Captain LaRoche observed dryly. Pushing away from the doorframe, he plowed past the others. “Let’s get a move on. We’ve only got an hour to prep … and we won’t be coming back.”
Danielle tried to ignore the ominous undertones as she followed the rest of the crew out of the communications room and headed for the quarters she shared with the other women on the crew. None of them had brought many personal items since the payload restrictions discouraged it, but none of them wanted to leave those few items behind. Taking her duffle, she emptied her locker, pausing for several moments to study the photo of her family. Depression settled over her like a heavy cloak. She’d done her best not to think about them. It was too hard to hold herself together if she allowed herself that luxury, but she discovered that now that they were about to return to Earth it was impossible not to consider the unlikelihood that any of them were still alive.
An unswallowable knot of emotion formed in her throat. Entwined with the grief was guilt. Almost seven months. She’d been so excited at the opportunity to join the crew aboard the Pegasus when she’d left she’d hardly given a thought to the possibility that she might never see them again.
Mostly, she realized, because it was her own demise that seemed most likely if anything occurred to prevent it, and she’d known she wouldn’t be the one left behind to grieve.
Scientist or not, it suddenly seemed so incredibly selfish that she wondered how she could’ve done such a thing. How could she have set aside the only thing in her life that was really important for the pursuit of knowledge?
If she hadn’t left them, she would’ve shared their fate.
She should have shared it!
Clancy was right. If there was any mercy, they wouldn’t make it back to Earth and they’d never have to know which of their loved ones had survived and who hadn’t.
* * * *
Lymra Sabin turned to the Mra Kubo Kan and saluted. “We have been invited to send a party to the surface.”
Mra Kubo Kan nodded absently, studying the viewer through narrowed eyes. “They do not trust, though.”
Because despite their physical similarity to the mahns, the humans were far more like the grundts in temperament, Sabin thought privately—violent, emotionally unstable, deceptive, and aggressive—although he certainly wasn’t foolish enough to voice his thoughts aloud—especially when this particular grundt seemed almost to consider his defects with something akin to pride.
His people had finally concluded that the experiment with the inhabitants of Earth was a failure—as had their other attempts to manipulate a species to make them compatible with their own. They should have accepted the inevitability of their fate long ago, he thought in disgust.
But some things simply could not be accepted, regardless of the lack of logic in hope, and the demise of one’s species was one of those things.
He did not particularly regret it himself. They had devised a reasonable solution even if it was not the most desirable. In point of fact, he thought it was far more desirable than the alternative. He didn’t entirely understand the reasoning of the progenitors who’d considered cloning as the solution to the decimation of their gene pool undesirable. Even if they had managed to genetically manipulate another species sufficiently to make them biologically compatible in every way, they would still be breeding outside their own species and risking the loss of far too much in his opinion.
Cloning ensured that they could not only keep their bloodlines in tact, but it also provided the possibility of retraining the most desirable traits of their progenitors and, contrary to the fears of the devisors, he could not see that anything at all had been lost to them in the generations since they had implemented their cloning facilities. He was sabin—seventh generation. Physically, he knew himself to be an excellent specimen—as near perfection as was mahnly possible. He was without mental or physical defect of any kind, strong, had an excellent immune system that not only made him resistant to disease but also insured a swift recovery to injury or illness, and his intelligence was of the highest order. And, despite his recent emotional upheaval, not inclined toward the erratic emotionalism of so many species.
The same could be said for the remainder of his clone batch. Not one of the three had defect of any kind and even if worse came to worse and he was destroyed, any of them would be able to safely pass on their progenitor’s genetic imprint for another generation.
He frowned at that thought.
He didn’t particularly care for the fact that the grundts had insisted upon bringing his entire batch. He knew why they had—they thought it insured cooperation, that the mahns could not afford to risk all four of the clones of one progenitor. If they all died, then their line died, and with so few of their kind left they were careful to preserve what they could. And his particular progenitor was very important to them both as a scientist and a leader else they would not have cloned four of a kind, when they rarely cloned more than two for the sake of safety.
He could only hope that their leaders had taken appropriate steps to preserve his particular genetic line. Their plot was extremely risky. The odds were, since he and his batch were so critical to the resistance, that they would all be lost in the attempt to free themselves from the yolk of their oppressors.
“I do not like it,” Mra Kubo Kan said abruptly, bringing Sabin from his reverie with a jolt.
He lifted his brows questioningly at his leader, inviting him to elaborate.
