Moonstruck. Part 10

The newest file was a video of the American president in loud telephonic argument with his unseen

Russian counterpart, trading accusations about the recent midlaunch explosion of an American scientific satellite aboard a Russian rocket. So trivial a cause for so high-level an argument: the relationship between the countries must have become very strained. Kyle Gustafson took no part, standing silently in the background, but his height and reddish hair made him stand out.

Gustafson's mere presence had a staggering implication: his principled resignation had not separated him from his nation's leader. And that must mean Gustafson's concerns about the Galactics received some level of consideration within the American government.

As a loud boom echoed in the cargo hold, she realized she had failed to make a more pressing deduction.

"Unlock this door!" shouted Captain Grelben.She should have wondered why this material had been located by her query. Like the war-strategy session that Rualf had shared, a shouting match between national leaders was unlikely to be waged in public. Which suggested that the meeting that so interested her had also been recorded secretly by one of Rualf's spheres . . .

The shock of realization almost froze her. She had neglected to limit her last request to current broadcast intercepts, and her query must have enlisted the Consensus's main computer. It was easy to guess what had followed: security software spotting the unauthorized data access and tracing the request to the lifeboat's computer, an alarm sent to the duty officer, a call to the captain, the realization of the lifeboat's proximity to the zoo that she tended without supervision.

"Swelk, you freak. Open this hatch now." A loud bang. Animals bellowed in confusion.Cultural genocide was her species' horrific norm. Physical genocide was not. If the captain and Rualf had done half what Swelk now suspected, she could never be allowed to speak with the authorities on Krulchuk. Keeping her ignorant had been, in a crude way, a kindness-it preserved the option of letting her live. Discovery of Swelk's investigations eliminated her continuance as a viable outcome.

At least the plotters had made one small mistake: coming straight to the cargo hold in a rage without first

looking up the hatch-lock override code.Not that her actions demonstrated better forethought. "Lifeboat. Break communications with the Consensus." What next? Wasn't she trapped as surely as her swampbeasts? No, although she would have been had the Consensus been on the ground. "Can you launch without the cooperation of the main computer?""Yes. That is one of my emergency modes."The pounding and shouting stopped. That meant no one expected her to open the door and someone had gone for the code. She had only seconds-terminals were all over the ship.

"Can you take me to Kyle Gustafson?" The off-limits information whose access had endangered her

could also save her.

"Not with certainty. His current position is unknown, but the upload does include his residence and work

locations." Swelk wasn't surprised: she had a.s.sumed the main computer had been tapped into the Earth's Internet.

She'd have to take the chance.

An unseen hatch crashed against a wall; she heard extremities slapping the cargo-hold floor and oaths of

disgust at the animals' smell. A short hall connected the lifeboat bay to the cargo hold; a quick glance showed her that corridor hatch was ajar.

"Emergency departure. Close airlock. Launch."

* * * The lifeboat and its automation could get her down to surface, but she would be stuck where she landed-if she got that far.

She could only hope the confusion aboard the starship equaled her own. Her few preparations for escape to Earth suddenly seemed more fantasies than plans. "Lifeboat. No communications with the Consensus, nor with any of its lifeboats." Her mind's eye pictured a sudden windstorm in the ship she had fled, air streaming from the cargo hold into s.p.a.ce through the suddenly gaping lifeboat bay, until the corridor hatch was sucked shut. Poor swampbeasts! "Was anything big blown from the ship?"

"No."

At least her hasty exit had probably not killed anyone.

What could they do beyond following her? She had a moment of panic on recalling the anti-s.p.a.cejunk

defense, then wondered if it would require reprogramming to fire at something moving away from the ship. That was pure speculation, but since she could do nothing about the laser, she might as well a.s.sume her theory was correct.

They would track the lifeboat all the way down, and there was nothing she could do about it. Still, observation of an escape attempt was something to which she had given thought: they could not see through clouds, and radar would not reveal what she did on the ground.

It was night in the United States. "Computer, show a weather map centered on Gustafson's home.

Indicate nearby safe landing areas." Luck finally favored her; the whole region was clouded.

A landing site selected, she turned to other preparations. There wasn't much time.

