It's a quiet night in the country, miles of empty land previously occupied by grain fields containing only one woman and a few bits of equipment.
"Should've brought my winter jacket," she mumbles to no one in particular as she pauses to jot down a few notes in a worn notepad.
"Let's see... it should be right over... there!" She looks deep into the night sky after a brief consultation with an old star chart. "Now let's see about getting a better look." She leans over the old 50cm reflector telescope, her head resting lightly against the eyepiece. After a few minute adjustments, she smiles while looking at 'her' star. Oh, sure, she'd tell herself every so often, you can't really _own_ a star, but no one's laid claim to Iota Centauri, 64 light years away.
The blue-wight star rests in the center of her vision. Even with the light gathering power of the bulky telescope it's still not more than a blue pinpoint due to its great distance. For all that, though, she could still imagine the tendrils of plasma reaching out from the violent stellar furnace, as if watching from a planet orbiting the star -- even though such a planet would have to be twice as far away as Earth is from her own star if she wanted to survive the view.
She softly sighs to herself as she sits up, stretching out with a feline grace. "I'd be up there if I hadn't flubbed that test," she grumbles. There was a reason that there was such a high requirement to become an astronaut, she knew intellectually, but emotionally all she could think of was how she had her lifelong dream stolen from her by the stroke of a bureaucrat's pen. "Almost eight years as an Air Force pilot before I retired, and I blow a basic physics question!"
All of that is forgotten, though, as she sees a brilliant, if tiny, flash of light from the general direction of her star. She quickly ducks down to the eyepiece, and adjusts her aim slightly towards the rough direction of the flash. "What the hell was that?" she asks no one as she tunes the telescope's position, trying to find the source of the flash. "Can't be a satellite, it's too small for that, and nowhere near bright enough. Not an airplane, there's none around here. Probably not a weath..."
Her verbal process of elimination fades away as she spies an unusual object in the scope, resembling nothing at all familiar. She tracks the object's approach, inwardly gasping as she realizes how much she has to move to keep it in view. "Damn, that bastard's really moving!" After a quick bit of mental math, she blinks, and grips the body of the telescope tightly. Holy fuck, that thing's moving at least 20 percent of lightspeed! "Wait, it's slowing," she murmurs, "and getting closer!"
She follows the craft -- it sure wasn't anything natural! she reasons -- as it continues to slow, its hull beginning to glow as if from frictional heat. "What's heating it? There's nothing out there -- well at least not enough to make it glow like that," she corrects herself. Even the vacuum of deep space isn't perfectly empty.
"The boss is probably going apeshit right now, if he's up," she realizes a moment later. She quickly gathers up her gear, and tosses it in the back of the station wagon she had borrowed, since the bulky telescope wouldn't have fit in her Fiero.
*****
"Where were you, Ami? I was ringing the house for the past half hour!"
"Well hello to you too, Jim," Amelia Mitchell replies crossly as she steps into the computer room. "And I wasn't at home. All you did was piss off Louis."
"Well, duh! I could've figured out you weren't there. Space Command picked up something whacked about 25 minutes ago. Word is that it was going..."
"Point 2-something of lightspeed, coming in from the direction of the Centauri constellation, right?" Mitchell cuts in. "I saw it on my 'scope out at the field I do casual stargazing at."
"You're shitting me... right?" is Jim's first comprehensible response, after a few moments of stumbling over muttered words.
"I shit you not, Jim. Couldn't get any details, but then again I don't really have the power of our big scope on my little reflector jobbie, either. That sombeech was moving, though, before it started slowing down. That's about when I thought to high-tail it back here, figuring that you'd be going apeshit." She drops into the seat before a terminal, and starts punching in some numbers.
"Yeah, you could say that," MacDonald replies dryly. "You could also say that if you have some record of your sighting you could be causing even more people to go apeshit. Hopefully the idiots that went zipping overhead about half an hour ago weren't on the usual 'destroy what we don't understand' thing."
"Please, Jim, try using that brain of yours for something other than dredging up old movie cliches about trigger-happy military idiots! There's more to the world than just what some idiot of a screenwriter pukes up. And the only record I have is a journal entry made just before the flash that drew my attention, with the time noted."
*****
"Good morning, Mrs. President. Sorry to have woken you up," the Secret Service agent says apologetically, "but CINCSPACECOM thought you'd probably want to be up for this. At approximately 02:00 our time they detected what has since been classified as an alien spacecraft. Short form is that it's definitely artificial, and definitely extrasolar in origin. The craft was doing 25 percent of the speed of light just after it was first sighted, and subsequently slowed down to a 'leisurely' 10,000 kilometers a second, and heading towards Earth. The long version you'll have to talk to your advisors about, I just got the basic jist of the situation." And even that was like pulling teeth, he silently adds with a mental snort. I hate these pinheads who think that we're just stupid thugs because we chose to serve our country by wielding a gun.
"Alright, thanks for the heads up," the graying woman in a robe bearing the seal of the President of the United States replies, belatedly hiding a yawn behind the hand not reaching for the mug of coffee being handed to her by another agent. "Why can't the world have its crises during normal business hours?" she wonders aloud before taking a ship of his coffee, her tone one of amusement in spite of the hour.
"That'd be too easy, ma'am," the first agent replies deadpan.
"I guess it would, Agent Grey. I suppose the world thinks it needs to thin out the politicians of the world or something, so it goes out of its way to make our lives harder. The usual gang of miscreants gathered in the war room, I take it...?"
"Most of them, ma'am. SecDef Kennedy is there, all of the Joint Chiefs save General Thorson, SecState Williams, and..." He pauses, and puts a hand to his ear. "Say again?" he asks into the microphone of his radio. "Roger." Turning back to the president, Agent Whitmore picks up where he left off. "I just heard that the NASA director is on the way from Canaveral in one of NASA's T-38s. The pilot was instructed to, and I quote, 'rape the fuel costs and firewall the son of a bitch.' The Veep is on his way to the Mountain," referring to the NORAD headquarters under Cheyenne Mountain, "in Air Force Two, for separation purposes."
"You guys think this might be an attack?"
