Gibraltar Sun Read online

  Brinks Base had seemed crowded when home to the 3000 members of the expedition. With the departure of eleven starships, the population had dropped to barely 200, and half of those were aboard Ranger and Vaterland at any given time. One thing they did not lack at the moment was living cubic. In fact, Jennifer often felt like she was alone on base as she passed through deserted corridors to and from her duty station. It was depressing.

  She had been surprised at how quickly their small group learned one another’s quirks. Seeing the same faces day after day contributed to her boredom and despite there being no shortage of male companionship – men outnumbered women four to one – the dreariness of it all had begun to seep in. Most of her Saturday dates ended up in the mess hall, staring up at the nebula through the view periscope.

  Twice the dull routine of life had been interrupted when the gravtenna detected a stargate-induced gravity wave. Once the wave had come from the Orpheus System, which reduced the observation to no consequence. The second observation had tentatively added another star to their very small map of the Sovereignty.

  Yawning, she stretched her arms wide over her head to relieve the kinks in her muscles, and glanced at the chronometer display on her workscreen. Only three hours to go before Witherspoon showed up to relieve her.

  She was in mid-stretch when an alarm sounded and a flashing message replaced the chronometer display:

  GRAVITY WAVE DETECTED!

  Blinking, she began issuing commands. The screen filled with data displays. One showed a schematic of the rotating observatory and the results of the continuous diagnostic program that monitored its health. Everything was green, which meant the data was likely real and not one of the ghosts that plagued her existence. The waveform displayed in another window showed a strong negative gravity wave. And, best yet, the observation’s vector did not point toward either Orpheus or the other system they had discovered

  This was a new contact!

  Before she could punch her intercom, Brad Wilson, the Duty Officer, was standing behind her.

  “What have you got?” he barked.

  Normally such abruptness would have irritated her. In her excitement, she didn’t even notice.

  “Gravity wave, sir.”

  “The real thing this time?”

  “Looks like it. I’ll know for sure in a couple of minutes when the computer finishes crunching the data.”

  “Where does it originate?”

  “The vector is still pretty rough, but it looks like it is back toward the Galactic Center.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Getting there,” she replied tersely, wishing he would go away and let her finish her work. Then she realized the reason for his question.

  From the vicinity of the Crab Nebula, where she was, G.C. was in the Constellation of Sagittarius. That was a purely arbitrary designation, of course, since the constellations from the Hideout System looked nothing like the constellations back home. However, Sagittarius held more than the center of the galaxy.

  It was also the direction where the Solar System was to be found.

  The implications were clear. Brinks Base was somewhere inside Broan space. With but three data points and two of those in the same direction, it was impossible to determine just where in the Sovereignty they were.

  For all they knew, they might be in its very heart!

  #

  The wind was cold and blustery, laden with the smell of impending snow. The campus footpaths were all heated and clear, but the lawns of summer had been replaced by cold blankets of white. Winter had come to Colorado Springs and over the past several weeks had decorated the surrounding mountains in deep drifts of glistening white.

  Mark Rykand hurried toward the Institute’s Headquarters Building, huddled deeply in his electrically heated overcoat. Reaching his destination, he climbed the steps and pushed through the first of two sets of doors. At the second door, a blast of hot air greeted him.

  The main auditorium of Institute Headquarters was a large hall that could have been rented out to show commercial holomovies. The floor sloped down from the back, with seats in curved rows. Fewer than a quarter of the seats were filled as Mark hung up his coat before striding down the aisle to the third row. He took a seat as quietly as he could and turned his attention to the stage.

  Dr. Hamlin, the institute director, sat at a long table at the right side of the stage. He was flanked by three other senior administrators. A tall Christmas tree that was still in the process of being decorated dominated the left side of the stage. In front of the tree, Dr. Thompson stood behind a lectern and gestured at the holocube suspended above the middle of the stage. A black starfield filled the cube. Dr. Thompson was reporting the results of his Working Group’s search for candidate systems in which human advance bases might safely be established when the time came.

  The occasion was the Winter Assessment. Although this was the first, similar reviews were scheduled to be held each quarter to judge progress. And, in truth, they had accomplished quite a lot.

  There were nineteen working groups in all. Dr. Thompson headed the astronomy group. It was up to them to sketch out the terrain for the coming battle, and eventually, to pinpoint the location of the Broan home star or stars.

  There were also groups devoted to strategy, tactics, logistics, force size and structure, weaponry, Broan information technology, enemy physiology and psychology, Solar System defense, politics, personnel requirements, training, and Mark’s personal favorite, worst case scenario! That latter group had been nicknamed The Doomsday Club. It was their responsibility to consider the possibility that Earth would someday be located by the Broa, and what could be done about it. In the event things went wrong, some portion of the human race must be given a chance to survive in freedom.

  One-third of the way around the planet, the institute in Paris was organized quite similarly, or as much so as fit their mandate of fleshing out the Vasloff alternative. Surprisingly, Mikhail Vasloff had no official relationship with the group. To do so would have put a crimp in his rabble rousing.

