Cold Eyes (First Contact), page 25
Dali’s quiet.
“And your name?” she asks. “Dali? What does it mean?”
“Our names don’t have meaning,” he says. “I was named after a famous painter, but I’m nothing like him.”
Rose doesn’t seem to grasp that point. She responds with, “A painter? One who deals in paints? Or sells paints? Collects paints?”
“An artist,” Dali says. “One who brushes paints on a canvas to create a picture—a painting.”
The alien eyes him with curiosity. “And this is a common occupation on your world?”
“No. Not everyone can paint. Well, as a child, most people toy with finger painting, but for him, it was a passion. He, um. His paintings were…”
Rose tilts her head slightly, wanting more information.
“How are you speaking to me?” Dali asks, wanting to direct the conversation and get some answers.
“Vocalizer,” she says, pointing at the device hanging from a strap around her neck. It’s chunky, being the size and shape of a fat donut or perhaps an oversized bagel. “It acts as a translation unit. The rebels stole an early prototype.”
“How early?” Dali asks, catching that important distinction. He wants to gauge how long the inhabitants of Bee have been monitoring and deciphering their communication. Rose seems to pick up on that as she ignores his question. She removes the circular device and hands it to him.
Dali turns it over in his gloved hands, looking carefully at it, aware his HUD is recording this interaction. The device is the size and thickness of the plastic pipes providing drainage beneath a sink. It flickers in reds and golden yellows as Rose says, “Speak.”
“This is amazing,” he says, watching as the device responds to his words, shimmering in a range of shapes and patterns. “It’s unlike any of our technology. I can’t see a charging point or an interface of any kind. The surface is smooth.”
“You have power in your suit?” Rose says.
“Batteries, yes.”
“Same.”
“And it’s detecting the sound vibrations through my helmet? Is it acting as a microphone?”
“Oh, no,” Rose says. “I thought it was clear. This is what you call radio. It detects the waves from your suit and responds on the same wavelength.”
Dali feels a little dumb. Oh, yeah, everything he’s hearing is coming through his Snoopy cap. The box-shaped prototype seemed to use sound waves as it was more muted, but the fidelity when Rose speaks is so real he never thought about how it worked. Her voice is coming through the tiny speakers over his ears.
“If you turn your suit radio off, it will not work,” Rose says.
“Got it,” he says in reply. Well, if nothing else, they know they haven’t rescued an electrical engineer.
The craft sets down in a courtyard. High walls surround paved stones and ornate plants. The side door slides open. Rose drifts out. The medics hang back. Dali steps down. His boots rest on the worn stone. The architecture is reminiscent of the temple he found by the beach, as is the wear on the stone. This place is old. Although the plants and grassy areas have been carefully manicured, they’re set in waist-high stone beds. None of this speaks of drifters. Why would creatures that float four or five feet from the ground lay paving stones? The walls surrounding the courtyard are weathered. For stone to erode in that fashion must take hundreds, perhaps thousands of years.
Massive, curling spires reach up from the corners of the courtyard like minarets. They twist and turn in a manner reminiscent of the antlers of a gazelle. They’re chrome-plated, catching the sun low on the horizon and reflecting it within the yard.
Dozens of guards float on either side of a broad staircase spanning easily fifty feet.
Stairs?
Why are there stairs?
The floating guards have polished breastplates. They’re holding spears that reach down to the ground, resting on the stone. Given the weapons Dali saw during the raid in the city, these are almost certainly ceremonial.
“I need to speak to my people,” Dali says, not liking the way he’s being drawn into the hierarchal society on Bee. “Can you put me in touch with the Magellan?”
Rose leads him on, saying, “In time.”
Dali’s aware he’s powerless. As pleasant as Rose may be, there’s no doubt he could be thrown in a cage, or worse, a test tube—and with no recourse. He’d like a definite yes from her. In time implies a yes, but it’s deferred. It’s according to her schedule, not his. He doesn’t push the point, letting it sit.
