Surf Trek [Closed, Invitation Only]

[Chrinthanium]

"Captain's Log, Chrinthani Stardate 2171.2, orbiting Planet Teahupo'o, a tropical planet in the Andino system."

"It's been 27 Earth days since we lost contact with the group of young folks who departed CSS Longboard. Several search parties have been dispatched to the surface to attempt to locate these young men. The last communication was received from a beach front location called Tyson's Reef. Attempts to reestablish communications have failed. Distress signals sent fleet-wide for nearby Chrinthani Space Cruisers to assist in the search-and-rescue operations. Report siting what appears to be a tropical cyclone in the vicinity at the time communication was lost. Concern among the crew remains high and morale continues to plummet. Will report further findings as they become available."

Captain Mitchell put his tablet down on his desk as he slinked back in his chair. He snatched the coffee cup from his desk and took a sip as he monitored a large screen. Before him the planet Teahupo'o, a life-bearing planet in a system that was first colonized by the Chrinthani in 2078. A hundred years later it remained a relatively unpopular destination for the Chrinthani except for this planet. Known throughout the empire as the best spot to surf anywhere in the galaxy, it became a haven for surfing fanatics from across the empire. Around 10,000 Chrinthani remained on the planet, part of a long-established leisure corporation that bore sole responsibility of maintaining the planet. It was, for lack of a better description, a hotel that grew into a planetary government.

The missing included 7 men from the CSS Longboard, the most prominent being Kyran Slater. The 21-year old son of the commanding admiral of the Chrinthani Star Fleet was a ne'er-do-well who shirked responsibility and used his father's influence to get him out of trouble when needed. Captain Mitchell considered him no real loss, but when someone that high up has a kid go missing, people tend to try to find him. Along with Kyran were several persons from the Longboard's crew who were, as far as the ship was concerned, of more importance. Three members of the medical staff were gone, two of the science staff charged with maintaining the oxygen farm, and Captain Mitchell's youngest brother, Zach. They had be given 2-weeks of shore leave and all planned to visit the planet for a "awesome vacation of surf and sand." Then, the storm hit an all communications were lost.

The Fivion Corporation, which acted as the de facto planetary government, reported that the 7 persons had not checked back into the hotel since the storm. Their rooms remain cordoned off from the rest of the Hotel Perth. Ship's Security Officers were searching the rooms to find any information regarding where the group could potentially be hiding. All hope was the seven crew members would be returned to the ship quickly. Furthermore, Captain Mitchell had the highest hopes in finding his brother. But, as the days wore on, the fear slowly wore his stoically optimistic express down to one of mere indifference.

Captain Mitchell opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle. He snapped off the cap, leaned back, and smirked. "Captain Morgans, half a fifth gone, somewhere in the Andino system..."

[The Starship Command]

Commander John Davidson exhaled softly on the angular bit of metal he held in a cloth in one hand. The loop-with-two-chevrons fogged up, and he buffed it with a soft cloth he held in his other hand. Reflected in the silver was his square-jawed face: a healthy--if paled by too much indoors living--tan under buzz-cut brown hair. The general musculature suggested he was prone to smiling, which made his current frown all the more obvious. He had a good reason, too: a small nick on one corner of his rank device just wouldn't buff out. It wasn't that he was a martinet. It was just that he had to be an example. This was even truer now that he was one of the Great Men of History: the first man to make contact with aliens. "Howya doin'?" weren't exactly historic words, but they were his and he'd fought to keep the historians from massaging the truth into something a bit more auspicious... and that was just at the beginning of the year.

He grinned, which was something his face was more accustomed to. Twenty-fourteen, eh, what a year. He'd returned home with his alien passengers in tow, since they weren't exactly welcome back home and they had to live somewhere. After the debriefing he was a hero, and it'd taken him six months to ensure that he was still Petronia's skipper and get back to the stars. Those six months were full of interviews, meetings, galas, and all the other fancy foofaraw that made him realize that he really wasn't cut out to be a hero, or, at least, a celebrity. He'd been 'encouraged' towards celebrity and, thanks to that 'encouragement', the United Planet Starship Command had no need to worry about funding that new class of explorers it wanted to build... or the patrol ships either. Humanity wasn't alone, and, if the Crefans and Mangetsuans were any indicator, the rest of the universe wasn't much more peaceful than humanity was.

He glanced over at a matte black box held to his writing stand with elastic bands. Inside were captain's devices with three chevrons. They weren't exactly 'official,' per se, but Admiral Leach herself gave them to him with the understanding that he could put them on at any time, at which point they would be just as official as her four stars. That would also mean that he'd be too high-flying to rate a clapped-out, fundamentally-flawed UV-48B frigate like Petronia. Problem was, he loved his clapped-out, fundamentally-flawed Petronia. She'd made it past her sweet sixteen, so there was no way she'd let him down now. Taking the promotion would be abandoning her in her prime to some other three-braid who, brought up on the newer ships, would see her as a punishment command. No, she didn't deserve that, and, as far as he was concerned, he hadn't earned the new rank properly anyway. He'd do the exams and face the board just like he should, even if he was certain that if he showed up dressed as a clown and wrote 'potato' down for every written response he'd still be rubber-stamped through. It was just the right thing to do.

On the other hand, those captain's devices were brand-new and never-worn, and they didn't have any damn nicks in them.

The intercom momentarily squealed into life over his head. "Captain Davidthon," it said in a female yet gritty Spanish breeze, the grit unfortunately overlaid by the lowest-bidder nature of the electronic instrumentality. "We're entering the Gamma Hydra thythtem." Being continental Spanish and from old blood, she neither had the time nor the inclination to incorporate sibilance into her speech.

That decides it, Davidson thought.

-=------------------------------------------------=-

A few minutes later, he nodded respectfully to the statuesque, auburn-haired woman who swapped seats with him as he turned sideways to slip into the center of the compartment. Petronia's CIC was pie-shaped, covered in screens, and claustrophobic, but the lack of gravity made things easier in some ways. Lieutenant Commander Duarte, his executive officer, took her seat behind him at the communications console; he maneuvered down and buckled himself into his harness in the middle of the spacious closet that was the ship's command center. "Margie, where are we?"

"Just entering the system, high up on the ecliptic," the Greek navigator replied as she peered in the periscope-like viewer set into her console. She was the only person who got to see any displays in three dimensions, while everyone else worked off the three radar screens in the 'front' of the compartment, which actually faced outboard. The periscope made it so the Starship Command could just spend money on a single cathode ray tube for each eye without worrying about adding color for red-blue glasses or such other tricks. She simply read off what was painted in electron-beam vectors in front of her eyes as the giga-character computer a few decks below automatically sorted the objects it detected via passive infrared. "Primary star, some planets, some moons... hold on. There's something."

"Yes?" The commander, still wearing his commander's devices, raised an eyebrow.

"There's a very high IR peak next to one planet. Too small to be an astronomical body, very intense point source."

"A ship?" His eyebrow went higher. "I don't think the Command's got any other ships scheduled to visit this star, especially not right now."

"I... don't think it's one of ours, sir. None of ours can even run this hot."

"Hm." That was new, and changed the situation a bit. "How hot?"

Lieutenant Antonopoulos, without looking up from her periscope, keyed something into the keypad next to her. There were a few clicks, and she read out the number returned to her. The qualitative magnitude of any number is relative, but, compared to Petronia's gigawatt of thermal power (of which less than a third was actually useful), it was sufficiently large to elicit surprise.

"Set a course, Lieutenant," Davidson said with sudden decisiveness.

"Are you thure that'th withe, thir?" Almira Duarte interjected carefully. She was no shrinking violet, but this was her job.

"We can't run, in case they've spotted us. Sure, we've never managed to chase someone in transit before, but I don't know if that's impossible or not. Very impossible, if Doctor Provost's hypothesis is right, but no one else believes him and those elses are a lot smarter than I am. With that sort of power output, I'm not sure even the World Peace Ships could put up much of a fight. We're also a heat point source and there's no hiding it, so we'd best just make ourselves known and be friendly. That's why we're here, after all." He grinned. "Almira, fire up the UHF, will you?"

The addressed executive officer took a moment to compose something in her mind, flipped some switches, and began speaking. She full well knew what her accent made her sound like to others and, though she never mentioned it to anyone else, was little sensitive about it.

-=------------------------------------------------=-

As specified, CSS Longboard would receive the following transmission over ultra-high radio frequencies. It carried only audio information, analog, in English, with an Andalusian pronunciation trying to sound as pleasant as humanly possible:

"Unknown contact, we are the frigate Petronia of the United Planet Tharthip Command. We are on a friendly mithon of dithcovery and greet you in good will. Pleath reply."

[Chrinthanium]

Commander Striker sat in the captain's chair checking over a few items. Her eyes darted across a thin tablet as she flitted through numerous items completed and needing completion by various members of the crew. While Captain Mitchell slept, she had the bridge. In front of her a screen was fixated on a blue, glowing planet where 7 members of the crew were lost and, in all logical thought, were probably dead. She was more fond of Zach Mitchell. He was a bright, smiling face that did every task without complaint or comment. He simply loved his job. She had feelings for him. While she was 10 years his senior, that didn't seem as important in space.

Lieutenant Franklin sat at the communications desk. She monitored all frequencies that anyone from the crew could use to contact the ship. She continued to monitor the channels when suddenly she picked up something. A call coming from another ship.

"Unknown contact, we are the frigate Petronia of the United Planet Tharthip Command. We are on a friendly mithon of dithcovery and greet you in good will. Pleath reply."

The Lieutenant paused. Unknown contact?

"Commander Striker," she said. Striker lifted her head from her reading and peered in Franklin's direction. "We're picking up a call from another ship."

"Play it for me, Lieutenant." Striker said.

Franklin pushed a few buttons on the console in front of her and the message came through, "Unknown contact, we are the frigate Petronia of the United Planet Tharthip Command. We are on a friendly mithon of dithcovery and greet you in good will. Pleath reply."

"What the hell is the United Planet Tharthip Command?" Striker said. "Is this a prank from someone?"

"No, sir," Franklin replied as she pointed to the screen in front of her. "There."

"On screen," Striker said. The screen shifted. The planet in front of them shifted and shrank as a red dot appear to its side. "What is that?"

"It appears to be another ship. A signature we're unfamiliar with, sir. I've run computer diagnostics to ensure that this isn't a glitch. But, when we take that signal into consideration, we've no reason to believe anything more than a ship from another civilization." Franklin said.

Striker thought about the situation. "Send a message to the Petronia. Tell them we received their message, though partially obscured by static. We welcome them to the Andino system, part of the Chrinthani Empire and send our own greetings in good will."

Franklin sent the message as instructed. Of course, in order to protect the ship in case the Petronia wasn't truthful in their statement, behind-the-scenes preparations were undertaken to protect the lives of the crew. Captain Mitchell was informed of the situation and would return to the bridge momentarily.

[The Starship Command]

Lightspeed lag added breathing room to conversations. Since this was the first contact with an alien ship, Commander Davidson intentionally erred completely on the side of caution up to and including leaving the drives at idle. This meant that Petronia fell towards the star at the middle of the system, albeit slowly due to the inverse square law. In the meantime the command crew of Petronia ticked off the seconds, with Margarites hunched over her blocky Bakelite viewer. She'd only be able to see what the contact was doing several seconds ago but, outside of the scaling drive, the speed of light in a hard vacuum was the absolute limit of everything and so her ability to see only into the past was not considered much of a disadvantage.

When Longboard identified herself, intelligibly, in English, over the crackling speakers, it came as something of a shock. The last aliens had, unsurprisingly, spoken an alien language. Davidson was honestly expecting some unintelligible noises in response, and he would've taken that as a good sign. He still asked what he was going to ask if less meaningful noises were involved: "Any other reaction, Margie?"

"No, sir. No change in power output, no movement outside of following orbital track."

Glancing back, he noted that Longboard's complaint about 'static' had turned Duarte a slightly ruddier shade. Rather than asking for the status of the transmitter, which was probably perfectly fine, he thought of a way for her to save face. "Almira, take the conn. I should probably handle first contact directly, and you've always been better with orbital mechanics than me. If we don't start moving soon, we may end up falling too much towards that star--work with Margie to find us a low-energy orbit."

The auburn-haired woman nodded and unbuckled her harness. John undid his own, and the two spacers passed each other sideways in the null gravity as they grappled their way over to their swapped seats. Settling down, John strapped himself in and settled the blocky steel-and-rubber radio headset over his ears. After a moment of adjusting the wire armature of the attached microphone, he spoke:

"Longboard, this is Petronia Actual-- er-- Commander John Davidson. Thanks for the kind welcome into your territory. May we have permission to approach and enter planetary orbit?"

He rubbed his chin in thought for a moment, using the motion to mask his giddy eagerness. Appearances, after all.

"Being explorers, we've got lots of questions, but I don't wish to impose. Would you be willing to answer questions about this star system and your empire? Over."

He lifted his thumb from the button labeled 'TRANSMIT' and stopped himself before he started asking what they were doing here. That would've been rude; this sounded like their own backyard. They may not have read it as wide-eyed innocence, and why was Duarte peering at him with concern? "Almira?"

"Captain, there'th a rithk here. They thay they're peathful, but we don't know that. They know Englith--how?"

"That's a very good question." John mused. "Maybe they came across a lost ship?"

"That would be a matter for their thientithth then," she replied, sufficiently professionally agitated to no longer worry about her atypical sibilants. "Why would any given tharthip crew be converthant in it? They could have obtherved humanity, but that meanth thpying on uth."

"They could be psychic, like our Mangetsuan passenger. We haven't even scratched the surface of space yet."

"The ith thycic, yeth, but even the had to learn the language."

John took a moment to parse that. "What are you getting at, Almira?"

"We need to take precauthionth in cathe thith ith a trap. Our databankth contain data about Earth, our technical manualth explain our technology, our navigathional charth point thraight home. You thaid yourthelf that the World Peath Thips wouldn't poth a challenge, and we don't even know their fleet threngthth. All we know ith that they thpeak Englith."

"Hm. Good point." Davidson flipped the switches on his console that transferred his microphone headset to Petronia's intercom system. The intercom transmit key he then tabbed sat a good thirty centimeters away from the ship-to-ship transmit key as an additional way to prevent mistakes. "Now hear this, now hear this: this is the captain speaking. We have made contact with an alien starship. They seem nice enough, but we are taking precautions. Commence wartime security procedures immediately. Saying again: commence wartime security procedures immediately. Secure the computer deck, all technical manuals, all navigation materials, and all else that holds sensitive information, such as our point of origin or our course. That is all." After taking his thumb off the key, he erred on the side of caution and flipped the replay switch. Behind the faceplate of the communications station console, a tape reel played back his last, automatically recorded, intercom message.