"No ma'am, we think it's not a bad idea to have the boss one place and her successor elsewhere in case something goes bad. To be honest, ma'am, if they're able to dump tens of thousands of klicks a second of speed and move at significant fractions of lightspeed, I don't think there's a damn thing we could really do to stop them if they were hostile and wanted to demonstrate it."
"Ever the optimist, huh William?" The president asks wryly.
"With all due respect, ma'am, SecTreas Polaski don't pay the us to be optimists. She pays us to make sure this country doesn't get decapitated because of some nutball -- E.T. or otherwise -- decides things might be better if you guys and gals didn't exist. Everything beyond the survival of enough of the chain of command to run the country is just gravy."
"Point taken, Agent Whitmore," the president replies, duly chastised.
*****
"Where's it now, Ami? Talk to me."
"Just outside the belt, velocity holding at ten kay-klicks a second. If they were going to do things our way they'd have started slowing way out past Mars while counterthrusting. It don't look like they share our view of how to do things."
"How very observant of you," a new voice comments.
"Hi John," she replies without looking away from her terminal's display. "Things are really jumping tonight. What's the word from on high?"
"Simple," Jonathan MacKenzie says. "Watch the scopes. The number crunchers say he's on a path for an orbital insertion around Earth. Our guest was clocked at dropping 62,000 kilometers a second in under a second to get down to its present velocity, so we're guessing the time to insert isn't going to really involve much of a deceleration time. Call it about two hours fifteen minutes or so to optimal orbital insertion point."
"Damn, even at ten kay-klicks we could do some _serious_ exploring with a drive like that. Screw putting along at 40,000 klicks an hour on clunky chemical rockets! 600,000 kilometers an hour would get us to Mars and back in three weeks."
"Don't get your hopes up, Jim. Until Mr. Extra-terrestrial jumps out of his spaceship and says 'take me to your leader, I want to talk about giving you guys cool shit,' we don't know what he's up to. For all we know he could get a kick out of buzzing pre-space inhabited worlds to make himself feel like a big man... err, whatever."
"Aww, you would go and ruin my fantasies, Ami."
"But you love me anyway. Besides, I can give you fantasies that are a lot more enjoyable," she adds with a leer.
"Sorry to break up the witty repartee," MacKenzie says dryly, "but Ami isn't going to be here for it. She was extended an invitation from NASA Director Silverman to join him in DC. You're hopping the redeye to National, Ami. Here's your ticket and hotel information, and your plane is scheduled to leave Omaha in about two hours, so you'd better head home and pack. Just take clothes and your notebook, the toys can come later if needed."
A pair of F-16Gs fly a racetrack pattern above yet another of the cornfields that can be found in numerous places in the midwest, their pilots sweating in their air-conditioned cockpits.
"Sir, no offense," the younger of the pilots says to his wingman, "but what the hell do they expect us to do with -- or against -- a bogie that can do point two-five cee?"
"Cut the chatter, Boogerman!" the other pilot snaps, although wondering the same thing. Ain't no way in hell that's a natural object, he thinks to himself. At least we didn't get some boneheaded "shoot first and maybe ask questions later, if you're bored" order. Thank goodness the movies aren't really reflective of military thinking. "If we don't understand right away then it's a hostile that MUST be destroyed," indeed.
"Shepherd Lead, this is Watchdog. Bogie is now designated Visitor, and is considered friendly. Visitor is beginning its descent to Des Moines now. When it is within radar range you are to escort it the rest of the way down. Just fly steady, Visitor is aware of your purpose."
"Shepherd Lead, this is Shepherd Two. I have visual contact with Visitor. I say again, visual contact with Visitor."
"Either that or someone neglected to tell us about a meteor, Shepherd Two," the wing's leader agrees, spotting the fireball of the descending craft a moment later. "Shepherd Lead to Watchdog. We have visual contact with Visitor. Lit up like a fireball, but out of radar range still."
"Copy, Shepherd Lead. Keep us informed. Watchdog out."
*****
"Mrs. President, all I can tell you right now is that the visitor has not shown signs of hostility, and if he did quite frankly I don't think even nukes could stop him if he had decided to be aggressive. The acceleration curves we've seen... hell, I don't think there will be tech to match his moves for at least fifty years, let alone the gear to support such accelerations without turning the occupants or ship to mush. I couldn't live up to my job title if the visitor wanted to play rough, because we _have_ nothing that can defend us. Hell, he wouldn't even need a weapon. Start moving anything at significant fractions of the speed of light, and the kinetic energy would be more than enough to turn Cheyenne Mountain into Cheyenne Lake."
"You're just full of good news this morning, aren't you, Steve?"
"Ma'am," The Secretary of Defense says levelly, "we can't even regularly visit the moon on current technology and finances, let alone cross interstellar space. By all indications, though, our visitor is, if not friendly, at least not hostile. Pilots from the 185th Fighter Wing of the Iowa Air National Guard just spotted the re-entry fireball a few minutes ago, and are moving into position to escort the visitor down to the Des Moines ANG base. With the budget cutbacks, it's the only convenient airfield under federal control in the region."
"And how is it that they can speak English?" SecState enquires, having been conversing with his staff elsewhere when the subject first arose.
"Well, Charley, we have been blasting out radio transmissions for a century now," NASA director Silverman points out as he enters the room, "and television signals for about eighty years. Fortunately, from preliminary communications it seem they grasp the concept of 'fiction,' or else we'd be well and truly screwed. 'War of the Worlds' isn't exactly the way to say 'howdy' to an interstellar neighbor."
"No, it's not," the president agrees. "What've you got for us from our rocket scientists, Gerald?"
"Got a report from one of our affiliate Skywatch stations in Nebraska. Seems one of the observers, by the name of Amelia Mitchell," he says after consulting a note sheet, "saw the visitor's appearance, and observed its original speed visually by way of a 50 centimeter telescope she was stargazing with. Initial flash was at 00:56 Central, from the general direction of Iota Centauri, a blue-white main sequence star in the constellation Centauri. Enough of an angle difference, though, to make Iota Centauri unlikely as the source star, baring any maneuvering on the part of our friend. On my authority she's hopping a redeye to DC, out of Omaha International. I've got her set up with a room at the Hilton, on my personal expense account until we can figure out how to handle payments. And I do think this should _not_ be on her tab... or mine, if avoidable, but if need be I'll take the hit."