Stone columns reach up to a ceiling hundreds of feet above the ground. Drifters soar by on various angles and at different altitudes, crisscrossing the vast open chamber. There are no side walls, leaving the building open to the elements, but the floor is vast, stretching the length of a football field. Polished marble glistens in the eternally setting sun. At a guess, the columns are spaced every fifteen yards. They’ve been repaired. Dali’s not sure how obvious the motion of his head is within his helmet, but he picks out points where filler has been used to repair blast marks on the columns. Blood has been spilled in this throne room, probably on more than one occasion. He stops, running his gloved hand over a section, feeling the smooth curves pass beneath his fingers, but he’s careful not to touch a repaired portion of the column, making out as though he hasn’t noticed.
“What is this place?”
“The seat of all power. Come.”
Rose falls back beside him, flanking him as he walks forward. At the far end, an array of spears have been set, forming a semi-circle. Guards float stationary on the approach.
“At this moment, you will meet our Supreme Ruler and Infallible King. Our people will be joyful. They will see you presented to our Most Gracious Lord. This moment has much meaning for us.”
“Presented?” Dali asks. “As a gift? A trophy?”
“As a friend,” Rose says. “You are angry?”
For Dali, it’s interesting to note her narrow selection of words. It seems the translation device is still calibrating. Perhaps it’s learning. That she left it in his hand is telling. She seems to want to build trust even though Dali feels betrayed being paraded like a prize bull. Regardless of the dynamic here in the royal court, she seems genuine.
“I don’t like being used,” he says, slowing his pace. “Not for political gain. Not when I don’t know the stakes on either side.”
“Your presence alone is political,” Rose replies. “How could it not be so? You have arrived here from another world. For us, this is monumental. You have changed our world, whether you wanted to or not.”
Ribbons hang from the lofty ceiling, billowing in the breeze. Banners have been draped over the columns, but their ends are fixed in place. The wind gets behind them, but can’t move them. Fires burn within metal bowls on raised pedestals, casting a warm glow over the throne room. Everything within the court screams of pomp and ceremony. If Earth is any guide, the more protocols and formalities there are, the less actual legitimacy. Oh, there will be some claim to the throne, but it’ll be dubious. Looking at the aversion to modern technology in the throne room, it must be a historical claim. The actual ruler is immaterial. It’s the pedigree, the lineage that’s being emphasized by the shiny armor and long spears.
“This is most important,” Rose says. “For us. For you. Please.”
“I’ll behave,” Dali says, coming to a halt at the foot of a set of stairs arranged in a semi-circle. Six steps lead up to a raised dais. A blue flame flickers in an ornate, polished copper kettle.
A stream of drifters enter from high at the rear of the throne room. They’re in pairs. They descend rapidly, peeling away on either side of the kettle, and take their place on each of the stairs. They float almost ten feet up, making them imposing. Dali gets the feeling this is well-rehearsed. Greeting the emissary of an alien world is important to them. The king or queen or whoever they are, descends last of all, holding a golden rod reminiscent of a scepter. The ruler comes to a halt directly in front of the kettle. Blue flames are visible through the creature’s flotation bladder. Thick burgundy robes hide all but its hands, hanging down almost to the marble floor some ten feet below him.
A royal page floats between him and the king. Its body shimmers with shades and shapes. Rose reaches down, squeezing the translation device in Dali’s hand, and he joins the announcement mid-sentence.
“—most valued and honored of life, ruler of all, king of the dominion, manager of sales, defender of the right, the light of the world, supreme of supremacies, giver of food, protector of the sea, picker of the field, pusher of the wall, the vast mind of all.”
Most of the time, the translation unit works flawlessly, but manager of sales, or was it sails, seems incorrect. Picker of the field? Pusher of the wall? Dali has his doubts about those titles. Maybe it meant breaker of walls? As for ruler of all, Dali suspects that’s an embellishment. Twelve light-years from Earth and ego still rules rulers.
“You may speak,” the king says now the introduction is complete.