* * * The lifeboat broke through a dense bank of fog shrouding the forested and weathered peaks of the Allegheny Mountains. Landing radar and the onboard computer had delivered her with precision between two parallel ridges; the ship settled rapidly into a narrow valley. Gustafson's house was one valley away; the Franklin Ridge National Laboratory, to which Gustafson had returned in official disfavor, and the nearest town, were two valleys farther. The human's likeness, printed from one of the files whose download had exposed her, was in a pocket of the fresh garment she had taken from the lifeboat's stores.

She was belted securely into a padded couch, a squishy bag strapped into the seat next to her. Many shifts spent tending to her Girillian charges had cleansed her of all squeamishness; she doubted she could otherwise have gone through with the ploy with the sack. The bag was filled mostly with materials produced on the way down by the lifeboat's bioconverter. The synthesizer itself, portable of course, was in one of the tote bags she had prepositioned in the airlock for her upcoming quick exit. Without

synthesized Krulchukor food, she would starve in a few days-a.s.suming she lasted that long.

"Landing in three-squared, three-squared less one . . . " A console display showed an uneven surface rushing to meet her. Radar reflectivity supposedly proved that the lumpiness was vegetation. She would know soon, one way or another.

She struck with a thump, sliding and b.u.mping along the uneven surface. A landing limb hit something hard. The skid snapped; the ship tipped and went into a roll. The craft finally jolted to rest, its leading edge crumbled around the bole of a tree.

"Open both airlock doors." She may as well confirm reports that Earth's air was breathable. Two doors cycled open; the rough landing had not damaged the lock mechanisms. She released her belts. In standing, she almost collapsed to the deck. The hard landing had badly bruised one of her normally good limbs.

This was taking too long. "Status?"

"Another lifeboat just launched."

One deduction of which Swelk was certain: she would not be chased by Krulirim. They had to expect

her to abandon her lifeboat; her pursuers would have to leave their own craft. She took comfort that no

human broadcast had ever shown a Krul. Surely they would not reveal themselves now.And a lifeboat in pursuit, not the Consensus-appreciated, if not surprising, news. She had guessed the bigger ship would not dare to land in this rugged terrain. Launching a lifeboat had meant delay to retrofit teleoperation controls. While she had never seen a F'thk in person, she had watched videos of them among humans-few of the big robots could fit in a lifeboat.

The emergency stores included flares. She ignited one now, shoving the lit end into a drawer packed with flammable supplies. The fire blossomed, heat scorching her weak-limb sector as she hobbled to the open airlock.

Swelk looped the straps of two supply sacks around her torso. She couldn't make good time across the rough ground balanced on only her two strong limbs, especially with one now injured, and her foreshortened limb could never have supported that much weight. And now that crippled extremity had another problem.

The lifeboat had ripped a scar across the valley floor. She remained for two three-cubes of paces within the path of destruction, lest the bulging sacks she dragged leave too obvious a trail from the wreck. The fire grew hotter and brighter as she turned toward the alien woods. A sickening smell followed her. Then the flames must have reached the main fuel tanks, not emptied by the short trip from low Earth orbit.

Her last thought, before light and sound and blast overwhelmed her, was a mixture of doubt and hope.

Would the stranger whose picture she carried come, or would she have to find him?

CHAPTER 15.

Another day older, but not visibly wiser. Kyle Gustafson sat on his porch, his rattan chair leaning against the fieldstone front of the house. A vague yellow glow, barely discernible through the fog that overhung the mountains, was the only evidence of what the calendar declared to be a full moon. The telescope that he would otherwise have been using lay idle on its tripod. He was contemplating-no, be honest: brooding about-the moon, around which circled the enigmatic mother ship of the equally mysterious Galactics. The enemy. On a clear night he could stare endlessly through the telescope at the great vessel, the unsubtle embodiment of science and technology far beyond Earth's own. Under the threat of that behemoth, humanity dared not even let it be known that a danger had been recognized. What could keep the aliens, were their indirect destruction of mankind to be foiled, from simply doing the deed themselves?

Key American and Russian s.p.a.ce a.s.sets, including strategic early-warning satellites, kept dying. Individual F'thk explained confidentially that a Galactic faction was illegally a.s.sisting the other human side. The aliens hinted at a balance-of-power crisis within their commonwealth, and how humanity's competing authoritarian and democratic philosophies could affect that balance, should Earth be admitted. It was a plausible story for why F'thk factions would meddle on Earth-but the stories didn't jibe. And, oh yes: the pretty souvenir orbs that the F'thk distributed everywhere, supposed "symbols of galactic unity," turned out to be spying devices. No wonder the F'thk, in their whispering campaigns, knew just which geopolitical b.u.t.tons to push . . .