Throughout the ship, ratings hopped to the order once they heard it. Deckmasters sent their crews to secure material: anything that could point the aliens back to Earth were sealed in tamper-proof burn safes designed to immolate their contents if opened improperly. Long-range navigation tapes were cleared from the computer's memory, and masters-at-arms secured the computer decks after confirming that all burn safes were correctly sealed and armed. Just like in the war, fifty years prior, information that could aid a victorious enemy could not be allowed to fall into unfriendly hands.

Wartime security procedures also invoked something else about the atomic war that lead to the formation of United Planet. Back then, Soviet atomic rockets and rocketships were simply not as advanced as those of the Allied Powers. Even wreckage would have given the Soviets vital clues as to how to close that technological gap, and so even wreckage was not permitted. The easiest way to prevent such wreckage was to wire up one of the payload warheads as a self-destruct mechanism. A bomber-rocket may carry four bombs, but it could therefore only actually drop three in wartime, just in case.

Petronia, as part of her general-purpose duties, carried ten B76 gravity bombs, each with the explosive force of fifteen million tons of TNT. Accordingly, part of the standard wartime security procedure found two missile weaponeers, under the eyes of their senior non-com, wiring up one of those bombs, in its ruddy brown conical re-entry vehicle, to the frigate's range safety scuttle system. If any two of the captain, executive officer, or chief engineer put their keys into designated yellow-painted keyholes and turned them, the resulting no-delay explosion would atomize Petronia and anyone else within shouting distance.

Shouting distance wasn't very far at all in space, of course, but emphasizing that would be missing the entire point of the exercise.

[Chrinthanium]

Captain Mitchell strode onto the bridge after having been napping for all of several minutes. The full evidence of his not-quite-awake moment being his wearing of boardshorts, no shirt, and flip flops as if he were someone on holiday and didn't quite get the memo about a dress code. Striker fell out of her chair with laughter as the captain-turned-surfer realized his faux pas. It really wasn't something that Chrinthani Space Command (CSC) would accept if they were doing a ship inspection, but, without their presence, since the ship felt like home, why not be comfortable. However, it was mostly advisable not to appear in a state of partial undress in front of mixed company for obvious reasons.

After a few cat calls from various members of the command staff, Captain Mitchell shrugged it off with a sardonic smile. "Alright, you guys. Forgive the attire, but I was woken out of bed for, uh, something."

"We've been contacted by someone." Striker said.

"Probably one of the other ships in this sector?" Mitchell said.

"No. Someone else. Someone not Chrinthani." Striker said.

Mitchell paused. He'd been trained in how to handle just such an instant. Though, really, such training was purely hypothetical since they were, until this moment, unaware that they shared the universe with anyone else. "Are the shields raised?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are the torpedo bays loaded with outer door closed?"

"No, sir."

"I see," Mitchel said as he walked over to weapons command. "Load bays three and four, do not open outer doors....."

"Captain," Striker said, "don't do that. We don't know if they can sense that or have any way to realize we're ready to vaporize them. Besides, they spoke to us in Chrinthani and gave a friendly message." Striker hit a few button on the console and replayed the initial contact greeting.

"Static? Is our receiver working correctly?" Mitchell said.

"Well, we received a message from the Wahine clear as a bell. We think it might be either on their end or solar interference."

"Very well. Belay my last, Kendrick." he said as he tapped the weapons officer on the shoulder. "Let's see what they want."

"I think they want to come along side, sir. They've asked for permission to enter planetary orbit. Probably to both meet with us and keep from drifting into Gaboron."

Mitchell smiled, "Ah, yes, we'd not want them to drift into the sun." He walked over to the communication desk. He pressed a red button, "This is Captain Seth Mitchell, commanding officer of the CSS Longboard. You are hereby granted permission to enter planetary orbit. Furthermore, we are more than willing to talk to you about us and to learn about your people and culture. I must admit, I am a bit excited. Until today we had no idea we shared the universe with anyone else. I hope you understand we have as many questions as you do."

Mitchell then turned his attention to a very different button. He pressed the purple button and the screen at the front of the bridge switched from planetary view to the Chrinthani Flag with the word, "Connecting to CSC."

"Uh, Captain," Striker said, "you might not want to appear in the near buff when speaking to the admiral, sir."

"Shit!" he said, "uh, here, you do this while I hide." Striker was pulled out of her chair and tossed in front of the view screen. A rather rotund admiral appeared with gray hair and glasses a smidge too small for his face.

"Commander Striker," he said with his avuncular voice, "To what do we owe this call?"

"Admiral Slater, we've received communications from an unknown civilization. We believe that we're going to make our first contact in hours. We've ascertained they're friendly and have given them permission to come into planetary orbit and come along side."

"I see," said the admiral as he sipped from his tea cup, "Well, then, why are you talking to me instead of Mitchell? News this big should be coming from the man I put in charge of that ship. Furthermore, where the hell is my son?"

"Well, Admiral, the Captain is otherwise indisposed at the moment. And we're still searching for Ensign Slater. We've boots on the ground at the moment, sir."

"Very well, carry on with this contact. Keep me informed of all developments. And, Commander, if you don't find my son, your ship, your captain, and your crew will be mining rocks from Planet CSC-X45. Slater out." The screen went dark.

Mitchell crawled out from under a desk. "That went well."

"Thanks, Captain. Remind me never to trust you with my life, okay?"

[The Starship Command]

In the interim, as part of the wartime security protocols, Lieutenant Commander Duarte left for the auxiliary control room as part of said protocols' redundancies. If the scuttle system required two out of three ranking officers to work, it simply wasn't allowed for two of said three to stay in the same compartment where they could be lost simultaneously. Commander Davidson stayed in the radio operator's seat, leaving the center seat vacant. There was no regulatory or symbolic significance to this; on the contrary, it gave the rest of the combat information center crew a few extra cubic centimeters of room.

A mutual first contact? Davidson rubbed his chin again in thought, ignoring the five-o'clock roughness there. Almira would say I'm rushing in, but, that's what we're here for. Thumbing the 'TRANSMIT' key, he spoke into the microphone:

"Longboard, Petronia. Acknowledged receipt of permission, are now following a course that should bring us into your orbital track, separated behind you by five degrees."

The navigator finally looked up from her periscope and blinked; the captain nodded, which sent her to running the brachistochrone calculations through the computer. Once she had a solution, she would hand it off to Momo to execute, and Petronia would fall, nose first and under her own power, along the constant-acceleration course so computed. Coming in behind the alien ship on the same orbital track was a courtesy. The delta-V for firing solutions would have been the same whether Petronia was ahead or behind. If things did come to blows, however, any debris knocked off the orbital leader would be a threat to the orbital follower. By taking the following position, Petronia tacitly signalled that she had no interest in firing first, as that would only put herself at risk.

Davidson continued:

"Congratulations on your first first contact, Captain Mitchell. We just had our own several months ago, though not with an extraterrestrial starship. It actually comes as a surprise that we speak a mutually intelligible language. This is your territory, however, so it seems only polite that you get to ask the first question. We'll answer to the best of our ability. Over."

The CIC crew felt themselves shift first as Petronia oriented herself under Ensign Momo's commands, then gain weight as her acceleration pushed her, and the seats bolted onto her decks, into them. It was standard Command procedure to orient cruising force along the axis of a ship's decks, thus generating a form of artificial gravity. The array of magnetoatomic spheres on her engine deck could, with the turning of several gears, point their force in any direction, but that was usually reserved for emergency maneuvers. Like many patrol-type ships Petronia resembled a classic rocket, with a bullet-shaped fuselage and large radiator fins. Under cruise, her flat base defined 'down' for her crew, and her pointed nose 'up.' For the first half of the constant-acceleration brachistochrone, while Petronia sped up, her nose also pointed roughly in her direction of travel. For the second half it would point the opposite direction after she flipped and applied force to slow herself back down.

"They seem nice enough," Lieutenant Jocelyn Guerra, the swarthy mestizo who served as Petronia's weapons officer, noted. Her accent reflected both her Texan and Mexican origins: distinctive, but not nearly as severe as, say, Duarte's. She kept her personal feelings and her professional ones on different circuits, and one could almost hear relays snap inside her when those circuits switched. "Are you sure it's wise to come in behind them though, sir?"

"I'm hoping we won't need your services today, Josie." John cracked a grin. "I'd very much like our first contact with an alien starship to not end in a shooting match."

"I'd prefer it not end in a self-inflicted atomic explosion," she muttered half to herself. The pale, always half-bored, half-tired Frenchman sitting next to her just raised one eyebrow a millimeter as he kept his hands and at least some of his concentration on the helm.

"We can all agree on that, Josie. It's just a matter of order: talk, hopefully not shoot, hopefully not get exploded, hopefully not explode ourselves. Just have to prepare for contingencies is all."

"Though we're hardly preparing for a fight, are we? Our Skates are no good if we don't spin up their gyros and start feeding them local navigation data--"

"And they'll never be any good if we have to fire them at range and patiently wait a few hours for them to hit a target, decoys or no. Think of it this way, Lieutenant: we're reserving those for second-strike, because any missiles they shoot at us will take just as long to get to us. If it makes you feel better, though, test the Rattler firing circuits so once we do get into orbit you'll know your guns work."

"Not to sound insubordinate, sir," she said with all seriousness, "but is that an order? Douglas Astronautics apparently decided to err on the side of hair-triggers when it came to building the Rattler fire-control systems. You know they're prone to accidental launch."

"They fixed that in the B refit, Josie, after they figured out that a Rattler misfire took down Camaroptera."

"I know. I'm just... leery about it. Deep space, no real risk to firing a Rattler when unintended, but with aliens watching? No thanks."

Davidson grinned. "Belay that suggestion, then."

The circuit flipped back. "After all, things are going so well, I wouldn't want to spook them now."

[Chrinthanium]

While Striker continued to cool off from her forced communication with CSC, Mitchell stood by his captain's chair monitoring the alien craft. The nearest Chrinthani ship, the CSS Wahine, was given orders not to approach the planet. The big fear being that a secondary Chrinthani ship coming near would spook the new-found friends away or, worse, provoke a war that the Chrinthani feared they couldn't win. These were unknown peoples they were dealing with. While the ship itself, as it came into view, might resemble something from the Chrinthani past, there was no telling what kinds of weapons systems or special "gadgets" were fitted onto the Petronia. In fact, when the Petronia began to come in behind the Longboard, the bare-torsoed Mitchell had to sit down and wonder if he'd just invited disaster upon his ship.

"Why are they coming in behind us?" Striker asked.

"I hope it's became that's what works for them and not a way to align themselves to hit sensitive parts of the ship," Mitchell said. "Those shields are up to full, right?"

"Yes, Captain." replied Kendrick.

"I'm not too keen on having an unknown alien race point themselves at our stern. Perhaps we should think about loading tubes 9 and 10?" Mitchell said.

Striker huffed and sighed. "Do you want them to actually see us loading the tubes and arming torpedoes? That ship might have technologies more advanced than anything we could ever hope to build now. Suppose they can see through the armor? Suppose they have special equipment which can tell them we've armed torpedoes and placed then in tubes that can fire in their general direction? What if they already know how this ship is built? They've been in the system long enough to read our television and radio signals from down below. The bleeding Space Channel gives them a practical diagram on what this ship is."

"I told Admiral Slater not to have a camera crew on this ship. Freedom of Information act my ass," Mitchell said. "They've gone and plastered our defenses, our weapons technologies all over the internet. At least the shield modulation frequency is top secret."

"What do you think they look like?" asked Kendrick as he sat at weapons controls.

"Green, maybe," said Striker. "I've always thought aliens were green. With big googly eyes, long necks, and short legs. And bald."

"You don't think they're going to want to probe us?" Asked Kendrick. "Y'know, like those old time movies where they capture a Chrinthani and strap them down to some weird table and start shoving instruments into our, erm, openings?"

Mitchell chuckled, "I don't think they've traveled light years from their home planet to shove a probe up your ass, Kendrick."

"Are you certain, captain? I mean, unless you've had training I know nothing about, you have no more idea what they're going to do than I do," Kendrick replied.

Mitchell sighed. While aliens were lining up behind his ship, down on the surface about 300 security forces were tracking seven crew members. Regardless of what the alien's wanted, the hope was that the crew would be found and returned to the ship.

"This is Sgt Taffton," came a crackly voice, "we've found something. Signs of life. Footprints in the sand, couldn't be that old, leading towards a forest."

Mitchell perked up, "Well, that's something. At least we know they're alive down there. Send the coordinates of your location and we'll see if we can find something out there from our end. Also, be advised that we're in contact with an alien space craft. So, maintain radio protocol gamma."

"Aye aye, sir. Sending you the coordinates now." The screen in front of the command center focused in on the received coordinates. A beach head about 100 kilometers to the south of where the seven crew members were supposed to be. Geographic information revealed that there was a rain forest about 50,000 square kilometers in area there and CSC records indicated that a partially-built space port still remained.

"Taffton, about 150 kilometers from that coastline is the abandoned Swag Space Port. If I were a betting man, I'd bet they found it and are hiding out in there. Sending you the coordinates, sargent."

"Yes, sir. Will check it out when we arrive. We'll report back once we're there. Taffton out."

As Mitchell sat back in his chair, Striker came over and placed her hands on his shoulder. "Captain, don't you think you should get back into uniform? I mean, we're about to start a dialogue with an alien race and, if it goes well, they're probably going to want to meet us. At least I think. If they're unfriendly, well, better die with your uniform on than off."

"Yes, Commander," Mitchell said with a sigh. "But, right now, I'm in communication with aliens. Aliens, Stirker! We have to keep the conversation going. Besides, I don't think Lt. Arthur minds, do you?"

"It's definitely got appeal to me, sir," Science officer Lt. Arthur said.

"See, Striker, Lt. Arthur said it appeals to her..... appeals, lieutenant?"

The science officer removed the smirk from her face and returned to the situation at hand, "Captain, I think we may want to meet with them. I, for one, am extremely excited about this prospect. Think of everything we can learn from them, and maybe we can even show them a few things they do not know. This is a science officer's dream!"

"Okay, Striker, I see what you mean. I'll get back into proper attire shortly." Mitchell said while looking at Arthur with a side-eyed glance.

"Longboard, Petronia. Acknowledged receipt of permission, are now following a course that should bring us into your orbital track, separated behind you by five degrees." a new voice said over ship-to-ship communications. "Congratulations on your first first contact, Captain Mitchell. We just had our own several months ago, though not with an extraterrestrial starship. It actually comes as a surprise that we speak a mutually intelligible language. This is your territory, however, so it seems only polite that you get to ask the first question. We'll answer to the best of our ability. Over."

