Battlespace (33 page)

The question was: Why hadn't they?

“Who's there?” he said, using his armor's external speakers. He knew they wouldn't understand English, but might they hear his voice and know he wanted to talk?

Shadows separated from shadows in a dark alcove up ahead. It took him a moment to sort through the confused visual impressions. Even with his armor lights illuminating the thing, it was hard to tell what he was looking at.

First of all, it was
black
, as black as Marine Mark VIII vac armor was in space, drinking any light that hit it. It was also somewhat humanoid—two legs, two long arms, and an upright stance.

Well, mostly upright. The torso jutted forward, counterbalanced by what appeared to be a short tail. The head was very large and neckless, emerging from the body seamlessly. Garroway spent several frustrating moments trying to identify facial features on the smooth, curved surface of what must be the thing's head before he realized that what he was looking at was another technologically advanced being wearing a suit of armor of some sort. The thing was walking straight toward him, holding what very obviously was a heavy weapon of some kind.

And that weapon was aimed directly at Garroway's head.

2
APRIL
2170

CPL John Garroway
Sirius Stargate,
Lower Tunnels
1458 hours, Shipboard time

The armored form continued to advance until it was five meters away from Garroway. Garroway kept his PG-90 trained on it as it continued to aim at him, but something about its purposeful advance made him hold his fire. If it had wanted to kill him, it could have done so from the relative safety of the shadows. Why was it emerging into the glare of Garroway's suit lights?

Then it stopped, elevating its torso into a full upright posture, using the short, thick tail as the third leg of a tripod. The two stared at one another for a long moment. White vapor, like fog, spilled from vents in the side torso of the being's armor. Then, slowly, with great deliberation, it raised the muzzle of the weapon it was carrying until it was aimed at the overhead.

“
Gaba dadru
,” the thing said in a voice like the crinkle of metal foil, but in a deep bass register.
“Im'haru da setak ni ingal.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Garroway replied. “I don't understand a word you're saying.”

The alien's weapon had something like a pistol grip at the back end and a horizontal carrying handle halfway up the muzzle. Very cautiously, the being turned sideways and lowered the weapon once more, taking care not to point it at Garroway as it laid the device on the black metal deck. Turning to face him once more, it raised both arms, unfolding them, opening the armored hands to display six fingers on each.

Okay…it was showing him it held no weapons. That was encouraging.

The two looked at one another for a long moment. At least, Garroway assumed it was looking at him, studying him as he was studying it. With nothing like eyes, cameras, or helmet visor as a reference, he could only guess where its attention might be directed.

Slowly, making no sudden movements, Garroway pivoted his PG-90 on its torso mount so that the muzzle was pointing harmlessly at the overhead and locked it in place. Unfastening it from its universal mount was a complex process, one that might easily be misunderstood. With the weapon aimed up, he spread his own arms, opening his hands. “See?” he said. “Nothing up my sleeves.”

“
Inki nagal. Nam iritru
.”

“Right. Whatever you say, friend.”

One thing was clear. The being standing in front of him was not one of the eel-like, fish-eyed creatures he'd encountered in the water. It was smaller,
had
to be smaller, no longer than three meters, counting the tail. The arms were longer and more pronounced. It might have been an illusion created by the armor, but this thing had shoulders.

Was this a representative of the Nommo? Or were the eels, the aquatic creatures, the Nommo?

According to Dr. Franz, the Nommo who'd visited Earth all those thousands of years ago had been amphibious, which had led to speculation among the Marines that they might
have a two-part life cycle, like frogs. The long-tailed eels might be the juveniles then. It didn't make a lot of sense that the children should be larger than the parents, but maybe they absorbed the tail, the way tadpoles absorbed their tails on the way to becoming frogs.

And there was something else to think about. The Nommo who'd visited Earth and possibly given birth to the ancient Sumerian civilization had been starfarers who'd crossed light-years to teach primitive humans such things as agriculture, mathematics, astronomy, metalworking, and writing. How the hell did a
fish
develop metal working? You needed fire, first of all, and you needed to learn that heating certain rocks yielded a hot liquid that could be poured into molds to create tools. While Garroway was prepared to accept that an undersea civilization might learn to use the heat from volcanic vents or undersea lava flows for various purposes and even develop a fairly advanced knowledge of chemistry that way, he had trouble imagining something like a terrestrial dolphin—even one with hands—learning about fire or the smelting of metals.

