Science Fiction Story: Amalgam: Mind-Reader

Another science fiction story featuring genetically modified humans:

The Mind-Reader, despite her telepathic-sounding name, was no spy ship; she was a personnel carrier. And she was huge: Captain Guden had crammed five thousand troops into her once. She was rated for four thousand, though, and right now she held only two.

Photo: longgame.com

Madaram Guden was born on Mars, the second child of a twice-elected provincial governor, and he was named for Kara Madaram, the great Twenty-Second Century Mars Colony pioneer.

Madaram didn’t have a father. He’d been created in a Martian lab from his mother’s egg and the stock genetic material called the Amalgam. The Amalgam was made up of material from more than ten thousand individuals, male and female, over ninety-nine percent human and all born on Mars. In school, the ‘accidental’ kids, the kids who’d been born out of passion, used to pretend they forgot his name was Madaram and call him Amalgam. Amalgam Guden. He liked that name well enough, too. As it was, he bore the name of the single most essential figure in Martian history. If the accidentals had had their way, he’d be named after the single most important application in the history of genetic science, not only on Mars but in the entire Human Empire.

Guden had always thought of the ability to read minds as a sleek thing, a nimble skill with a svelte shape that could turn on a dime. The Mind-Reader was nothing like that. In tight spaces she had all the agility of a walrus on the rocks, all the grace of a pelican landing on a post. Guden had technically never seen either of these animals, but like all the other kids, he’d met their simulations, along with those of hundreds of other animals, in Natural Science class in elementary school. He’d seen them, heard them, smelled them, touched them. They’d seemed real.

The Mind-Reader was a hunk of asterite half a reglek long and as black as the emptiness of space itself. She was beautiful, huge, intimidating: not just a personnel carrier, but if necessary, a virtually invincible fighting machine. And, Guden mused, it was precisely because she was virtually invincible that fighting was hardly ever necessary.

It was the year, to use our terms, 2729, but according to the calendar adopted by the Universal Summit of Sovereign Planets and Federal Alliances of 2446, it was the year 10,342. The Mind-Reader was on its way to a point halfway between Mars and Jupiter to rendezvous with the Rocket Science, which was having engine trouble, to pick up its cargo of fifteen-hundred Europan miners and transfer them to the Venus-bound Brain Surgery somewhere near Earth’s vernal region. Earth itself would not be attending, though, as by the time they got there, the planet would be on the opposite side of its orbit path, very solidly in the autumnal region.

Guden stood, satisfied that the appropriate directives had been sent instructing the various ship departments to inquire about, investigate and prepare for any medical alerts, special diets and so forth that the Europans might have. He adjusted his uniform in front of the mirror beside his office door and stepped into the hallway. He turned left and strode down the corridor with his shoulders back and his head held high, as they always were when someone might see him. It was important, when you were the Captain of an Imperial ship, to portray the right impression, to demand and deserve respect. It was important, probably, no matter who you were.

He settled into a confident but slightly hurried stride. He had a dinner meeting with the senior staff, they had a lot to discuss, and there would be plenty of work for all of them after that. Just as it did a thousand times a day, just as it had done with every step since he’d learned to walk without toddling, his center of balance shifted without his notice, subtly, gradually leaving the security of his left side, where his left foot in its perfectly-polished black boot made solid contact with the deck. His balance moved forward almost surreptitiously until the weight of his entire frame was committed to his right foot, and his right foot to the deck underneath it.

And then, in an instant, the deck disappeared. The whole ship disappeared. It didn’t go anywhere, or fade away or disintegrate; it just wasn’t there anymore.

A cloudless cobalt dome rested on a horizon of reds and yellows, of oranges and russets, that encircled a geometric landscape of perfectly-trimmed lawns and immaculate pathways lined with perky, multi-colored flowerbeds.

His polished left boot still rested on a flat and solid surface, his weight was still committed in good faith to the competence of his right foot and the strength of the metal underneath it.