  The unofficial name of the institute in Colorado Springs was The Gibraltar Institute, an appellation that was fast becoming official. After initial confusion, the working groups had settled down to their tasks, fleshing out the details of the master plan for taking their undeclared war to the Broa. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the outlines of the Gibraltar Earth plan were beginning to emerge.

  Surprisingly, considering the number of scientists involved, there was universal agreement on Task One. They needed information! Without it, humankind was blind, deaf, dumb, lame, and just possibly, stupid. A consensus had formed around the need for another scouting party into Broan space. The incursion would take place as far from Klys’kra’t as possible.

  Once the scouts made contact with a new species, they would negotiate for that species’ planetary database. Nor would the “Vulcans” of “Shangri-La” do the negotiating. To confuse the enemy, they would masquerade as a different race from a distant fictional star system.

  Once they had a database, they would no longer be dependent on listening for gravity waves. Ships stuffed to their hulls with monitoring equipment would sneak into the cometary halos of numerous systems and eavesdrop on the locals.

  Such a scouting expedition would not be underway anytime soon, however. The one ship they could use to pull off a second masquerade was being disassembled for study.

  The Ruptured Whale currently sat in the same Lunar space dock where it had been repaired after being salvaged from New Eden. This time the yard techs were taking it apart as carefully as a surgeon works on a prenatal infant in the womb. The hope was that once the scientists and engineers examined the Broan equipment, they could reverse engineer it for use in human-built ships.

  That was the hope.

  Like a six-year-old disassembling an antique mechanical clock, the danger was that they might not be able to reassemble it again.

  Following the need for informa
tion came the need for a faster way to reach Broan space, the Stargate Option. The team assigned to develop the technology independently was not making much progress. Hopefully, the alien database would give them clues, and possibly detailed information, on how the stargates operated. If not, they would have to obtain the technology the old fashioned way – they would have to steal it.

  Beyond that, the plan to defeat the Broa became fuzzy.

  There was the need to build a fleet, of course; although they lacked data to estimate its size. The only thing everyone agreed was that it would have to be big. The fleet would include Q-ships, cruisers, blastships, even larger logistics craft, plus numerous types not yet conceived.

  The number of things they did not yet know were legion, but of one thing everyone was completely certain. Whether parliament eventually decided to fight or hide, they were going to be busy for the foreseeable future.

  #

  Chapter Eleven

  Sar-Say, if not content, was not unhappy. His transfer from orbit to Cambridge reminded him of the infinite variety and pleasures of a world, even one viewed only through the armor glass window of his prison cell. At the moment, snowflakes were streaming down from an overcast sky. The flakes were large and fluffy, unlike the hard ice pellets of just a few weeks earlier. The photosynthesis collectors on the trees outside had been an explosion of color when he arrived. Now they were gone, leaving bleak branches to reach for the sky like so many frozen tentacles. The black of the branches against the white covering of snow made a surreal effect that he found esthetically pleasing. Save for weeping willows, the trees of Earth were nothing like those of his home world.

  Life at the Broan Institute was also easier than it had been aboard PoleStar. In orbit, he had been interrogated daily by researchers working from lists sent up from Earth. Now he had access to the prime questioners themselves. That meant that their sessions trended more toward conversations than interrogations. He found several of his jailors to be surprisingly talkative when given the chance. Sar-Say often listened more than he spoke. In the process, he improved his understanding of these strange bipeds.

  There was Dr. Marcia Plessey, who insisted that everyone use her title when addressing her. An older female, with drawn features and a mouth that turned down, she was forever making acerbic comments about “the military.” The comments confused Sar-Say at first. His impression from his studies of the Earth’s public data network was that the humans had a very small space navy, more constabulary than fighting force. He finally realized that Dr. Plessey’s complaints were traditional, a holdover from times when the humans had been quite warlike, and were directed at the uniformed personnel of the Stellar Survey.

  Then there was Professor Irving Kostmeier, who could talk for hours if one of Sar-Say’s questions triggered an enthusiasm. Despite his tendency for loquaciousness, the Broa detected a sharp intellect hiding beneath the professor’s too friendly façade.

  One thing the conversations were was never ending. Day after day, his interrogators quizzed him about life in Civilization. As he had before, he told them the truth. With his secret revealed, he had no reason to lie and every reason to keep whatever trust he could with humans. They were a strange species. Individuals not involved in the recent voyage to Sky Flower seemed to treat the expedition as ancient history. Each new acquaintance presented him with a blank screen on which he could write anew.

  Despite the long days, the sessions with his interrogators were profitable. For, while they probed his knowledge of Broan Civilization, he learned about Earth and humanity in turn. Nor was his curiosity unfocused. While he interacted with an ever-expanding circle of human academics, he continued to search for those who might prove useful in the future.

  Having been discovered before he could make contact with the Voldar’ik, he faced the prospect that remainder of his life would be spent in captivity. The possibility did not frighten Sar-Say. His species was not built to agonize over what might have been. Instead, he put aside his regrets and began to plan anew.