Mitchell thought a moment. No one gave much thought, if any, to the fact that both were speaking the same language. And, if they were speaking the same language, how was that possible. Perhaps in the great expanse of the universe there were only so many languages possible and, through the most improbable of circumstances, two peoples happened to speak the same exact language having never contacted each other until today. Or, more in like with Mitchell's though processes, these aliens had monitored Chrinthani radio and television signals and learned the lingo. A more possible answer than a cosmic coincidence.

"Well, Captain, they've asked us to go first. What do we ask them," Striker said.

Good question. Just what do you ask an alien species that you've never met before, he thought. He hit the button on his chair, "Petronia, Longboard. I suppose the first question is who are you and where do you come from?"

[The Starship Command]

"We're getting passive radar returns off Longboard now," Margarites said as she looked over the vectored diagrams beamed into the cathode ray screens to her left. "Her RCS is... big. I can't guess her configuration from it, and at this range, she's still pretty much an IR point source."

"Astronomy to CIC," Davidson heard a tinny voice say in his earphones. He held one hand unnecessarily up to the armature holding them in place, in the universal signal of 'I'm listening.' "CIC here, Captain Davidson speaking. Go ahead."

"Request permission to get a telescopic fix on the alien spaceship, sir."

It only made sense, in the captain's mind. Longboard was still too far away for her television cameras, even with telephoto lenses, to see. Using the astronomy telescopes would make sense, but... they were mounted in the equipment bays above the cargo deck, along with the yardarms and the gravity bombs. Those doors swung open forward, but faced dorsal and ventral, which was the same as the Rattler tubes. Turning to point a telescope would look remarkably like turning to get missile tubes to bear, and while missiles could certainly turn to bear based on teleguidance, that would be wasted delta-v. "Denied, Astronomy. The telescopes face out the same as our kinetic missiles, and reorientation could be seen as aggressive assuming that they're telescoping us."

"Shucks. We meet spacefaring aliens and we don't even get to see what they look like."

"That's life, sometimes--"

"Petronia, Longboard. I suppose the first question is who are you and where do you come from?"

"The aliens are calling, Astronomy. CIC out." Davidson flicked a few switches, switching his microphone from intercom to ship-to-ship, and thumbed the latter's 'TRANSMIT' key.

"Longboard, Petronia. A fair enough question, since 'United Planet' doesn't mean much. Well, that 'United Planet' is one we call 'Earth.' It has a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere and has surface oceans of water covering about seventy percent of its surface. We call ourselves 'humans' and are bipedal, um, mammals with opposable thumbs and binocular vision. I'm sure the ship's life scientist could go into more detail regarding our biology, though I guess I'm shooting in the dark as to whether any of that means anything."

He paused for a moment of thought.

"As for what kind of star Earth orbits, or its location, I'm afraid that's sensitive information at the moment. As you're the first alien species we've discovered with interstellar capability and your strengths and intentions are, frankly, unknown, we have to operate with a sort of professional paranoia. I'm sure we can work past that in time, though. Thing is... and this is going to sound really weird since we're speaking the same language but apparently don't know where each other comes from, how do--can--you speak English?"

[Chrinthanium]

The sheer planning involved in the newly-minted Quiksilver-class meant that the officers quarters were placed near their areas of responsibility. Engineering officers and crew were stationed nearby, science officers and crew were near the laboratories, and ships command had quite deluxe quarters--by military standards--not far from the bridge. So, when Mitchell returned to his room, by far the nicest on the ship, he transformed himself from a vacationer to a ships officer in a few short moments.

Regulation uniforms came in many different varieties from a simple utility uniform consisting of shorts or pants and a t-shirt to a full dress uniform the likes of which would rival the best designers back on the home planet. Since the idea of actually going to the alien ship or having them come to the Longboard to meet in person seemed like a long way off, Mitchell decided his utility uniform would be enough. He slipped the t-shirt on, and switched his boardshorts for the black pants and standard-issue boots. The shirt, however, revealed everything one needed to know about him. A black shirt with red piping along the collar and shirt sleeve cuffs, a red stripe down the top of each shoulder. On the collar itself were four four-pointed stars for his rank. Along the left chest was his name, stitched into the fabric. On the right chest was the CSC roundel which was a light gray with black writing symbol stating Chrinthani Space Command and the logo, a half-moon with three stars: one above, one below, and one to the left. The Chrinthani flag was also on the uniform, on the outside of each arm just below where the shoulder and arm met.

The t-shirt was not the most well-designed piece of clothing ever, but it was functional. The shirt was designed to fit snugly in order to prevent pieces of cloth getting caught in things that crew members wouldn't want it caught in. All shirts (regardless of uniform) had color-coding to differentiate who was what: red for ships command, green for science, blue for communications, yellow for engineering, gray for security, white for medical, orange for weapons, and so forth. The shirt was made of a material that not only allowed for maximum movement, but also helped to diffuse perspiration away from areas where it would congregate and remain naturally and towards specific areas along the side where it could "air out" through a microfiber strip. The results were mixed, though generally positive on its operation as designed.

The pants were black with a red stripe down each side. The stripes were thing and extended to the pants cuff, which fit snugly into the top of the boot. There were multiple pockets in the pants to keep a variety of things including pens, communicators, keys, and the like. Each pocket had a Velcro seal that helped keep them closed so that nothing fell out during a crewmans job climbing around the ship keeping things working. They were heartier than the t-shirts by far being designed for crewmen who found themselves kneeling and crawling through small openings in order to fix the more hard-to-reach portions of the ship.

As Mitchell donned his utilities, he was called back to the bridge to respond to a message.

"Captain, they're calling us again," Franklin said from her perch at the communications desk.

"Play it," Mitchell said sitting in his captains chair finally looking the part.

"Longboard, Petronia. A fair enough question, since 'United Planet' doesn't mean much. Well, that 'United Planet' is one we call 'Earth.' It has a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere and has surface oceans of water covering about seventy percent of its surface. We call ourselves 'humans' and are bipedal, um, mammals with opposable thumbs and binocular vision. I'm sure the ship's life scientist could go into more detail regarding our biology, though I guess I'm shooting in the dark as to whether any of that means anything."

Captain Mitchell readied a reply when another reply came from the Petronia:

"As for what kind of star Earth orbits, or its location, I'm afraid that's sensitive information at the moment. As you're the first alien species we've discovered with interstellar capability and your strengths and intentions are, frankly, unknown, we have to operate with a sort of professional paranoia. I'm sure we can work past that in time, though. Thing is... and this is going to sound really weird since we're speaking the same language but apparently don't know where each other comes from, how do--can--you speak English?"

"What's a human, captain?" Striker asked.

"Apparently, that's what they are," Mitchell said. "But, they sound remarkably like us. Like, freakishly so." He thought a moment. "They describe their planet, this Earth in details scarily similar to Chrinthanium and the other inhabitable worlds in our empire."

"Perhaps they don't think we can figure it out," Science Officer Arthur stated.

"Figure what out, Lieutenant?" Striker said.

"Well, they're keeping it a secret as to its location. That's understandable, but we know it has to be in the Zone of Life around a star, right? All the planets we have that have sustainable life on them generally fall within that zone with a few exceptions. We can reasonably predict their planet is between 130 million and 200 million kilometers from their star. We just don't know which start they came from." Arthur said.

"English?" Mitchell said. "How do we speak English?" Striker and Arthur looked at each other, then at Mitchell. "Arthur, how possible is it that two species who've never met could speak the exact same language using the exact same words meaning the exact same things?"

Arthur gave a half-hearted laugh, "Virtually impossible, sir. The percentage would be so infinitesimally small that, well, no one would ever think possible. But that's not my main concern, sir. See, the planet, this Earth they describe, is built similarly to Chrinthanium. Nitogren-oxygen atmosphere, oceans, continents, probably even ice caps, sir."

"Are you shitting me?" Mitchell said quizzically.

"No, I'm not. You know as well as I do. This is either the most ridiculously-improbable chance meeting, or there's something more going on here. Something they're unwilling or unable to tell us," Arthur said.

Mitchell leaned forward in his chair and squinted. "You don't.... no, it can't be...."

"Care to share, Captain," Striker said.

"Well, what if they're us?" Mitchell said. Striker just kept blinking in his direction. "Not us us, but us... from another time or another dimension?"

"Wait, wait," Striker said, "you want me to believe that it is impossible for them to be like us, come from a planet like ours, and to speak our language seemingly verbatim, but, that it's possible they're from another time or dimension? Seriously, Seth, you must be high."

"Well, Commander, what's your hypothesis?" Mitchell barked.

"I.. well... I think it's possible something is very wrong here. I'm beginning to wonder if we're not in some sort of grave danger. Maybe this is a very hostile group who're trying to trick us into believing they're copies of ourselves in order to lull us into a false sense of security then BLAM! We're space dust." Striker replied.

Mitchell shook his head in agreement. "Weapons, load torpedo bays nine, ten, seventeen and eighteen. Do not open outer doors. They're telling us that we're more technologically advanced than they are. If this is true, then we should be able to take them out without much fuss if they have less-than-honorable intentions. If not, then we're gonna die trying if they attack." He then flipped a switch on his chair switching to internal communications, "General Quarters, General Quarters. Crew members report to battle stations. Security, secure all space doors. Engineering, secure the WAVE." This order would be repeated three times over the internal communications circuits.

"Now, Striker, let's answer their question." Mitchell toggled the switch again, "Petronia, this is Longboard. Be advised we're unfamiliar with the term 'English' and call this language Chrinthani. As to why we both speak the same language is a question that has caused much discussion aboard our ship. It's more-than-likely a cosmic anomaly. Perhaps there are just only so many sounds that can be made and so many words that can be used. Our Science Officer is most keen to learn the answer to this question."

Mitchell continued, "I'm afraid you have us at a disadvantage. You know where we are, but are unwilling to give us indications about where you came from. We understand about the security protocol, though. However, the way you describe yourselves, uh, humans, did you say?...... is scarily similar to how we're, um, put together. Two arms, two legs, two hands, to feet, eyes, nose, mouth, hair, various skin colors, heights, weights, etc.... but, officially, we're Chrinthani. You are in the Andino system, the first system colonized by the Chrinthani Empire many years ago. There are other nearby systems within our borders, but, as you are concerned about security, so are we. Please forgive us for not revealing their names and locations at this time."

The captain then thought about what to say next for a few moments. "In the name of science, in the name of intergalactic relations, perhaps what would be best is for delegations from both of our ships to meet. We would suggest a neutral location, but, for security reasons, we're unable to leave this planet. We're on a rescue mission. Several of our crew went to the surface of this planet and were lost during a tropical storm. When we find our missing crew, we would be more than willing to go to a neutral point for a face-to-face meeting."

[The Starship Command]

"Auxiliary control room, CIC--did you get all that?"

"Yeth, thir," buzzed the reply in Davidson's ears. He'd hoped his executive had continued to listen in from the auxiliary control room. She didn't disappoint.

"Good. Go get the Professor, run this past him. Meanwhile, I'll keep talking here."

"Wilco, thir. Auxthilary control room, out."

The captain switched back to ship-to-ship.

"Longboard, Petronia. That is... weird, yes. Very weird. I'm having my XO chase down my scientists to try and come up with an explanation. So far, though, we've both been following the script of professionally cautious but well-meaning explorers, which I guess makes sense given all the other similarities. I guess we do have an information advantage; I'd offer to burn our navigation course tapes to even that out, but then we'd be lost and you'd have the advantage since you'd know we exist but we wouldn't be able to get back to Command in short order."

He recognized that he was babbling a little bit. After forcing a few deep, very quiet breaths, he slowed down and continued.

"Therefore, the security procedures and the suggestion of meeting on neutral ground are well understood and I concur. I'm sorry to hear about your missing crew."

Davidson certainly sounded sorry, and he was. Part of flying around on the most rickety class available to the Starship Command meant that he either had to be completely inured to hardship or eminently empathetic to the plight of spacers and commanders everywhere, and his heart just wasn't hard enough to achieve the former.

"I'd offer to help, both as a sign of goodwill and just as what's done when fellow spacers are missing, but I suppose that sounds too much like tentacled aliens trying to sweet-talk their way into a few easy abductions, doesn't it? If we were to make a landing, we've got some light fliers packed up that we could assemble along with some IR cameras to see through foliage, if that would help. Again, though, that would be us asking even more favors of your hospitality, and reasonably you'd have to watch us and look for your crewmen at the same time. On the other hand, you'd know where we were, especially if we used the transponders on the fliers.

"Sorry, thinking aloud. If there's any way we can be of assistance, or anything within reason you'd like us to do, just let me know. Over."

-=------------------------------------------------=-

'Professor' Iijima stood in the classic pose of uffish thought: feet shoulder-width apart, one arm folded in front with its hand resting in the crook of the opposite elbow, other hand raised to stroke his clean-shaven chin. He must have had a beard over the rounded baby-fat of his face before joining the Command. He also stood since there wasn't much volume to do anything else in the auxiliary control compartment. The ACC was just like the CIC except smaller; it was made smaller through the use of standing-room only consoles and sling harnesses instead of seats, a madness of webbing laid by spiders who spun canvas instead of silk. What he heard over the ACC's speakers was a poser, that was sure.

"Highly unlikely," he finally put forward in his sanded-off Japanese accent, "but not impossible. It's probably even more likely than we think, given the potential for convergent evolution."

"It jutht theemth implauthible," Duarte replied. She was strapped in, half-standing and half-hanging from the webbing, sitting close to her scuttle station. "We know now from Q'ell that pthychic phenomena exthitht. They could have pthychically exthracted what memorieth they needed, and are playing them back."

"Also possible, though that's not how Q'ell's perception works. She can project, but not extract, per se; her extrasensory perception past that apparently has to do with following the arrow of time of a subject backwards. It's very weird. Let's assume they are psychic monsters, like your hypothesis. They can scan us enough to know what we look like and read that back to us, and enough to speak our language fluently... but they don't try to pose as another ship, and they leave clues as to their alien nature? Trying to claim their planet sounds the same as ours, which can only make us more cautious? No, that doesn't make sense. If they can read all that, and make sense of it, they should be able to read us and know all of our weaknesses. That, combined with their power output, would mean that if they were hostile, they could do whatever they want by capitalizing on our weaknesses."

"If they meant to trap uth, though..."

"Then they'd know easier ways to do it. The lost crew is a good angle, but if they could read us in such detail, then that's what they'd lead with. A distress signal also means they'd be able to fudge their knowledge of us; we've lost plenty of ships, so if some cook no one knows called for help from the planet... but no, them being honest and this being a cosmic coincidence requires fewer assumptions. Occam's razor."