"We'll take care of it, Gerald."
"Thank you, Mrs. President. Now, as for our friend, I have my assistant director gathering up a gaggle of scientists if Mr. Alien wishes to talk shop, so to speak. For now, though, I think we should use a soft-sell approach. We don't want to scare off the first contact with an extrasolar intelligence. Maybe a few quiet meetings with either you or your Veep, ma'am, to start things off. For now we're assuming that if he wants to come out and play, he'll be taking the precautions against whatever might be harmful to him, since we don't know his environment, biology, or anything like that. However, what we _can_ take precautions against is some whack-job who thinks E.T. should die to advance some silly cause or another. That, though, is where you ladies and gentlemen come into play. I'm just the head rocketeer. As likely as not I'd chose the wrong end of a gun as the dangerous one," he notes with a chuckle.
"Ok, I don't see anything wrong with that. How about how we're going to handle the announcement? Even if it was possible to keep it secret -- which I _seriously_ doubt -- I wouldn't want to. It's well past time that we started looking at the universe as a joint exercise, if you will, and not a competition to see who can wave around the biggest phallus. The isolationists and hawks may not like it, but that's just too damn bad for them. They weren't elected to the presidency," she concludes harshly.
"If I may make a suggestion, ma'am, we should keep the announcements minimal for now. We don't know what, if anything, may come of the visit, beyond 'we are not alone.' However, we _do_ need to give a thorough briefing to the major heads of state, and eventually to the whole of the UN. Everything that's available should be put into the open, to minimize the claims of trying to hoard data for only a select few people, instead of sharing with the world. However, we should take care of how fast we share with the world. Going from 'we're number one!' to 'hey, someone else is out there... and they're seriously kicking our asses in technology' is a bit of a big step for a lot of people, even if they're not closed-minded reactionary bigots."
"Ok, Don, have your boys and girls at State whip up a press release, with all the trimmings about 'sharing with the world' and so forth, but warn people to be cautious with their optimism. I'm sure you can figure out how to make that sound more political, but I'm only on my third cup of coffee, so politically polite wording isn't exactly my strong suit at the moment."
"Will do, Mrs. President. If you'll excuse me, I need to make a call to the watchstander over at State to get the ball rolling." After a nod from the president, SecState walks over to one of the phones with a direct, secure link to the State Department, and begins giving the current watchstander directions.
*****
"Watchdog, Shepherd Lead. Visitor is in radar range, reading him at four-eight-zero knots. Angels five-zero," or 50,000 feet, "and descending at two-five-zero feet per second. Shepherd Wing moving into position to escort, over."
"Shepherd Lead, Watchdog. We copy, and confirm your numbers. Play it cool, gentlemen. Watchdog out."
With the flames marking the craft's atmospheric entry having subsided, the escorts are given a clear view of the craft as they slide into position on either side of the visitor's ship with a deceptively casual grace, their motions the product of years of dedicated training. Roughly cylindrical in shape, with an approximate diameter of nine meters, it bears little resemblance to either current Earth spacecraft or the spacecraft of much of popular science fiction. Six stubs of wings extend from the craft, three near each tapering end, arranged equilaterally around the circumference of the hull, although their purpose isn't clear; they in no way are large enough to provide sufficient lift, or even have much of an effect on the craft's stability. Abrupt, slashing markings cover the hull of the craft almost completely, save the cones at either end of the body, with rounded tips not unlike the nosecones of ICBMs.
As the two fighters turn to escort the visitor, their pilots look as closely at the craft as they can afford to do without endangering themselves or their guest. With the exceptions of the stubby fins, the surface remains unbroken, with a golden, almost mirror-like finish on the undecorated portions of the 60 meter long craft.
This little rinky-dink doobie with wings was doing .25c? Shepherd Two, 'gifted' with the callsign of Boogerman for the pilot's seeming obsession with nasal mucus during his days in college, wonders to himself. Takes all kinds, he concludes, turning his attention back to flying his craft. A moment later, a seemingly random thought crosses his mind. Visitor is humoring us. It's not like he couldn't dust us off bigtime, with the moves he was pulling earlier. Suppose I should be grateful that he's not using that superiority to pound us to dirt... but I'm not.
*****
"... I just know I was recalled to base about two minutes ago. They're on full alert, like they're expecting shit. Don't ask me why, I'm just a trigger-puller. Gotta go, base CO is probably having kittens right now, and my being late ain't gonna help any. Catch ya later, after I find out what the hell is going on. Peace, bro."
*****
"Airman Samson! Where the hell were you? You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago."
"Sorry, sir, but I was pulled over by a state trooper for speeding when I was heading here. The fu... err, officer wouldn't accept that my boss was screaming for me to be at work like yesterday, even with the threads," indicating his uniform with a hand gesture.
"Alright, we'll deal with that later. Get into your spiffy clothes, pronto, and head out to the main hangar, doubletime. We've got a late-night visitor to welcome."
"Yessir!" the young airman exclaims, snapping off a quick salute before turning to run for the barracks.
*****
The craft slowly descends to the secondary runway, its silent descent at odds with the roar of the two fighters circling above it. Just before landing, four legs extend from the ventral surface of the craft, seemingly growing from the ship's hull, without causing any break in the smooth surface indicating internal storage bays for the legs. With a delicate touch, the craft settles to the ground, the landing gear flexing slightly before resuming their ramrod straight positions.
On the starboard side of the cylinder, a small oval hatch, two meters on its long axis, separates outward from the craft's hull a few centimeters, then slides aft on an unseen mechanism. As a platform extends from the craft's hull, a hand signal from a Staff Sergeant causes most of the troops to move from the single line they were standing in alongside the runway, and form a circle around most of the vessel, guns at the ready as they look into the night, wary of any possible threats.
Ten soldiers separate from the wall, and move to line an unmarked path, five to each side. At the far end of this path stands the base commander, who watches the opening for activity, but sees only a nondescript hatch not unlike the external one, behind what appears to be one of the visitors. Air lock, she realizes a moment later. It _is_ a spaceship, after all.
