Mission to Minerva

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Kles was working through the week's requisition lists but his mind was not really on the job, when the phone rang on Corporal Loyb's desk. The rest of the unit were drawing kit for a forced route march. Typically, Loyb had gotten himself excepted for office duty.

"Yes, sure, I'll tell him." Loyb replaced the phone and looked up. "Lieutenant Boros to report to the OC's office," he said. "At once."

"Oh… sure. I'm on my way." What had he started now? Kles nodded, stood up, buttoned his jacket, and pulled on his hat as he turned toward the door.

"Looks like they've got it in for you today," Loyb called after him.

Kles tried rehearsing explanations in his head as he headed toward the Admin block. He hadn't realized it was a security violation… No, that wouldn't wash. If he didn't know that, he qualified for being busted back to private. They'd done it to test the security measures, but he hadn't had a chance to report it… So why hadn't he reported it when he delivered the message from Wus Wosi at NEBA? He didn't have an answer. He'd just have to resign himself to taking whatever came of it, he told himself.

The orderly sergeant rose, beckoned, and opened the OC's door as soon as Kles entered. Kles went on through. The unit commander was already there. It looked serious. Kles removed his hat and saluted. "Lieutenant Boros reporting as ordered, Sir."

"At ease, Lieutenant," the OC said.

Surprised, Kles relaxed. Then he saw that the OC's expression was not critical; in fact, it seemed more a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. He shifted his eyes to find the unit commander staring at him wonderingly.

"Well," the OC said.

Kles waited. Then, "Sir…?"

"You don't know?"

"Know what, sir?"

"Haven't you heard the radio anytime in the last hour?"

"No, sir. I've been on duty in the stores."

"Oh, I see. The President's plane was diverted. There was a Lambian plot to overthrow King Perasmon, but it has been stopped. My first assessment would be that a course that would almost certainly have led to full-scale war has been averted."

"I… didn't know," was all Kles could think of to say.

The OC regarded him expectantly for a few seconds. "You might be wondering how that could be known so soon, and how we can say already that your warning was genuine," he said. Kles was too confused just at that instant to have said with certainty what day it was. "The confirmation came via an agency of an astonishing nature that has only just revealed itself-as far as I can make of it at the moment, anyway. I'm still not sure I believe it myself. But we have someone here who can apparently explain it better." The OC nodded to somebody on the desk display facing him, said, "He's here now," and pivoted the unit around for Kles to see the screen. It showed an office or some kind of working environment, with figures in the background. A couple of them were wearing what appeared to be Lambian uniforms. Kles looked back at the OC questioningly. And then a somebody moved into the viewing angle, leaned forward to adjust a control, and then her face broke out in a smile of delight as she recognized him. It was Laisha.

"Kles! I don't know where to begin. You know you saved the president and King Perasmon, don't you? It was part of something bigger that involved a revolution here. But there's even a lot more to it than that. I don't understand most of it myself yet. But I've got a couple of people here who were very concerned about it all, and you've saved some kind of complicated plan that they've been involved in too. They want to say thanks to you personally. Will you talk to them?"

"Well… sure…" Kles's mind was turning too many somersaults to take it all in. Laisha was biting her lip, as if to stop something exciting from bursting out.

"Here they are. There might be a problem with language because their computer that normally translates has got problems, but I'll do my best. Er, get ready. This might be a bit of a surprise…" Laisha looked away. "This is Kles."

Kles's jaw dropped, and his eyes bulged as the two Giants moved into view on the screen…

The room could have been intended for meetings or informal conferences. It had a couple of massively solid tables surrounded by upright chairs, along with an assortment of couches and more commodious seating around the sides. Two large bay windows with heavy, braided drapes looked out over what appeared to be the front area of the building. The walls were decorated in somber, subdued patterns giving way at intervals to alcoves containing vases and ornaments, and pictures of important-looking Minervans. A bit old and staid by contemporary Terran standards, Hunt supposed, and the carpet had seen better days; but it was a big improvement on the place they had been held in previously, down in the basement.

