Insistence of Vision

  Still he had one chance. Puryear was enjoying himself too much. His saber cuts were getting a bit broad, like those you might see in some action movie. And no surprise there. The Coss loved old two-dee flicks from the 20th and 21st Centuries. These very zords – slender metalloids that glowed and hummed, then crackled as they clashed – were inspired by images from that golden time of heroic fantasy, before the Coss arrived. An era when choreography ruled and practical fencing had almost become a lost art.

  Just hold on... Doni told himself, concentrating as a back and forth clanging of blades seemed to split the very air, obscuring it with fireworks.

  That’s right. Puryear’s weakness lay in his tendency toward gloating. He was adding little flourishes to each attack, relishing a powerful rush of superiority that arose naturally from the saber, more than any other weapon. A sense of dominance.

  While Doni knew a hard truth.

  The era of human lords is no more. Even if we become officers under the Coss, our role won’t be to lead.

  It is to entertain.

  And, when convenient...

  ...to die.

  There had been several brief openings, but he made himself wait, letting his opponent bear down, pounding on him harder and closer with every broad slash. Instinct begged Doni to answer every stroke with something just as potent and dashing, but he concentrated on doing the absolute minimum, deflecting a blow and then parrying, getting through each exchange with one rule in mind.

  Don’t slash. Don’t hack. As much as possible, keep the zord tip aimed at your opponent, as if held by an elastic cord. Let him think you’re conserving your last strength, when the real reason...

  Doni could tell when Puryear began playing his end game for the audience. Of course, a lot of other cadets were tuned in, watching either from their dorm rooms or the gallery above, beyond the mirrored ceiling.

  More sparks flew, but the blows were more glancing, the closer Doni allowed them to come. In response, Puryear started hitting harder, taking a longer windup before each whirling slash. Surely some of those watching right now must be Coss – rumor had it they tuned in from around the solar system – during the best student duels, laying wagers. If so, with their love of flash, would the odds be overwhelming, now?

  What about now? Doni thought, lowering his guard in a show of exhaustion that was only half-feigned, right after Puryear’s zord swung past his head. Would the other cadet take a guard post, as he had been taught? Reverse momentum to re-engage? Or –

  The taller boy grinned and kept going, swinging his blade in a gaudy flourish...

  ...and Doni turned his fingers so, rotating his own zord, so that the tip would happen to coincide in space and time with a small part of that flamboyant arc. Occupying that point in rendezvous with Puryear’s wrist.

  No sparks leaped from the point of contact. It wasn’t flashy, just a short electric zap that raised a sudden smolder of smoke from Puryear’s glove and a howl from his throat. Doni had to duck fast, as the other boy’s blade flew from his spasmed hand, tumbling colorfully, end over end, before sputtering out near the door.

  Puryear slumped to his knees, clutching his right forearm in his left hand. But to his credit, though his body wavered, he did not let go of consciousness. The fellow had guts, even if he gave in too easily to rash decisions. Of course, whichever Coss lord recruited him, those traits would likely be the very thing valued. The aliens were nothing if not good judges of human potential.

  “Disabling wound. Match terminated,” said the referee voice. “Is honor satisfied?”

  Unseen eyes were watching. Evaluating on so many levels, judging for so many traits. Victory was not the only criterion that decided which Coss livery a cadet would finally wear.

  I wonder what kind will recruit me? Doni mused. I won’t be amusing, I’m … efficient. Well, reliability had its virtues, perhaps on some lord’s boring security detail. Years of standing guard.

  Puryear knew about the watching, evaluating eyes, clearly. The tall boy struggled to straighten up, overcoming pain and nodding, even though he could not speak. At which point, Doni hurried next to him, taking the fellow’s weight upon one shoulder. And together they left the clean modernized arena, passing out of view from any audience, shambling into portions of Porcorosso that still bore stains from a final battle – the Last Stand of the Cadets who once died here, defending a forlorn Human Federation.

  Doni felt the power of his body, tuned and augmented by tech developed by Coss and human savants, trained and disciplined and hardened by the methods of an ancient warrior caste. By any measure, he was twenty times the fighter that any of those boys and girls had been, who died in these halls. And yet, each scar and blaster burn… and occasional, brownish splatter of vacuum-dried blood… reminded him.

  They were men… but what am I?

  And what loyalty shall I ever have, that compares to what they foolishly died for?

  Passing a space-window – a new pane that the Headmistress had brought with her from Earth – he glanced across a glitter of nearby asteroids and faraway stars, knowing that patience had its virtues. That opportunities await those who watch and learn and pay close attention.

  And yet…

  In time, I will find something that’s worth dying for.

  Or worth living for.

  WHEN WE OVERCOME

  ᚖ

  Mars Opposition

  ᚖ

  When the Martians came, they proved unlike anything we imagined. Elegant, dauntingly tall and gleamingly enigmatic, they spilled out of a bizarre craft that appeared at dawn – gently and quite suddenly – on the ELV launch pad at Cape Canaveral.