The being within, partly hidden by shadows, steps out onto the platform, one meter by two meters. It doesn't seem very different from most animals, save for the extra set of arms roughly half way down its torso. The figure's form is covered by what appears to be a form-fitting skinsuit, topped with a fishbowl helmet like those seen in old science fiction stories. It -- she, the CO corrects herself, noticing the four slight bumps in the suit's belly, about where human breasts would be if it were standing upright -- looks about curiously as the platform slowly descends, supported by no visible means. The form twitches a little, as if nervous, although no indication exists as to what could be causing the reaction.
As the platform completes its decent its occupant rises onto her hind legs to a humanoid stance, roughly a 150 centimeters tall, the previous "forepaws" now more readily visible as being finely fingered hands. Colonel Angela Jones steps forward with a slow, measured pace, stopping just beyond the platform. "Welcome to our world," she says in a quiet, dignified voice. "I am Colonel Angela Jones. 'Colonel Jones' will suffice for a form of address. Please forgive the troops, they're just a security precaution. We wouldn't be doing our duties as hosts if we didn't make efforts to ensure the safety of our guests."
The vaguely canid head nods, in the manner of the human gesture of signaling agreement. "I," she begins in a slow, steady, and vaguely mechanical voice, coming from the small silver box at the being's hips, "thank you for your concern, Colonel Jones. I am Pr'rek of the Clan Starfarer, or at least that is how it is translated into your tongue. 'Pr'rek' is the form of address for me. My apologies for the slow translation, but as my translator has more direct input, its performance should improve. Your educational frequencies -- channels, I believe you call them -- are most helpful in this regard."
"To be honest, Pr'rek, that translation is probably far better than we can do to your language, at the moment, and I suspect that our physiology might make speaking your language a little difficult. I'm afraid we don't really have any specialized living facilities available here, so at least for now it would probably be best if you used your spacecraft for living quarters."
"I understand, Colonel Jones. As this is early in your morning, may I suggest that we resume this discussion later, when you have had some rest, and your country's leaders have decided what to do with us?" The last part of her statement is emphasized by a flick of her triangular ears, apparently to match the simulated amused tone of voice from her translator.
"That would probably be for the best, Pr'rek. Especially for the last item. As you noted, this is early morning for this country, although I suspect that President McAuliffe is fully awake, from the minute after our sensor data noted your ship's presence. Still, though, as you may have noted our craft don't have the performance of yours, so it takes longer for people to get around on this world."
"Yes, I noticed that, from the craft which escorted me to this facility. Perhaps that may change, at some future point," the visitor casually notes.
"Perhaps so," Jones replies, cautiously optimistic.
"Good morning, Mrs President," the short, slender woman entering the Oval Office says as she approaches the president's desk, under the ever vigilant eye of the Secret Service agent standing unobtrusively off to the side.
"Please, Ms. Mitchell, call me Samantha, or Sam," President McAuliffe says as she rises to greet her guest. "This isn't a formal meeting or anything like that."
"Thank you, Samantha. I'm Amelia, or Ami if you wish. It's an honor to meet you." She reaches over the desk, and shakes the hand of the arguably most powerful woman in the world.
"And the same to you, Ami. In light of your sighting, I dare say you have become the most famous person in the world, or will be once the newspapers wake up. Having the first confirmed sighting of extrasolar intelligence on one's resume is something few can match. Please, have a seat."
She nods to the president, and settles into the chair across from the desk. "Thank you, Samantha. Though, I'm not sure that I really should get credit for the sighting. All I saw was a flash and a gold sliver, way out past Neptune."
"That's hardly 'all,' Ami. Anyhow, how would you like to meet our visitor?" McAuliffe asks casually.
The other woman's response is hardly casual, however. "Are you sh... umm, kidding me?" she blurts out in total surprise, just barely catching her tongue.
"My dear, I was a deck scrubber in the Navy, when I first started in the adult world. Strong language is hardly going to offend me, or else I'd not have survived to retire as a Vice Admiral. Mustangs," referring to the informal name for enlisted Navy people who later become officers, "hear just about all of it at one point or another," she notes with a grin. "Hell, I even came up with a few... let's say 'creative'... additions to the old 'Drunken Sailor' sea shanty." The grin only grows wider when she notices the dismayed expression on the face of her current protector. "Anyhow, no, I'm not kidding you. Tomorrow, several of the senior members of their expedition will be flying out here to meet with me for a friendly chat before our eggheads drown them in questions, and I'd appreciate it if you would join me."
"Oh... wow..." Of the many possible outcomes of her sighting, Amelia had never thought that meeting extraterrestrials was one of them. She manages a partly graceful recovery, however. "Samantha, I'd appreciate that, a lot. Part of why I signed on with Skywatch."
"Speaking of which, Ami, pardon if I'm displaying unpresidential ignorance, but what is Skywatch? I vaguely recall congressional discussions on the subject, but I'm afraid that was several years before I became a politician."
"Oh, don't worry, ma'am, I'm not offended or anything like that. It is a kinda quiet program, compared to a lot of the stuff that I'd wager crosses your desk on a regular basis. Anyhow, Skywatch was initiated after that asteroid almost hit Tokyo 11 years ago, and nearly wiped it out with the resultant tidal wave from the impact. We're basically dedicated to watching for bits of floating geography, particularly the ones that look like they may pose a threat to Earth itself. It's mostly self-funded, through various corporate grants, donations, and more than a bit of personal money, with nominal administrative oversight by NASA. After all," she adds in a slightly bitter tone, "they have to look like they're doing something besides fawning over a failed program whose only purpose is to gain funding." She pauses, and shakes her head lightly. "Sorry, that's one of my personal rants. I won't bore you with my opinions of federal funding priorities."
"Actually, between you, me, and the gatepost, I probably share at least some of those opinions. This is only my first year, though, and I'm still getting the ball rolling, so to speak. It's part of why I went for the job, because I didn't like what was being done with the budget. Let's just say, completely off the record, that you have a sympathetic ear or two in high places," she notes with a mischievous grin. "Thanks to our friends, we may get a push in the right direction for the next budget talks, but that's not now."
No wonder why the "good old boys" on the Hill misjudge her. They don't understand they're seriously outgunned, the way she hides the brain behind those eyes. Fortunately I'm a little more observant than that, Mitchell concludes with a mental grin of her own. "About when should I be ready to go, anyway?"