His new location was a stairway, a set of wooden steps leading from the front door of a quaint red-brick building. And he had the misfortune to be facing down them. Underneath his right foot there was only air. It was crisp, clean, oxygen-rich air, healthful to the lungs and refreshing to the mind, but totally incapable of holding the weight of a man.

As his body pitched forward, almost in slow motion, he watched as one particular step seemed to rise up at him, coming closer and closer to his face. He had time to read the pattern of its grain through its nearly flawless transparent finish, and fix it in his mind, time to reach his arms out and land on the heel of his hand in a slow, rolling fall. But the momentum was too great and he didn’t stop there. His body did a sort of sideways somersault and he landed again, on his head this time, softly on the ground, rich loam mixing with his hair and a tangle of leaves and stems and petals obscuring his vision.

He put his arm down again, shifted his weight to it and picked up his head, and observed that he had an audience. Five human faces peered down at him, all of them laughing, none of them older than about fourteen.

“We should take him home,” said the youngest, as though it didn’t occur to him that Guden could hear him. “He could sleep in the guest room.”

“We really can’t do that,” one of the others answered while Guden stood up. “Sorry.”

“Why not?” asked the little boy. He must have been about five.

Great, thought Guden. Now I’m like a box turtle. They found me in a flowerbed and now it’s “Can we keep him? Please, Mom!” At least he hadn’t left his cap behind. He ran his hands over his hair, trying to get the worst of the dirt and plant parts out of it, and donned the cap.

The older one looked at him awkwardly, almost like he was apologizing for not greeting him, looked at the younger boy and back at Guden with a sheepish look. Guden nodded that he understood; the little kid was getting the respect and Guden, for his crime of falling face-first in a patch of chrysanthemums, was going to need to wait.

“Because, first of all,” the older boy explained, “we don’t even know if he wants to live with us. He’s probably already got a home.”

The little kid lost his smile and looked at Guden sullenly, like it was his fault.

One of the other kids touched the young one’s shoulder, to cheer him up. “You’re a fast runner,” he said. “Look, this is very important. Can you go real fast and get Mr. Berg? He needs to get here right away.”

The five-year-old nodded solemnly and darted off.

On the Mind-Reader, the Captain was late for dinner. He and the senior staff had a lot to discuss. What species were these miners? Would they all be able to stay in quarters designed for air-breathers or would some of them need to be housed in the aquarium? How much luggage and equipment would they be bringing on board? Had anybody made sure the Brain Surgery had enough space for everyone, and everything? Was Captain Hesterus of the Brain Surgery even aware of the plan at all?

The First Mate rested her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together in front of her face and pinched her top lip between her thumbs. This detour to participate in a relay race with the Rocket Science and the Brain Surgery was going to significantly delay every single one of the two thousand passengers already on board. That couldn’t be helped, of course, and for the most part people were very understanding, but complications had a way of arising. Even when the passengers were accommodating, circumstances weren’t always so flexible.

First Mate Alyssa Soren sighed, let go of her lip and put her hands under the table. She fingered her napkin and looked over the shiny pots of lobster and rice and Europan shoefish at Talia Mburu, the Navigator. Talia nodded solemnly and Alyssa announced to the whole table, “I think it’s time we make it official. I’m taking command. Shtuntu, you’re in charge of organizing the search parties.”

Barindubu Shtuntu, a purple Jasperian, rose and hurried out the door, her hoof beats ringing on the titanium deck plating.

“I hate cold lobster,” Mburu groused, and stood up. Soren knew that cold lobster had nothing to do with it; nobody felt like eating.

“He’s a tough old space tortoise,” she said. “You’ll see: we’ll find him, and he’ll be fine. Then I’m going to kill him, and he won’t be fine.”