“Greetings from Earth,” Dali says, holding his open palm up beside his helmet. “I come in peace—to bring harmony and understanding. Our mission is one of exploration and contact. We seek only to learn about you and your magnificent world.”
Dali hopes he hasn’t inadvertently committed any interstellar faux pas. Although his choice of words is neutral, he can only hope it translates in the same spirit. He wonders what Sandy, Helios and Kari will make of this. They have a distinct advantage over him. Whereas he was in shock following the explosion in the spire and caught off guard here in the throne room, they will be objective. Also, they have the luxury of replaying segments that interest them, whereas his path through this moment is linear. He only hopes he’s on task and represents them properly.
“Our two worlds have touched,” the ruler says. “We will talk with you and learn about your magnificent world. We will bring peace and harmony.”
With that, the king ascends, followed by his entourage trailing behind him. They peel away through the air one by one, leaving from the upper stairs first. Dali doesn’t say what he’s thinking. He’s tempted to point out that there were no questions. No curiosity. This was a mere formality. He’s confident the crew of the Magellan will realize that as well. For him, it’s interesting to note the ruler adopted his phrase, ‘your magnificent world.’ It seems the ruler is returning his compliment.
Like dignitaries on Earth, the photoshoot is all-important. Everything else is menial. The ruler might say talk and learn, but he’s clearly got a day spa appointment to keep. Of all the traits to be universal, it had to be arrogance. When it comes to political power, it seems those who need to learn are always far too busy. It doesn’t give Dali any confidence in the ruler’s decision-making. For Dali, to learn is to live. Anything else is mere existence. Oh, it need not be encyclopedic facts or scientific equations. Learning is the mind taking a deep breath. If all Dali learns is a little more about himself, the day has been well lived. The irony is, this alien ruler has probably taken part in hundreds of these meet-and-greets with various dignitaries from around Bee. Although this meeting was unique, with Dali being from another world, the king still couldn’t get past the tedium of such rituals. In that regard, Dali pities him and those under him. Perhaps Dali’s reading too much of Earth into the alien’s behavior, but it seems shortsighted.
Dali’s ready to leave, but he’s got nowhere to go. Rose neither speaks nor moves, so Dali does likewise, suspecting this is a custom when appearing before royalty. Once the last of the entourage have disappeared into a doorway high in the back wall of the chamber, she turns to him.
“That was good. That went well.” Dali’s a little unnerved by how she insists on that point. “Really good. Very good. Well indeed good.”
“You think so?” he asks cautiously, not convinced.
“Yes,” she says. “From here, we’ll take you to the Hall of Ages.”
We? It’s only now, Dali realizes they’re being escorted by two guards standing back, slightly behind him. No doubt they were ready to spear him if he’d threatened their precious ruler.
Hall of Ages
Dali walks to one side, flanked by Rose and the guards drifting through the air.
Tall bipedal aliens emerge on the edge of the building, obscured by the columns. They’re prowlers, but they’re working as serfs—cleaners. They’re the ones he’d like to talk to as they have no agenda beyond their service. He needs a broad perspective, but there’s a class structure at work. For now, he has to work with Rose. Above all, he needs to speak to Sandy on the Magellan. He’s waiting for the best time to push for, what to him, seems to be the obvious next step. What if in time turns into a hard no? Like those cleaners, he’s at the mercy of the drifters. For now, it’s wise to play along, but he doesn’t miss the pale aliens fussing over the dais.
What happened to Bob? Even with a show of lethal force from Rose and her team, she didn’t want to hang around on that spire. What is the relationship between these two sentient species?
And what the hell happened in the village by the sea?
