The Cresperian Alliance (29 page)

The large starships began taking out Snapper fighter craft even as the ten clipper ships darted about just above atmosphere, striking at troop carriers.

Secretary of State Fellowes hurried into the Oval Office, where Waterman was now dressed and groomed. A contingent of diplomats waited just outside the door.

"We're fighting,” she noted.

"They started it,” Waterman retorted.

"I know. I saw.” She gazed directly at the president. “It seems the Crispies have developed a kind of—I think the science fiction nerds call it a universal translator. Well, it really isn't universal. It works on Earth languages, Cresperian, and what little of the Snapper speak they managed to pick up. They think it may help to communicate with the Snappers."

Waterman nodded. “Very good. Is your team ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"You realize this could go badly?"

"Highly unlikely, sir."

Waterman mentally shook his head.
Arrogant to the hilt,
he thought. “All right. I'll contact Admiral Terhune and ask him to put you on general broadcast to request a cease fire for diplomatic negotiations."

Since troops had already been strategically positioned near vulnerable areas, including non-allied countries, they were ready. The Big Red One, outfitted with the latest weaponry and joined by troops from Great Britain and Australia, spread out through Iran, evacuating as they went, and assumed defensive formations, then went invisible, whether by neck torc or active camo.

Moments after the allied troops were in position, the Snapper troop ships moved in. They landed in the terrain surrounding what was left of Tehran and seemed to fairly vomit armed aliens over the landscape. Beaks snapping and clicking loudly, they promptly began tearing into any structures or vegetation they saw with their lasers.

"NOW!” a voice shouted, and suddenly the Snappers began to do one of four things. They either disappeared entirely; literally fell into pieces; developed multiple smouldering holes in their bodies, entrails falling out through the openings; or dropped to the ground with the strange orange fluid that passed for Snapper blood oozing from every orifice.

The troop ships converted to tanks instantly, laser turrets spinning about, firing randomly, trying to locate the source of the attack. A few disembodied screams sounded, but for the most part, Snappers just kept dying. The laser turret of a Snapper tank disappeared, along with about half its crew—the top half. The bottom halves merely sat where they'd been, spilling orange blood and green guts over the floor of the tank. The stench was somewhere between dog shit and rotting fish.

"Target the turrets!” someone shouted, and the Snapper tanks came under a barrage of fire. Invisible disintegrator rays, red and green lasers, concussion cannon, and teleforce rifles all converged on the tops of the tanks. If Snapper infantry happened to get in the way, they were mowed down unceremoniously.

The smarter tank commanders used the direction of laser fire to target Earth troop emplacements, and took out a few that way. But the other weapons were essentially invisible, and quickly the laser emplacements wised up, firing in short bursts rather than continuous sweeps.

In short order the first wave of Snappers had been reduced to a remnant, scrambling for cover and attempting to fire from behind rocks and scrub. Even those were soon eliminated, as soldiers outfitted with invisibility devices crept up behind them and either shot them, or simply knifed them.

The Snappers’ remains wafted a foul smelling miasma of death over the field of carnage. Several soldiers retched at the stench, even as medics began locating the wounded, and logistics officers relayed crucial information to their compatriots.

Bang and his unit were taking out Snapper fighters right and left, with considerable glee—especially those of the unit that had been on the spy mission to Cresperia.

"This is like... what's that old saying?” Jan Wersky exulted. “Shooting fish in a barrel?"

"'Bout like,” Tomlinson agreed with a grin. “Don't get cocky, though, guys. We still don't know for certain what the biggest ships can do."

"True,” Bang agreed. “A lot of the fighting in orbit was already done when we got there.” He paused, turning to his chief. “What say we find out, boss?"

"I think—hold one,” Tomlinson said, putting a hand to his earpiece. Suddenly he looked up. “HOLD YOUR FIRE!” he shouted down the line of gunners. “I REPEAT—HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

"Hold your fire!” Bang reiterated on his gunners’ comm.

The big cannons’ whines silenced to a hum.

"Why am I not surprised?” Terhune remarked, disgusted. “All right. IF it works, it beats hell out of slugging it out to the last being. Tell her to get ready with that gizmo, put it in Snapper mode, and I'll pipe her through on broadcast."

"Got it, Wayne,” Waterman's voice came through. “You get that, Sandra?"