"How could thith pothibly be the rethult of random chanth?" the imperially regal woman asked, then realized what it sounded like. "Other than the obviouth."

"Evolution's not random. It's built on natural selection, which works on local parameters. Even natural randomness tends to be bounded by local conditions; an atom may go this way or that way when struck by an electron beam but it can't suddenly disappear and reappear a light-year away. The direction it flies is random, the distance may be randomized but it's also limited."

"Thame enough that they thpeak the thame language as uth, but different enough that only a few proper nounth are different?" She wasn't buying it.

"Still possible. Would you prefer it so much the same that we'd be talking to exact copies? What would that do to free will? It'd certainly prove the mechanists absolutely right."

"Tho you want me to recommend to the captain that thethe people are convergently-evolved?"

"It's only a hypothesis. I'd rather you recommend that they're most likely being honest, or at worst only as tricky as human beings can be. They're probably not green psychic androgynes trying to quintuple-guess us into slavery. Since it sounds like he's already coming to the 'probably honest' conclusion, we don't need to intervene unless asked."

[Chrinthanium]

Mitchell switched attention to the original task as another crackling reply came over the communication's circuits from the surface. Radio signals may be old, and they may not be the most technically advanced, but they work. And, the technology needed to receive them was quite cheap. Entire commands could use radio frequencies to contact each other for general purpose information and reserve the more expensive technology for maters of security. However, the ship was unprepared for what came over the radio receiver. "Longboard, this is Taffton. We've found a body. Crewman Robert Brunson. It's not pretty."

Mitchell slumped in his chair. The hope was that everyone would be returned safely. Now, according to Taffton, such dreams were not going to be reality. "Taffton, Mitchell. Send the body back in a transport shuttle. We'll have Doc go over it and find the cause of death. A real shame, too. He was a damn fine crewman. Any signs of the others, Taffton?"

"Negative, sir. But we think we're on the right track. I'll have Cpl, Lennon send the body back. Expect it within two hours. Will contact you again when we have more to report. Taffton out."

The bridge was silent. While they reveled in their first contact, the situation on the ground became grim. With one crewman dead and six more still missing, the hope was that, somehow, the rest were still alive. Mitchell was the most concerned. His brother remained part of the missing and the thought that he could be gone was not something that Mitchell was prepared for. In fact, the thoughts began to overwhelm the captain as he scripted a reply to the Petronia.

In a more somber mood, Mitchell sent his reply, "Petronia, Longboard. We are most anxious to learn about you and to share about ourselves. We think that we should meet as soon as possible to assist your Science Officer and ours get a handle on everything. If you're willing, we can send a transport shuttle to you to bring your representative(s) to our ship. We can also send our own delegate to your ship." Mitchell send the message.

"Striker, I'll be in my room. I have to send the worst message a captain can send. I have to tell the parents of a 24 year old man that their son is dead. Let me know what Petronia says."

"Captain, do you want me to send Doc to you...." Striker began

"Just do it, Commander." Mitchell said as he walked off the bridge.

[The Starship Command]

Finally, a break to the impasse--but more importantly, the timber of the 'alien' captain's voice had changed. Davidson knew that tone: something had happened. What he said next came from instinct rather than common sense.

"Acknowledged, Longboard Actual. Petronia Actual will spacewalk along Petronia's current orbital track and await pickup by your shuttle. Petronia will fall back to a higher, powered observation orbit. I'll see you in a few minutes. Petronia out."

The captain pulled off the headset and quickly nodded to the crew behind him. "Margie, you've got the conn. Until Duarte shows up, at least."

-=------------------------------------------------=-

The Andalusian caught up with him outside the dorsal amidships airlock as he struggled into a spacesuit. Early spacesuits were man-shaped balloons inflated to protect their wearers from the vacuum of space. While effective, being inflated meant they wanted to puff out into a rigid star shape, and moving in them meant fighting them every centimeter of the way. During the war these bulky spacesuits evolved into skintight constriction garments. Once they were on, they were comfortable enough, but getting the reinforced elastic suits on was the hard part. That the outer surface was covered with metal and plastic ballistic plates to protect against small arms fire and micrometeorites didn't help any.

"Thir--" she said. She didn't get to finish.

"Yes, I know. No one else is deputized to act on behalf of United Planet, all of our department heads and technical officers have more specific technical information than I do, which makes sending them more risky, sending the doctor or the dentist is just silly, the yeoman is an officer but an ensign and would be out of his depth, the quartermaster is an officer but not a diplomat, the non-coms don't have authority, and the crewmen doubly so."

She sighed and folded her arms. The argument was lost before it had begun, but she could at least register her disapproval. "Thith ithn't the Age of Thail, John."

"No, it's not," he agreed as he finally got both arms into the suit and zipped up the front zipper. "No iron men in wooden ships." He grinned as he backed up into a backpack, put his arms through the straps, buckled it in front of himself, and folded the suit's segmented armor breastplate over the front. "It's better. Steel men and steel ships, don't you think?"

Almira shook her head and took a round helmet off a peg. Old helmets were bubbles of tinted glass; this was a steel and plastic-armored shell around a gold-lined bubble, complete with fold-down visors like some sort of medieval knight. The silvery aluminum cladding over the entire suit did not harm the resemblance. "Jutht be careful. Ath careful ath you can be, with your inthane plan."

"Thanks." John took the helmet and locked his eyes on hers, his jaw set. "Once I step out, take Petronia into a higher orbit. Expend whatever force necessary to keep Longboard in view. If anything happens, we do have the information advantage, so retreat immediately and return to Earth on an evasive course."

"Yeth, thir. Good luck."

He nodded, placed the helmet over his collar, and turned until the joint latched and sealed.

-=------------------------------------------------=-

Petronia fell away and away and away, and he was alone, floating above a jeweled world with nothing but his beeping transponder to keep him company. He looked over his suit's gauges with the mirror on his vambrace, noted that everything was well in the green, and found reason to smile as he looked down at the clouds dozens of kilometers below.

It sure is pretty out here. In some ways, he was an artist at heart.

[Chrinthanium]

"Ready the shuttle," Striker said as she donned a flight suit. The CSC Space Flight Suit was, more or less, a pure blue uniform with the required protections for direct use outside of a space craft for space walks to repair ships, or, in this case, to open the hatch a bit and let someone it. The helmet was a basic and simple domed shape with a special visor to protect eyes from the direct sunlight and other radiation. All-in-all, it wasn't built for form, but for functionality. Striker, without direct authority from Mitchell (who was otherwise engaged), as ship's XO, she took it upon herself to go grab whomever was going to space walk into the shuttle. Weapons officer Kendrick would accompany her. This was a two man operation, so to speak.

The thing about the entire operation, shuttles weren't exactly built to "pick up someone in transit." They were a ship-to-ship, ship-to-shore, or ship-to-station mode of transportation. It could be done, however. They raced through the bridge to the elevator and took it to the shuttle bay. They found shuttle 040, which was readied for her appointment in space. It had been a while since she piloted one of these crafts. As they stepped into the small shuttle, Striker grinned as she looked at the controls. Buttons, screens, all sorts of instruments telling her the details of every single ship system. And, for added pleasure, the controls. A joystick, for lack of a better term, attached to the controls that allowed her to glide the craft to and fro. It wasn't a nimble craft by any means, but the joystick allowed the pilot a broad range of evasive maneuvers in case--on the off chance--someone needed to escape quick, fast, and in a hurry.

Striker would bring the craft to a distance that was as close as possible, but still safe. Kendrick would quite literally head out of the shuttle and help guide whomever was coming into the pod. Then, with that procedure firmly completed, a quick trip back to the Longboard.

The craft reached a destination about 10 meters in front of Davidson. That was a close as it could come. Any closer and the risk of incinerating the man with a booster became a real possibility. This distance also gave the ship some dancing room just in case. Everything relied on timing. Kendrick pressurized the hatch, then opened the door into the vastness of space. He gave himself a start by using the side of the ship as a springboard. Essentially flying through space, he would have to meet Davidson and guide him back to the ship. Kendrick was tethered to the ship with something amounting to a bungee cord. Another cord of similar make was also tethered to the ship. Both had about 10 meters of length (for just such an occasion). All Kendrick had to do was take the secondary cord, find a place to clip it on Davidson, and both men would pull themselves towards the shuttle. No matter how advanced space travel was, and no matter the science behind it, you can't risk people floating off into space. And sometimes such operations relied on the simplest of technique-like bungee cords and elbow grease.

"Shuttle 040, this is Captain Mitchell. What the hell are you doing out there, Commander?"

"Picking up a passenger," she replied.

"You couldn't just send someone else? Someone less integral to the running of the ship?" Mitchell said.

"You always say that if you want something done right, do it yourself. So, here I am. Don't worry. Kendrick is out there trying to tether their representative." Striker said.

"Copy, Commander. We've a rescue shuttle ready if something goes wrong. Medical is standing by just in case. I just want you to know good luck and we're all counting on you."

"Aye, aye, captain. I think Kendrick has his target already acquired. I think they're pulling themselves in right now."

Once they were in the hatch lock, and the compartment was repressurized, Kendrick would take his helmet off. His regulation-length brown hair, which was no longer than 4 centimeters, would show minimal signs of muss from the helmet. His hazel eyes would shine with the light from the holding compartment. A light stubble line the jawline of his olive-complexion.

"Lieutenant Elvin Kendrick, Weapons Officer, CSS Longboard. Welcome aboard Shuttle 040." Then Kendrick would offer a Chrinthani salute. The right hand would be balled into a fist, placed over the heart with the arm forming a checkmark, then the arm would extend outward toward Davidson as the first was opened and the hand extended straight out (with palm facing downward) to form a perfect line from the shoulder, through the arm, to the tips of the fingers.

[The Starship Command]

Amusingly enough, the shuttle's retrieval operation played out almost exactly as Davidson imagined it would: relative stop nearby, spacewalk, tether, return. His spacesuit did have nitrogen cold-jet thrusters on its backpack, but those were generally a last resort since people tended not to think very well in terms of orbital mechanics without specialized training and the little ball-bearing clockwork mechanism inside that made sure the force resultants commanded from the thrusters passed through the suit's center of gravity didn't always work as designed. Most spacewalks were still tethered affairs, and almost every plate on a Starship Command armored suit had at least one lug for a parachutist's D-ring or carabiner to attach to.

While not trained on any of the Chrinthani equipment or procedures, Davidson stood around and noted how the airlock cycling, signage, and indicators still made an intuitive sense. Nothing suggested that alien systems should evolve into anything so intuitive to his culture outside of the gross basics of the physical requirements of airlocks, so he took this as a quiet confirmation that the aliens were indeed on the level. Kendrick's appearance, once his helmet was removed, confirmed this even further.

With visor raised, John's faceplate was simply a curved golden mirror. He raised his gauntleted hands, unclasped his neck seals, and turned the helmet jerkily to disengage it. He paused for a moment to let the outside atmosphere mix with his suit's; if there was anything too acrid or horrible, he could clamp back down. No scents struck him as out of place or alarming and he didn't feel light-headed or suffer any other expected symptom of mild poisoning, so he took his helmet off. With hazel eyes and brown hair buzz-cut well shorter than Kendrick, Davidson looked to be in his late thirties, with lines just starting to appear in his forehead. Despite the necessarily indoor living, he retained a slight tan, and he clearly kept up his exercise regimen. Finally, despite putting on a serious face, it wasn't hard to visibly detect a youthful enthusiasm for the novelty of the situation.

One slight problem: the Roman salute held, in Davidson's cultural context, a very specific connotation associated with a very specific class of societies. The Soviets may have been the recently-departed bogeymen of Davidson's childhood, but even they weren't the ancient horrors that were the fascists.

He had to quickly remind himself that, appearances notwithstanding, he was talking to an alien.

"Commander John Davidson, captain, Starship Petronia." He returned the with in the common Western gesture: the fingertips of the right hand to the right eyebrow, with the right forearm out and to the side of the body, his arm forming a triangle and the palm facing down and tilted slightly away from the front. As the Command had evolved from the United States Air Force and the Royal Navy, there was little confusion as to whom's salute to use. "Thank you for having me aboard."

For anyone minimally observant, the United Planet roundel--globe over black bar with white stars--appeared on the left breast of Johnson's space suit. For anyone who looked closer, said globe did indeed reveal the seven continents and their rough relative placement to one another.

[Chrinthanium]

A red indicator light on the hold switched to green as the interior hatch door opened. Standing before them was Commander Striker. The blonde-headed commander would flash an imposing appearance to those unaware of who she was. At 191 centimeters tall (about 6'4") with a more definite physique, she was one of the tallest women in the whole of Chrinthani Space Command. She seemed destined for more than CSC while growing up. Proficient in several sports, including her favorite Chrinthani Rules Football, she wanted more than anything to become a professional athlete. However, when her father died at an early age, she left school to take care of her family. She joined the Chrinthani Army, then was selected to join CSC after her first four years and excelled quickly through the ranks.

"Commander Davidson, welcome aboard. I'm Commander Striker, Executive Officer of the CSS Longboard," she greeted him with the Chrinthani salute, then flashed a quick smile "If you'll follow me, sir." She motioned for Davidson to follow. Kendrick would follow behind.

The gray-on-gray color combination was nothing even close to imaginative. Bench seats with seat belts were set up in two rows where four people each could sit comfortably as they were transported to and fro. Striker sat down at the pilot's chair. Kendrick took a seat behind her on the front bench and buckled in.

"We'll be back on the Longboard in a few minutes, Commander." Striker said.

The shuttle began to move towards the Quiksilver-class ship. A large ship already from their current distance, the Longboard would continue to grow in size as they made their way. The exterior was gray, a common color in the CSC. The hull number emblazoned on the side read SES 86. The closer they came, the more details could be seen. It was a long ship from bow to stern. A large rocket positioned in the rear of the ship was quite visible. There were two extensions on the side that also had rocket booster capabilities, primarily used for escaping life-threatening situations. It was designed originally to be a military-class of space cruiser, but higher-ups in Ithansia, the Chrinthani capital city, decided against using military equipment in space. However, that didn't mean that the Longboard couldn't act in a military capacity.

The small shuttle was completely dwarfed by the Longboard. A small opening on the side of the ship with green and white lights indicated the landing bay for the shuttle. From the perspective of someone inside unfamiliar with the ship, it would feel like the Longboard was swallowing them whole.

