Contact With Chaos: Chapter Four

    He woke the next morning to his phone buzzing for attention.

    "Ballenger," he answered, half-groggy, well-rested as he always was in emgee, and set about wiggling out of his bag.

    "Lieutenant Shraybman, sir.  Just so you know, the media are here."   "When did that happen?"  He slipped his phone into the room's console and brought up video.  Shraybman popped into view at almost life size.

    "Russ reluctantly brought UN shills along, who are limited by their rules of 'fair' speech of course.  DSR had a few pet shills along.  The Jump Point is now intermittent while it's focused and brought online, and apparently some came through on a co-op, from Caledonia and the Freehold."

    "Are we still able to jam outgoing transmissions?"

    "We can when we want to, but they'll whine at once.  We can probably get away with it three or four times as 'technical faults,' after which we will have to let them have at it.  I recommend saving those opportunities."

    "Yes."

    "There are two requests for interview.  Do you want to take them?"

    He grimaced.  "I don't want to, but I really have to."

    "I can take them, sir.  It's not a problem."

    "Except for the perception that it's a military mission, especially to non-Freeholders."

    "Not at all.  I'm Capital District Reserve.  I just happened to be aboard for training at the time.  I'll have the XO write me permissive personal duty orders for a couple of days, put on civvies, and you can have your office compensate me later.  All legal."  That was sweet.  "You're a diabolical bitch, Lieutenant."

    "Thank you, sir.  It'll be fine.  I'll be using these to my advantage," she said with a heft of her generous chest.  She grinned.  “Seriously, though, in civvies, they have no idea of my rank or status.  With your permission I’ll have the same done for Sergeant Thomas.  In civvies, she’s ‘Ma’am’ and harder to argue with.”  “Do it.”  Mark felt better.  If they wanted to play games with the rules, so could he.       The time from then until lunch was crammed with paperwork.  The initial landing would have close to a hundred people.  He'd started around ten, but that hadn't lasted seconds.

    DSR, HMG, himself, the UN, crew and security made it twenty.  Jelling had insisted more security was essential, between the craft, the persons and any risk of technological compromise.  Then of course, the Citizen had to have a large enough entourage for his position, as did Ambassador Russ.  More security to keep the UN in line was essential.  A linguist would be needed, a couple of culturalists, McDonald should fairly come along after all his work, plus engineering scientists to judge the native technology before any discussions.  Medical personnel, especially with the atmosphere.  Once it was that size, the press wanted to come along.  Shraybman and Thomas insisted the military would send documentation specialists for their own purposes, and as neutral observers.  The UN was invited to do likewise.  Add more security, and of course, engineers to secure a landing field and either erect sunscreens or build fighting positions.  Cooks.  

    The fifth time Jelling said, "We need more security," he replied in a restrained snap.    "I appreciate your professional paranoia, Captain.  If this were a combat mission, or hostage negotiations, you'd be the first person I would call.  This is a diplomatic and peaceful mission.  Even if there's some risk involved, we have to appear to be naïve, fluffy and gentle.  That increases the risk of casualties slightly, but the chance of actually coming across as peaceful a lot."

    "You're correct, sir.  Noted."

    Shraybman had appointed herself PAO, and was in civvies.  Her definition of landing wear was stretch slacks, ruffled sleeves and cleavage almost to her waist.  It was within contemporary news standards.  It also showed a lot of luscious looking flesh that she obviously did plan to use to her advantage. A deep breath or a tug at the lacing would have every male within sight looking at her, not Mark, combat troops or the aliens.

    "Remember there's a risk of injury from local life and possibly the atmosphere," he said quietly in passing.

    "You remember that, sir. If I go down, I can't do anything about it."  She grinned but it was a bit sickly.

"I've got your back," Jelling said with a nod.

    "As do I," said Thomas.  She was also in civvies, though far less flamboyant.  Jelling was in service uniform, modified with plastic buttons that looked like horn, field boots and gloves, spear and bow and a quiver full of ceramic-tipped arrows that looked knapped.  Her normal poise made her unmistakable for anything other than a killer, and there was no way she was going to be relaxed, given her demeanor so far.

    Hopefully, human body language wouldn't be discernible to the natives.  In case it was, he'd keep the military back and discreet.  The bona-fide offense would be uniformed for honesty, the rest in civvies for discretion.

    Nurin Russ arrived with his assistants.  They wore neat contemporary suits, dressy but not excessive.  Margov smiled politely and without guile, which really made Mark wonder.  She wore a very tasteful, basic tunic over tights.  Egan said nothing, settling for a nod.  He was the dressiest, but it wasn't too much, just pushing the envelope.  The scientists were a mixed bag.  McDonald and some of the older ones, like Zihn and Stephens, clearly knew how to dress for formal events.  A lot of the younger ones and scholar-students obviously had to borrow, share or fake it to look the role.  It likely didn't matter.  The aliens would have no idea what human clothing meant, even if they wore clothes themselves.  Still, other humans would follow, and it was important to have the first impression be held in regard.