"Yes sir,” the Secretary of State's voice sounded. “I'm ready."

"Go,” Terhune ordered.

"Alien race,” Fellowes began, “I speak for this planet, Earth, and I would like to invite you to meet me in the central plains of the smaller of the two main northern land masses so that we might put an end to these hostilities."

Terhune rolled his eyes at the sheer egotism of the declaration.

But to his surprise, the Snappers ceased fire.

For five full minutes he waited.

Then the incoming communications crackled, and a series of snaps and clicks came through.

When it was over, Terhune snapped, “Translation."

"Playing back,” Fellowes reported.

"Earth speaker, I, Admiral Snpplk of the People of the Empire of Klkppt agree to your invitation. We insist that our peace talks be broadcast to your entire planet in whatever technology you use, and we will, in turn, broadcast it among our fleet ships and back to the capital of the Empire. It is essential that all involved be witness to this momentous occasion."

"Wonderful,” Fellowes’ voice lilted. “We would do this in any case, for such an important meeting. Our tradition is to serve our guests a meal. What is your preferred food?"

Several more minutes elapsed. Ship to ship clacking ensued, and the air to ground line remained silent. “Gene,” an irked Terhune addressed his communications officer, “would you please ask for translation—again?"

"Aye, sir.” He turned to his console, putting a hand to his earphone as he murmured into it. Moments later the translation was relayed up to Terhune's flagship, and from thence to the rest of the fleet.

"We are carnivores. Whatever animal meat your planet has will suit. We consider brain tissue a delicacy. Fermented blood is our preferred drink, but if you do not have any available, simple distilled water will do."

"Um... yes,” Fellowes’ voice said, obviously trying to hide her squeamishness. “How do you prefer it cooked?"

"No cooking. Raw."

"I... see. Very well. We will have a meal together as soon as your ambassador and his or her team arrives."

"Excellent. We see the area in question. Please indicate where within the area you wish to meet. Our embassage will join you there at the time you set."

"Son of a bitch,” Terhune said in surprise. “This might work after all."

This time, a triumphant sounding Fellowes announced, “I will have a transmitter beacon set up which your shuttle can follow to the landing site. We will meet there in two hours—uh, one twelfth of the rotation period of Earth."

Another pause, lasting only three minutes this time, before the popping, snapping, and clicking response came. Fellowes played the translation for Terhune without prompt this time.

"Message understood. Embassage being assembled."

"This,” Terhune murmured to himself, “should be interesting."

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A beaming Sandra Fellowes awaited the Snapper ambassadorial team in the hastily arranged facility in the old ghost town of Coronado, Kansas. A quickly established prefabricated building, attached to several inflatable structures, sat just outside the ruins of the old town. Her own team, consisting mostly of handpicked proteges, seemed a mingle of nervous, apprehensive individuals wondering what exactly they'd gotten themselves into, and those just as cocky as Fellowes herself.

"Susan, call that damn admiral and tell him—no, order him—to make sure to let the ambassador's ship through,” Fellowes demanded of one of her assistants. “I don't want those idiot soldier types to screw this up."

"Yes ma'am,” the somewhat meek assistant replied, and scurried off to comply.

"She ORDERS? Since when is the Secretary of State in the military hierarchy?” Terhune wondered, gazing at the State Department employee in disbelief. “I'll do it in the name of peace, not in the name of Sandra Fellowes. When she earns a half a dozen stars on her shoulders, then she can order me around, missy. Meantime, I'll follow her REQUEST."

"Yes, sir,” Susan murmured apologetically. “I- I'm sure that's what she meant."

"Yeah,” Terhune said, softening his tone as he realized this was only a messenger, and an uncomfortable, possibly unwilling one, at that. “Listen, you don't have to work for her, you know. Ask for a transfer. I can think of several good positions open right now."

"I... could you, sir?"

"You turn in your resignation with my response, and get the hell out,” Terhune told her. “I'll see to it transportation is waiting for you by the time you can do that, and you'll be in my office an hour later. You won't even have to see the Snappers,” he took an educated guess.

"Oh, thank God! Yes, sir!” Susan lit up. “I've been terrified of meeting them. I've never even met a Crispy, but I hear they're much nicer."