"Longboard, Shuttle 040 has landed. Shuttlle 040 signing off," Striker said as her textbook landing ended. The shuttle door would opened. Outside waiting was Captain Mitchell along with some of the officers of the Longboard. They had changed into more appropriate attire for this meeting. Nothing fancy, no dress uniforms, but utilities were put away for what were known as the Basic Space Uniform, BSU's for short. Officer's uniforms were black. Rank insignia was more prominent on the black uniform. Four gold four-pointed stars adorned the color of Captain Mitchell's uniform. They were polished and glittered slightly in the lights. All other ranks used a pip system to distinguish ranks. Ensigns and Lieutenants had one silver pip and two silver pips respectively. Lieutenant Commanders had two silver pips and a gold pip. Commanders had two silver pips and two gold pips. All collar rank insignia were worn on the collar near where it would button at the neck. Along the right chest, the rank insignia was repeated to allow for proper identification from more of a distance. There were no name badges on the BSU. The CSC Roundel was present on the right chest of the uniform, a lighter shad of gray used to distinguish it. BSU's consisted of a shirt and pants plus black leather-like boots. Like most CSC uniforms, they were more conforming to body shape, though not skin tight.

When Commander Striker stepped out of the shuttle, she offered Captain Mitchell a salute as she spoke, "Captain Mitchell, it is my great pleasure to announce to you Commander Davidson, Captain of the Starship Petronia of Starship Command of the Planet Earth."

The officers present, along with Captain Mitchell, offered the Chrinthani salute to the human commander in perfect unison. Captain Mitchell stepped forward. His wavy blond hair, longer than the other officers, representative of the Chrinthani surf culture, moved slightly as he made his way to Commander Davidson. He was a slender man who was well built. His uniform did not hide this fact, but accentuated it as the uniform was designed.

"Commander Davidson, on behalf of His Imperial Majesty, Nathaniel IV, and the people of the Chrinthani race, I am Captain Seth Mitchell and I happily welcome you aboard the CSS Longboard. It is my earnest hope and my heart-felt desire that this is the beginning of a friendship between our peoples that will help to expand knowledge, increase peace and prosperity, and allow our people to work together to build an amazing future."

[The Starship Command]

Standing 187 centimeters tall, John Davidson had never before in his adult life have to look up at a woman. The local Amazon came therefore as a surprise, though a combination of his on-parade bearing and the weight of his suit sufficiently suppressed his jump response. His "thank you, ma'am" was both automatic and appropriate for the situation, and as she turned and led the way John thanked his lucky stars for the right words coming out. He also, somewhat against his better judgment, appreciated the resulting view. The first female alien he'd met (and subsequently made part of Petronia's crew) also looked quite human, but she also lacked any limbs and went around veiled to disguise her cooked-white eyes and lack of a tongue. The good Commander Striker lacked any of his disadvantages, and duty did not compel Davidson to completely ignore her charms.

Propriety, both professional and personal, did at least require him to be discreet about his enjoyment of such.

The crash harnesses used on the Chrinthani seats were different from what he was used to, but still intuitive, much like everything else about these 'aliens.' If anything, the alien belts with their tab-and-slot mechanisms with release levers were more intuitive than the five-point harnesses with their turn locks aboard Petronia. Probably not quite as safe, he mused, and he was only torn from pondering all the ways the release tab could get caught on things by the approach to Longboard.

She was quite the ship, and a good deal bigger than Petronia. This wasn't saying much, in some ways, but Davidson found himself having trouble guessing just how large she was. To consciously avoid being overawed, he concentrated on the details. Multiple visible weapon hardpoints and what were possibly missile tubes confirmed, in his mind, that the Chrinthani took their 'peaceful' missions just as seriously as the Starship Command did. Latin characters and Arabic numerals continued to confirm that, linguistically, the aliens and humanity had followed very similar lines. This distracted him long enough for the shuttle to land and for him to be escorted out, which was when all his attempts at not being overawed failed.

Longboard's hangar deck--at least he guessed and hoped it was a hangar deck--was huge. Looking around like a country bumpkin on his first visit to the big city, he felt a momentary twinge of agoraphobia. As a starship captain fully versed and experienced in space concept, the very idea of such a large uncompartmentalized pressurized volume made him uncomfortable. It reminded him of a visit aboard the CV-52A cargo starship Nome. Her captain wanted to show off how advanced she was compared to Petronia, all he could think of, at the time, was how much Nome wanted to blow up. Longboard's futurism, on the other hand, overwhelmed his paranoia and left him with a sense of awe.

People were saying things at him. Shaking himself out of his state of wonder, he paid better attention. It was as though the aliens were working to a script, and definitely a better one than his. The alien captain had long hair, but was otherwise attempting to maintain a masculine appearance.

Long Hair is saying something. Again, John concentrated. Majesty, Imperial even. Not democratic then? Interesting. After a moment of silence, Davidson recognized he should say something. He said words on the fly in the hope they assembled themselves into some coherent meaning: "And I, Commander John Davidson, captain of the starship Petronia and duly commissioned representative of United Planet, accept and thank you for your hospitality. First contacts are reliant on trust, a trust we are all learning to extend to others. On behalf of the Secretary-General and the General Assembly of United Planet, we too hope that our mutual trust will guide a mutually beneficial relationship in trade, science, and culture."

He drummed his fingers on his helmet for a moment, then held it and his hands behind his back. He had nothing else to say as a diplomat. After a few moments of thinking, he remembered something from previous, and his recognition was visible. "But I'm keeping you from your other duties, s--Captain." It was hard to think of a starship captain that wasn't part of the Starship Command. "As historic as this all is for both of us, I know I'd be considering it tangential if some of my people were missing on the planet below. In your shoes I'd be waiting to put the nice alien out of the way somewhere and see to what's really important... and with that in mind, I'd again like to offer Petronia's assistance. Surely having more eyes around can't hurt, and it'd make my being here more useful than for just the politicians and the history books."

If Davidson's first statements were a bit stuffy, his latter were perfectly sincere and from the heart.

[Chrinthanium]

Commander Davidson's mention of the missing crew, one of whom was now dead and the body being returned to the ship as this historical moment happened, caused Mitchell break character for a brief second. His friendly eyes darted down as his posture switched almost immediately from excited and thrilled to mournful and desperate, then, as if injected with an antiserum for his mood change, returned almost as immediately back to excited and thrilled.

"Certainly, Commander, we are monitoring the situation on the planet and have crews on the ground searching for our missing countrymen. The offer of assistance is a tremendous gift to us and, if you are willing, we could certainly use the help." Mitchell said as he approached Davidson. The captain, who stood at 188 centimeters, just slightly shorter than Commander Striker, and pretty much the same height as Davidson, extended his hand towards the door leading to the rest of the ship. "Let us show you around, Commander. I'm certain you must be interested in seeing some of our humble surroundings."

The fellow command division officers began to disperse to their duty stations as Commander Striker and Captain Mitchell began to walk with Davidson.

"Captain," Striker said, "forgive me, but permission to change into proper uniform."

"Well, we're not here to impress Commander Davidson with our uniforms, which are pretty boring by all accounts. But, if it makes you feel more comfortable, then by all means," Mitchell said with a nod. Striker would break off from the escort and return to her quarters to change into her BSU's.

Mitchell would begin escorting Davidson towards a door that led to the rest of the ship. As they approached, the door opened automatically. To the left and right along the corridor, men and women of the ship traveled to and fro performing their duties. As Mitchell escorted Davidson to their left, those passing would walk past the captain without saluting or really acknowledging his presence beyond a few who would say "captain" as they passed. CSC protocols did not require people to salute upon passing an officer. The salute was more of a ceremonial relic left over from the time when the space corps were part of the Chrinthani Armed Services. However, unlike Mitchell, Davidson's presence did cause people to look. The unfamiliar uniform and symbols attached to it would even cause a few to gawk as they passed. Most of them curious as to who this unfamiliar person was.

The word had begun to spread across the ship that a contact had been made with another space-faring race. However, the lower orders wouldn't really know everything until a later briefing by Captain Mitchell himself. Rumors of aliens, though, were something that the gossipers would find a tasty morsel to bandy about the ship.

"This is a Quiksilver-class space cruiser, Commander. It is the most technically-advanced ship in the fleet and the Longboard is the flagship of the empire's space program. She was launched two years ago at the CSC Shipyard from space in our home system. This ship has the latest in automation and artificial intelligence. In fact, if we really wanted, she could fly herself just about anywhere we want to go without a single person at the helm. However, we feel it is best to make sure that our officers remain at their post during their duty times. Nothing better than assuring the AI doesn't go bonkers without someone there to catch it. The class that this one replaces is slightly smaller, less nimble, and requires about 2,000 more people to operate. Currently, we work with a 'skeleton crew' of 1,132 crewmen and 137 officers." The corridor itself was devoid of interesting things to look at as Mitchell continued his near boasting.

The pair approached the turbo lift and Mitchell stopped walked and turned towards Davidson, "Sir, before we go in here, I want to warn you that this thing moves pretty fast. Those unfamiliar with it may experience some discomfort while the lift is in motion. My suggestion to you, from experience, is to sit down in the seat provided and close your eyes if you want. When I say this thing moves fast, well, how should I put this, it moves at 5-6 times our height per second. All very top-of-the-line in lift development. Engineering will be able to give you better particulars of how it works later on. They love talking about the lifts. Greatest thing to them since faster-than-light travel."

Once the lift arrived, the door would open and both men would get in. When the doors closed, Mitchell pressed the button that had 'HALT' written on it. "When I release this button, we're gonna go. I just want to give you time to sit down. Also, you can see a map of the ship on the inside of the doors. I'm certain you understand the functionality in that." He waited till Davidson sat down and buckled himself before he released the button. "Ready? Lift, command deck, please."

An automated male voice responded, "Very well, Captain Mitchell. Command Deck requested."

The button was released and the lift shot up like a rocket. The forces involved, as Mitchell remembered, felt like someone pulling down on you while you shot upward. In fact, his first time in the turbo lift, the forces were so great that his legs went on strike for several minutes. The seat was installed to assist. For some reason, sitting down seemed to lessen the effects of the lift on the body. When the command deck was reached, the automated voice spoke again, "Welcome to the Command Deck, Captain Mitchell."

He pressed the 'halt button' again. "Commander, you ready?"

The command deck on the other side of the door was a sight to behold. It was full of computer screens, including a very large viewscreen at the front which could show real-time images from exterior cameras from the ship as well as computerized instrument readings. The screen itself was one piece of glass, but it could be converted into 10 different smaller screens so multiple things could be monitored simultaneously. The 10-screen configuration was the display on the screen when both men walked onto the bridge. One screen showed a live image of planet Teahupo'o and, from a distance, one would be able to make out the Petronia, though it was a pretty small item on the screen. Other screens monitored ships systems, while one on the bottom middle was connected to the ship-to-shore communications system to ensure whatever happened on the ground could be easily reported back to command.

The Captain's chair sat in the middle of the bridge and provided Mitchell the ability to see every duty station on the bridge from his perch. His seat was, by CSC standards, the most advanced seat around. From there, he could control all aspects of the ship apart from firing weapons and plotting the ship's course.

Incidental officers of the bridge did the menial tasks required while the commanders of several departments did their jobs. Represented on the bridge were the departments of science, security, weapons, communications, navigation, and, with Mitchell, ship's command. Engineering was based in Engineering and Medical was based in the main ship's hospital.

"Captain on the bridge," shouted Franklin as she returned to review messages from the surface as Mitchell and Davidson entered the bridge.

"Franklin, any reports from the surface?" Mitchell asked.

"No, sir. Shuttle 109 is about 10 minutes out. Medical team standing by." Franklin reported.

"Very well," Mitchell turned his attention back to Davidson, "Welcome to the bridge, Commander. This is Lt. Franklin, our communications officer, Ensign Malani, our Navigation officer, and Lt. Arthur, our science officer. Lt. Kendrick, whom you've met, is our weapons officer and he's assisting his team with routine checks on our torpedoes. Commander Striker, whom you've also met, is my XO."

Lt. Marina Franklin was a relic of the old Chrinthani Space Corps, an older woman who remembered when such technology was not used to better the Chrinthani, but to kill their fellow countrymen. When the CSC was created after the Fall of the Dictatorship, she returned to school to become a science officer for the newly established CSC and to help them use science to promote peace and prosperity. Engisn Dyson Malani was a young man, barely 20, with the kind of good looks that should have landed him a career as a pop star. He was a recent addition to the ship replacing Kendrick, who became Weapon's Officer. Lt. Elsinore Arthur was a rather interesting person, to say the least. She was a vivacious personality with a larger frame. She maintains an attraction to Captain Mitchell, who continues to reject her advances owing to professionalism.

"Forgive me, Commander Davidson, but we're waiting for a transport from the surface. They found one of my men dead on the surface. The remaining six are still missing. One of the six is the son of one of our big admirals and another one is my brother. So, if I seem to dart back and forth between you and reports from the surface, forgive me." Captain Mitchell smiled, "I bet you have a million questions."

[The Starship Command]

"Quite willing," Davidson replied to the 'alien' captain's quiet acceptance of his offer to assist. John, like many others of the postwar generation, was an idealist at heart. Humanity had survived the worst tragedies it could inflict upon itself and had, in the end, only overcome them by embracing what made humans better than the rest of the animal kingdom. All life more advaned than plankton killed to live, but only humans could feel guilty about doing so. That compassion, and the empathy it engendered, was half of what made United Planet work. "All I'll need is access to a radio transmitter."

As John followed Seth, it was the passageways that really started driving home to John just how large the alien ship was. Hangars were big because they had to be. Passageways? Aboard Petronia and all other ships of the Command, they were meter-wide gaps between compartments. No one saluted superior officers because, honestly, it would've been redundant: lower ranks had to brace against the walls to let higher ranks through. Longboard's passageways were, therefore, luxurious in every sense of the word. Despite this, he quickly acclimated to this new environment. As it became easier and easier to concentrate to the running commentary of his guide and host, John started taking mental notes. Artificial intelligence. Automation. Robots? When Captain Mitchell mentioned that his ship carried over a thousand men, and inferred that others needed three thousand, Davidson replied simply: "Fascinating. Petronia has a crew of one-hundred-ninety-four."

Having nothing to prove to no one, Davidson sat down in the proffered seat in the 'turbolift.' Longboard was apparently big enough to rate elevators. For the first time since stepping aboard Longboard John felt jealousy; getting from Petronia's propulsion deck to her radar nosecone required humping up story after story of stairs. In any case, he sat down, particularly because of his previous experience with combat accelerations. Trying to stand against them was for midshipmen and junior spacemen, and that was why they were the lion's share of acceleration casualties that kept the corpsmen and surgeons in practice with splinting and stitching people up. That the elevator talked was, to John, more interesting than it being able to accelerate quite quickly. From Mitchell's previous commentary on artificial intelligence, he inferred that the speech function of the elevator was related to Chrithnani computer technology. As such, he was too busy pondering the limitations of Petronia's gigacharacter computer during the ride to take much notice of the accelerations involved and simply stood when directed to enter the Command Deck.