Kubo Kan glared at him. “They thought you were cold and not at all friendly. You were to befriend them.”
Sabin stared at him for a long moment, completely baffled by the accusation. “I am mahn,” he said finally. “It is not at all logical to have expected that I would be ‘friendly.’ Beyond representing the logic of accepting our aid, I have no understanding of what would constitute ‘friendly’ to these beings.”
Kubo Kan pressed his lipless mouth together in an expression of displeasure. “You have studied them extensively!”
Sabin nodded. “The available data, yes.”
“No wonder they thought you cold!” Kubo Kan growled. “You mahns are as emotionless as machines. You might as well be machines!”
Sabin grasped that Kubo Kan had meant to be insulting. He just wasn’t certain why the creature thought he should be insulted by what was not only clearly a fact, but something his people prided themselves on. “Emotion clouds judgment and make it difficult or impossible to reason,” he responded coolly. “We mahns have cultivated the ability to remain in full possession of our faculties regardless of provocation. It is a disgrace to behave any other way. In any case, it is not at all logical to grow angry because we are what we are any more than it would be logical to grow angry that the mirpods cannot laugh at your jokes.”
Kubo Kan glared at him. “But that’s my point, gods damn it! You’ll have to try harder! They aren’t going to tell you where their stockpile of weaponry is if they don’t trust you. We need to disarm them, gods damn it! They are just mean-spirited enough to irradiate the entire fucking planet just to spite us!”
And Kubo Kan would certainly have no trouble grasping that bit of insanity, Sabin thought wryly. “I do not believe they are unstable enough to consider such a possibility,” he offered instead of voicing his opinion of the grundts.
“How the fuck would you know?” Kubo Kan bellowed. “I understand them better than you do!”
Sabin merely shrugged. He’d never entirely understood why it was that Kubo Kan grew more and more angry whenever anyone tried to reason with him, but he supposed that only supported Kubo Kan’s assertion that he didn’t understand the humans.
In all honesty, he supposed he didn’t since they were as prone to illogical fits of emotionalism as the grundts—and he certainly didn’t understand the grundts. He found it singularly disconcerting and confusing, in point of fact, that such violent, irrational creatures had managed to overthrow the governments of so many worlds and subjugate them.
Dismissed, he left the bridge to oversee preparations for departure. This only entailed a selection of the crew to take, however. Since they’d been prepared to launch before they’d even entered the solar system, he found his mind wandering.
His reaction to the human woman disturbed him, as little as he wanted to acknowledge it. It wasn’t as if desire was completely alien to him. He had felt it several times in the past on occasions when his duties required interaction with females of his own kind.
It was a biological mystery. It had been generations since it was even possible for his people to procreate naturally. Like the humans, they had once procreated without any discrimination and raped their planet of its natural resources both because they had multiplied until there were too many for their eco-system to support and because they were more focused on their own desires for comfort than the needs of their environment. The end result had been disastrous—just as it had for the humans. They had destabilized their world until it had become hostile and, once it had, balance had been slowly regained—balance minus most of the species that had led to the imbalance to begin with—the mahns.
They had come close to extinction—too close. If not for their technology, it wouldn’t have been a near miss. It would’ve been a direct hit because there were so few of them left after the dust settled that they knew their species was doomed. To try to procreate with so few would only ensure their extinction and so they’d used their technology to keep their species alive, cloning the survivors instead of simply allowing them to complete the destruction of their kind.
The mystery was that they retained their animal urge to procreate when logic prohibited it—felt desire they could not safely indulge.
It was far more of a mystery to him that he had felt it toward the human female. Genetically, he was aware that their species was, quite possibly, compatible with his own—at least physically—but he still felt that his revulsion at the touch of the others should have been universal. He should have had the same reaction to the female. She was still not of his species, regardless of the similarities between them.
It defied logic, but perhaps he’d been correct in theorizing some sort of chemical reaction to the similarity in their chemical and genetic make-up?
Why then had the reaction only occurred with Danielle? There were other females among them. If his theory was correct, shouldn’t he have had a similar reaction to the other females?
He pondered it, but discovered he couldn’t recall previous reactions to females of his own species with any clarity. He supposed that wasn’t surprising given his disquiet over such a damning flaw. It was certainly socially unacceptable. He’d been far too focused on trying to control it make note of it, and it wasn’t something he felt comfortable discussing with his advisors so he had nothing to reinforce the dim memories.