Or astronomy, for that matter. Was someone who lived underwater even
aware
of the stars or able to dream of somehow reaching them?

This being standing a few meters in front of him was certainly advanced technologically, judging from its armor. If its kind had built the Wheel, that was more impressive yet.

Still moving slowly, he pointed at the being. “Nommo?” he asked.

And the creature jumped as though prodded by a stick.

Major Martin Warhurst
Alpha Company, First Platoon
Upper Tunnels, Sirius Stargate
1504 hours, Shipboard time

Warhurst watched as the Marines completed tying the captured Nommo, securing its arms to its sides and creating a kind of harness with the monofilament-woven tether material with four leads. A Marine held the end of each lead, so if the being woke up they could keep it immobilized between them.

He hoped.

He opened a private channel. “General Ramsey? Warhurst.”

“Yes, Martin?”

Warhurst blinked. That was, he thought, the first time Ramsey had ever called him by his first name—an indicator, perhaps, of the strain the man was under back onboard the
Chapultepec
. “Sir, are you getting all of this?”

“Yes, I am. Clear feed.”

“Do you think we should bring Franz and his people in on this? They're the experts, and when this thing wakes up—”

“I'm ahead of you, son. They're already linked in.”

“Indeed, Major,” Franz's voice added. “You cut us off, so we went to General Dominick. He put us through to General Ramsey with the express order that we be consulted!”

Warhurst blinked. With his full attention on the landing and the fight for the beachhead, he'd actually forgotten about the mission's senior staff: Major General Dominick and his people. So far, this had been purely a Marine operation, as it originally had been designed.

But with a prisoner, that would change.

“So, are you bringing the captured Nommo back to the
Chapultepec
?” Franz demanded. “Or are we coming down there?”

“One step at a time, Doctor,” Ramsey cautioned. “Our mission directives include the
very
clear order that you and your staff be kept safe. The Wheel beachhead is not yet secure. Until that time, you'll have to work from the command center onboard the
Pecker
.”

“Officious nonsense! I need to be there!”

“Tell me, Doctor,” Ramsey said in an evident attempt to head him off before pique became a full-blown tantrum. “Will you be able to talk with the Nommo?”

“Eh? Oh…that. I hope so. I suspect so. You see, I've downloaded both the Sumerian language and the principal An dialect, which turns out to be very closely related. Sumerian shows no linguistic relationship with other ancient languages in the Fertile Crescent, you see, and we now suspect that it was the language of the An who colonized the area nine or ten thousand years ago. If the Nommo arrived later—say, at the beginning of the Sumerian era, oh, seven to eight thousand years ago—they may well have communicated with the locals in that language, either because they already had trade relations with the An or because they were able to learn the principal human language and—”

“Yes, yes,” Ramsey said. “The important thing is that we can question our prisoner when he revives.
If
he revives.”

“I don't think that's going to be a problem, General,” Warhurst told him. He took a step back. The Nommo had evidently just become aware of its surroundings. That magnificent, rainbow-flashing tail suddenly coiled tight, then flashed out and around, knocking two Marines down and forcing the others back a few steps. Water exploded as the creature writhed and struggled, its upper torso rising until it was a head taller than the tallest Marine there.

“Watch it!” Dunne cried. “Damn it! Get him under control!”

The two Marines still holding the ends of tethers securing the Nommo leaned back and pulled them taut. The two Marines who'd been knocked down waded back in, recovering the ends of their tethers and adding their strength to the others until, gradually, the creature's struggles eased somewhat. After a few more thrashes, it slipped back into the wa
ter then and lay there, gill slits pulsing rapidly, regarding them with its unwinking and alien quartet of eyes.

“Cassius?” Warhurst said. “Can you talk with it?”

“I have been attempting to access the Nommo through what appears to be a communications network link accessed via the device affixed to its head,” Cassius replied. “Communication may be possible, but it will take some time.”

“How much time?”

“Unknown, Major. Working.”

Warhurst glared at the being. Right now, the welfare of one of his men might well depend on how quickly the Marines could learn to speak with it.