Said Command Deck was... large. Davidson recognized and professionally understood the placement of the command seat; Petronia followed a similar pattern, albeit in a much tighter space. The general concept of information screens also wasn't alien to him; everything made sense, but it was all achieved using much greater technology than he was used to. The alien screens didn't have the fuzz common to cathode-ray tubes. Their split-screen functions he could understand yet still have no idea on how it was done. The pictures on them were more like television signals than computerized vector graphics--and not only that, but the signals were much clearer than the television he was used to. John was honestly impressed, and he let his face show it as he was introduced to the command crew. He responded to each introduction with an appropriate "hello" or "greetings" as seemed appropriate, just polite words to express his gratitude towards hospitality and his interest in learning more about everybody and everything.

Then it was back to actual business. Davidson frowned at the mention of death. "That's terrible, Captain--no forgiveness required, your men come first. I do have a million questions, but only one seems really important right now: may I borrow Lieutenant"--due to the Command's history of being half American and half British, he pronounced the word 'leftenant' in his Midwestern accent--"Franklin and his expertise with his station to contact Petronia and direct them to assist with your search under your command? Within an hour she can be on the surface with fliers in the air and search parties in jeeps on the ground. Give her a search sector and I promise you that no rock will be left unturned."

[Chrinthanium]

There was a raised eye brow from Lt. Franklin at the mention of the word he in reference to her, but otherwise, to connect the good Commander to his ship merely require the press of two buttons: one to turn on the communicator, and one to switch to the cabin microphone which would pick up everything he said. "Commander," Franklin said, "all you have to do is speak and they'll hear you once I push this button," her finger hovered over a single button. Such a microphone would pick up the background noise for certain, but the computer could limit such interference easily enough to make it seem almost as if Davidson himself was speaking into a microphone in a near-quiet room.

The view screen would switch to full-screen mode. A map of the planet below would appear with high detail. The computer would hone in on the location of the security forces on the planet. A simple grid pattern then appeared on the map. The main bulk of the security forces were at grid quare 34-J, a 100-square kilometer area of the planet where the body of crewman Brunson was found. Two other units were in grid square 34-I, the location of the hotel.

"Computer, replay satellite from stardate 2144.3 to 2145.7," Mitchell said. The computer screen put a satellite overlay of the day the tropical storm hit. The well-formed eye struck around where the hotel was. "As you can see, a major tropical storm pushed onto shore while they were there. Computer, display headlines from around the region for stardate 2146." The screen flipped again, this time online edition newspaper headlines were splayed across the screen. Each one hinting at 'devastating effects' on the region. "We believe, based on information we obtained from the local authorities that residents and visitors were evacuated to the south, in grid square 34-J. We confirmed that they residents of the hotel were asked to evacuate southward from the management. However, communications have been cut on that part of the landmass owing to very low population density. Utility companies are still trying to get the power and water working. Normally, we'd be able to communicate with our crew. We're all issued standard communicators like this," Mitchell pulled out a small ear piece that fit into his ear. "From this, we can hear transmissions from the ship and communicate back to the ship." He let Davidson look at the communicator.

"The terrain, as you can see, is mostly flat, but it's also mostly rain forest apart from the beach town that was built years ago." Mitchell paused a moment, "I could simply send this information to your ship and let your security detail go over the specifics if you like. We can transmit the data over the web or give you access to the CSC public database from your ship and transmit it through there."

[The Starship Command]

Davidson blushed only a little from his faux pas, once he noted the raised eyebrow. "Sorry, Lieutenant. Thinking too quickly for my mouth." Then he set to concentrating on the situation at hand, looking over the monitors and the data the alien captain related to him while he calculated in his head. Hundred square kilometers means a ten-by-ten square, radius isn't enough to distort that from Euclidean. Four fliers, four jeeps, keep one of each in reserve, the fliers go about a hundred kilometers per hour, probably should slow to seventy-five for scans. Range of the IR is about five hundred meters, though probably shorter through foliage.

Not being a mathematician, he stood in visible thought, gently tapping his helmet against the back of his armored legs.

Criss-crossing a hundred square kilometers is a hundred plus ten on the ends so one-ten. Seventy-five is three-fourths, time is distance over speed, so one-ten times four is four-forty divided by three is one-four-six. Two decimal places, one-point-four-six hours. Point-oh-five of an hour is three minutes, point-four-six is about seven point oh-fives, seven times three is twenty-one. One flier, one pass, hour and twenty-one minutes. "Petronia's fliers can cover a grid square in about forty minutes, including overlap. Petronia herself can touch down and assemble her fliers on site in maybe thirty minutes if I tell them it's a rush job. Here, on the boundary between grid squares thirty-four I and J," he pointed, "the tropical storm surges have wiped away a landing zone here. While it looks sandy, that's a thin covering over a small rock table separating two areas of looser earth. You can tell from the V-shapes of the sand and mud that's been blown around it. The table is stable because there's no sign of it being pushed by the storm surge: if it had moved, this bit would be higher and that bit lower."

Apparently some of Doc Dirt's constant droning about the amazing world of geology had stuck. Davidson smiled internally even as he kept his face an outward mask of grim duty; he just needed to know how to apply a thing to remember it.

"If I don't miss my guess, you've concentrated your search on the two known points of their path: origin, the hotel, and destination, the evacuation zone. That leaves between ten and fourteen linear kilometers between those two points, depending on their path. That landing zone I just pointed out is also almost right in the middle of most of those path. A search circling out from there, combined with hails from Petronia's loudspeakers to draw in anyone capable of hearing, will be able to cover that area quickly. After all, in a storm wave, it's very easy for people to get separated, so not much is gained if Petronia overlaps your current security forces."

Very quietly pleased with his estimation of things, Davidson then took a moment to parse what Mitchell was saying about webs and databases. He knew what the first word was, but not in this context. The second word was new, but it was a compound, and he knew what data and a base were. 'Database' sounded a lot like 'data bank,' and he knew what that was; it was a storage library for computers. This meant that the Chrithani had a public computer library full of information. United Planet had similar computerized libraries, but they were rarely public-access outside of a few wealthier universities due to the infrastructure involved. In context, then, 'the web' must also be computer-related. With talk about 'transmission' it may have to do with computer networking, maybe wirelessly via radio signals.

"I'm pretty sure Petronia's computers aren't compatible with your webs or databases," John replied almost apologetically. Yeah, and your telephone system isn't compatible with my telegraph. "I think the best thing is to do it the old-fashioned way: I liaise between you and Petronia."

[Chrinthanium]

Mitchell paused as he heard Davidson speak apologetically about technological differences. It was in this moment he realized that a potential existed that, perhaps, the humans weren't as advanced as the Chrinthani. The entire time he prattled on about how amazing the ship was, he was simultaneously belittling his guest and potential friend--a friend who had just offered his services, quite unsolicited, in assisting the crew find six young crew members lost on a planet will within the Chrinthani empire and well researched by the Chrinthani themselves. If it was possible, Mitchell's heart would have sank to the floor.

Yet, he didn't want to directly address the situation--at least not in public--and, instead, offered other connection issues. "Well, if your computers and ours are not compatible, as you assume, then we could transmit through VHF waves. Like a television program. Takes a minute or two to reach your ship, but it would work. And, as always, communications are working between our two ships, thus if you so desire to give direct commands to your ship from ours, we can do that as well. Half of our fleet still operate on technology not quite as advanced as this ship. We have retained the ways to communicate with those ships."

"Plus," Franklin chimed in, "if we ever had a computer crash, we could still use the old radio frequencies to communicate. We've left nothing to chance."

The Chrinthani mantra was functionality over form. There was no getting around the fact that major computer systems, no matter how technologically advances, could be rendered unusable by a myriad of forces outside of the control of the ship or her crew. Why put all the eggs in one basket and rely solely on computers for basic communication when simple transmitters could be mounted on dishes on the outside of the ship to broadcast on various frequencies.

"Longboard, this is Taffton, come in."

The message caused Franklin to jump into high gear, "Taffton, this is Longboard, go ahead, please."

"We have located something. A wallet belonging to Crewman First Class Mitchell, Zachary James. We believe we're headed in the right direction, but our forces are thin right now, sir. Any chance we can get some more help?"

Mitchell spoke up, "Taffton, Mitchell here, we'll get you more help soon. Is there any more information? Did you find anything else?"

"Yes, sir. We found two surfboards and a pair of boardshorts for a male with a waist line of 80 cm near the wallet. Blue at the top fading to gray at the bottom."

Those are Zach's, Mitchell thought. "Roger, Taffton. Give us some time and you'll have your help. Mitchell out."

Commander Striker returned to the bridge dressed like her comrades. She looked around the room and noticed that things seemed to be getting excited. "What's going on?"

"They've found Zach's wallet and some of his clothing, Striker. The good commander here has offered his ship's services to assist in finding our people." Mitchell said.

"Did they find your brother?" Striker asked.

Mitchell closed his eyes and shook his head no. "Not yet. Brunson's body should be landing on the ship in a moment. Doc is going to give the body an autopsy to figure out what killed him. I'm going to go to Medical to see the body for myself. Commander Davidson, you have the conn. Let me know when your people are ready to go and we'll organize our teams and put our collective heads together. Whatever you need from us, just tell my crew and it will be done. His orders are my orders, folks. Don't forget that. Striker, you come with me."

Ship's Hospital

Doctor Margaret Malloy stood over the body of Crewman Third Class Robert Brunson, it was in a body bag. Her white hospital uniform, perfectly pressed, wrapped around her like a glove. Captain Mitchell and Commander Striker entered the ward quickly. Doctor Malloy turned.

"Captain, Commander." She said somberly. "I have to warn you, this isn't going to be pretty. If you're squeamish, it would be best to look away."

"Just open the bag, Lt. Commander." Mitchell ordered.

She nodded and stood over the body. She placed her rubber-gloved hand on the zipper and began to pull it down slowly. With each click of the zipper, the bag opened more and more. A grayish-whitish face began to emerge. There was blood splattered on the face. The neck came into view, the collar bone, the chest, then a sight more grizzly than imagined. The right rib cage had been ripped open by something. Something powerful. Some of the internal organs were visible. Commander Striker became visibly ill as she turned her head. When the zipper reached its final destination, the full picture was there. The right leg was gone. The left leg held on by a few tendons that hadn't been severed. A mess of a body that once walked, talked, and thought now lay before them.

"So we know what did this," Mitchell said as he put his hand on Striker's shoulder.

"The best guess is some sort of wild animal, sir. We will have to analyze the marks to figure out just what kind of animal. But, whatever happened, I believe he was still alive when the animal started to eat him. Just look at the face. It isn't normal for a face to be stuck with that look of surprise after death. Normally the muscle return to neutral position. They froze in place here, though. Perhaps that means it was over for him not long after the attack began. Again, give me some time to do a complete autopsy and I will give you the answers then."

Mitchell and Striker would return to the bridge and report to the officer's what they had learned. It would become obvious to anyone in the room that Captain Mitchell was visibly worried about his brother. It was, after all, his last surviving family member.

[The Starship Command]

Commander Davidson did not expect, in even the strangest of all possible worlds, to be put in command of an alien vessel for any length of time. He especially didn't expect to be put in command of something that made Petronia look like she was powered by canvas. He did manage a respectful, if automatic, "yes, Captain" as Mitchell handed him the conn. After pausing for a moment to again consciously settle his thoughts, he considered his situation. Here he was, aboard Longboard, an extremely advanced ship with observation and sensor equipment orders of magnitude superior to Petronia. He had to get that information from Longboard to Petronia. The tools he had available were ship-to-ship radio and broadcast television signals, and he couldn't be sure that the latter were encoded the same way.

"Lieutenant," he addressed the communications officer, "I'm going to need two things. First, please patch me through to Petronia. Second, please call up a test pattern to be transmitted with five-hundred-twenty-five scan lines in monochrome, an aspect ratio of four wide to three tall, and a thirty frame-per-second refresh rate. I'm no expert with our television encoding standards, so that'll be easier for Petronia to tune in to." John made sure to pose everything as a request rather than a command. While it made him sound like an officer in the Age of Sail, it hopefully smoothed any ruffled feathers at having to take orders from an alien. He was honestly surprised when he received unquestioning cooperation and Petronia answered his new temporary command's hails.

"Longboard, thith ith Petronia, go ahead, over."

No wonder they thought it was static, he thought. "Commander Davidson here, Duarte. I need you to stand by for an incoming television signal; it may take some decoding. I've got the lines, aspect ratio, and frame rate correct, at least, so tune in until you get a clear image. Over."

"Tha'th highly unuthual, thir, over."

John suppressed a slight sigh. For an instant he may have looked as though he was long-suffering. "Longboard Actual has put me in temporary command so we can swing Petronia into action, Commander. I've spotted a suitable landing zone using the al--Chrithani's imagery and the easiest way to transmit its location is via pictures, hence, the television signal. That's also the easiest way to describe search patterns and points of interest." Recognizing why she wasn't convinced, he actually did sigh through his teeth. "I know we didn't come up with some sort of elaborate sign-countersign system to validate hearing from me, Duarte, and we'll do that next time. For now, to prove who I am, you handed me my helmet and called my plane 'inthane.'" He felt somewhat bad for replicating her lisp, but felt it needed to be done. "Over."

A moment of silence. "Acknowledged, thir. Your orerth, over?"

"Stand by to receive television signal and acknolwedge recepit and tuning." He nodded to the lieutenant, and looked over her shoulder to see what test pattern she was sending. "Test pattern is a checkerboard with counter-colored circles in it, over."

"Tranthmithion rethiept acknowledged, thir. Checking coding, thand by." A few more moments of silence. "Checkerboard with counter-colored thircleth confirmed, thir. Black in upper-left-hand corner, confirm, over."

"Confirmed. Stand by." Then to Franklin: "Could you get your ships computer to plot and send a monochrome map of the landing site I previously pointed out in global coordinates, then a topographic map of the landing zone itself, please?" Back to the communications set: "Incoming are maps of a landing zone, with location and overview. You'll want to get Momo to set her down on a flat shelf between two flow channels. They're distinctively V-shaped and will return cleanly on the landing radar. Over."

"I thee the landing zone, thir, but we'll need coordinateth to program the courthe computer, over."

He turned back to Franklin. "Please have the computer send the coordinates measured, in decimals of a great circle, from the westernmost point of that landmass and from the equator." Then to the radio: "Coordinates transmitted in fractions east from the western tip of the landing landmass and from the equator. Check the numbers, over."