Dali bides his time, trying to learn indirectly. Sometimes, it’s what’s not said that speaks loudest. Rose glossed over his meeting with the bipedal aliens. She was glib, dismissing them as religious extremists. It seems like a convenient diversion. Dali’s not so sure. The bombs that fell weren’t defensive. They weren’t even related to the snatch-and-grab to rescue him. There’s a war going on. Parading Dali before the ruler is probably a way of gaining propaganda points, but there’s nothing he can do about that. That he was brought straight to the royal court leaves Dali in no doubt about his value in rallying the cause—whatever that cause may be. Little do they know, he came here to die. Oh, Sandy might talk of rescue, but Helios is right. Dali’s running down the clock. If things turn nasty, he’s ready to flick the incoming air filter to 100% nitrogen.
Rose leads him to one side of the vast chamber and out into another courtyard. Dark flowers bloom, bathing in the distant sunlight. A fountain sprays water in the air. Bee’s intense gravity pulls the fine droplets back into the pond.
Dali uses a Velcro strap on the front-plate of his suit to attach the translation unit. It dangles below the rim of his helmet, bouncing lightly as he walks on, following Rose.
One of the curious aspects of life on Bee is that there’s no way to track time. The sun never wanes. The shadows neither lengthen nor shrink. Dali wonders about the impact of this on their psychology. How hard is change on a world where nothing changes? For him, days are marked by a dull ache. His forehead grows weary. His thinking slows. It’s only then he realizes he’s tired and needs to sleep. What that equates to in actual hours is impossible to tell. Is he still running on a twenty-four-hour clock, or is his circadian rhythm being stretched and contorted?
Rose is talking, but he’s barely listening. She’s waffling on about the architecture, the position of the palace between the two largest city-states on Bee, and the history of her species. In passing, she says, “And we have prepared somewhere for you to rest.”
“Wait. How do you know I need to rest?”
“Your blood chemistry,” she says, holding out her arm. A bracelet glows softly. She flicks it and a hologram appears. “Some of your blood factors are rising, others are falling. We may not know what these are and the role they play, but the steady change suggests a biological cycle that needs to be reset. Is this not the case?”
“Umm, yeah,” he says. “I guess.”
Dali’s never thought about the need for sleep as a physical response before. He’s only ever grown tired, but what does tired mean? It’s more than a mental state.
Rose says, “We too have such cycles, but over a far longer period of time.”
He walks into another temple with columns supporting a high roof. They’re more widespread, and the roof is lower, but beyond that, it has the same layout as the royal court.
“What is this?” Dali asks, seeing a long glass case reminiscent of a museum display.
Twelve different species of floating creatures have been arranged in a row within the case. They’re mounted on transparent plastic rods, mimicking their ability to float and allowing them to be viewed from all angles. There are inscriptions below each of them. It seems written language is a thing on Bee. Dali’s sure to catch that with the camera on his helmet. He lingers, wanting the crew on the Magellan and later on Earth to get a good look at the strange, cuneiform-like markings. They’re reminiscent of the shapes he’s seen rolling across the arms and legs of various aliens.
“This is the superior line,” Rose says. For her, this is a point of pride. She opens her arms, gesturing along the length of the display case.
“Not a phrase I’d use,” Dali says, realizing he’s seeing the evolutionary pedigree of the drifters down through the eons. These must be models recreated from fossil remnants, as the last one looks like Rose, but it’s 1/10th her size.
Rose is blunt.
“Explain?”
“We humans have had our own struggles with supposedly superior lines,” he says. “Only both terms are wrong. They’re neither superior nor a line. Evolution is a mess.”
“Explain?” Rose says again.
Perhaps she feels offended. Although that one word comes through exactly as it did before, he notices her flashing shades of color were slower this time. Whether that means she’s more thoughtful or annoyed is uncertain. Given the conflict he’s seen on this world, he cannot be silent. Rose is a scientist. She must understand the need for clarity.
“This,” he says, pointing at the first re-creation. “This is your remote ancestor?”
“At approximately sixteen billion revolutions, yes.”
“And a revolution?” he asks. “That’s the time it takes to orbit Luyten’s Star?”
“Luyten’s?”
“Ah, it’s the name we’ve given to your sun,” he says. “How do you measure revolutions when you only ever face your star? How do you know when you’ve completed an orbit?”
