Contact With Chaos: Prologue

    To Dave Drake, Alexi Murphy, Nicki Fellenzer, James Caldwell, Chuck and Lynn Budreau, and Morgen Kirby

    For keeping me sane that year.

    The survey ship phased back into space five billion kilometers from 107 Piscis. As ships went, it wasn't much to look at. It was a small pod the size of a typical tug, with its large engines matched by a large hull-canker of star drive equipment. Its name was Hound Dog, in reference to its mission.

    It was a civilian vessel, but armed. Any ship registered in the Freehold of Grainne was capable of mounting weapons, and would do so whenever local customs or rules didn't forbid it. As this was an exploration mission, it made sense to prepare for possible hostile intent.

    The distance from the primary was a routine precaution against detection. Of course, this system, like all others so far, was uninhabited so no threats existed, but it made sense to plan for the eventuality. Sooner or later a system would be inhabited. Besides, it was safer in terms of navigation to phase in away from a star's gravity well.

    Within the ship were ten contractors and employees of Halo Materials Group, LLC. HMG was a multi-system supplier of high grade ores and crude materials, mostly metals. The phase drive's expense was offset by the ease with which it allowed planetoid and belt resources to be transshipped, in lieu of the expense of transmuting materials locally.

    In a very short time, the materials survey came to a hurried end. The third planet of this star had an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere and indications of plant and animal life.

    Jackpot.

    "This is a potential disaster," pilot Mark Helfstein said, sitting loosely in his couch. Hound Dog coasted in free trajectory, power at minimum, as stealthy as a civilian research vessel could get. The control room walls were all screens, showing photos and data. He could smell the company rep. That wasn't bad; it was an indication of how well the new aircycler worked. The ship had no smell.

    "This is a potential goldmine. More than a gold mine," said Damon Egan, the other occupant. He was the survey's official head. He knew materials science. It was clear he didn't know social sciences.

    "That's what makes it a potential disaster," Helfstein replied. He'd called Egan up to inform him of the event. He didn't want a pissing match.

    "First, we have to get a probe out." Egan was antsy. Very antsy. He twitched visibly in excitement.

    "First, we have to not get noticed by whatever is on that planet." Helfstein was damned sure going to stay calm for this.

    "Assuming there's anything down there. No one has ever found sentient life before. Check for radio or other EM emissions?"

    Helfstein sighed. "A lack of EM does not indicate a lack of civilization. They could use laser or maser tightbeam, for example, have cabled the entire planet for optical or electrical, or have some sub or hyperspace method of communication. If that latter is true, worry, because that's technology we don't have."

    Egan seemed to parse that. He held whatever he was going to say, and concentrated in thought for a few moments.

    "What do you advise?" he asked, turning and actually looking at the pilot at last. He drifted in position as he did so, experienced but not a master in microgravity.

    Not bad, Helfstein thought. Only five segs to do what he should have done in the first place. Who said executives couldn't learn?

    "First we check for EM," he said.

    "But didn't you—"

    "Then we can deploy a passive only drone through the outer halo, and slowly move in. This could take a month or more."

    "That's a lot of ship and crew time," Egan said. He shifted in the small command globe.

    Helfstein reflected that he'd wanted this job for the experience, the challenge and the money. In exchange, he had to put up with short-sighted, bean-counting middle execs who would either learn how to think long term enough to be managers and Citizens, or would dead end into third rate jobs for life.

    "Otherwise, we risk being found by something as powerful as us or more, with bigger numbers, that may be hostile. They could take us out, backtrack, and attack the Freehold. That would make HMG liable in court, should we survive the event."

    "Point," Egan admitted. "I'm more familiar with spectral readouts and cost analysis." Right. The kind of geek who was a narrow-focus engineer, then turned out to be not quite good enough, because he spent all his time schmoozing. So he turned the first class schmooze and the second class education into a job. Sometimes it worked. So far, he was aggravating, but not dangerous.

    The survey for intelligent life went smoothly, and took seventeen days. The initial passive scan of the outer system showed no EM, no gravitational waves, nothing any human outfit used for communication. Telescopic surveys showed no large IR emissions off the planet, apart from a few volcanoes, that would indicate large power plants or industrial cities. There were no indications of ships in trajectory or powered flight, no spacewhips or mass drivers tossing cargo.

    The second round of probes were slightly larger, with better resolution. There were no large visible surface facilities on the planet's satellite. The landscape hadn't been filled, cut or shaped in any large fashion. There were large areas of forest, desert and grassland along two continents and a substantial archipelago arcing between them. Areas of the grassland were geometrically precise and differentiated.

    "Cropland," Helfstein said. "That's how I'm calling it until we have better intel."

    "Cropland, but no modern industry?"

    "Yes, iron age, even bronze age had substantial agricultural zones."

    "So we're looking at primitive life," Egan said, alert and interested, tapping notes instead of speaking them, to maintain secrecy. As if everyone aboard couldn't see the throbbing commercial erection behind the currency symbols in his eyes.

    "Probably less technologically advanced, though there's no guarantee they don't have some odd philosophy of living in huts with bio-engineered crops, light and waste disposal. We've done experiments with that. A working society is possible. And even if they're iron age, I wouldn't call them 'primitives.' They could have a civilization in the billions. Unless we plan to exterminate them, we'll have to negotiate with them."

    "Of course we'll negotiate," Egan said. "It's a massive market we can exploit, and they'll do well in return in high tech goods and services."

    "I advise taking it slow," Helfstein continued his mantra. "I expect they're going to react far differently than humans."

    "All we need to do is find their motivations and needs, and work from there. You stick to piloting," Egan advised. "Economic development is my area."

    It's one of the mysteries of the universe that no matter how fast things can move under laboratory conditions, no matter what test equipment shows to be a "maximum" speed, rumors will always travel faster. They may not be accurate, however.

    Within the day of Hound Dog phasing back into Freehold space, people knew of something odd. Some had heard "alien attack." Others had heard another company/nation had beat them to the site. Someone using "common sense" insisted it was merely a complete failure to find anything of value, which explained the empty-handed return and refusal to release data.

    Within a day, it was bad tabloid news and largely forgotten, except by those with a professional interest. There were a lot of parties, however, with varied professions, who had such an interest.