So the few people in the know play-acted the descent into nuclear madness, posturing for the benefit of the ubiquitous Galactic orbs, ever wondering whether today would be the day when an overstressed bomber pilot or submarine captain or missile-silo crew turned pretense into cataclysmic reality. Perhaps the aliens had already tired of waiting-the tactics that had almost brought the US and Russia to war were being tried now in Pyongyang, Islamabad, New Delhi, Beijing, Teheran, and Tel Aviv.

The crack of a sonic boom demanded his attention. He turned toward the sound, in time to observe a bright spark break through the low clouds and sink into the adjacent valley. From the light of the . . . exhaust? flames? . . . it did not look like an airplane, but he'd gotten only a glance. By the time he heard the crash, he was inside, dialing 911.

He had already plunged into the woods, flashlight in hand and cell phone in his pocket, when an explosion lit the sky.

* * * At one level, the situation was clear enough, if tragic: crashed vehicle, fire, explosion. A sickening smell, not quite burning meat and gasoline, hung over the area. There was no sign of survivors, and the blaze was far too intense to let him approach the wreck. At least the forest was too wet to spread the fire. Judging from the violence of the detonation, he was almost certainly too late to help, but he half loped, half slid down the slope as quickly as he dared.

His cell phone chirped, but all he received was static. Not a surprise, here on the valley floor. If the call were from the rescue squad, they could follow the light of the fire. They were clearly on the way-the sirens were growing louder. After reaching his house, they would have to hoof it in, as he had.What was he looking at? The burning craft no more resembled a plane up close than it had shooting across the sky. A F'thk vessel? He pivoted slowly, absorbing the whole terrible scene, a wide irregular gouge marking the craft's final careening course.

Trees swayed and branches bowed in the wind. Flames danced and twisted, spurted and died back. Light

and shadow swirled around the valley in total confusion.

There! Perhaps twenty yards away, at the edge of the trees, something totally out of place caught his eye.

It could have been the flames and odor operating on Kyle's subconscious, but his first impression was of an old charcoal barbecue grill somehow scuttling along on its three legs.

The sirens stopped; an emergency team would be over the crest and here in minutes. It looked like there

was someone to be helped-and it was no F'thk. * * * The alien stood its ground as if pinned by the beam of Kyle's flashlight. The barbecue-grill comparison wasn't bad, even with a closer look. The limbs were jointed, though, unlike the tripod base of a grill, and the articulated . . . hand? foot? . . . at the end of one limb wore what could be a bandage. Three short stalks rose from the top of the torso.

Two sacks slumped on the ground nearby. The alien murmured softly, the sounds unintelligible-and a

bag spoke. In English. "Are you . . . Kyle Gustafson?"

He was shocked, both by the question and that it sounded like a F'thk. A F'thk would not fit in that bag. A speech synthesizer and translator, then. "Do you need help? Why are you here?""Are you . . . Gustafson?" it repeated insistently."Yes." What was going on?"Turn off . . . your light," ordered the alien. "Don't let . . . them see you."He knew nothing about this species of Galactic, but judging from its harsh rasping and the pauses in the synthesized speech, it was gasping for breath.

Shouts of encouragement from the emergency team were getting closer. Beams of their flashlights shone over the ridge. He dimmed his flashlight and hurried to his unexpected visitor.

Trembling, the alien settled onto the ground. It pointed down the valley, in the direction from which its

wrecked ship had arrived. The suspected bandage had a dark splotch, from which, as he watched, a large drop plopped. "They're . . . coming." A sonic boom soon proved it right. An intact version of what lay burning nearby broke through the clouds. "The F'thk."

"Do you need help before they get here?""I will . . . be fine. Don't . . . let F'thk . . . find me.""But why?"More tremors wracked the creature's body. Its sensor stalks dipped. "Keep . . . telling your . . . self it's . . . only a . . . movie."

CHAPTER 16.

Kyle had only seconds to make a decision, and he decided. The alien had sought him out specifically, and it must have a reason. He had to trust that it was a qualified judge of its own medical condition. He carried the exhausted alien deep into the woods, walking always toward his flame-cast shadow, until the blaze ceased to light his way. Striding alone back toward the fire, he snapped occasional branches to discreetly mark the path. He made another trip with the bags of supplies.