Following Freskel-Gar's surrender, forces loyal to Perasmon had taken over the Agracon and removed the prince and his would-be revolutionaries to oblivion or whatever retribution would be decided. Wylott and a handful of Jevlenese who, for whatever reason, had been left behind at another location outside the city were also being rounded up. Thankfully, none of that was Hunt's concern. He had been joined here not only by his own companions but also by the Cerian girl that he had met briefly, along with the remainder of the Cerian delegation that she belonged to, who had been similarly detained. Apparently, there were more Cerians in another building somewhere.

The Lambians had provided food and drink and were trying to make everyone comfortable. An officer that Hunt took to be on the commanding staff of the force now in control had explained that they were awaiting the return of the two national leaders, who wanted to meet them all personally. Meanwhile, three Lambians had been left sitting near the door, by a table where an urn containing a hot beverage of some kind had been placed. They were there to take care of anything more that might be wanted, not as guards. The room's strange mix of occupants gathered that they were definitely to consider themselves no longer captives, but guests.

Most amazing of all to the Minervans, of course, was the presence of the Giants. Although the full story would have to be recounted for Perasmon and Harzin, the Lambians who had been coming and going to check for anything that might be required or on other pretexts were unable to contain their curiosity. In return for the snippets they managed to pick up, they provided as much news from outside as was available at the present time.

Nobody knew if any message from ZORAC had played a part in causing the Cerians to divert the flight. One of the Cerian delegates, however, had recognized the danger as soon as Freskel-Gar's soldiers began taking over inside the Agracon, but he had been apprehended before he could get a warning out. However, another person whom he had told had managed to send a message to her soldier boyfriend-of all people-and checking with the Cerians had confirmed that their Presidential Office had indeed acted in response to information received via the Cerian military. She was none other than the translator that Hunt had met downstairs. Her name was Laisha. She and her boyfriend, as far as anyone could tell, had done as much to bring about the day's outcome as anyone.

Frenua Showm seemed the most moved by Laisha's story. Laisha had responded that there was something the Giants could do if they really felt they were in her debt. If the Lambians could get a connection to the boyfriend in Cerios who had alerted the Cerian authorities, would they let her introduce them to him? Hunt hadn't been able to piece together through all the clumsy language and improvised translation exactly why it was so important, but in characteristic Thurien fashion, Showm and Eesyan had gone away with Laisha and a couple of Lambians to see what could be done.

The Shapieron was moving closer in to Minerva, and the latest over the link to the shuttle, still standing outside the back of the building, was that a party headed by Shilohin was on its way down in the lander, flying under manual control. For Hunt, the news about ZORAC was like losing a personal friend. The few computer specialists who had come with the mission said they would try, but the chances of restoring it appeared next-to nonexistent. Even something like VISAR would have had little to work on with code that had been essentially randomized. It seemed that something of the same nature had incapacitated the missing probe, which had been out there all the time, engaged in some lengthy self-repair operation that its simpler structure and less severe condition had at least made possible.

Apart from those considerations, the main concern was the prospect of having to remain here. If they had indeed created a new reality, the irony now was that they seemed destined to live as a part of it. The knowledge hung heavily in the background of Hunt's mind like the funereal Lambian window drapes but he didn't feel up to dealing with it yet. It wasn't as if he were pressed for time, he told himself wryly.

With most of the more immediate questions at least partly answered, the company had broken up into talking in low voices with its own kind-Cerian and Cerian; Ganymean and Ganymean; Thurien and Thurien. Maybe it was because struggling to understand and make oneself understood was fatiguing. In Hunt's case, it meant he was limited to Danchekker, who just at that moment was polishing his spectacles. It was usually a prelude to speaking when he had been reflecting on something.

"It occurs to me, Vic, what an extraordinary book cousin Mildred would have been able to produce if she had returned for the mission. It would have had much more going for it than all those statistics and sociological observations, I would have thought… But then again, she wouldn't have had access to her market for it, I suppose. Unfortunate in many ways. You know, I would never have believed I'd ever hear myself saying this on the day you talked me into this antic, but I rather think I'm going to miss her."

"What do you mean, I talked you into? Wild horses wouldn't have held you back. And as I recall, Gregg Caldwell had more than a little to do with it as well."

