Two

Tarbos

Tarbos Project Director Bob Pritchard looked out of his twelfth story, corner office window at one of the most spectacular views in and of the settled worlds.  Off-World Mining and Exploration’s offices on Tarbos were located in a remarkable setting. 

The city of Mountain View had grown up just downhill from the first landing site.  While the city overlooked a bay and natural harbor on the northern edge of Tarbos’ one ocean, a mountain range reared its head just to the north of the city, and on a peak forty kilometers north of city center the planet’s Skyhook soared to the heavens.  Hardwood forests and long-grass prairies covered most of the one continent, dotted by the small, efficient mining operations extracting a wild panoply of mineral riches from the crust.  Tarbos was a slightly “heavy” planet, with gravity about ten percent greater than Earth’s, but this was compensated by an atmosphere slightly higher in oxygen.

In his office on the twelfth floor of OWME’s triangular, gleaming black headquarters tower, Pritchard stood looking out his window at the surf lapping gently against the beach just five hundred meters away.  Already, at two in the afternoon local time, (Tarbos ran on a twenty-one-hour clock) the first after-work sunbathers were showing up on the wide expanse of snow-white sand.  Below his aerie perch, the beachgoers lay on blankets, splashed in the surf, batted around beach balls, threw flying plastic discs.  Pritchard couldn’t share their joy.

A thin binder lay on Pritchard’s expansive black polymer desk.  The cover bore a legend – OWME Freight Losses, 2130-2132.

Page 38 contained the entry that had Pritchard concerned.

16 April 2131:  OWME Freighter Narwhal lost en route Earth to Tarbos.  Ship black box log indicates three strikes by unidentified energy weapon, one to the drive tunnel, one to the Navigation suite and one to the Bridge.  Drive tunnel hit resulted in failure of an anti-matter conduit, causing a matter-antimatter explosion resulting in the complete destruction of the ship and cargo.  All hands lost in the attack:  Seven officers and sixty-three crew.  Estimated cost of ship and cargo total $1.26 billion.  Additional insurance/compensation/compound interest losses total $43.68 million.

No other ship traffic was detected in the area in the eight-hour period prior to the attack.  The identity of the attacking craft has not been determined.

The hostile Grugell Empire was known to have a device that rendered their ships impossible to detect.

Unidentified energy weapon, my ass, Pritchard thought bitterly.  It was a Goddam Grugell warship.

 What Tarbos, or any other settled planet run by Off-World Mining and Exploration was to do about the Grugell, was another question entirely. 

Forest

The cabin in the mountain meadow had grown into a three-bedroom house now, but other than that the clearing in the giant conifers looked much as it had when Mike and Jenny Crider had returned there as newlyweds twenty-two years before.  This morning, the sun was rising bright and hot in the west after a night of scattered thunderstorms, leaving the great trees and fern meadows steaming. 

Heat and humidity or not, it was a perfect late-summer day.  The cabin door swung open with a bang, and Mike stepped out to greet the morning.

His frame was as tall and thin as ever, his face marked with a few more wrinkles above his dark-blonde goatee.  Crows-feet crinkled the corners of his ice-blue eyes now as before.  A few streaks of gray showed in his shoulder-length hair.

His ancient gray Stetson had been replaced, and replaced again in the last twenty years, but only by another, identical model.  Finding duplicates was no difficulty; following the long-ago Battle of Settlement, gray Stetsons had rapidly become a wildly popular fashion on Forest, and remained so to this day.  He still wore his favored blue cotton shirts, and while blue jeans had replaced his boser-skin leggings of long ago, he still preferred his wife Jenny’s hand-made knee-high moccasins.  This morning he carried his longbow and a quiver of arrows.

“Ready to go, Junior?” he called over his shoulder.

From the cabin emerged a near duplicate of the Mike of twenty years before.  Mike Junior was twenty-one, tall and lean as his father, with his sire’s long blonde hair.  Mike Junior kept his face shaven, though, and eschewed the Stetson for a floppy leather hat. 

“I’m ready, Dad.  We heading up the mountain today?  I saw a group of bosettes up there yesterday, right at the top of the Turkey-foot.”  Mike Junior shouldered a longbow and quiver similar to his father’s.

“I figured as much.  Maybe it’ll be cooler up on the high benches.”