"The visitors are scheduled to drop by here about nine tomorrow morning. A Secret Service vehicle will be by your hotel around 6:30. Is that acceptable to you?"
"Yes, ma'am. Perfectly fine."
"Good." She glances at a hidden timepiece, and holds up her hand to signal for Mitchell to wait. "Secretary of State Williams is making a public statement on the events of last night. Would you care to watch with me, in the press room?"
"Most definitely, Samantha."
"Ok, if you'll follow me," she says as she begins to rise, the movement announced over the tactical net for the Presidential Detail of the Secret Service before she even gets to her feet completely. "Lead on, Agent Kimble."
*****
"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, good morning. Although I will not answer any questions at this time, the administration is prepared to make a statement, regarding what happened last night."
"At approximately one AM Central Standard Time, a craft of extrasolar origin appeared in our solar system, just past the orbit of Saturn. The initial sighting was by an independent observer of the Skywatch program, and confirmed a short while later by the United States Air Force's Space Command. The craft was traveling, at the time of its appearance in our system, at 25 percent of the speed of light, and later slowed to ten thousand kilometers a second, the speed it held until it took up orbit around Earth. At approximately three AM Central, the spacecraft entered our atmosphere, landing shortly afterwards at a secure facility, location currently undisclosed."
"The beings aboard the spacecraft are sapient, and have a basic command of English, from listening to the radio and television transmissions we've been sending for many decades now. At this time we don't have any further information, but when we do, we _will_ share it with the rest of the world. Earth's first contact with an intelligent race from another world will not be hoarded, or jealously guarded out of a fit of national pride."
"We ask that the world be patient, and understand that we don't know what will eventually come of this visit. We do know for sure, however, that we are not alone in the cosmos."
"Thank you, and good day."
*****
As the Secretary of State strides away from the podium, on the television, the press remains remarkably quiet, out of shock at what was just announced.
"Maybe we should have E.T.s visit more often," the president jokes. "I've never seen those jackals thunderstruck before, even after nuclear weapons were released during the Taiwan conflict of 12 years ago." Absently, she fingers the right side of her face, her eyes momentarily dark. The darkness passes quickly, however, chased off with a sharp shake of her head. "Anyhow, the Secret Service will arrange for a ride back to the hotel for you. I won't swear you to secrecy or anything like that, Ami, but don't unnecessarily spread information. The stunned shock you just saw from the hounds won't last very long if they figure out the 'independent observer' is right here in Washington."
An involuntary shudder rolls through Mitchell's body at the thought of having to fight past the press. Her last experience with the press, during the debate over whether there should be a Skywatch program, was hardly a pleasant one, having to fight through them just to get to her hotel room -- ironically the exact same room she's staying in now.
"I figured you'd understand," McAuliffe says sincerely. "Until tomorrow, Ami."
*****
[[These humans are funny-odd. I'm not sure why we stopped by this mudball of a planet. They can't even reach their own moon without significant harm to their finances.]]
[['These humans,' as you so disdainfully put it,]] the one who met the base commander earlier replies calmly, [[have the potential to put even our efforts to shame if they put their minds to it. It is better to have them as friends than as enemies. The galaxy is a hostile place, and good friends are never a bad investment of time.]]
[[I still don't see why we're here,]] the first snaps back. [[We could easily grind this world beneath our hindheels if that were our way.]]
[[That isn't our way, though, and that's why you are not in charge of this voyage, K'kei vaq Starfarer,]] Pr'rek replies just as harshly, the full, formal calling of the first being's name adding emphasis, [[while I am. You _will_ be with us when we travel in their 'airplane' to their leadership center, and you _will_ be on your best behavior, or I will have your genitals mounted above my ceremonial cube. Am I making myself perfectly clear?!]]
K'kei almost visibly shrivels under the other's harsh glare, even though the former is nearly twice the mass of the latter. To have one's ability to perpetuate the species removed is the most serious of punishments of the People. With Pr'rek's official position as Voyage Leader, K'kei very well could lose the ability to procreate.
[[Yes, it is entirely clear,]] K'kei finally replies in a thoroughly cowed voice, eyes locked firmly on the deck beneath Pr'rek's realhands, the traditional signal of submission.
[[Good.]] How I dislike having to use my authority to keep this fool from costing us the voyage. I need K'kei's skills, unfortunately, but I wish I didn't need to take the attitude as part of the package!
The VC-135, military version of the veteran Boeing 707, lifts gracefully into the air, three of the visitors sitting in specially designed acceleration couches, built to accommodate their unique physiology, converse in their high-pitched, sing-song language, their translators turned off for relative privacy.
[[We have only been studying this world for a short while, and already it is giving me a headache. Circles within circles within circles, all obscured by a thick nebula of bureaucracy the likes of which the People have never had to deal with. And yet, for all that, they're _so_ close to surpassing our own advances! This 'airplane' we're in is a prime example. According to the co-controller of this craft this frame is almost 18 of our years old, and rated for another decade before they even need to consider scrapping it. The best planetary transportation we can come up with would be so much scrap before half of this craft's current lifespan had passed, and three of ours would not have moved anywhere near as much as this one craft in the same timeframe. It's not even originally a military vehicle, but a different model of a civilian craft. I hear tell of purely military craft, by the same manufacturer of this vehicle, that have been flying for over three decades and are still considered suitable for active duty!]]
[[And these seats!]] another adds. [[They managed to craft these couches we enjoy from little more than spare parts. No one, except maybe for our engineering chief, could come up with a design like this, almost from scratch, and get it right the first time.]]
[[They didn't start from scratch, though, Tr'riw. We gave them design specifications for our own acceleration couches. I'll grant you these seats are downright comfortable, but they're hardly a sign of greatness.]]
[[Oh, hush, K'kei. Our present surroundings are hardly the only or best examples of their abilities, just the most convenient ones at the moment. We also haven't really spoken to their technologists. The inhabitants of the facility we just left aren't stupid, but they are more specialized -- or perhaps 'focused' would be more accurate -- in their tasks than the People are usually required to be. For some jobs their training cycles last for years, with years more in practice of their training. They even have a phrase for their focus on training: 'the more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war.']]