"Yes, Gregg. And there's another one." Danchekker sighed and placed his spectacles back on his nose. "A lot to get used to. I think, given the alternative, I would willingly accept Ms. Mulling as part of the package if it meant returning. Is it really so beyond the bounds of possibility?"

"With no beacon for VISAR to home on, there's no way to locate us. Think of a needle in Jupiter made of hay."

"Um." Danchekker lapsed into a resigned silence. Hunt hoped Danchekker wasn't about to go off into a protracted nostalgia trip. He was still far from being up to confronting the implications fully in his own mind yet. After a minute or so, Danchekker said, "It's an intriguing thought. Right now, as we sit here, there is a Thurien out there at a Gistar, twenty light-years away, with Ganymeans on it descended from the ones who migrated from here long ago. Also, we have the Shapieron in orbit above us here. Back in our own universe, it was the Shapieron that enabled us to establish contact between Earth and Thurien. So why shouldn't it perform the same function here? You see my point. With contact to the Thurien that exists in this universe, we might be able to furnish them with enough information to create the means necessary to get us out of this situation and back where we belong."

Hunt looked at him sharply. It was a intriguing thought. Hunt had been too preoccupied with Freskel-Gar to give any thought to longer-term issues. But then, as he followed it through, he realized that there was a flaw. "But we're fifty thousand years in the past," he pointed out. "I'm not sure that the necessary know-how existed on Thurien then. In fact, I think they were still going through their period of stagnation. We could always try, of course, but I'm not sure there would even be anyone listening there."

"Um."

But Danchekker had a point nevertheless. If the means existed to make contact with Thurien, it meant that the potential was there for a joint Ganymean-human culture to come about as soon as the circumstances were propitious, without suffering the setback of Minerva's destruction and all the consequences it would engender. So, after everything, the mission was back on track, for precisely that result had been its whole purpose. The only problem was that as far as Hunt could see, it wasn't likely to happen while he was still around to see it.

A Lambian came in and informed them haltingly that the lander from the Shapieron was down in an open area not far away, and the Giants who had come with it would be arriving shortly. As the Lambian was about to leave, Eesyan and Showm were ushered back into the room, accompanied by Laisha. Eesyan nodded to Hunt in a way that conveyed it had been a worthwhile gesture, and then went with Showm to join Monchar and the two Shapieron officers. Laisha came over to Hunt and Danchekker, chuckling in the way of one who had just pulled off an enormous practical joke. "Wonderful!" she told them. "Kles was just too… how would you say?"

"Amazed?" Hunt offered the Jevlenese word.

"More than amazed. Was like his face is going to fall off. Wish you had been there. You see, all his life he has had… Interest? Fascination?"

"Okay."

"For the Giants of old. Then, to see them real… It was like in his dream. You understand?"

"I think so. " Ganymeans had been causing more than their fair share of astonishment all-round in the space of the last few years, Hunt thought. One of the other Cerians said something that Hunt didn't catch. Laisha turned away and began talking with them.

Hunt got up from the chair, yawned, stretched his arms, and moved over to one of the windows. Below was a paved court bounded by a wall of narrow stone columns like an enormous balustrade, through which two gates guarded by sentries gave access to a larger outer area. A railed fence on the far side ran in sections between square pillars surmounted by statues. Beyond was a wide street lined with stubby gray trees and buildings of massively square line and proportion, echoing the style of the furniture in the room. A twin-rotored helicopter type of machine was moving slowly above the rooftops. Everything seemed solid and gray. The type of city, Hunt thought, that a designer of early twentieth century battleships might have conceived. He wondered how typical this might be of what was looking like becoming the future home that he was going to have to get used to.

Just about everything else that his former life had been built around and toward which it had seemed to be heading was suddenly irrelevant. That was the fact, he told himself. Get used to it. At least he didn't have relatives who were all that close, or dependents to burden his conscience.