“Wouldn’t bet on it, Dad.  It’s going to be a steam bath no matter where we go.  Sure you don’t want to run down to Outskirts for anything today?”  Mike Junior grinned at his father.

“You spend too much time messing around in town as it is,” Mike grumped.

“No girls up there on the high benches, Dad.”

“All right.  Let’s get going.  We’re burning daylight.”

The two set out with mountaineer’s strides, into the trees, bound upwards for the high benches above the cabin.

“You saw on the news this morning, the US has a new President, didn’t you Dad?”

“Yeah.  I sent in my absentee ballot.  I think he’ll do OK – ‘bout time we had someone in there who’s worked for a living.”

“Yeah, I guess.”  Mike Junior was of an age where girls were far more interesting than politics, but the particulars of his father’s comment weren’t lost on him.  “Uh, ‘we,’ Dad?    Are we Americans, or are we Forestians?  I hear tell some of the people on Earth are wondering whether we’re citizens or not.”

“I am.  You, son, well, that remains to be seen, I guess.  Forest isn’t an independent world, you know.  It’s a Company planet, and OWME’s an American corporation.  I’m still an American citizen, so’s your mother – she was born on Earth, in Baltimore – and I’d guess that makes you and your sister citizens too.”  He looked up through the trees.  On the slope ahead of the pair, the lush ferns under the trees hung limp in a haze of humidity.  “Getting hot, isn’t it?”

Mike Junior wasn’t ready to let the conversation go, but a youth spent in a remote cabin with only his parents and sister for company had gifted him with insight.  He dropped the subject.

“Right up there, Dad,” he pointed, “up on the second bench up from the left-hand side of the Turkey-foot, that’s where I saw the bosettes.  Company is paying premiums for meat still, right?  What with this latest ship of settlers coming in?”

“Yep.”  The old Mayflower was on a dedicated Earth/Forest run now.

“Well, let’s go get ‘em!”

Under the trees, the air was a little cooler, but not much.  Before they’d gone a kilometer, both men were sweating.  Mike Senior stopped to wipe sweat from his forehead.

“We get anything today, we’ll just dress it and beacon it for the retrieval droids.  We don’t need meat at the house, and I’m not carrying anything down the mountain in this heat.”

“OK with me.”

The White House – Washington D.C., Earth

While President Gomez had seen pictures and video of the Grugell race, not much could have prepared him for the sight of a living, breathing alien.  But it was just such a being that sat before him now, in the ancient, historic Oval Office, flanked by his Secretary of State and Secretary of Defense.  Two Secret Service agents watched, hawk-like, from the far wall.

The weird, sticklike creature leaned forward slightly, adjusting his three-meter frame uncomfortably in a chair designed for humans.  “You must pardon me for fidgeting, Mr. President,” he said, “I have adjusted somewhat to the gravity on your world over the years, but I find your furniture rather uncomfortable.”  His English was impeccable, almost without any trace of an accent.

“I can imagine, Mr. Clomonastik.  I apologize for not having more comfortable accommodation for you here, but you’re the first Grugell to visit the Oval Office.”

“Indeed, Mr. President, since I am the only Grugell on your home planet.”  The alien grinned, revealing serrated, predatory teeth.  “Which brings us to the reason you have brought me here today, yes?  Away from my poor Silver Spring restaurant?” 

“I’ve dined in your restaurant, sir,” Gomez replied.  “I wouldn’t describe it as ‘poor.’” 

“I trust you enjoyed your visit, Mr. President, but I suspect you didn’t ‘invite’ me here to discuss Grugell cuisine, am I correct?”

“Yes, that’s true.  Before your capture on Forest, Mr. Clomonastik, you were a fairly high-ranking officer in the Grugell military, is that right?”

“You could say so, yes.  I held the rank of Group Commander, which is roughly equivalent to a Rear Admiral in your seagoing Navy here on Earth.  I was tasked as Occupation Commander on Forest, a mission which, as you know, failed.”

“Yes, and you chose freely to come to Earth.”

“It was either that or face disintegration for failure on my return to Grugell,” Clomonastik pointed out.  “In my case, sadly, self-preservation won the day over patriotism.”  He looked anything but sad; his Grugell restaurant in nearby Silver Spring, Maryland, was a wild success.  Clomonastik was somewhat limited by only having Earth materials available, but the novelty of Earth’s first extra-terrestrial restaurant – cynically named “End of the Universe,” after some obscure twentieth-century science-fiction novel that the former Grugell officer had found amusing – had made Clomonastik a very wealthy Grugell, and the United States’ first truly alien “permanent resident.”