  His new plan was elegant, but required the assistance of a few humans to be successful. Homo sapiens, as they rather grandiosely styled themselves, were much more individualistic than were Broa. Given the proper inducements, he was sure he could bribe a few humans to help him. He just had to find them.

  “Good morning, Sar-Say,” Director Fernandez said as he exited the combination airlock and security barrier leading to Sar-Say’s cell.

  “Good morning, Director,” Sar-Say replied.

  Fernandez visited him every morning at precisely 08:00 hours to see how he was doing, sometimes in the company of Dr. Knowlan or Dr. Hirakawa, but most often alone. He seemed solicitous of Sar-Say’s welfare.

  “I have news this morning,” Director Fernandez said.

  Sar-Say waited. He had not yet learned to make the automatic responses humans used to signify they were ready to receive information.

  “We have gotten permission to expose you to a wider range of people than just us ivory tower types.”

  The Broa did not understand the reference to towers. That, however, was not the reason he answered, “I don’t understand.”

  “We are going to arrange a faculty reception at which you will be the Guest of Honor. A number of important people will be there. You will meet the elites of our society. Besides, it will be an occasion to show you off.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Fernandez wrinkled his upper face in an expression that Sar-Say knew meant that he was puzzled.

  “A good question,” the director responded, realizing that he was talking to an alien. “It will be a chance for you to learn more about us, and we about you. Also, it will enhance the status of our institute. That can’t hurt at budget time, you know.”

  The accumulation of value was one thing that Sar-Say understood. “When will this function take place?”

  “At the beginning of next month. There are invitations to send out, schedules to be adjusted, catering to be arranged, all manner of tasks to be completed.”

  “Will I be caged?” Sar-Say asked, suddenly realizing that this might be the occasion he had been waiting for.

  “Of course not. The doors will be guarded, of course; as much for your protection as ours. However, you will be allowed to mingle with the crowd. This will be a learning experience for both of us. If things go well, we may make it a monthly function.”

  Sar-Say bared his teeth in an imitation of a human smile. On him, it did not look friendly.

  “I think I would like that, Director Fernandez.”

  “If you will excuse me, I have a busy morning.”

  “I also,” the Broan replied. Although he displayed the learned social behavior that humans had taught him, his mind was not focused on that particular interaction. Rather, he was considering his search for a particular human and how this reception might advance his cause.

  #

  “Want to go to a party?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Lisa asked.

  Mark Rykand gathered her into his arms and repeated, “Would you like to go to a party?”

  “A party? Where?”

  “Boston.”

  She tilted her head up to look into his eyes and furrowed her brow in that way he found so attractive.

  “Can’t we find entertainment closer to home? Say in the Colorado Springs holoplex?”

  “This is a special party. It’s a coming-out shindig for Sar-Say.”

  This time the look of confusion was too much for him. He laughed. This caused her skin to flush and her eyes to widen momentarily, as though she was thinking of launching a lightning bolt in his direction. Instead of an explosion, she said softly, “Perhaps you should start at the beginning.”

  The beginning had come with a summons to Director Hamlin’s office. Hamlin had greeted him with the same question: “Do you want to go to a party?”

  Mark’s reaction had been similar to Lisa’s. The director explained: The Broan Institute was planni
ng a controlled social event at which Sar-Say would mingle with regular people. The stated goal was to see how Sar-Say reacted in a crowd situation.

  Mark found this explanation suspect. For one thing, en route to the Crab Nebula, Sar-Say had had plenty of practice mingling in groups. For another, the guest list included some decidedly “non-regular” people, including the Governor of Massachusetts, the Mayor of Boston, several media bigwigs, and assorted Harvard notables. The reception seemed more like an apple polishing exercise than a serious experiment in alien psychology.

  The invitations had gone out to the directors of both the Gibraltar and Paris Institutes and their wives, more for form’s sake than a desire to see them show up. However, the invitation concluded by saying that if the directors were unable to attend, they could send their representatives.

  “That’s you,” Hamlin said, “if you want to go.”

  Mark considered for a moment. “Lisa and I have a lot of work due next week, but I suppose we could take a day or two off. I know Lisa would like to see Sar-Say again. They were roommates for quite awhile, you know.”

  “I do. I’ve seen the surveillance recordings, including the one that isn’t supposed to exist.”

  Mark nodded. All activities in Sar-Say’s quarters aboard PoleStar had been recorded for study and security purposes, including Lisa’s nude flight across the compartment. “I wouldn’t mention that to Lisa, were I you.”

  That brought a smile to Hamlin’s lips. “I would give you the same advice unless you like sleeping on the couch. Do you accept the invitation?”

  “Sure,” Mark replied. “It might be fun.”

  Lisa listened as he recounted his meeting with the director, minus the part about security recordings. When he finished, she asked, “Why on Earth would they throw Sar-Say a coming out party?”

  “They claim it’s a science experiment. If you ask me, I think personal aggrandizement is a more plausible explanation. Professor Fernandez and his band are trying build up credit with the local powers-that-be.”