    Mark was curious about the press, but decided it was best if he remained aloof and used the argument of being too busy to interact personally, while allowing the military to control their access.  He could play good guy and give them a few drabs of info to sweeten things.  The pair from the UN had one of Russ' assistants attached like a leech, and he clearly had ultimate say over their reports.  Wistfully, Mark wished for that much control.  He simultaneously loved the freedom the Freehold gave to the media, and loathed, despised the liberties they took with it.  It might be better than the alternative, but they were still ghouls.  Egan seemed to love their presence.  That said it all.  "Ms" Thomas and "Ms" Shraybman wandered in orbits around the three Freehold reporters between other duties, and Jelling's assistant/exec/second, a Warrant Connor, stood next to them with an angry scowl.  They looked nervous around him, which Mark enjoyed.

    Everyone seemed used to waiting.  It took until lunch to load the craft.  Part of the delay was due to Mark's insistence that everyone be scanned for metal at an intrusive level.  Even jeweled tooth inserts triggered the gear.  To his relief, everyone had taken his order seriously.  The palletized gear was checked separately.  Circuitry was either fiberoptic, molecular or encased electronics with minimal metal connections, those well covered in polymer.  The good news as far as the press was that they were dependent upon stealth military gear to transmit, all of which had to come through the encrypted channels on Healy before it would go anywhere else.  Still, their job was to get information out, and it undoubtedly would. He entered the umbilical tube to the front hatch, unable to see any of the outside even through the maintenance hatch ports.  It was completely ensconced in a launch cradle.

    The passenger section was fairly rudimentary.  The seats were better than troop benches with straps, but not individual.  Each entire row had to recline as a unit.     The loadmaster addressed them from the front as they got seated.  "Citizen, Ambassador, Doctor, ladies, men, welcome aboard.  It's not as comfortable as we'd like, but we wanted to save mass for maneuvering, and fit everyone in one craft.  Two more will remain in orbit, per the Citizen's instructions, while we make the initial landing.  Citizen, Jelling, McDonald, you have headsets to keep in touch with the command deck.  All, if you have any problems, address me.  Any soldier with experience in this type of craft raise your hand.  If you need basic help, check with one of those people first.  The pilot informs me we depart in about four segs, that's four hundred seconds or six point seven minutes for those not familiar with our clock.  Lunch will be field chow, I'm afraid, and you may as well eat now.  Once we enter atmosphere we'll be down almost at once.  Let me run through the standard safety briefing, as modified for this mission…"

    Mark gave that half attention.  He was familiar with it.  He did memorize the locations of all doors and hatches.  He caught the part about, "…only cardboard aerial flares and no modern weapons in the kits, so in event of a crash, ignore that entire section of the manual."

    He felt the pressure change as the hatches sealed, and the air took on a different odor, that of a smaller military craft.  This landing took both of Healy's Direct Ground to Orbit craft and one from the UN's Aracaju as backup in case rescue was needed.  The Healy had a larger lander, but it was intended for at least an expedient field or a one-way combat mission.  If need be, one DGO could take them all, but Mark and the Captain agreed that a staggered landing allowed better odds of recovery, simplified security with the additional personnel, and would reduce the appearance of a massive invasion.

    Thumping sounds indicated the docking clamps opening, and a slight shove of a pneumatic ram shoved the lander out.  Thrust built, detectable by acceleration and sound.  There was no significant feeling of it, as far as vibration went.

    His headset came live.  "Sir, this is Pilot Lieutenant Hensley.  Welcome aboard."

    "Thank you, Lieutenant.  I'm here."   "Good.  If I can skip the usual formalities, sir?"    "Please do."

    "Thanks.  We're dropping a set of beacons ahead of us by one orbit, thirty segs, to mark a landing field.  As agreed, it's in the large meadow just to the southeast of the Pythagorean.  My landing engineer shifted it slightly for best terrain.  We'll also pass over twice in lower altitudes, then hover before landing to ensure the natives have it clear.  If they don't, we'll break off to orbit, refuel from the other doggo, and try again.  After that, I'll call you for advice."

    "Sounds as good as we can plan.  Obviously I will defer to your expertise."

    "Thank you, sir.  Always good to have a superior who recognizes the obvious."  Mark grinned.

    Hensley kept him informed in periodic detail.  Launching beacons.  Deorbiting.  He felt gravity return and the buffeting of stratospheric winds.  First pass over the LZ at ten thousand meters, with smoke.  Pass at two thousand meters. "They appear to understand we intend to land there and are well outside the beacons, sir."