"Consider it done,” Terhune murmured. “I need some more staff anyway, now I'm on the Joint Chiefs. If you've put up with Sandra for...?"

"Since the appointment, sir."

"You'll do fine,” Terhune grinned. “Now go report and get the hell out."

"Yes, sir!"

Terhune turned to his comm officer. “Gene, get Salter on the horn, if you would, and get high speed transport for that poor woman en route, and paperwork for her transfer under way."

"Absolutely, sir."

The heavens were static; Earth's fleet had set up their defensive formation, and the Snapper fleet positioned itself in counterpoint, but neither fleet moved, other than to maintain stationkeeping.

Twenty minutes before the appointed rendezvous in Kansas, a troop carrier was released from one of the Snapper spaceship carriers. It broadcast a prearranged signal, worked out via Fellowes’ team, that it was on a mission of peace.

"Order all ships to hold their fire,” Terhune said, “and remote the orbital emplacements to prevent firing."

"Aye, sir,” his first officer said.

"Let it go, Bang,” Tomlinson ordered. “Word down from the Admiral himself. This is evidently the Snapper ambassador."

"Roger that, sir,” Bang said, relaying the order down the port gun emplacements. “Maintain cease fire."

Piki and Peggy emerged from the MASH room, and watched over Bang's shoulder as the video depicted the lone ship entering Earth's atmosphere.

When the ship had disappeared, Bang turned to his bride. “Did you pick up anything, Piki? Is this going to work?"

"I honestly cannot say, Bang-bang. I have never encountered these Snappers, other than distantly in our covert mission, and I cannot even perceive any quantum entanglement that might give me a clue,” she told him, heart shaped face solemn. “I... do not know."

Bang sighed, then hit the switch that put him through to his gunnery crew. “I know we're under a cease fire, but stay alert, guys and gals,” he told them. “We know what they did at Swavely's Planet, Faux Eden, and Cresperia."

A chorus of “Roger” was his response.

Sandra Fellowes was irked. Her lead assistant had just walked out on her at what Sandra considered the pinnacle of her career, and that put her in an extremely... bad... mood. “No such thing as damn loyalty any more,” she grumbled. “And after all I did for that girl, she abandons me just when the whole team needs to be here. I can't be EVERYwhere at once.” She spun to another assistant. “Make sure a scathing recommendation letter follows that woman,” she demanded.

"Ms. Fellowes, we have an incoming Snapper ship, broadcasting the prearranged signal, and homing in on our beacon.” Fellowes didn't even recognize the young man who gave her the report.

"Very good,” she said, suddenly all smiles again. “Teddy,” she requested her makeup artist and hairdresser, “do be a dear and make sure everything is in place, won't you?” She held still like a movie star having her makeup touched up—which was precisely how she viewed herself.

Teddy brushed some stray wisps of hair back into place, hitting them with a touch of hairspray, then whisked a powder brush around Sandra's face. “There, Ms. Fellowes. Camera ready."

"Cameras on?” Fellowes barked.

"Cameras on and rolling,” came the answer. “We have broadcast."

"Let's go meet our guests, boys and girls,” Fellowes lilted, and she, her diplomatic team, and the camera crew went outside to await the Snapper ship.

The Snapper craft touched down lightly in the prairie grass next to the diplomatic center. Seven beings emerged. They had the bodies of giant duck billed platypi, complete with fur. But instead of a bill, they had long, hard, sharp beaks with teeth. Instead of arms they were possessed of furry, flexible tentacles, multi-tipped to serve the same function as hands with opposable thumbs. Their lower bodies more closely resembled kangaroos than anything Fellowes could think of, except for the fact that they had two tails, evidently for increased stability and balance.

The leader approached, the remaining six fanning out slightly. He spread his tentacles in what was evidently intended to be a conciliatory gesture, and emitted a series of clicks. The small translator around Sandra's neck spoke, “Greetings, Earth speaker. I am Tklktk, spokesperson for the Third Fleet."

Fellowes mimicked his gesture, spreading her arms wide. “Greetings, Speaker for Klkppt,” she declared. “I am Sandra Fellowes, Speaker for Earth.” An aide handed her another translator, and she took it, slowly offering it to Tklktk with one hand, while indicating her own with the other hand. “This is a translator. It will make our communications easier."