What alternatives were likely to present themselves in place of all those things now? Obviously they could look forward to a permanent special status here, with a reasonable expectation of enjoying just about anything that it was within the power of Minerva's rulers to grant. Hunt could certainly think of worse ways to start a relationship with a new world. "Never say, it can't be done because," was another thing his dad used to tell him. "Always say, it could be done if…"

With the Cerian-Lambian rivalry seemingly defused, the Shapieron here as a scouting ship, and a little Ganymean know-how thrown in, the program to move Minerva's population to Earth should move ahead rapidly. Helping to develop the physics needed for the requisite technologies would make an ideal role for Hunt-that alone could keep him usefully occupied for the rest of a lifetime. Seeing Earth as it had been would be a fascination in itself. Pioneered by a race that was already spacegoing, it would avoid the perils of being buried in people before they developed the means of expanding outward, giving it the kind of head-start that had benefitted Thurien. Definitely not all bad, he decided. Which was just as well, considering.

A movement nearby caused him to turn his head. Danchekker had collected a cup of the Lambian brew and come over. Hunt eyed it undecidedly. "What's it like?" He had been too strung-out by the effort of trying to keep up with events to have an appetite for anything himself yet.

"Quite agreeable, I have to say. Reminiscent of strong, sticky tea with honey. Also, an undertaste of what I recall vaguely as being not dissimilar to Irish whiskey, which should be to your liking." Danchekker took another sip and joined Hunt in his contemplation of the world. "All very solid and imposing," he commented. "Immutability in stone."

"It reminds me of some of those old black-and-white newsreel clips of winters in Russia," Hunt said. The difference was that Melthis wasn't far from Minerva's equator.

"Little concept, it would appear, of throwing up trashy piles of work pens purely for the purpose of maximizing short-term rentals. It seems somewhat odd. One would have thought that with migration to Earth being the race's single-minded objective, expressions of permanence would be low among their traits. An unconscious collective desire for security and a long-term future manifesting itself, do you think?"

"Could be. At least, all that's more likely to happen now." Hunt had the feeling that Danchekker was perhaps unconsciously expressing similar assurances himself. Hunt went on, "And you and I and the Ganymeans are hardly going to be short of work to do in the middle of it all. Just imagine, Chris, the whole Earth as it was. All those early animal forms that you've speculated about and tried to reconstruct for years, walking around, alive and breathing."

Danchekker's expression lightened a fraction as he continued staring out through the widow. It seemed that aspect hadn't occurred to him. Several seconds went by before he answered. "A fascinating thought. Fascinating indeed… It would certainly help with some of the notions of evolution that I've been reconsidering. The same genetic programs expressing different adaptations to varying environmental cues. The Thuriens have a completely different picture from our traditional view. Changes occur suddenly, all at once, in the form of repopulation by new forms and body plans following catastrophic mass-extinctions." Danchekker was about to go on, but Hunt drew his attention to a bus with a small escort of cars front and rear that had entered from the street and was crossing the outer space toward the stone fence.

"It looks as if Shilohin and the party from the lander might have arrived," Hunt said.

"I do believe you're right."

They realized that Laisha had come back over and was looking at Hunt. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

She spoke in an amalgam of pidgin Jevlenese-Lambian. "Can speak more? Sorry."

"It's okay."

"Cerians cannot believe ship is from future. Too many… what makes no sense with itself?"

"Contradiction?"

"Yes. We have more questions."

Hunt sighed. There was going to be a lot of this ahead, he could see, and without ZORAC it wasn't going to get any better. He might as well start getting used to it now. Just then, a uniformed Lambian hurried in and muttered something to the three sitting by the door. One of them called something to Laisha. She went over and talked with them for a minute or two with much head shaking and gestures, and occasional glances back toward Hunt and Danchekker. They waited. Then Laisha called them over. Hunt shrugged at Danchekker, and they joined her.

"From…" She waved a hand. "What is place where I was? First see you."

"Communications room."

"Okay. Is connection there to…" Laisha made an expansive gesture in the air. "Communications for all Minerva. Phones. Computers. You know?"

"Okay."

"Message comes in. Nobody knows where from. They think maybe is for Giants."

"A message has been received by the planetary net," Danchekker interpreted, trying to follow along with Hunt.

"What does it say?" Hunt asked.

"Not sure. Nobody understands. But is from person you know? Someone who says is VISAR."