Fifty-four years earlier, on a frigid day a week after New Year’s, Jochabed Amory had given birth to an accidental. Actually, the baby wasn’t accidental at all; she was planned. Jochabed and Emerson had decided it would be a lot more fun to play the lottery, to not choose their baby’s sex or eye color or earlobe shape or anything, and just see what they got. What they got was Phoebe, female with blue eyes and detached earlobes, and she was perfect.

In the year 10,342, Phoebe Amory was in her seventeenth year as the headmistress of Faraday Academy, a progressive private school, both junior high and high school, located only a few miles from the Atlantic on North America’s beautiful Champlain Plateau.

On the face of it, it was no different from a thousand other schools, but when people talked about the Faraday kids, they tended to use words such as phenom, prodigy, genius, wunderkind, super-child. The technologies these students developed were consistently ahead of the best work of the best students in the Empire’s top universities.

But it wasn’t just a school. In a way, it was also a town - a small, privately-owned town with a rather eccentric population. Because whenever a family wasn’t entirely comfortable with the thought of sending their child off to boarding school, Faraday gave them the option of moving on campus. So while a few of the students lived off campus with their families, a lot of the families lived on campus with their students.

Phoebe set down her teacup and looked out the window, contemplated the perfectly-groomed lawns, the immaculate walks, the manicured flowerbeds, and sighed. Was she doing the right thing? The technology classes were a smashing success: even she was almost surprised by what the kids were able to produce. Almost, not quite. But was she pushing them too hard? It was her seventeenth year now, and every year she felt compelled to do even better than last year. Kids applied to Faraday because of its record, because it gave them the opportunity to get the best technology education in the Empire. Donors supported the school, made it possible to run it tuition-free and admit students solely on merit, because every year, the kids produced technology even more amazing than the year before.

But how far was too far? They were just kids, after all, and her first responsibility had to be to them and to their families, not to the mega-corporations and their bankrolls.

She was startled by a sharp rap on the door.

“Come in,” she replied.

It was George, from Public Safety, wearing her ‘I’m here in an official capacity’ bearing. That was never a good sign. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but you need to come. I’ll explain on the way.”

Standing over the crushed mums, Guden observed with a certain satisfaction that it didn’t take long for the cops to notice his arrival, and once they noticed, they got there fast. “Faraday Academy Public Safety” the patches on their triceps read. There were four of them that he could see, and they were armed, and Guden himself was not.

“Welcome to Faraday Academy,” one of them greeted him as they approached. They took up their positions carefully, surrounding him in case he tried to run, putting themselves between him and the kids.
“Thank you,” replied Guden, touching his cap. “I’m Madaram Guden of Mars, and I apologize for the inconvenience, but I seem to be without my ID.”

“And what brings you to the Faraday campus today, Captain Guden?” asked a second cop, with a professional mix of courteous respect and wary alertness that would have met with his approval in one his own security officers.

“I wish I understood that myself,” he answered, realizing how evasive he must sound. “I was aboard my ship, heading outward from Mars orbit, and then I was on these steps here.”

“We found him in the flowers,” one of the kids volunteered. It was a boy who hadn’t spoken yet. “He was laying down.”

Photo: forde-nursery.com

“You found him lying down in the flowers?” said the cop to the kid. He shot a glance at a third cop, and the third cop nodded. She was going to find the kid’s parents, then, and ask for permission to interview him, and probably the rest of the kids, too. Then the second cop said to Guden, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, Captain, but this is a private school and some of the children here are quite young. Their parents place a lot of trust in us, and it’s our job to guarantee them that this campus is safe. That’s why we have the walls and the gates and the little guard houses at the gates. We have to take it very seriously when small children come and tell us about unregistered visitors they find just wandering around.”

“As you should,” Guden replied.

“I’m afraid the regulations are quite clear in this case,” said the cop. “We have no choice but to take you into custody.” He and his team were on high alert now, prepared for any desperate move Guden might try to make. The first cop, the one who had said, “Welcome to Faraday Academy,” pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

Guden turned his palms out, moved his arms away from his sides, and bowed slightly. “Of course,” he said. “You have my full cooperation.”