  We called the thing a ‘ship,’ for lack of a better word. In fact, it more resembled an outcrop of ocher desert stone, a jumbled rock-pile that had been yanked from some faraway canyon and somehow deposited in swampy Florida. Nobody would imagine that it flew, except that a dozen eyewitnesses swore they had seen it descend, swiftly and almost silently, at daybreak.

  For about an hour it just stood there, creaking and settling next to the gleaming derrick where unmanned space probes sometimes get hurled skyward atop pillars of flame. Pebbles and reddish dust – plus an occasional boulder – showered onto the concrete apron, covering scorch marks left by past fiery launches. Despite all the grit, we could tell the newcomers were far beyond primitive rockets.

  Finally, from what appeared to be the mouths of several caves, creatures started emerging.

  At first sight they seemed amorphous – hard to make out against the rocks and slanted dawn – slithering down slopes of glittering dust. But their forms changed before our eyes. Adapting to this environment? They seemed to unfold as they descended, rapidly gathering themselves upon slender, bipedal legs until several dozen spindly, multi-jointed humanoids finally stepped onto the concrete apron.

  Like newly emerged butterflies, all of them turned toward the sun for a few minutes, preening and stretching tall, revealing long torsoes covered with translucent, greenish skin that bulged in a pronounced hump across both shoulders. Soon each hump opened, spreading into a pair of diaphanous fans – like parasols, or wings – that seemed to firm and gain shape under full daylight.

  “The chief color is the same as chlorophyll,” commented Slade, using a spectrometer she had ingeniously yanked from the Cheng Ho spacecraft, hasty moments after the aliens were spotted. “Those winglike appendages must be collectors. See how they face the sun? These critters make their own food supply as they walk around.”

  Following her lead, several other Cape scientists were setting up instruments, adapting them to close-in views and peering excitedly at the newcomers, comparing notes till the first government officials arrived.

  “Why here?” someone asked. “Why not Washington, or the U.N?”

  Wasn’t that where aliens always came – in movies, that is – to the seats of deliberation, policy, and power? Or else dark country highways, intent on grabbing and probing another class
of folks.

  It dawned on us that perhaps these visitors had different values than movie producers. Other priorities than the UFO-faery creatures of our hallucinations.

  It fell upon Assistant Director Falker – the highest official present – to step forward nervously as the Martians approached. Tall and imposing, they did not appear to be armed, though many of them carried what looked like scrolls, silvery and covered with some kind of jagged writing.

  That seemed auspicious, at least. Perhaps they bore gifts of wisdom from the stars! Or technology. Cures for diseases? Engraved invitations to join the Galactic Federation?

  Or perhaps an ultimatum.

  Gotta hand it to Falker. Spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture as the leader drew near, he spoke hoarse but clear.

  “Welcome to Earth. On behalf of the people of the United –”

  The first of the tall aliens stopped in front of Falker, as expected...

  ...but other members of their delegation kept going, moving past the two of them, spreading out, heading for the dismayed crowd of spectators!

  “Hello,” the first one interrupted the Assistant Director in English. The alien’s voice seemed rich in tones of metal, soot and stone.

  “I seek information –”

  If the first visitor said more, we were too distracted to listen. For as the rest of the gangly creatures fanned out, each of them chose a different person in the throng of onlookers to approach. One stepped right up to Slade, ignoring her instruments and looking down at her from a great height.

  “Hello, I seek information,” this one said, reiterating the leader’s words, sounding like the grinding together of aged rocks. “I offer fair compensation, if you provide the datum required.”

  It reached into a pocket that had not been there a moment before... an opening that appeared along one rib of that long torso. The alien’s hand emerged, thrust forward and opened almost under her nose.

  Slade stared at glittering objects.

  Nuggets that had to be gold.

  A jumble of faceted slivers that could only be diamonds.

  “I believe you find these of value. I will trade them for information.”

  Slade blinked a couple of times, glancing to see that every space-visitor had chosen a different human to approach – from among those brave enough to remain when the delegation divided into a free-for-all. Though many fled, some of us stayed, rooted by curiosity, more powerful than fear.

  A strangled sound was all Slade managed, at first, as she stared at the small pile of treasure, then back up at the gangling space-visitor. Finally, she murmured.

  “Wha – what do you want to know?”

  With uncanny agility - and without disturbing a single gemstone - the alien used its other hand to draw forth and unfurl one of those glossy scrolls. Gripping a side with two opposable fingers, it sent two others snaking toward a column of text.

  “I seek the human being whose name appears here... eleventh on this list.”

  Peering over Slade’s shoulder, I saw that the scroll bore a column of names, much longer than ought to fit. Through some technological wizardry, the words – all written in a serifed, Roman font – multiplied in size wherever my gaze happened to fall. Microprinting became instantly readable.

  I recognized several names, including one the alien pointed to.

  Bill Nye

  Yes, the famed science popularizer and head of The Planetary Society.

  I nudged Slade, to get her attention, but she ignored me, hurrying to accommodate our guest.

  “You want to meet Bill? The guy’s got fans everywhere. Why, he’s right here at the Cape! Advising some new show for the Discovery Channel, I think. They were filming over at Pad One-A. But with all the commotion, I bet he’s already nearby.”