That last item had caused the government’s Immigration service no small amount of consternation.  The bureaucracy had, not surprisingly, been caught off guard, and, being a bureaucracy, had reacted in the only way possible – by mindlessly following procedure to the letter.  Clomonastik now was the proud owner of a “green card,” which he regarded with distinct amusement.

“You wish to question me about the composition and structure of the Grugell military,” Clomonastik observed.

“Well, yes.” 

“Then, Mr. President, I must begin by clearing up the misconception you may have about Grugell society.  First of all, the Grugell Empire has no ‘military’ as you know the term.  The Grugell Empire is a military organization.  Every adult male is in our military, he holds a rank, and his level of achievement in life is measured by the attainment of rank and military honors.  We simply have no ‘civilians’ in the Empire.”

“Except the women, of course,” the Secretary of State, Claudia Stetson, pointed out. 

“I appreciate your sensitivity to that, Madame Secretary,” Clomonastik replied, inclining his head graciously.  “Our females, it is true, have limited rights and status compared to our males – they are expected to obey their Estate-Master, bear and raise children, and maintain the estate.”

“Estate-Master?”  Stetson frowned.

“You understand that the phrase loses something in translation, but that is roughly your equivalent of the Grugell term.”

“We’re not here to discuss equal rights for Grugell women, Claudia.  We can take that up another day, all right?  We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”  Gomez wasn’t pleased with the sidetrack the conversation was taking, and his scowl made that plain.

“Yes, Mr. President.”  The Secretary of State backed off but remained uncowed.

“Mr. Clomonastik, you were describing your military culture?” Gomez prompted.

“Yes – where was I?  Oh, yes.  The Emperor is a hereditary monarch, as you’ve had here on Earth in the past.  The Emperor is the absolute ruler of the Grugell; his every whim is law.  There is no legislative body, no civil court, and no police force.  Crimes against the Empire and petty crimes against a fellow Grugell are punished by what you would describe as a military court-martial.”

“How do you handle consumer goods, food production, all that sort of thing?”

“All done as a function of our military structure,” Clomonastik replied.  “As in your military services, our Imperial Navy has a range of military specialties, which include manufacturing and raising of food animals.”  The Grugell, being essentially a predatory species, had no vegetable agriculture as such; this was reflected in the offerings of Clomonastik’s restaurant.  Vegetables and salads were all but unknown there.  Almost all the menu items were purely meat dishes.

Clomonastik continued.  “Now, until we encountered your race on the planet Forest – we called it something different, of course – we had no armed spacecraft.  There was no need for any.  Our Occupation forces were armed when making planetfall on new worlds, but all we have encountered so far are less developed, unintelligent species.

“Of course, that has changed.  We were fortunate enough to detect signs of your spacecraft operating in the vicinity of Forest without being detected in return, and the Emperor’s decision was swift.  Shipyards on Grugell and another developed Grugell world, Gorbinia, immediately began building armed spacecraft.”

The Secretary of Defense, Titus McAlester, spoke up now.  “And how are those craft armed?”

“Bear in mind, Secretary McAlester, that my knowledge is over twenty Earth years out of date.  But at that time, standard armament for an Imperial Navy armed frigate consisted of two anti-proton projectors and two anti-ship torpedo bays, carrying five torpedoes each.  And, as you are no doubt aware, Grugell engineers have discovered a means to render these frigates undetectable with a cloaking field.  The nature of that field is a closely guarded secret; I’ve never been on a ship that possessed such a device.  The device only works, it seems, on small ships, frigate class or smaller.  The Occupation ships are too large to conceal.”

“Have you any knowledge of how many of these armed frigates your Navy has built?”

“Indeed, Mr. President, I do not.  As of my last first-hand knowledge, there were but two.   In twenty years, it is safe to assume that there have been a significant number built.  The Emperor is not, shall we say, encumbered by dealing with a recalcitrant Congress in organizing such projects.  He simply commands, and his commands are carried out.  And, Mr. President, I’d like to correct your use of the possessive; the Grugell military is “mine” no longer.  I have cast my lot with your people, your society.  My loyalty is now to America.”

“I appreciate that, and I appreciate your loyalty.  Most of all I appreciate your being so forthcoming with information that would certainly be considered disloyal by your fellow Grugell.”