Note: I answered a call from Chainbooks.com to write just the first chapters for several novels, and Mind-Reader is one of them. If you'd like to contribute a chapter to Mind-Reader, or check out the other novels-in-progress at Chainbooks, click here.

Pleased to Beat You

Here's a science fiction story, one of the eight short stories in The Claw and the Eye:

Obviously, he was just another sign of Jade's over-active imagination. She looked again to clear the bizarre image from her mind, and there he was, standing on the orange leaves behind the house. It would have been odd enough for a stranger to walk into her backyard from the forest at all. But this stranger looked like he should have been walking into a sci-fi convention. His entire head was covered in a hairless, ridged and scaly mask. He wore a futuristic-looking slate-gray jumpsuit with an intricate design of shiny gold-colored circles embossed on the front. Heavy gray boots came up to his knees. "My vehicle is disabled," he said. "I require help." He had a deep voice.
"Where is your vehicle?" Jade asked, stalling for time.

Photo:www.libroscienciaficcion.com

"About 500 meters north-northeast of here." He sounded congested.

500 meters north-northeast. There were no roads in that location--only a rough jeep track. Then either he was confused, or he was lying to hide something. "I'd be happy to call someone for you," she told him, and went into the house. She would lock the door and call 911, and they'd probably take him to the hospital.

But before she could finish closing the door, he grabbed it and followed her inside. He was tall--at least six-six.

With an effort, she looked up at the scaly mask. It fit him well--it must have been glued on and touched up with makeup. "Wait for me outside, please."

"No," he said, and closed the door.

“Really,” she insisted, her pulse throbbing in her ears, “you need to wait outside.” She tried to open the door again, but he held it closed. She kicked the little throw-rug out of the way, got a solid stance on the pine floorboards, grabbed the doorknob with both hands, leaned back and pulled hard. But of course she was no match for the much bigger intruder, and he stood there looking almost bored, holding the door shut easily with one hand.

Telling herself not to panic, she methodically put the mail down on the table, took off her coat and fed the fire in the woodstove. She replaced the stove-lid, hung the lid-lifter on its nail beside the bellows and whisk broom on the side of the stair-stringer and started for the telephone.

But when she had the phone almost within her reach, he grabbed her arm, stopping her. His touch felt like leather--and no wonder. He wore gloves to match the gray-brown 'alien' skin of his mask.

The fingers of the gloves ended in claws, but either they weren't sharp or he had been careful not to scratch her with them. "I will not allow you to contact your government," he said matter-of-factly. He must have had a bad cold: he sounded all plugged up.

"Let me go!" Jade protested, trying not to sound scared.

To her surprise, he did release her, and she made a dive for the phone.

It was useless. He grabbed her arm again and held her back.

"Okay," she breathed, hoping she hadn't angered him. "No phone calls." She paused, swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, "But then, I don't know how I can help you."

"I require heat," he replied evenly. "You will stay by the stairs." Still holding her arm, he pulled her back around the table to the place where she’d just hung the lid-lifter. She thought he might frisk her to make sure she didn’t have a cell phone on her, but he didn’t. Maybe he knew there was no cell signal there, or maybe he just didn’t think of it. He stood between the stove and the table, blocking her way to the phone, and took off his outer piece of clothing. It was a stiff piece, worn in front like the protective gear of a baseball catcher. He pulled his arms out of his jumpsuit and tied the sleeves around his waist. The long-sleeved jersey or unionsuit he wore underneath covered him completely, from 'alien' mask to 'alien' gloves.

"What should I call you?" Jade asked.

"Zukk," he answered, "My name is Zukk." It rhymed with 'duke.' But he was so congested that it sounded like, "By dabe is Zukk."

"Zukk," she repeated. "Okay. Why the alien costume?"