Perhaps he’d been wrong in his assessment of himself? Perhaps he was flawed?
That was an alarming thought.
Mayhap he should discuss it with his batch and see if they were similarly flawed? Was it a wide-spread anomaly? Was it something that could, potentially, threaten the mahn as a people?
He would have to discuss it with his batch, he decided, at the earliest opportunity. If some undesirable traits had somehow been propagated in their species, it could be disastrous for them. Very few of the original progenitors still lived. If they had to go back to them for untainted specimens …
When he emerged from his unpleasant thoughts, Sabin discovered that his entire batch had been dispatched to take part in the exercise. He stared at Sabin-Du blankly for several moments, trying to collect his thoughts. “Why are you here?”
“We were ordered to present ourselves. Mra Kubo Kan thought it best if the majority of the party resembled the humans. Otherwise the party may be met with hostility.”
Sabin’s lips tightened. Shaking his head, he moved to a com unit. “With all respect, Mra Kubo Kan, this will not do.”
“Why the fuck not?” Kubo Kan growled furiously. “You think they might slaughter your entire batch?”
He thought exactly that. “The humans have a very strong taboo against cloning,” he said patiently.
“If they are advanced enough to clone it doesn’t make any damned sense that they’d have a taboo against it.”
“They are not logical,” Sabin reminded him. “They are likely to react with a good deal of hostility.”
“You don’t think they’re more likely to react with hostility toward the other species?”
Inwardly, Sabin shrugged. “I have taken the opportunity to warn them that they must expect different species. And I have made a list of those I believe least likely to provoke their natural aggression toward other species. The grundts should not be included,” he added, studying the contingent of grundt soldiers that had been dispatched for the mission.
“Why the fuck not?”
“They … you bear too strong a resemblance to creatures of this world known as reptiles … which humans are particularly distrustful of.”
When Kubo Kan’s only reaction to that was to glare at him furiously, he decided diplomacy was in order. “Perhaps two, then, but I feel certain that it would be a mistake to allow more. The humans will feel overwhelmed and they will react badly to that. I cannot be expected to win their trust or their friendship when the presence of the grundts makes it impossible for them to set aside their distrust of other beings.”
“It seems to me that their presence would only reinforce a sense of kinship with you, but, so be it. Bork and Tande can accompany the party. Take one of your batch, as well. Tell them you are of the same egg. I am certain they have such things. There’s no reason for them to know you are not natural clones … unless they have an aversion to naturally occurring clones, as well?”
Reluctantly, Sabin admitted that the data did not indicate such a thing. He wouldn’t have been as reluctant if not for the fact that there was no way to pass the youngest of the batch as a freak of birth—a birth mate. He was seven years Tra’s senior, though, and thought that would be obvious even to a people not familiar with their life cycle. Next to him, though, On was the most experienced and, as such, of more importance.
He did not dare disobey a direct order, however, and merely nodded. With On, they were four. He chose two draes—both female—to round out the party, primarily because he thought it would create a balance more to the humans’ liking. One of the grundts was female, but they were as ugly as the males and it seemed doubtful the humans would realize it was female. The draes were far more human-like than any of the other representative species despite their coloring—a rather unappealing gray-blue—and they were deceptively weak-looking creatures. That trait was extremely deceptive for, despite their tall, willowy forms and spindly arms and legs, they were strong enough to lift twice their own mass—the females. The males could lift far more.
Having finished his selection, they boarded the craft they would use for the landing. He glanced significantly at On once he’d settled in the co-pilot’s seat beside him. On merely shrugged since there was no way that they could communicate verbally without the risk of being overheard and they could not actually converse telepathically. They could convey impressions, but that was pretty much the limit of their ability to communicate mind-to-mind.
Frowning, Sabin focused on the check list. When they had ascertained that all systems were in working order, he signaled that they were prepared to launch, waited until the bay door was opened, and shot from the hanger and into space. The tiny vessel the humans had referred to as a shuttle was just detaching itself from the Pegasus when he’d circumnavigated the Mertosin and come within view of the human habitat.
On lifted his brows. “An interesting design.”
Sabin studied it. “They will never master space if they cannot think beyond aerodynamics.”
On glanced at him. “They are unlikely to master it, now, regardless.”
“A very great pity for them,” Sabin murmured.
“They do not deserve pity. They deserve contempt,” the grundt, Bork, observed from behind them.
On and Sabin exchanged a speaking glance.