“In Grugell society, Mr. President, I am already considered guilty of the most severe of crimes; I failed in a mission to which I was assigned by the Emperor Himself.  Nothing I may tell you could further compound that offense, sir.  And as I’ve said, America has earned my loyalty.  Besides,” he chuckled, a strange, thin sound, “a race that produces such a tenacious and canny adversary as your fellow American Michael Crider will prove to have a great destiny, I think.  I would one day enjoy seeing my respected friend Michael again.”

“We’ll have to see if we can arrange that.  Mr. Clomonastik, I’d like you to spend a few days interviewing with Secretary McAlester’s senior staff.”

“I’d be delighted to help, Mr. President.  Fortunately, I’ve got a very capable assistant that can oversee operations at the End of the Universe.”

“Good – it’s all settled, then.  Jorge,” the President called to one of the Secret Service men, “Will you see to it that Mr. Clomonastik has a suite at the D.C. Marriott, and anything else he needs?   Thank you.  That’s all for now, everybody.  Mr. Clomonastik,” Gomez extended his hand, managing not to flinch as the Grugell immigrant shook it with his bony, clawed one.  “Thank you for coming in to see us, sir.  I’ll speak with you again before you return to Silver Spring, if that’s all right with you.”

Clomonastik nodded and left, the Secret Service agent on his heels.

Caliban, the Capital Archipelago

Caliban was a “wet” planet, being, as it was, over 80% oceanic.  The first landing site on Caliban, on a large island in a chain that stretched halfway across the southern hemisphere, had now grown into an impressive city called Capital.

Stefan Ebensburg always thought the name unimaginative, which was a common problem on the worlds settled by OWME.  But his powers as the fourth Caliban Project Director didn’t allow him to change the name of what was fondly called the most beautiful first-landing city in the Galaxy, so he accepted it graciously.

At least he had miles of beach to walk along, and the climate here in Capital – on Capital Island, in the Capital Archipelago – was sunny and warm, a far cry from Ebensburg’s native Berlin.  He enjoyed many an afternoon walk a few kilometers down the beach from the office/dormitory complex, as he was doing even now – but his walk today was overshadowed by a crisis he wasn’t prepared to face.

His native Berlin was as far from Ebensburg’s mind as it was in reality, today.  Berlin was roughly two hundred and sixty light years from Caliban, but the problem facing Ebensburg was quite a bit closer – in orbit around the planet, in fact.

Two Grugell Occupation ships had been sighted by an orbiting freighter.

The ships were up there even now, no doubt loaded to capacity with a heavily armed Grugell Occupation force.  An orbiting OWME freighter was keeping them under surveillance at a safe distance, but the great disk-shaped cargo hull could do nothing to stop the Grugell ships from launching landing craft.  Unless, that is, they wanted to ram.  The freighter, the old, space-worn Rorqual, was overdue to depart for Earth.  The Company would want their ship back soon.

If the Grugell decided to start landing, Ebensburg wouldn’t be able to stop them.  He had only a thousand or so lightly armed Security troops to hand; Caliban had no dangerous indigenous life forms.  All the colony had needed was a modest police force.

Until now.

A frantic message was on its way to Earth, using a tight-beam subspace transmitter called a “hyperphone” – a new toy invented by OWME’s technical geniuses on Earth, and only arrived on Caliban the month before.  But even a subspace hyperphone message would take weeks to reach Earth, and more weeks would pass before the Company could reply. 

A polite cough distracted Ebensburg from his worry.  He turned to see his Executive Secretary, Ingrid Holtz, smiling at him.

“Good news, Herr Direktor,” she told him.  “A message from the Rorqual.”

“Must I stand here and wait for it?”  Stress had made the normally affable Ebensburg short-tempered.

“The Grugell ships were seen leaving orbit, Herr Direktor.  They went into hyper drive just north of the ecliptic and appear to have left the system.”

Ebensburg’s shoulders sagged in relief.  “Very good,” he replied.  “Very good, for now.”

“But what shall we do if they come back?”

Fraulein Holtz could only shake her head.

Tarbos

“Mr. Pritchard?  Hyperphone message coming in.”  Bob Pritchard started awake at the sudden buzz from his desk comm panel.

“All right, forward it to my terminal, please.”  His secretary, Ophelia Mae, quickly tapped the message forward from her outer office desk terminal to his.

