Gibraltar Sun (11 page)

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

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

#

Chapter Eleven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would you do that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#

“Want to go to a party?”

“I beg your pardon,” Lisa asked.

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

“A party? Where?”

“Boston.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would he do that?”

Mark shrugged. “Prestige, a bigger bite of the budget pie, a desire to be one of the ‘beautiful people’? Who knows. They are spending a lot of credits on this thing, so you know it’s important to them. I told the director we would go.”

“What about my report?”

“Screw the report. Let’s play hooky.”

She thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Why not? We deserve some time to ourselves. Besides, I can get in some shopping.

#

“I love Boston!”

The two of them were in an autocab, slowly making their way toward the suspension bridge over the Charles River. The night was overcast and the only illumination came from the lamps of other vehicles and indirect radiance from passing buildings. Ahead of them, the lights of Cambridge and the towers of Harvard were visible through a light haze of fog. The heated roadway glistened with a thin layer of moisture left over from newly fallen and melted snow.

The flight in from Colorado Springs had been uneventful. They arrived at dusk the previous evening and took a water taxi across the harbor to their hotel on the Long Wharf. Their room overlooked the harbor and they left the curtains open so they could be awakened by the dawn.

Mark woke at first light. The previous evening’s weather prediction had been for light snow, and a glance out the window showed the clouds already gathering. It had been several decades since the Weather Authority had been caught wrong in a local forecast.

As he stretched, he thought back to the previous night’s lovemaking. He and Lisa had settled into a comfortable routine with one another. They were starting to act like an old married couple. Not for the first time, he wondered if he shouldn’t do something about that.

Rolling over, he ran his fingertips down the protrusions of her naked spine, reversing the action when he reached the swell of her buttocks. On the third transit, she stirred and asked sleepily, “What time is it?”

“Just after 07:00 hours.”

“Let me sleep!”

“No can do. Time and tide wait for no man. Besides, we have shopping to do.”

They ate a late breakfast in an alcove overlooking the harbor. They finished just as the shops around Fanuel Hall opened for business. That was their first stop. They shopped until lunch. Rather, Lisa shopped. Mark held her packages. Like most men, he failed to see the fascination shopping holds for women. Was it really necessary to try on everything in the store before making a selection?

After lunch, they took an autocab to Newbury Street, where the serious shopping began. Since Newbury was under the weather dome erected late in the last century, there was no problem with inclement weather. By the time they returned to their hotel, Mark was referring to their afternoon as the “Newbury Death March.”

Upon reaching their room, he dropped the packages on the bed and they began their preparations for the evening’s festivities. They showered, shaved, powdered, and primped. At precisely 19:00 hours, they called for an autocab and set out for the wilds of Cambridge across the river.

While Lisa studied the city out the cab’s bubble window, Mark studied Lisa. Her profile was silhouetted against the passing lights, showing a turned-up nose and lips that had been made for pouting. Her hair was piled high on her head in a formal style that reminded him of a wave breaking on a rocky shore. Her blonde tresses were sprinkled with artificial gemstones, making them sparkle in the passing lights.

Nor were they the only thing that sparkled. Long diamond earrings dangled from each earlobe, and a matching pendant hung around her neck. The pendant was set off by bare shoulders. The shimmering gown she wore was low cut, revealing more than it concealed, and expensive.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, gesturing toward the fur stole that had slipped down her arms to rest in the crook of her elbow. The fur was expensive, but synthetic, having been purchased that afternoon. A real fur would have cost a year’s wages.

She turned to him and smiled, “Some sacrifices must be made for the sake of fashion, you know. You men have it lucky. You should thank Beau Brummel.”

“Who?”

“Early 19th century Regency dandy and a countryman of mine. He popularized the style that eventually evolved into the modern man’s suit. Things have pretty much been in stasis ever since, meaning you get to bundle up while I have bare skin hanging out all over.”

“Hanging out very fetchingly, I might add.”

She bobbed her head, making the earrings glitter in the light. “I thank you, gallant sir. Is there any way I can repay the compliment?”