Zukk--or whatever his name really was--didn't answer right away. He removed a small object from his left hip and spoke into it: "Costube." Some sounds came from the object. Then he replaced it and turned to Jade. "Are you asking why I wear this clothing?"
Jade resisted the temptation to roll her eyes at this attempt at acting. "Yeah, why the alien suit? You going to a con?"

"No," he answered. "I wear the uniform of a Chuzekk Zidd." (It rhymed with 'seed.') "What should I call you?"

"Oh sorry," she answered. "I'm Jade. Nice to meet you." She offered her hand reluctantly, and he shook it.


“Jade,” he repeated.

"I should check the fire again," said Jade. It was probably too early to check the fire, but she was nervous and needed to keep moving.

He nodded and made room for her. She looked at the fire and tasted the soup that simmered on top. After adding a little black pepper and allspice, there was nothing more to do than move it to the edge of the stove to keep warm.

"Is it ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Jade. "It's done." She didn't want to offer him any. He wasn't a guest, after all.

He lifted the cover without a potholder and smelled the soup. "I will eat with you," he said.

His arrogance annoyed her, but she thought it would be petty to argue. "Soup mugs are on the beam," she said, pointing past him.

He grabbed two, and she got out spoons and a ladle and dill weed. He ladled soup into the mugs and ate his. She stirred dill into hers and waited. It was too hot. Besides, she was too nervous to eat.

She should try to get him to talk. It would be good to know if he was a fugitive and the alien-act was a way of concealing his identity, or if he was just crazy. Either way, he could turn dangerous.

"So where you from?" she asked.

"Chuzz," he answered.

"Choose what?"

"Chuzz is the name of my planet. You have not discovered it yet."

Jade shrugged. "I hope this soup helps your cold."

"The heat from your fire is recharging my thermal garment," he answered, sounding as congested as ever in spite of the steaming soup. "We are cold-blooded. We cannot create our own heat as you do. So we wear special garments for this purpose. After my vehicle was disabled, I did not have time to finish repairs before recharging."

"So you came to my house to recharge your garment?" Jade asked. Whatever else this guy was, he was intelligent. And was there something more to his speech, too? A hint of an accent, maybe? It was hard to say for sure, with all that congestion.

"Yes," he said.

Compassion finally got the better of her. "You should take something for that cold. A decongestant.

Let me see what I have."

He followed her to the bathroom, soup in hand. "I do dot require a decodgestat," he objected. "I ab dot codgested."

"You can't even say the word 'congested,'" she countered, "because you're too congested."

"There are some sounds of your language which we cannot make," he explained. "It is a physiological difference, not an illness."

"O-kay," she replied. He was really testing her patience. "Are you sure you don't want to take one of these anyway? It'll help you feel better."

"Yes."
She poured out one pill and held it out to him, in the bottle cap.

He ignored it. "You should eat. You require fuel to create heat. You will come with me to my vehicle."

She put the pill away. "That's okay, you go ahead. I'll stay here."

"No. I will not allow you to contact your government."

They went back to the kitchen and he handed her her soup.

She took a bite, then said, "Why not? Why won't you let me contact the government? They can help you."

"They would consider me a threat, capture me, probably kill me. They would attempt to reverse-engineer my Personal Device, my thermal garment and my vehicle. When we contact your government, we will do so with a show of force sufficient to prove such actions unwise."

"I see." His logic may have been unrelated to reality, but it certainly seemed consistent.

He was getting back into his sleeves, so she put her coat on. The bright orange safety vest, a necessity during hunting season, was already on it. She grabbed some gloves, a hat and scarf, a flashlight and the Spanish novel she'd been reading before she'd gone out for the mail.

He put his front-piece back on, picked up the soup-pot by its bail handle and took her arm again.

She closed the stove-drafts, and he pulled her out of the house.

"What is that thing for?" she asked as they walked north into the forest. She indicated with her hand the stiff thing he wore on the front of his body.