[[Bah! I didn't say they were stupid, I just don't think they deserve the gushing you two are pouring out over their abilities. Yes, they've come pretty far, without any external help, but they're hardly deities.]]
[[Nor are they the dregs you insist on thinking of them as, K'kei!]] Pr'rek exclaims in exasperation. [[How long after we learned of industry did we take to get up to the beginning of fusion powerplants? They're already deploying first generation fusion plants roughly two and a half centuries after the start of their Industrial Revolution, beating our schedule by at least 25 percent even after you account for our shorter year -- which isn't really all that short in comparison to the year of this world. Say what you will about how not like us humans may be, but their drive puts ours to shame in a lot of ways. They haven't claws, nor ripping teeth, nor strength, nor size, nor instinct, but they've become the clearly dominant force on this world in spite of all that they lack. Look, I'm not saying you should worship the ground they walk on. What I'm saying is don't close your mind just because they lack a set of limbs, have ugly pushed-in faces, or because any of the other numerous ways they aren't like People.]]
[[In short, judge them for what they are, not what they aren't,]] Tr'riw adds.
[[Alright, enough!]] K'kei barks out. [[The way you two tag-teamed me, one would think that you two found some time for things other than playing your sex games,]] he grumbles.
[[We still think you should not listen to rumors so much,]] both Pr'rek and Tr'riw say in unison, giggling at the timing. While it was true they were together as more than just acquaintances -- indeed, were considering a formal mateship after returning to the homeworld -- most of the rumors were far more lurid than the truth. Most of them, anyway.
[[Okay, okay, I yield. For now,]] K'kei adds. [[Since I'm to be nice and all, what should I know about them? I was too busy piloting the ship to pay attention to the niggling social details of this world.]]
[[Ok, here's some of the broader points. First off, they have specific male and female genders, and do not combine attributes of both as we do. Until relatively recently their females were considered of a lower social status than the males. Some women, apparently, still harbor resentment about the unchangeable past, even though at least a third of this country's current leadership is female, including their leader, President Samantha McAuliffe. 'President' is the job title, 'Samantha' is the equivalent of our clanname, and 'McAuliffe' is the name of her birthing family. Unlike us, they do not organize into function-based clans for their full names. The proper forms of address are 'Madame President', 'ma'am', which is a general term of respect for females on this world, or 'President McAuliffe.' If she has a specific alternate form of address that she prefers, she will mention it in advance. Until that point, if it arrives, however, one of the three forms I mentioned will meet proper protocol. She may have others with her, including a member of her security force, but if they are important she will introduce them. Otherwise, don't worry about them for now.]]
[[Wait. Why do they think their leader needs a security force member in with us?]]
[[Simply put, for all their lack of natural weaponry, what humans don't lack in is idiots willing to die or kill for a cause, nor artificial killing methods to carry it out. They have, in the 200 or so years of this country's existence, had a handful of assassinations of presidents or those formally seeking the job, and even more killings of those in or seeking lower-status positions, along with several high-profile assassination attempts. Due to this, their presidential security force, called the 'Secret Service' for reasons I have yet to figure out, have elevated paranoia to an art form. I don't think they'll go as far as physically searching us, but if there's a quiet human or two wearing dark clothing off to the side of the room, who seems to be giving the other occupants undue attention, they are most likely the Secret Service agents on duty at the time.]]
K'kei nods absently, digesting the new information. [[About their fighting abilities... what sort of thing are they likely to have?]]
[[I have not studied their weaponry thoroughly,]] Pr'rek admits, [[and what information they have is, to a great extent, kept under varying degrees of secrecy, but I do know that many of their weapons, especially those wielded by their soldiers, are primarily chemical-based projectile weapons. They do have early-generation lasers, but none of them are compact or robust enough for practical use as a weapon. Elegant or not, though, a death from a bullet is just as fatal as one from a sword or a laser.]]
[[Then why is this world mostly calm, if they have a means of offence seemingly left untempered by natural instinct?]] Tr'riw asks, having only taken a rudimentary glance at the social aspects of humanity, due to primarily being a technician.
[[There is relative peace on this world now only because they are very, very good at war, and they know the extent of their destructive capability. I would dare say that they could equal the destructive abilities of Leigos in its prime. The People may, on rare occasions, deal out death with a passion, like producing individual units of fine hand-crafted furniture, but humans do it like an assembly line once the appropriate threshold is crossed, as their business. The machinery may be a bit slow to start, and may not even think about beginning to start until a certain, specific point is crossed, but once they get up to speed, Great Mother-Father help whoever is the target of the assembly lines of death, because no one else with any sense of self-preservation will!]]
K'kei's jaw drops. [[And... you want to ally with these barbarians?!?!]]
[[They are still a fractured world, K'kei. If we help them see the advantages of peaceful cooperation beyond their current halfhearted attempts at a world government, not only will they grow stronger, but we will have a strong and loyal friend. Having professional killers as friends is a _lot_ more productive than someone _else_ having them as friends. Also, don't assume that they will never gain true spacefaring ability. It is better, to the human mind, to be the first to extend a greeting, and to offer help to those who need it. To knowingly withhold assistance that was in our ability to give is not how to create a positive bond between our species. Unless your runaway mouth gets us in trouble, K'kei, we stand a very good chance of a lasting friendship between our societies, to the benefit of both.]]
[[I said that I would behave myself, and I meant it,]] K'kei crossly notes. [[I've never made claims of being dispassionate, but I do keep my word, even if I may not agree with what my word was given for.]]
[[Yes, whatever your opinions, you do keep your word,]] Pr'rek concedes. [[I shall be the primary speaker for the People in this meeting. Although McAuliffe is formerly of their ocean-going naval forces -- which aren't often known for stupidity, even among their opponents -- she is not as highly versed in technology as most of our crew, so this initial meeting will probably be more of what they refer to as a 'social call,' basically saying hello to the neighbors, as it were. Don't let her relative lack of a technical background fool you, however. What she doesn't know, someone she knows does, and she isn't afraid to ask when her specific knowledge may lack. From what is available on the public communications nets, she is a voracious consumer of knowledge, and seems to have an uncanny ability to separate the frauds from the legitimate experts. Don't underestimate her.]]