John could easily imagine, in his mind's eye, Almira looking at the communications television screen in the CIC then pulling out her slip-stick and converting the decimal fraction of a circle to degrees. "Coordinateth confirmed, thir. Margie ith now computing a courthe. Any further orderth, over?"

"There's already been one casualty planetside. Set up a cordon around the landing zone, then disembark and assemble our fliers. Mount IR cameras on them; when that's done, call back up so we can coordinate our search patterns. You'll be keeping one flier in reserve, and, if the terrain looks suitable, start assembling our jeeps as well. Over."

"Underthtood, thir. Anything elthe, over?"

"That's all for now, Almira. Longboard out."

"Petronia out."

-=------------------------------------------------=-

To look at Ensign Laurent Momo, all of life was boring. To ask him would be to learn that yes, he thought this was philosophically true. Excitement was adrenaline, and that gave it all away, no? Chemicals. The brain is a chemical machine in a stew of chemicals, all being influenced by physical laws to no end and with no point. His philosophy could be summed up as the intersection of existentialism and almost-determinism, with the 'almost' coming from a disagreement with Albert Einstein. God, Momo would say, most certainly [i]does play dice with the world. Indeed, if there were a God (and Momo refused to take sides on the matter), those dice would be Him. As everything was stochastic, then everything should be a surprise to one degree or another, but chemicals tricked one's brain into considering one surprise to be greater than another. Reasonable responses, then, to events would either to be surprised by everything or surprised by nothing, and being surprised by everything would quickly eat up all the adrenaline in one's body. Therefore, Momo considered everything boring. When asked why, if everything was boring, he joined the Starship Command, he always replied that if he had to be bored, at least it should be in the ways most likely to be novel.

Automated reentries were, at one point, novel. Momo reasoned that they still were, since every atmosphere was slightly different, but those were all variables for the computer to put into its energy equations and, from them, return the programmed results of force vector and angle of attack. In the rocketship days, before magnetoatomics, slowing back down to Terrestrial speeds were all about friction and heat and plasma sheaths. Momo enjoyed reading about that as a kid, back when he thought it would have been exciting. Nowadays, he considered it to be the same as today's slow, careful, powered entries where nothing got too hot and so no weight had to be wasted on heat shielding: one either lived, or one died. The only difference was that back then the dice were weighted differently. In this case, the computer weighted the dice a little more towards danger since it was told to minimize time to landing. To do this, Petronia was slipping into the atmosphere sideways so the sail area of her fuselage would slow her down in addition to her magnetoatomic force. As she slowed, the computer automatically spun her on her axis--she stood with her nose pointing towards the sky and tail towards the surface--to bring her broad radiator fins in as additional brakes without subjecting them to too much bending loads. Though they looked like wings, they were not.

After a few minutes, a buzzer sounded on Momo's panel. Stifling a yawn, he acknowledged it by flicking a small metal switch into position and putting his hands on the control yoke. It was no longer time to be bored, and in almost the same motion he switched off his customary boredom. In its place was a razor-sharp concentration on the radar screens, both the three-plane ones taking up the 'front' of the CIC and the landing radar screen mounted immediately in front of him. He saw the two Vs the captain had mentioned, he saw the flat space between. It really did show up well; the old man knew how to pick his landing spots. Still, Petronia handled like the small skyscraper she was. Momo flew half by feel and half by science, as was almost necessary seeing how his only feedback were numbers and lines on his screen. Adjusting for wind gusts, considering the ship's inertia, carefully controlling the rate of descent while watching the radar altimeter, he was this and this was all he was at that moment. At least the captain had picked a challenging place to set down...

The radar altimeter read zero, the landing radar shone phosphor green as it nearly touched ground. Momo eased off his yoke and let Petronia settle under her own weight. He kept on doing so, watching the magnetoatomic force needle swivel left and, thus, Petronia's weight swing right. All of the little crystal lights for Petronia's landing plate and her shock absorbers shone green: force contact detected, and system within parameters.

"We're down," is all he said.

"Really?" asked the Andalusian woman behind him. She could see the radars just as well as he could, but she never felt the jolt.

"But of course."

-=------------------------------------------------=-

With the tops of their jumpsuits tied around their waists, deck crew hauled down the aluminum and plastic boxes that were the fliers. A few men already worked to unfold one out of its integral container like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis with professional help. Once deployed, a flier looked like a cross between a World War I pusher plane, a dragonfly, and a hang-glider. Made of hollow aluminum tubes supporting a taut plastic skin, it worked most like the first, having been designed for low stall speeds and short-field operations. The fuselage contained an equipment basket, a saddle that served the purpose of a cockpit, and the steam engine that turned the propellor. Yes, the Starship Command's exploration flier had propellors and steam engines, since they were the best for the job: propellors were fine for low, slow flight, and the steam engine was heated by a small radiothermal core that flash-heated water into steam before piping the steam through the structural tubes of the wings and tails and returning it to the reservoir. It worked.

"Now all I need is leather helmet and scarf and I really will be magnificent man," quipped Lance Corporal Rambert Kosmatka, a tall, lumpy, ruddy man clean-shaven from chin to crown. His accent fell somewhere between East German and Polish. Both were relatively unusual in the Command, mostly due to the Sudete-Carpathian Craterization.

"I still can't believe you learned to fly one of those things," said a deck hand as he wiped his brow and rested up against Petronia's hull. "Damn thing looks like it'd fall apart if I sneezed."

"Sneezes, cancer, crashes," Kosmatka shrugged eloquently. "When life is nothing but things that kill you, is good when you get to choose how to go, no? A ha ha!" The man had a laugh like a truck horn: loud, obvious, and tending to get people out of the way.

[Chrinthanium]

While people scuttled about high in the atmosphere above, down at the surface, the remaining members of the vacationing crew members were worried less about rescue and more about dinner for the evening. The hurricane that ripped through the area was more powerful than predicted. The group, in and of itself, had decided to head Southward along the coast and catch some storm surf in order to heighten the thrill and adventure. A last-minute right turn from the storm took the eye much closer to the group's surf spot thus putting the crew into a precarious situation. A situation that has, unbeknownst to the above ship, claimed three out of seven lives.

In the intervening month, search parties had combed through portions of the rain forest searching, but thick brush made moving about difficult. High and extensive tree cover made overhead searching nearly impossible. However, a small cave in the side of a low hill had turned from random hole-in-the-ground to a make-shift shelter. It was here, deep in the rain forests of the planet, that the remaining four crew members huddled, lived, and tried to survive.

Kyran Slater, the son of a high-ranking admiral, had designated himself the group's leader. It was through his leadership the group push farther inland rather than remaining close to the coast where they would be more visible. Furthermore, it was his unintentional misdirection that led to one of the deaths, Robert Brunson, who was quite literally eaten alive by a rather large, cat-like creature known as a Sivador. This lion-tiger-cheetah mix breed was ferocious to say the least and were one of the more abundant animals in this part of the continent.

Kyran stood at the entrance to the cave. His uniform had become to tattered that he ditched the shirt and used what remained of his pants to keep a modicum of decency about him in a rare display of respect for the opposite sex. The two other men had uniforms suffer a similar fate and were dressed in the same manner. The lone female remaining had fashioned the tattered remains of her shirt into a halter top to maintain her dignity. Not that the Chrinthani were ashamed of nudity in the least, but there were CSC regulations which would, until such time as circumstances prevented, require compliance.

"Kyran, would you please stop standing outside like a sentry," Zach Mitchell said. "What the hell are you going to be able to do against one of those Sivadors?"

"Take it in my bear hands and strangle it, Mitchell," Kyran said while flexing his arms. "They're no match for the gun show, mate."

"Please," Crewman Second-Class Livonia Prescott said, "the only thing those guns could kill are the mood of millions of females across the universe. You're such a moron."

"How about helping us gather food, Slater?" Zach said.

"Food? You call this food? Jungle fruit, mate. Nothing but jungle fruit. Wild bananas and oranges left behind by a corporation that couldn't turn a profit in this shithole. Half of it is overripe, the other half isn't quite ripe."

"Beggars shouldn't be choosers," Zach replied. He turned slightly, "Has anyone seen Ian?"

"He'll turn up. Always does," Kyran said. "I'm more worried about your brother."

"Seth? What about him?"

"He's not sending people to find us. What the hell, mate. No good, I say. He probably hopes I die out here. He hates me."

"Kyran, what are you talking about? We have no idea where we are because you thought you knew better. We're in the middle of the jungle, almost no clothes, no food, and a small supply of water, and somehow this is all Seth's fault? We told you we should stick by the coast. We told you we didn't want to go into this mess. No, Kyran Slater knows it all. Now, because you have no idea what we're doing, or where we're going, Brunson's dead, Tillman's dead, and Aranda is dead. Fuck off, mate. Seth had nothing to do with this." Zach said as he sat down on the ground, legs crossed.

"Look," Livonia said, "we have to stop this infighting, guys. It's not gonna help us at all. We need to calm down and figure out how to stay alive till help arrives."

"If help arrives, Livy," Kyran said as he sighed, "This little fuck needs to back off me bef......"

"ENOUGH!" Livonia shouted, "I'm over this now! I outrank you, so back off and shut up for once. Let's just try and work together, right?"

Some leaves started rustling nearby. The three stood up and huddled together near the entrance. each one facing a different direction in order to see if anyone could spot what was coming their way. A few twigs snapped here and there as the sound of the rustling came closer. A minute later, Ian appeared in front of them wearing a smile, two buckets in each hand, and nothing else.

"Fucking hell, mate," Kyran said. "Scared the life outta me."

"Dude, found a new water source. It's only a few kilometers away. There's an old reservoir for that abandoned space station. Found a few buckets inside a storage shed. So, here we go. Fresh water for everyone!" Ian said as he walked over and placed the buckets in the cave. Kyran, Livonia, and Zach followed behind him.

"Did they have anything else left behind?" Zach asked.

"Yeah, like a burger or something?" asked Kyran.

"I didn't get that far. Maybe, though. There's a few completed buildings." Ian replied.

"Okay, let's head over there and check it out," Zach said. The rest of the group nodded. A few moments later, they began moving through the rain forest towards a partially-built space port left abandoned after the Chrinthani government decided to abandon the project.

-------------------------------------------


"Looks like a 10-point landing there, Commander," Mitchell said as he walked onto the bridge and and sat down in his chair.

"Captain on the bridge," shouted Lt. Arthur from her post.

"Malani, can you get the Commander his own chair, please?"

"Yes, Captain," the young man said as he immediate jumped up and went to a storage compartment on the far side of the room. He produced a rather standard-looking, but otherwise comfortable chair that was placed next to Mitchell's. There were a few spots on the floor where the chair could be anchored in place with some bolts. Took a few moments of Malani's time, but a separate chair for Davidson was now ready for him.

"Lt. Arthur, how have you been coming along in scanning for life signs of our crew?" Mitchell said.

"Captain, I'm receiving a lot of interference with the surface. The rain forest's canopy is too dense to parse with our equipment. Our computers cannot simply differentiate between our people and animals on the ground. Those returns I am getting are faint at best."

"What if we made our elevation 20 kilometers above the surface? Maybe we could get a better reading?"

"Doubtful, Captain."

Mitchell sighed, "Well, no harm in trying. Ensign Malani, make our elevation 20 kilometers. Lt. Franklin, radio civil aviation command and inform them we're coming close to the surface. Send a message to CSC Headquarters and inform them of our current plan. Maybe we can help our folks on the ground. If anything, the shuttles won't have far to go when returning to the ship." Franklin began sending a message to Global Aviation Command reporting the intentions of the ship.

"Aye, Captain," Malani replied. The young officers quickly ran his fingers over the touchscreen before him, each touch resulted in a slight tone. The ship began to lower in orbit. The bow tilted slightly as the descent started.

"Stabilizers and thrusters on quarter," Mitchell commanded. The view screen before them switched to a forward view of the bow. The planet began to come closer. Landmasses, already visible to those watching, would become more detailed as the ship began its descent through the planet's atmosphere. "Watch your angle, Ensign. We don't want the bow to go below 15 kilometers and interfere with civilian aviation. Reduce speed by 10%."

"Aye captain," Malani replied as he returned to pressing buttons.

"Commander," Mitchell said to Davidson, "he's one of my finest young officers. One day, he'll get his own ship. He's just got to learn a ship this big doesn't stop as fast as that rust bucket light frigate he used to drive."

"She may have been a rust bucket, but she was a fine ship, captain," Malani said with a smile on his face. "Current elevation 1000 kilometers, captain."

"Very well, Ensign, keep up the good work." Mitchell said as he monitored the ship's progress on the view screen.

Mitchell turned to Davidson, "That boy we got back, there wasn't much of him left." The captain sighed, "I hope this isn't turning into a recovery mission instead of search and rescue." While Mitchell was aware of the mission at hand, there burned within him the questions that any race that has just learned it was not alone in the universe would want to ask. In fact, so strong was his desire to learn about these humans that it almost took visible form.

He studied the alien commander before him. He was calm, cool, and collected--or so it seemed. He noticed similarities between himself and Davidson. He had firm command of his ship. He was a space veteran that had probably seen more than Mitchell could ever hope to see. He wanted to meet the crew of the Petronia. He wanted to shake their hands and thank them personally for their assistance. It was not their mission to help the Longboard. He wanted to ask them about life on Earth, about their home system, about their history, and what their goals for the future were. Mitchell was every bit the explorer that he seemed to be and now his passion burned higher than ever before.

"Captain," Malani said, "20 kilometer elevation achieved with no incident, sir."

"Very good, Mr. Malani. Keep us in position and keep up the good work." Mitchell replied. "Let's take a look out of the window, Ensign."

"Aye, captain," Malani punched up a view below the ship. The coastline was clearly visible below. Without much effort, anyone watching could see where the cleared land ended and the rain forest began. About 70 kilometers into the rain forest, a clearing was visible and the partially-built Teahupo'o Space Port B was visible. At least the parts that weren't being reclaimed by the forest. A city was also visible about 120 kilometers to the North-Northeast of the space port. It was there the hotel stood that Security Team C concluded their investigation with no results.

"If I were a betting man, I'd say they would want to find safe shelter. Perhaps their going there." Mitchell pointed in the direction of the space port. "That port was commissioned by then-emperor Alexander VII during the War of Freedom. From there, the plan was to launch a full-scale invasion of this planet, held by the resistance during the war. However, the fact that Alexander VII was overthrown before its completion left the project unfinished. If they're smart, maybe, just maybe, they're either there or on their way there."