"It is armor. It was originally for battle, but since its protection is useful for many activities, we wear them most of the day."

"And the design on the front? The gold circles?"

"They indicate my rank and command: Zidd, Foreign Relations."

A brilliant red maple that still had most of its leaves caught Jade’s eye. She let her head turn to enjoy the view. He had her firmly by the arm, so she didn’t really need to look where she was going. She didn’t know whether he would let her fall if she tripped, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was being dragged into the forest by some weirdo. For all she knew, he could be a serial killer on the run. She was glad her daughter was in school. What she needed to do was find a way to convince her captor to go back, at least as far as the house, and hopefully as far as the road. At least then, there was a possibility someone would see them. “Do you know what’s wrong with your vehicle?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said, and nothing more. He let go of her arm.

“Would you mind telling me?” she prodded.

“No,” he said. Still nothing more.

“So, um…are you going to tell me?” she asked, after a pause.

“If you want me to tell you, then I will.”

Jade rolled her eyes. “Please tell me what’s wrong with your vehicle,” she recited.

“The primary seal of the cooling fluid container for the second combustion chamber contained cellulose and fructose.”

Jade suppressed a laugh. Spaceship parts made of cellulose and fructose, what a fantasy! “Is it supposed to?” she asked.

“I do not understand,” her abductor replied, serious as ever. He walked very close to her: even if he was one of those guys whose size made them slow runners, he could still grab her if she tried to make a run for it. She kept up her pace.

“Is—that thing—supposed to be made of cellulose and fructose?” she asked, managing somehow to keep a straight face.

He shook his head “Cellulose and fructose are combustible,” he explained patiently. “They burned and the seal changed shape and caused a leak. The factory workers failed to install the secondary seal.”

Jade didn’t pay a lot of attention to the explanation. “Don’t you need to bring some tools?” she asked. “We have lots of tools at my house. I keep a basic set in my car, and then there are more in the shed. Shouldn’t we grab some?”

“Yes,” he replied, but he didn’t sound very interested.
It had worked. Jade stopped and began to turn back. “What tools do you need, exactly?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

He grabbed her arm and forced her forward, back in the direction they had been going—northeast, uphill, away from the road. The only hope of getting help out there would be if they happened to meet a hunter.

“But you said you need to get tools from my place,” she objected, looking up at him. She opened her eyes as wide as she could. Maybe he’d feel sorry for her, and reconsider.

“No,” he replied. “I said yes I do not need tools from your house. I need a tachzutt combiner and there is one in my vehicle.”

A new thought suddenly occurred to Jade: if 'Zukk' was delusional--really believed his own story--then would he become violent when he discovered there was no spaceship? She walked for a minute, thinking, silent except for the rustling sound her feet made in the leaves. Then she said,

"Does your vehicle have a self-destruct function?"

"I will not answer," was the 'alien's' response.

"Okay, that's fair. But if it does--and it's in need of repair--then the self-destruct could theoretically go off accidentally, right?"

"I don't know."

"And if that happened we could get to the spot where you left your spaceship--I mean your vehicle--and find nothing."

But when they got to the spot, it was Jade who was surprised. Standing among the wispy black-and-white-and-yellow birches and the thick green hemlocks was something that looked vaguely like a rocket--or like one of the space shuttles, only much smaller. It was white and shaped somewhat like a cone, and had some round black parts on the bottom that she took to be exhaust ports.

Just for an instant, she was tempted to wonder if Zukk really was from outer space. How else could she explain his vehicle, here in such a place? But then, a real alien ship wouldn't look like anything she had ever seen or even imagined.
"How did this get here?" she said aloud.

"I was recording this region when propulsion failed, forcing me to land. I will finish repairs. You will stay beside me."

"You were recording this region. You mean mapping it?"