[[Alright, I'll keep that in mind. What else should we be aware of?]]
[[Music plays a significant role in a lot of their ceremonies and formal behaviors, often played loud on non-electronic instruments. Usually the formal greeting gesture is a handshake, but they may not offer it, not knowing how we greet one another. Not offering is not always a sign of intent to give insult, nor is offering always a sign of intent to not give insult. Yes, I know, that doesn't seem like it makes sense, but then the People hardly lack in behaviors that seem unusual to non-People. Regardless, expect a greeting not unlike what we received at the military facility we first landed at, although probably with far fewer soldiers readily visible. Not that they don't think it as important to protect us,]] Pr'rek adds to head off the objection K'kei was preparing to give, [[but because the base at which we are to land in two hours is designed with meeting 'foreign' dignitaries in mind, and has more subtle facilities and plans for protecting their guests. Particularly so considering that the facility is also the home of the transportation sub-organization responsible for the world-wide transport of the President. I would dare to wager that the troops at this 'Andrews Air Force Base' are as willing to die -- or kill -- to protect us as the soldiers in Iowa, if the need arises. That need, however, is a remote possibility, at worst.]]
[[Speaking of formalities, is the wearing of our ceremonial gear really necessary? These garments make me itch terribly, and little rankles more than being unable to scratch an itch!]]
[[Yes, K'kei, ceremonial garb is appropriate. A skinsuit like the one I wore the first visit is not the way to leave a favorable lasting first impression. I only wore it due to our scientists still being busy with testing those atmospheric samples gathered on the way down. Since we now know there isn't anything fatal to us, such precautions are no longer acceptable excuses. To be honest I would rather wear usual shipboard gear, but many human groups have a nudity taboo, for some odd reason, and even though our fur maintains their levels of modesty I think we should be considerate towards them.]]
[[And how considerate of us are they?]]
[[They don't currently have enough knowledge of our society to return the favor. Remember, although they advanced faster than the People did, at a similar stage of development, we did 'get there first,' as it were. By the time our electromagnetic transmissions got here, they were having their various national revolutions, like the one that resulted in the United States of America. The equipment simply didn't exist to observe us as we have observed them. That, however, is no longer the case, especially with us here to correct their ignorance of our culture. Diplomacy is, above all else, a game of patience.]]
[[Which is why I am not a diplomat,]] K'kei snorts.
[[Thank the Great Mother-Father,]] Tr'riw mutters under hir breath, ignoring the reply glare from K'kei.
"We're about to start our landing approach to Andrews Air Force Base," the intercom announces. "Please fasten your seat belts."
[[Why do they insist that we activate the restraints for takeoffs and landings, anyway? Don't they trust their own equipment?]]
K'kei turns to the technician. [[No, Tr'riw, it's not that,]] sie says. [[The greatest danger, statistically, is during takeoffs and landings. Even if the chance of an actual crash is low -- and it is, as you have a greater chance of being struck by lightning than being involved in a plane crash, according to their own statistics -- when you deal with a potentially dangerous environment you don't take anything for granted. The universe punishes stupidity by death, with no appeal.]]
Pr'rek looks at K'kei in surprise.
[[I figure that if I'm to be on this world for a while, I might as well know something about it. Especially when our lives depend on its technologies!]] K'kei explains after noticing Pr'rek's expression
*****
President McAuliffe turns to watch the Air Force plane as it rolls to a stop next to the red carpet. The wind lightly tugs at the silver dress she wears, stunningly subtle compared to the eye-openers she has a reputation on the DC social circuit for wearing. She had debated wearing her usual business suit, but decided that she should go all-out for this special occasion. It wasn't every day, after all, that one met extraterrestrial intelligence in the flesh... or fur, at least.
Noticeably absent, for those familiar with the procedure for visiting dignitaries, is the band. All the other ceremonial trappings, however, are in place as the main hatch for the door opens. After an airman finishes the last few details, the three visitors step out onto the platform at the top of the mobile stairway wheeled into place as the aircraft stopped.
[[Apparently they wanted to keep this meeting free of the ceremony of normal visits. I for one am not going to complain about the lack of noise or obnoxious camera flashes.]]
[[Agreed, K'kei,]] Tr'riw adds, following behind Pr'rek as sie starts to descend the stairs. [[Though I wish they did have gravgens, I hate stairs.]]
[[You could use the exercise, Tr'riw,]] Pr'rek comments from further down the stairway, pawhand holding firmly onto the hand rail. [[Work off some of that gut you've been building.]]
Tr'riw grumbles, otherwise not replying to the jab. It is true I've been gaining a bit of weight while sitting around, I guess, sie admits to hirself. Damned if I'm going to admit to that to hir, though.
"We should've gotten a shorter airplane," McAuliffe mutters under her breath. "They don't look like they're enjoying the stairs too much. Even without those heavy flowing robes they wear."
"Sorry, Ma'am," SecState replies in an equally quiet voice, "but we were kinda lacking in smaller planes that could still handle their acceleration couches, as well as their extra gear."
"Well, see what you can do about it for their return trip, would you?"
"Yes'm."
As the visitors finally reach the bottom of the stairs, the president advances towards them, Secretary of State Donald Williams and Amelia Mitchell following a step behind, flanking the president and forming the other two points of an equilateral triangle.
"Let me be the first to formally welcome you to Washington, DC, the United States of America, and the planet Earth. I am President Samantha McAuliffe. The person to my right is Secretary of State Donald Williams, and to my left is Amelia Mitchell, who was the first to sight your craft as it entered our solar system."
After the three visitors nod in acknowledgement of the introductions, the foremost of them speaks, this time without the benefit of a translator, revealing a high pitched contralto voice, with a feminine trait. "Greetings. I am Pr'rek vaq Starfarer, Voyage Leader of our group. To my left is K'kei vaq Starfarer, the Flight Commander, or main pilot if you will, of the expedition. To my left is Tr'riw vaq Te'mage, our Assistant Chief Engineer. Our Chief Engineer, Fe'ewi vaq Te'mage, sends zir regrets that zie couldn't join us, but there were maintenance issues aboard our spacecraft that couldn't be delayed." At least that's the official story, sie adds silently. I think they can do without knowing our CE is an even bigger xenophobe than zir assistant -- I know _I_ can do without them knowing it!