“True,” On agreed easily. “They were born to be subjugated. The pity is that they did not know it.”
* * * *
The system’s check occupied everyone until they’d detached the shuttle from the Pegasus, but even as Captain LaRoche turned the shuttle and fired the engines, Danielle’s thoughts turned inward again. A breathless sort of anticipation had gripped her as soon as she felt the shudder of the engines and faced the blue globe in the forward viewer. Despite all reason, she felt hope surge to life at the prospect of going home, felt that thrill that was like nothing else.
She struggled with it, knowing that the more hope she allowed herself the more crushing the blow if things were as bad as they thought, and it seemed impossible that they could’ve been mistaken in any way. They were gone, she told herself fiercely—family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances. She had to accept that it was a possibility if not a probability. Her mother wouldn’t be there to greet her, nor her sister or brother, niece and nephews. Her ex-husband wouldn’t be standing on the tarmac with Cary and Kyle, waving madly and leaping with excitement to see her after so long an absence.
The lump that had formed in her throat before when she’d studied the family photo gathered again, hardened. She fought to will it away. Grieving when she didn’t know, not for certain, that they were lost was stupid—counterproductive. What if they were alive but needed her? What use would she be to them if she allowed herself to fall apart?
She had to consider that they might be alive, had to think and act, not weep and wring her hands.
“They’re coming alongside of us now,” Captain LaRoche announced abruptly. “Danny! Get on the radio!”
Nodding jerkily, Danielle unlocked her seat and swiveled it to face the console. “This is Dr. Danielle Stevens aboard the shuttle, Amerigo, addressing the craft to our starboard. Respond please.”
“Lymra Sabin Au-tere aboard the starboard craft.”
Relief flickered through Danielle … and something else she didn’t particularly want to acknowledge. It was absurd, she knew, and yet there was some comfort in knowing they would at least have the company of a familiar face. “Greetings, Lymra Sabin. Please drop behind and take our wake. We haven’t hailed ground control. We wouldn’t want you to have an … unpleasant greeting.”
“Acknowledged. Taking your wake.”
Although she switched at once to attempting to contact the ground and continued until they reached radio blackout there was no response. She began trying again when they emerged, still with no response. When she finally gave up and adjusted her seat and harness for touchdown, her thoughts shifted to the visitors.
She didn’t doubt that they’d monitored her calls and knew they’d had no response. It didn’t comfort her to realize the aliens had to know there would be no resistance, whatever their motives in coming.
How much did it matter, though, even if their motives weren’t to help, but to attack, if there was no one to be conquered?
She shoved that wayward thought aside forcefully. She was letting fear cloud her judgment. The lack of communications was a matter of serious concern, but not necessarily an indication that disaster was as widespread as it seemed. It was incomprehensible that a disease, pandemic or not, could have wiped out everyone.
It seemed just as indisputable that the death toll had been astronomical. The reports they’d had before they’d lost contact had made that clear. The civilization they’d built had worked against them, not only making the global pandemic possible to start with but making the virus nearly impossible to isolate and contain, to treat and cure.
If the aliens had actually come to help, would they be able to?
And why would they care?
Could they really trust purely altruistic motives of these beings from other worlds?
An image of Sabin rose in her mind. The first impression that he was human hadn’t lasted more than a handful of seconds. As human-like as every feature seemed at a glance, there was an equally strong impression of the exotic about him. Beyond the very noticeable ears—which were pointed—there were less notable differences that had made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle with uneasiness.
Physically, there was no dismissing the fact that he was a beautiful specimen, but maybe that was part of the problem in accepting him as human? Maybe he was just too perfect?
And virtually emotionless.
She thought that bothered her most. She was accustomed to professionalism that required coolheaded analysis of any given situation, and it wasn’t even reasonable to expect an alien being to be greatly distressed over the dire situation of a race, or species, not their own. And yet, that cool, assessing detachment precluded real concern, didn’t it?
She hadn’t wanted to voice her doubts, not from any fear of alarming everyone else, but because she’d been afraid of losing what might be their only chance to save whoever was left on Earth—losing what might be their only chance.
They were safe enough from the disease on the space station, but they couldn’t survive there indefinitely.
She wondered abruptly about the colonists on the moon and Mars. Their situation hadn’t been as dire. They were both safe from the disease and, at least theoretically, self-sufficient. But if things were as bad on Earth as it seemed, there would be no supply ships heading their way in the foreseeable future, no ships to bring them home.