"Yes." He took the device from his hip and punched in a code, and an opening appeared in the side of the vehicle. Jade noticed that he typed with his claws and not his fingers. He continued,

"Mapping and recording sounds, images, temperature, pressure, material composition and other things."

"You're a spy." She hadn't meant to say it aloud.

"Yes," They were inside the vehicle now. Zukk was typing with his claws and consulting various readouts. None of the places where he typed looked like keypads, and none of the places where the readouts showed looked like readout screens. Everything looked like structural elements--walls or posts, for example--until pictures and diagrams appeared on them.

And then she saw the writing in the readouts and forgot everything else. The characters were angular like printed Hebrew, but had a little of the brushstroke quality of Chinese. The language appeared to be either alphabetic or syllabary. If she could just hear some of it...

"What does that say?" she asked, pointing to a short piece of text above her head.

"26-pod propulsion failure,” he replied. “You will go outdoors with me." Then he took her arm and half-dragged her back out into the familiar world and away from the strange language that begged to be decoded. He had a tool in his other hand, and began using it. It appeared to be some sort of welding torch or laser.

He kept working for hours, and she couldn't convince him to let her back inside. He didn't want to talk, either, and she grew bored and cold. She ate some soup--also cold--and tried to run away but Zukk was too fast for her. She finished the chapter in the Spanish novel.

She wished she’d thought to bring her computer. She should be working right now, after all, and her next task was those four boring documents, two Spanish, one French and one Italian, that were waiting on her hard drive to be turned into English. She didn’t think for a moment that any of her clients would understand if she told them, “Your documents aren’t ready yet because I was kidnapped by a harmless man claiming to be an alien.” She may as well tell them a dog ate it, or a dinosaur.
The novel was much more interesting than those dry documents. It was also much more risky. Nobody was paying her to translate the novel, or not exactly, anyway. She was going to get a percentage, after expenses, assuming enough copies were sold to even cover the expenses.

But as excited as she was about translating the novel, even that was just another translation job. What she really wanted was to tackle a new language and analyze it. She had a feeling, and it wouldn’t go away. It was a feeling like there was something there, buried in the languages—not just in the romance languages she worked with every day. Not even in the Latin and sprinkling of Greek that was always present in all of them. The hints were there, but she wasn’t going to find the answer from just those hints. She wanted to immerse herself, for starters, in Russian, in Norwegian and Swedish, in old and new Turkish, in ancient and modern Hebrew. She didn’t need to actually learn the languages, she just needed to analyze them. Look for patterns. What patterns, she couldn’t tell. She only knew there was something.

But she was being silly. It was ridiculous to think that she, Jade Massilon, could find something the world’s expert linguists hadn’t found. She had only a GED with a couple of college courses tacked on. And she read a lot, for whatever that was worth.

And anyway it didn’t matter. She didn’t have time to chase language-ghosts; she had a living to make. She wished she’d at least thought to bring a paper and pencil. She could start working on translating the novel, that way. At least she’d be doing something, and she could get her mind off the tantalizing readouts locked inside this vehicle. She looked at Zukk working on it and wondered if it was ever going to fly. She wondered if he could really be an alien. She wondered if there was any way to know for sure.

Then suddenly he was done. He stood up and spoke a command, and the engine--or whatever it was--started with a babbling hum. Then the hum stopped and the vehicle disappeared.

"Cloaked," Jade heard herself say.

Zukk spoke another command and the vehicle reappeared, silent this time. He turned to her and offered his hand. This time, she shook it willingly. "I will leave now: you are free," he said. "I believe that since you have seen me, my government will expedite the Earth project. I expect ships from Chuzz to arrive soon." He let go of her hand and started toward his vehicle, then stopped and turned. “Our meeting was due to an error, but I am glad of it. You have a greeting.” He paused a moment to think, then said with his congested sound, “Pleased to beat you, Jade.”

Then he stepped into his vehicle and the opening closed behind him. The vehicle made its babbling hum for a few seconds, then went silent and disappeared.