  “Thank you. Here is your payment,” the alien answered, pouring the small mound of nuggets and gems into her hand. Instantly more appeared. “I will pay you further to guide me directly to Bill Nye.”

  I had already spotted the man in question, still handsome and charismatic after spending his entire adult life – more than half a century – helping to push humanity upward, outward, beyond Earth’s cradle. As a matter of fact, Bill happened to be speaking to a different visitor!

  That creature was even taller than the one facing Slade. But Bill stood undaunted, with no apparent ill ease, peering at another of the silvery scrolls that alien held in front of him. With a smile he turned and pointed west while uttering a few words.

  When the newcomer tried to hand over a fistful of treasure, Bill shook his head, refusing payment for a simple act of courtesy.

  This had an unexpected effect. The alien in front of Bill Nye just seemed to get angry... or at least insistent, thrusting the glittering pile once again.

  Meanwhile, still ignoring my nudge, Slade was already accepting her second fee. “Come on,” she told her alien. “I’ll introduce you to Bill.”

  All around us a hubbub of confusion intensified as the space-visitors behaved in a manner never seen in film depictions of first contact. After speaking to some individual for a few minutes – and then handing over payment – each of the aliens simply turned and walked away! Several took the road leading west, toward Kennedy Space Center headquarters and the town beyond. Others headed cross-country, on diverging paths. Two aimed straight north, into a Florida swamp!

  “Sorry if I offended you,” I heard Nye tell his own visitor – one of the last remaining – trying to ease the creature’s agitation. “I said I’ll be happy to help you find Louis Friedman. I’d do it out of simple hospitality. But I see that it’s culturally important to you for there to be some quid-pro-quo. Some fair exchange of value. So how about you pay me with information? Like where are you from? What’s your name? Why are you looking for my friend Lou –”

  He stopped as our alien approached in long strides, interrupting.

  “You have been identified as Bill Nye, whose name appears on this list,” it said, as Slade and I hurried to catch up.

  The taller creature turned, its parasol-wings fluttering in an angry display that flashed from green to spirals of deep red.

  “You are interfering in a legitimate transaction,” it told Slade’s alien. “This one named Bill Nye has demanded specific information as payment in exchange for a service already rendered.” Turning back to Bill, the taller alien said – “Your terms are satisfactory. Here are your answers. I come from the planet you call Mars. My name translates as Wandering Stone. In my language it is pronounced –”

  We never got a chance to hear the name in its native tongue. Because at that moment the shorter Martian – the one who had spoken to Slade – took out a slim gray object and shot Bill Nye dead.

  ᚖ

  Commotion does not begin to describe what happened next, as most of the humans took flight amid screams of terror.

  That part briefly resembled some tawdry sci fi movie, though none of the remaining aliens seemed at all interested in pursuing. Soon, just a few of us were left, stunned, watching in riveted silence as two green aliens confronted each other over poor Bill’s smoldering body.

  There came a furious exchange of irate noise between them. You didn’t need translation to guess what was being said.

  “You interfered in my legitimate transaction!” rattled Wandering Stone, drawing forth a weapon of its own.

  “I offer compensation,” the shorter Martian seemed to answer in the same grinding dialect, keeping its wings folded while swiftly presenting a handful of small objects. I noticed that they weren’t gold nuggets or diamonds, but little cylinders. Probably vastly more valuable.

  Wandering Stone paused, contemplating the pile. Then, in a blur, the gun was gone and the pile snatched up. Deal concluded.

  Turning, Wandering Stone fixed a hard unblinking gaze on me. I tried not to quail.

  “I seek the direct heir of Bill Nye, in order to fulfill my obligation. I must finish answering the questions that he asked. Then I will need f
urther guidance to find Louis Friedman. I am willing to pay.”

  Meanwhile, Slade was confronted yet again by her own Martian.

  “You performed excellent service, guiding me to Bill Nye. Now I request further information. I will pay you to direct me to the next person on this list.”

  When the scroll was thrust again before Slade, she let out a yelp and ran.

  I was not far behind.

  ᚖ

  During the week that followed, we all experienced a weird sense of helplessness as almost fifty tall, iridescent-green Martians spread out across the United States.

  The government tried to keep everyone calm. After all, this didn’t look like an invasion. Not by any standards we could recognize. No giant battlecraft hovered over our cities, demanding surrender under threat of mass annihilation.

  There had been one profoundly violent act – true. But every other phase of this interplanetary encounter, before or after, had been courteous, personally forthright – and profitable to whichever individual human being got attention from an alien.

  That aspect – their fixation on making a fair deal – seemed fundamentally reassuring at some level. Business, after all, is business.

  So the death of Bill Nye must have been some kind of aberration. A misunderstanding. Poring over footage from the moments leading up to the shooting, pundits and scholars puzzled over what inadvertent gesture or word Bill must have performed, to provoke that sudden, violent response.

  “Remember how many times human beings misread each other, during the age of European exploration,” one historian reminded. “And those were just different cultures within the same species! Something is going on here. Something we haven’t figured out. And as the weaker ones, we had better figure it out, real soon.”