“Hmph,” Pritchard grunted.  “From old Steve Ebensburg, eh?  Wonder what’s up on Caliban.”  He tapped a key to open the message, reading quickly through the sparse text allowed by the horrendously expensive hyperphone signal.

BOB

FOND HOPES THIS MESSAGE FINDS YOU WELL.

TWO GRUGELL OCCUPATION SHIPS WERE SIGHTED IN CALIBAN SYSTEM.  BOTH SHIPS LEFT SYSTEM 1812 LOCAL CAPITAL TIME YESTERDAY.

THE GRUGELL ARE BECOMING A PROBLEM OLD FRIEND.  I DO NOT KNOW WHAT WE COLONIES ARE TO DO IF THEY ATTEMPT ANOTHER INVASION.

WE ARE ON THE FRINGES OF EXISTENCE WHILE EARTH DEBATES DEFENDING ONE PLANET.  THE GRUGELL COULD STRIKE AT EARTH HERSELF TOMORROW ALMOST UNOPPOSED.  OUT HERE WE ARE UTTERLY HELPLESS AGAINST A REMORSELESS FOE.

WE NEED A NAVY, OLD FRIEND.  YOU ARE THE SENIOR ACTING PROJECT DIRECTOR.  YOUR INFLUENCE IN THIS MATTER WOULD BE INVALUABLE.  I ASK YOUR ASSISTANCE IN APPROACHING THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS ON EARTH TO DISCUSS THE MATTER OF ARMED SHIPS FOR LOCAL DEFENSE.

YOUR TRUSTED FRIEND,

STEFAN EBENSBURG

CALIBAN

“You always had a gift for understatement, Steve old man,” Pritchard muttered.  He hit the “reply” key and typed his response.

STEFAN

I AM WELL.  HOPE YOU ARE SAFE AND WELL ALSO. 

I HAVE HYPERPHONED BOARD OF DIRECTORS EARTH ON SUBJECT OF LOST FREIGHTERS.  EVEN THOUGH COST OF LOST FREIGHT SHIP AND CREW IS GREAT EARTH BOARD CAN DO LITTLE.  COST OF WARSHIPS AND CREW IS ABOVE THE POSSIBLE MEANS OF OWME.

I HAVE HYPERPHONED UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT AS WELL.  US GOVERNMENT IS EMBROILED IN DEBATE OVER LOCAL DEFENSE.  PRESIDENT GOMEZ RECOMMENDS COLONIES CONSCRIPT AND TRAIN MILITIA TO GUARD AGAINST LANDINGS.

WE ARE ON OUR OWN OLD FRIEND.

An incredible thought slammed into Pritchard’s head as he re-read the last sentence.  “We are on our own,” he whispered.

“We are on our own.”

Pritchard leaned back in his chair, staring back at the ceiling.  “The hell we are,” he grinned, speaking out loud to the empty office.  “What’s Earth got besides a lot of squabbling politicians?  Leave it to businessmen to know how to get things done.”  He sat forward and resumed typing.

I BELIEVE IT IS IN OUR BEST INTERESTS TO FORM AN ALLIANCE OF THE SETTLED WORLDS.  BETWEEN US WE POSSESS RESOURCES THAT DWARF EARTH’S.  AN ALLIANCE COULD FORM AN ARMED FLEET TO RESIST THE GRUGELL, AND WITH OUR COMBINED RESOURCES ALL PLANETS COULD BE PROTECTED ALIKE.

I WILL PROPOSE A MEETING OF REPRESENTATIVES FROM EACH OF THE COLONIES HERE ON TARBOS.  THE LOCATION IS REASONABLY CENTRAL AND WE HAVE MORE THAN ADEQUATE FACILITIES.

OUR FATE IS IN OUR OWN HANDS STEFAN.  PRAY THE CHALLENGE BEFORE US WILL NOT FIND US WANTING.

REGARDS

ROBERT PRITCHARD

TARBOS

Pritchard hit the key that would send the message to Tarbos’ hyperphone transmitter at the top of the Skyhook a few kilometers away, and called up a “New Message” screen to write out the proposal he’d referred to.  It would take weeks, months, for all the messages to be received and answers returned, but Pritchard felt certain it would prove to be worth the wait. He knew he was starting something.  But he didn’t know yet just how far his proposal was destined to go.

To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.