"Captain," Lt. Arthur said, "I'm receiving twelve life signs within 5 kilometers of the port. Eight of them are faint, probably animals on the ground, but there are four moving together bearing 282 degrees in the direction of the space port."

"Franklin, radio the Security Teams D and E and send them the coordinates of the life signs. Inform Petronia of new developments. Can we get a fix on just whose life signs they are?" Franklin began transmitting the information.

"Negative, Captain. It could just be locals." Arthur said.

"It could also be some of my missing crew members. What are teams D and E's distance from the target?"

"Team D is 80 kilometers south, sir, and Team E is 65 kilometers west. On foot, several hours, sir." Franklin stated.

"Very well, lieutenant." Mitchell replied.

[The Starship Command]

After accepting the expedient chair with his usual Hornblowerian polite modesty, John settled in and listened to the banter. It wasn't until he sat down properly that he remembered just how heavy his spacesuit was. "One can't malign those rustbucket frigates, though," Davidson teased. Yes, Petronia certainly was one of those rustbucket frigates, but frigate captains had to develop thick skins about the reputations of their commands. "We had an admiral back in the Age of Sail who had plenty of ships-of-the-line, but what he dearly wanted was frigates. How else does the fleet maintain situational awareness and keep from getting snuck up upon except by the lowly picket--isn't that right, Ensign Malani?" He winked at the kid; frigate goons had to stick together.

Like the alien captain sitting next to him, he desperately wanted to ask questions. Asking such questions was his mission, after all. He found it easier to resist the urge, however, as he leaned forward and peered at the viewscreen, because he had a more fundamental calling. Back when the oceans were the most hostile territory that man could cross, sailors as a class forged bonds beyond their races or kings or states: a mariner was a mariner, and a mariner in distress demanded the immediate aid and sympathy of all other mariners. One sees a brother flailing, one helps because that is simply what one does. Even if his hosts traveled in comparative luxury with technology just on this side of magic to him, they were still spacers and some of them were in trouble down there. Questions would last; men trapped in the jungle lasted not nearly so long. Swooping in to help and ignoring all other considerations was just something John Davidson did; Q'ell and her friends were in trouble, he helped. These men were in trouble, he helped.

"I was just about to point out that area myself. If I could put a call down to Petronia, please..."

-=------------------------------------------------=-

They didn't have leather flying helmets, but they did have war-surplus tanker helmets. As it turned out, one of the lessons of the Third World War was that the operating conditions of combat rockets and tanks could be remarkably similar: loud, jarring, and full of sharp metal edges. Rocketship crews had started with pressure and space suits, but once it was proven that atomic rockets generally weren't piston-powered World War Two heavy bombers and wouldn't return after being filled with holes, those were discarded in favor of lighter protective garments. With a tanker helmet and goggles, Lance Corporal Kosmatka wore a passible Great War flier costume as he sat in the saddle of his flier. The headphones integral to the helmet buzzed in his ears with Momo's laconic voice: "New orders from above. There's a partially-built spaceport several kilometers out, bearing two-forty. Longboard thinks that's a likely point of interest. Flier Able, check it out. Flier Baker, start your pattern from the east side. Flier Charlie, go from the west side. Flier Dog, remain on ready standby."

"Flier Able acknowledges," Rambert said into his radio microphone yoke before toggling its spoon-like switch off with his chin. "Contact!" he shouted to the rest of the landing party and cordon then leaned forward to turn a knob on his instrument panel. His little thermal engine immediately began to hiss as the radioactive battery pulled from Petronia's backups was finally allowed to use the flier's coolant rather than its own, and pushing the throttle forward engaged the steam turbine with the continuous gear connected to the propeller. The plastic propellor at the back of the fuselage chopped the air, going faster and faster with a growing fan-like rumble until the flier started creeping forward of its own accord. Flashing a thumbs-up to his crewmates, Rambert taxied his flier onto the crude airstrip they'd carved out of the sand, ran it up, and took to the air.

Flying the flimsy spotter aircraft left very little to the imagination. Just like the very first fliers, its attitude was controlled by warping its bat-like wings and tail surfaces thanks to arrangements of wires between the stick and the wings. The infrared camera sat nestled in its basket, pointing down, and displaying what it saw on a monitor strapped under the instrument panel. Between the panel and the saddle, the pilot rode the airplane much like a motorcycle, although with an off-center stick in his right hand and a throttle lever in his left. With nothing but a nearly-silent thermal engine and a cold propellor to drive it, it lacked the screech of a jet, the roar of a piston, or even the high-pitched buzz of a small combustion engine.

Rambert thought about this as he leveled out his flier at one-hundred-fifty meters once his bearing read true on the inertial compass and glanced down at his IR camera. Occasional, obviously non-human, splotches of phosphor would bound and scroll across the screen as it saw the heat emanating from some animal below. He wasn't looking for animals, though, but people, and people would react to the obviously artificial sound of an aircraft. If he'd thought about it earlier, he could've put a few playing cards into the spokes of his wheels and they'd flap while the wheels spun freely underneath the airplane. That still wouldn't have been very loud. He looked over his shoulder at the propellor behind him and got an idea. Taking his hand off the throttle for a moment, he reached under the instrument panel and into the equipment basket and retrieved a length of wire-tie that he knew wasn't absolutely necessary in keeping anything in particular in place. Wire ties were, as a rule, stiff and after a minute or two of careful uncoiling he'd retrieved a length of it. still using only his left hand, he wrapped the wire just enough around the back of his saddle to keep it in place, then extended the free length towards the edge of the propellor disc.

His efforts were rewarded with the loud, extremely annoying buzz of high-impact plastic smacking against a tiny bit of metal at a rapid rate.

"A ha ha! I am noisy little mosquito now!" Looking up, he saw the clearing of the spaceport near the horizon and yawed gently to point towards it. With a motion of his chin, he toggled his radio yoke on. "Petronia, this is Flier Able. Spaceport in sight. E.T.A. about thirty minutes."

-=------------------------------------------------=-

Davidson felt vaguely uneasy. It took him a few moments of self-reflection and one or two casual glances towards the rest of the control room to recognize why: they were stationkeeping at twenty kilometers' altitude. Longboard was well inside the stratosphere by this point and she looked even less aerodynamic than Petronia, so her standing still was all about the dominion of thrust over gravity. Petronia could do that too, it was just ill-advised as there was no backup. Magnetoatomic drives were tested technology that could be trusted to put out cruising force nigh-indefinitely, but there was still that fact that if they went or the reactor browned out for whatever reason, a ship held up by nothing but her own force would quickly drop like a rock. It was something he'd always avoided if he had the opportunity.

He glanced over at Captain Mitchell. The man knew his ship and what risks he could take with her, and he seemed perfectly calm with it. With all the other technological advantages of the Chrinthani, it wouldn't have surprised John at all if his fears were unfounded. Mitchell had even made note of how many redundancies there were in Chrinthani design. If Petronia had half the sensors Longboard did, hell, even if it were still risky Davidson would probably take a chance on a stratosphere hover if it would help him get stranded men back home. Seth seemed confident, competent, and held a healthy concern for the good of his crew. Most importantly, the man didn't seem cocky in the least. Cocky men ignored their weaknesses and limitations and suffered for it; the more humble took them into account and overcame them. Davidson relaxed. Everything would be fine.

"So," he said in the lull in the action, then paused. He didn't want to ask about their technology, since it would either make him sound like a caveman or like he was fishing for weaknesses to exploit or strengths to steal. It may be dicey to ask about a war, since those were often emotional and meaningful things, but Mitchell had brought it up freely. "If it's not a delicate subject, and while both our crews do what they do best, what was the War of Freedom?"

[Chrinthanium]

The ship itself was not designed for low-altitude hovers. She would drift a bit, then Malani would need to correct her position. She would drop a few kilometers, then Malani would need to correct. It was more firing the stabilizers, boosters, and thrusters at regular intervals to keep her relatively stationary than any planned design. Longboard was a flying block, essentially. More square than aerodynamic, though there was a slope towards the bow of a minor angle to aid. Ships like this didn't launch from land-based platforms. They were assembled in pieces around the world then shuttled to a space dock above the home planet where each and every part would be connected to the other until the ship was finally built. However, a ship as big as the Longboard took more force to be moved from outside forces than just a gentle breeze or even a stiff wind.

Mitchell remained optimistic that the very young ensign could do the job. The man was not only the best navigator and helmsman he'd ever had the privilege to fly with, but smart as a whip. He knew the calculations required to keep a giant brick floating nearly stationary a mere 20 kilometers above a planet. Malani's only enemy would be the development of thunderstorms, which were common on this planet. Sudden thunderstorm development would require the ship to gain elevation to keep above it. It wasn't the wind or ever the rain, but the lightning. Random bolts of electrical discharge were not something Mitchell wanted around his ship even if there were precautions in place to protect the ship in just such an instance.

It was when Davidson asked about the War of Freedom that Mitchell's more positive personality gave way to solemnity. "The war." Mitchell sighed. It wasn't a topic he was too keen to discuss. The horrors seen by the captain in his youth were more than a child should ever have to see or know. But, his guest had asked the question, Mitchell would be obliged to answer.

Mitchell's eyes grew distant. It was as if the entire affair was playing across them in his mind. "It was one of the darkest times in Chrinthani history. An entire empire, at the time three systems large, under the united rule of one man so evil, so depraved, that ordinary people, after years of hardships, of oppression, of terror, stood up in one united voice and said they weren't going to take it any longer and rose up against the power that had, for more years than I can remember, made them suffer for the emperor's pleasure."

"His name was Alexander VIII. He was a usurper. Took the throne by force before I was born and sent the rightful imperial family into exile on a distant planet. The entire economic, social, and political system was single-handedly broken down by this man. People who were different: be it darker skinned, physical disabilities, mental disorders, who were gay, or anything other than an olive-skinned, light-haired, hard-working Chrinthani were systematically killed."

"When you were born you were given a career by the government. Assigned careers doled out to babies that would serve the empire in the manner the emperor thought best You would train your entire youth for that career. When your training was done, you worked. Didn't matter whether it was mining rocks from a planet far away, or broadcasting the news over his state-run media corporation. If you showed special ability in physical activities, you would be granted a commission to the military training schools. Those in the military were given special privileges. The rest of us, well, we were just laborers."

"The situation grew worse. Those who dared defy the emperor were sent to camps where they were never heard from again. If there was an accusation against you, or anyone in your family, they came in the night and hauled you off. They said there were trials, but, it was far from fair. If the Secret Police got you, it was a guaranteed death sentence."

Lt. Franklin chimed in, "I remember my father. He was accused of instigating a revolution against the emperor because someone claimed he'd spoke out loud against the emperor. There was no truth to the rumor. But that's all that was needed."

Mitchell's hand began to shake as his pulse began to race. "I was selected by the government when I was 15 to become a Protector of the Race. At the time I had no idea what that meant. My mother, on the other hand, tried her best to stop it. Didn't work. I was shipped off to a camp outside the capital city. We were given a strict diet, required to do extensive physical training, and educated--brainwashed, really--by the powers that be. I thought it was an army gig. But they came in the middle of the night. They took us from our rooms into a medical examination room. I had no idea what was going on. I was so scared. They stripped me naked and strapped me to a table. With a syringe, they took my semen. They just inserted the needle above and took it. The pain was so bad. They just stole it. Who the fuck does that to a kid?"

"My father heard about what happened. He was mining rocks on the 7th planet in our home system. It was a forced labor camp because they found anti-imperial propaganda at his desk at work. He joined a growing underground resistance that launched the first attack on imperial power. They overthrew the military government of the planet and commandeered several space ships. War ships, John. Small, simple war ships. They launched attacks against outposts in the home system. The resistance grew as news began to spread. They liberated Katus, the 4th planet in the home system where the rightful emperor and his family had been exiled. Nicholas Thornton would turn the ragtag resistance into a professional army. The war was at hand. For five years a war of attrition was fought. 400 million died in that war. The imperial government didn't differentiate between resistance and non-resistance. They just began murdering anyone they wanted."

"But, in 2157, the resistance won. They pulled Alexander VIII from his palace and drug him into the street. He was hung by his heels while still alive. They slit his throat and allowed the blood to drain slowly. When he was dead, he was thrown into the river naked never to be seen again. Nicholas Thornton would be restored to the throne and then, he gave up power. He just gave it up. Fearful of another despot in the future, he gave the power to rule to the people. He was kept on as a figure head by a grateful people. My father died in the war. So many of us know people who died"

Mitchell turned to Davidson after he seemingly snapped out of it, "CSC was born after this war. The space program during the Reign of Terror was a military branch. It was designed to conquer other races if they were ever discovered. But, the CSC replaced the old space corps. We were given a new mission. A mission to seek out new life, to befriend them, and to initiate diplomatic relations. Most of our war ships were destroyed. The rest were stripped for their contents and used to build new ships for scientific research. This ship, a Quiksilver-class, well, she was the mother of all ships. Capable of prolonged space travel. The most advanced technology in the entire CSC is aboard this ship. Designed as a flagship for a new empire. An empire of peace and prosperity."

-----------------------------------------------

"We've been walking for hours," Kyran said as he pressed forward. "I'm so tired."

"Just another kilometer," Zach said.

"Slater, stop crying. You've never had to do physical labor, have you?" Livonia said. "Cause your daddy's an admiral. Shut up and move."

"Hey, Liv," Ian interjected, could you at least cut him some slack? I'm tired, Zach's tired, and you're even getting tired. We just have to go about another click and we're there."

The four continued to press forward against the will of their own bodies. They sweat and blood mixed as they began to see the abandoned space port. It retained a definite space port shape, but portions of it remained simply unbuilt or partially built. There were three fully-completed buildings, mostly storage where non-perishables, clothing, and things of the like could be stored for those who would come down and finish the project.

"Is there a beehive around here somewhere?" asked Ian.

"Uh, why?" Kyran said.

"I can, I mean, I swear I hear a buzzing." Ian said.

"Buzzing? I think I hear it too," Zach said. "Seems to be getting louder. I don't think it's bees. Doesn't sound like an insect."

The began to look around to attempt to locate the buzzing. From a small clearing in the tree canopy, Livonia noticed something moving. Something she'd never seen before. She began to move quickly to find another spot where she could peer up. When she found it, she noticed something very, very odd. "Hey guys, what is that?"

Zach looked in the direction she was pointing, "well, that looks like, uh, wait, what is that? I..... I've never seen anything like that before. It looks like some form of aircraft?"

"Aircraft? Hey!" shouted Livonia as she started waving her hands. "Hey! Hey! Down here! Hey!" Her hope was that the person in whatever form of aircraft that was could actually hear her from the ground over all that buzzing.