"If you would care to follow us, we have made arrangements for a more comfortable location to talk, other than standing around out here in the wind."
"We would appreciate that, Madame President," Pr'rek replies plainly.
*****
"Thank you for your hospitality, Madame President. We appreciate the efforts your people are putting forth on our behalf." Pr'rek, like hir companions, relaxes in the specially designed chairs arranged around a circular table, across from a trio of regular chairs for humans. Except for the brief stroll into the room, there would be no hints that the cozy little room is really built inside one of the hangars at a major Air Force base.
"It's nothing, really, Pr'rek," McAuliffe says dismissively. "We don't, as you've probably guessed by now, have a lot of experience with meeting intelligence outside of humanity, but the human race in general isn't a stranger to greeting 'out of town' guests, if you will."
"Yes, we did gather that," Tr'riw acknowledges, hir muzzle bearing a 'canary that ate the cat' grin.
"Yes, Madame President, we did notice that, on both counts" Pr'rek says.
"Part of the reason for this meeting was to get to know one another. I don't know nearly enough to ask all the 'smart' questions that our scientific minds would consider, so let's just consider this a friendly chat between new acquaintances."
"I think you underrate your technical knowledge," Pr'rek quietly notes. "From what we have determined, your previous career isn't exactly known for rampant stupidity." From the studies of the president's speeches, sie has the impression that elegant, delicate phrasing was not the best tack with McAuliffe. A refreshing change of pace, sie silently adds. I have enough pompous asses in my own expedition, I don't wish to deal with those of other species!
"No, I suppose it's not, really," President McAuliffe admits modestly. "If you'll pardon what may be a naive question, what brings you to our neck of the woods, so to speak?"
Pr'rek shakes hir head. "The question isn't naive at all. I'd be surprised if you _didn't_ ask that question. The short answer is that we've been listening to leaked transmissions from this star system for several of your decades. When a lowly G class star puts out a radio signature of a star nearly twice as active as it should be, those with long ears tend to listen. The longer answer is more technical, and exceeds my ready knowledge base. An expedition was launched two of your years ago, from the star your people call Iota Centauri, 64 light years away."
Amelia gasps softly. "That's my star!" she blurts out. Her cheeks turn a flaming red from the combined stares of the other five beings in the room. "Well, not 'mine' as in I own it, but I've spent years stargazing at it." Ha! So much for those NASA geeks not thinking they're from my star, she thinks in a satisfied mental tone. "I've always been fascinated by the stars, especially ones that didn't look like our own. I was even watching that star when I saw the arrival -- of you guys, that is," she adds. "I saw the flash, and your ship, though it didn't look like anything more than a sliver at the time. A sliver that just happened to be going at a quarter of the speed of light. You said the trip was started 2 years ago..." Mitchell realizes. "How did you guys do that?"
"In simple terms, Ms. Mitchell," K'kei begins, with the help of hir translator, "we have the ability to travel faster than light, for short periods of time. Short, of course, being entirely relative. A few seconds at [static] will -- bah, the word fails to translate to your language," sie realizes, snorting in disgust at the translator's failure. "'Overcee' is the closest to the concept, using human terminology regarding the speed of light," sie concludes after having touched a colored patch on the translator, apparently turning it off to rely on hir own words. Speaking English, for K'kei, is a slow process, for unlike Pr'rek, sie hasn't any natural affinity for alien languages. Sie has even less affinity, however, for a machine screwing up where sie could do so on hir own, unassisted, so out of expediency and stubbornness K'kei bulled hir way through a quick course in the lingua franca of the planet.
"In any case, a few moments at overcee will result in covering a _lot_ more distance for the time than traveling for that time in normal space -- what I believe you refer to as 'Newtonian space,' for reasons I'm afraid I don't understand." Be patient, K'kei reminds hirself, for not the first time since landing. They're as ignorant of our terminology as we are of theirs. "The flash you saw was a result of the downshift from overcee, which takes a lot of energy, just as attaining overcee does. If you were watching some more, you also might have noted a slight glowing, particularly when we were decelerating. That, too, is an artifact of the energies required for such drastic changes in velocity, as we shedded the built up energy while losing the speed."
"Perhaps we should consider continuing this at another time," sie suggests a moment later. "I think everyone else's eyes are about to glaze over," K'kei suggests. "This is, after all, just what you would label a 'social call.' Shop talk can wait for another day."
Ami nods in agreement. "Yeah." That, and I don't feel like being patronized, she doesn't say. "Though, that's really not 'shop' for me. I don't have any fancy degree abbreviations to tack onto the end of my name to talk about physics. I was in the Air Force, as a fighter pilot, so I do know a few things, but I retired about a year ago, due to circumstances I'd rather not discuss if you don't mind."
How do you politely say 'stupid and short-sighted politician-officers with their heads so far up their asses they need to remember to fart to be able to breathe'? Perhaps if I have highly placed friends like McAuliffe says I do, we could see about changing that. A battle for another day, though. "I still fly a little, but as a regular citizen in a private airplane."
Sensing underlying anger in Amelia's words about her leaving the Air Force, Pr'rek decides to turn the conversation to another direction. "If I may ask, Samantha, the reception we received when we arrived at this base was far more quiet than we were lead to believe would be the case. Why is that?" Not that I mind the quiet, granted.
"I figured that you'd not mind a relatively quiet arrival. Pardon if I was being presumptuous, but I thought you'd appreciate passing on the assault on your eardrums and eyes with a full-fledged visitor's welcome. You can be sure that you'll get enough of that from others that you meet. I didn't feel like compounding the problem." I hate the bands, press, and noise, too, so fair deal all around.
"Yes, to be honest that was appreciated. I also understand that others might not share your opinions. I won't hold it against them," Pr'rek concludes with a subtle grin. "I intend no offense, but to the People, much of the formal protocol of this world would be considered unnecessarily complex."
"Just between us, Pr'rek, personally I feel the same way. Officially I have no comment, of course." Though Don looks like he's about ready to have an aneurism. Poor guy didn't know the half of what he stepped in when he accepted my offer.
"Now, before we begin any official discussions..."
Do not copy or quote the above material without the expressed consent of the owner of this page.