    "Excellent so far."  Goddam, this was exciting.  Sentient aliens! "I'm going to slow to a hover at three hundred meters and descend.  We will have enough fuel to reach orbit, or to return to Healy.  Another attempt will require refueling."

    "Understood." The basic facts were relayed to everyone, and their expressions reflected nervousness, excitement, a gallery of emotions.  Mark knew this because everyone in his row craned forward to look at each other, wanting to see how their fellow humans reacted to a once in a species experience.  He chuckled.  Everyone here was about to share something no human had experienced before.  He felt a bond, an excitement, a thrill.

    "I am turning stern to the alien crowd," Hensley said.  Thrust and gravity fought in a trembling dance.

    "Understood.  Trouble?"

    "No, sir.  That's where the cargo ramp is."

    "Ah, yes."  He flushed momentarily.  That should have been obvious.

    "We're down," Hensley said as thrust faded to nothing.  It was barely noticeable. They'd been under the somewhat light local gravity for the entire vertical descent.

    "Please wait for me before opening up."

    "Of course, sir."

    The loadmaster indicated they should unharness.  Mark stood, grabbed an overhead strap and moved swiftly to the stern.  The loadmaster, flight engineer and some other crewmember moved purposefully around, grabbing tools, checking monitors and lines.  It appeared to be routine, likely standard for any non-combat landing.  Three landing field engineers looked at some kind of readouts on the surface and terrain.

    "Attention, everyone," he said, and got it.  "We will debark carefully, form up, and then proceed if it seems safe.  We will not allow the aliens to get close enough to potentially threaten the ship.  The military understands to use minimum force required for this.  Also, do not take any gear at this time, unless you've been given specific instructions by myself or Doctor McDonald.  This is a greeting session.  Science, exploration and trade come later.  Am I clear to all parties?"  He fixed Margov and Egan and ensured they met his gaze and agreed.

    "We will wear hats, gloves and filters until we are sure the atmosphere is safe.  Evacuations will be difficult for now."  A couple of people fumbled for masks.  Most had them ready.  He slid his on, and a broad hat that would look ridiculous as a fashion statement.

    Jelling stood at the hatch next to the loadmaster, equipped with a slim, conformal backpack he knew was all water and weapons, wearing body armor under her uniform and with her weapons slung.  She had a visor on, connected by wire to the ship's instrumentation.

    "They're not approaching, sir.  Awaiting us outside the perimeter.  They seem eager and nervous but not afraid."

    "What do they look like?  Hell with it.  Open the ramp and let's do it."

    He hoped they weren't revoltingly hideous.  Jelling was the type who'd give no indication of that while making a report. The ramp seal popped and native air mixed in.  It was a bit richer than Grainne’s, fresh, clean and oddly scented through the mask.  The plants here were not earth plants.  An atmospheric specialist took readings on a sample.  When colonizing Grainne, the landing, debarkation and first camp had taken an Earth week.  Here they had segs at most.

    The soldier-scientist nodded at Mark, held up a hand in the battle sign for pause, and pointed at one of the junior personnel.  He recalled the procedure per the manual.  Lowest ranking, least trained individual.  The private stared wide-eyed, but pulled her mask free for a moment, then replaced it.  After five seconds, she took it off completely and sat still.  Then she squinted her eyes shut, breathed deeply and shoved the mask back on.  A breath later, she opened her eyes, slipped the mask off and smiled over a shiver.  He made a note to be sure to get her name.  She deserved a mention.

    "Take them off, keep them at hand," Mark ordered.  If the growth was toxic, dust, pollen or otherwise could still build up as an irritant in short order.  The medics had plenty of oxygen bottles, just in case.

    The loadmaster slapped a switch and the ramp resumed its descent.  The outside air was warmish.  It was summer here.    Mark and others strained and peeked over the ramp as it came down.  He could hear the security detail behind him, warning others to stay back and seated.  It was impossible to tell much about the locals at this distance by eye, but they seemed to be erect and probably bipedal.  That was logical and predictable.  Fewer limbs meant more brain available for cognitive functions, and upright enabled manipulation.  So far, the theories were correct.

    "I'll lead," he said.

    Jelling's exec, Warrant Connor said, “Is that wise, sir?”  What he meant was, That’s not wise, let me go first to stop spears. “It may not be wise,” Mark said, “but it’s necessary.  I’ll go first.  Scientists behind me, Mister Russ and our economic parties behind them, military last.  We want it clear that you’re defensive in nature.”

    “Lying to them already?” Connor asked with a smile.  Mark chuckled, too.  Operatives were as deadly as you got.  “Defense” was not a word they often bother with.  Even with knapped flint spears and arrows, he expected they'd be at least on par with the locals.  They trained in that much detail.

    With that to break the strain, Mark nodded.