So too might the success of the mission.

He did not like delays caused by factors utterly beyond his control.

“Major?” It was Gansen.

“What?”

“Gunnery Sergeant Dunne suggests that we fan out through this part of the tunnel complex. We're sitting ducks here, out in the open. He thinks we should try to find the tunnels the Nommo were coming out of and set up secure fields of fire or ambush points.”

“And what do
you
think, Lieutenant?”

“Uh, yessir. I think it's a good idea.”

“Do it. But maintain a secure perimeter here until we know what to do with our, ah, guest.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

He watched Gansen begin giving the necessary orders. The man had a way to go, but he appeared to be learning, seemed to be shaping up. The best thing a company commander had going for him was his willingness to listen to his senior NCOs.

After a moment, he began giving orders of his own. He wanted Bravo Company down here and more heavy weapons
and he wanted to ring in General Ramsey. The Marines were through with this passive defense nonsense.

It was time to take the fight to the enemy.

Major General Cornell Dominick Command Center
CVS
Ranger
1504 hours, Shipboard time

“And just who, General,” the woman asked sweetly, “is in command of this expedition?”

Dominick groaned. He'd had this debate—or others like it—before, especially during the past few days since their emergence from cybehibe as they entered the Sirius system.

Deliberately, he opened his eyes. He was lying on his link couch, set up in one corner of the Operations Center onboard the UFR/USS carrier
Ranger
. Colonel Helen Albo was watching him with concern in her eyes. “General? Are you okay?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“You groaned and looked like you were in pain. Do you want a Corpsman?”

“Negative.” He bit off the word.

He looked around. Except for Helen, the other four members of his command constellation were on their couches as well, linked in to the far-flung communications network uniting the ships and personnel of the expedition.

“Sir…”

“I said I'm okay,” he snapped. “I just have some…issues to work out.” He closed his eyes, shutting out Albo and the members of his staff, forcing himself to relax once again into the noumenon of his private command link.

Half a dozen channels were open, each a separate data
feed from Admiral Harris's command center, from Ramsey's CC, from the surface of the Wheel. In his mind's eye, he was seated within a circular arena, surrounded by data screens and communications links, computer feeds and data access stations. He'd designed this noumenal place himself, with the help of some very sophisticated AI software, and it was both efficient and comfortable…at least, usually.

Unfortunately, Cynthia Lymon, PanTerra's representative on this mission, was still there, waiting, her icon hovering beside his chair.

He did not like this woman.

“Did you hear me?” she asked him. Lymon had the unpleasant ability to put a grating, cloying sweetness into her voice and mannerisms. People tended to read that as fluff…and underestimate the woman.

Dominick was determined never to do that. “I heard. And you know the command chain as well as I do.
I
am in overall command of Operation Battlespace. I am directly answerable to the Interstellar Operations Initiative Team back on Earth and to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Admiral Harris is in command of all fleet operations in Sirius space, while General Ramsey commands the Marine element. It is Ramsey who runs the show on the Wheel and in the space immediately around it, at least until the beachhead is formally declared secure. All tactical decisions are in his hands until that time.

“And until that time, you and I, Ms. Lymon, are here in little more than an advisory capacity. If I'm not mistaken, you signed a document to that effect before embarking on this expedition.”

“Cornell, be reasonable,” Lymon said. “I can read an org chart as well as you. And, yes, I did promise to be a good girl and not to stick my nose into the military's business. But there are certain realities here that transcend military considerations. And one of them is General Order One.”

“General Order One does not apply to the current situation.”

“No?” she asked sweetly. “And when
does
it apply? After we've killed every Nommo over there? After we've reduced the Wheel to a cloud of radioactive debris? What then?”

General Order One described, in exacting detail, what military forces operating outside of Earth's atmosphere were expected to do in the event that they encountered either intelligent aliens or their AI representatives. It had happened with the An on Ishtar. It had happened before that with the discovery of the Singer, the intelligent Hunter spacecraft lost in the depths of the Europan world-ocean. In both cases, the outcome of first contact had been less than optimal. The An had attacked and wiped out the first human trade mission established on their world, while the Singer had turned out to be hopelessly insane after half a million years trapped beneath the Europan ice.