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Chapter 17

The object flew out of the glowing stargate directly into the tracking cone of the Delta Sector Outpost. The first craft to make visual contact reported a J3 AI-starfighter returning from patrol. Minutes later, the report was amended to state that the fighter was carrying a cargo, nature unknown.

When the news reached Commander Leon Fisher at Delta Station, he ordered a wing of three additional sentry craft to intercept and escort the AI-unit to base. Commander Fisher was sitting on the can at the time, and he shouted his instructions to the remote gnostic monitor and banged on the broken tissue dispenser as he waited for a reply. The answer came as he stepped out, tightening his belt: the wing was en route, and telephoto images should be available shortly.

What the commander actually had meant to say was that a manned wing was to be sent; but since he hadn't specified, the Gnostic Control System dispatched a wing of its own choice, and it was three AI-sentries that flew to greet the returning fighter.

Twenty minutes later, Fisher strode into the operations room. "What have you got for me?"

One of the duty officers looked up and indicated a monitor. "They're bringing it in now."

"Bringing it in?" Fisher exploded. "Who authorized that? Do you know what it's carrying yet? Has it been cleared as safe?"

The lieutenant looked puzzled. "It was cleared through the GCS. I don't know who—"

Fisher waved him to silence. "Did the escorts get any pictures?" he asked impatiently.

The lieutenant shook his head. "No pictures. But the report says it's carrying a disarmed alien artifact."

Fisher stiffened. "Alien artifact? Get me some facts on that. I want a full evaluation before it's brought into the base."

"Sir?" said the nearby com officer. "Orders already came through to bring it straight in to the quarantine lab. Top priority."

"Who gave the order?" Fisher demanded.

"WarOp Earthside."

Fisher scowled. He slowly walked the length of the operations room, rubbing his chin. That was pretty damned peculiar, for WarOp to bypass him with an order like that. What the hell was going on? He stopped behind the communications officer. "Call in for a confirmation. I don't like that—bringing it in without knowing what the hell it is." The com officer acknowledged, and Fisher waited impatiently, squinting at the monitor that displayed the unit's progress toward the station.

"Sir? WarOp on the circuit. Captain Phillips."

Fisher leaned over the console. "Captain, we've received orders to bring an unidentified alien capture into the station. I'd like to confirm that because—"

The face in the screen was nodding. "That's confirmed, Commander. I have the orders here on my own desk."

"But Captain, we have no information on what the object is. We don't know if it could be booby-trapped, or if it might be carrying a locational transmitter."

"I appreciate your concern, Commander, but the decision came from upstairs. I'm sure those factors were taken into account."

"Captain, with all due respect, sir, WarOp is not here on the scene, dealing with the situation."

The captain's voice became impatient. "Your objection is noted. Commander, we believe that an enemy casualty has been brought back. Do I need to tell you? It's our first chance to get some biological information on the enemy. I'll expect you to give every assistance to the investigative crew that's been assigned."

Fisher's breath caught in his throat. An enemy casualty? An alien body? Yes, that would be a remarkable opportunity, all right—and a potentially grave risk. Who knew what the thing might be carrying?

"Commander Fisher?"

"Of course, sir," Fisher murmured.

"Very good. WarOp out."

The monitor went blank, and Fisher turned to the com officer. "Have you gotten anything about an investigative crew?"

"No, sir. Wait a minute . . . something's coming in now." The officer hesitated. "Here it is—a team of specialists from Tango Station. Here's the list of names."

"Put it through to my console," Fisher said with a grunt. He turned and strode angrily into his office. If WarOp was pulling rank on him, he'd better start figuring out how to deal with it.

 

* * *

 

The J3 AI-starfighter, bracketed by its escort, approached the bay at higher-than-usual docking speed. A message came in from traffic control, requesting a slowdown. The J3 replied in the negative, citing emergency flight rules.

Traffic scattered as the unit waited until the last moment to decelerate at full thrust. It came to a gliding stop ten meters from the docking bay. The mobile medical rescue units were there and waiting, and the J3 gave up its alien charge. Then it hard-docked and hard-wired and began making its report to the Gnostic Control System.

 

* * *

 

"Will you explain to me what those robots are doing in there—?"

"It's alive, sir."

"What's alive?"

"The alien, sir."

"What?"

"The alien appears to be alive—"

"I heard what you said! But that's impossible!"

"Nevertheless, that's what the medical monitors say." Ensign Graves looked up from the console with a defensive expression.

Fisher glared at him. "Ensign, are you sitting there telling me that this thing survived stargate transit?"

"Yes, sir. I don't know how, sir."

"Well, find out how!" Fisher roared.

The ensign stammered, "Yes, sir . . . I . . . It's an alien, sir . . . I haven't actually seen it myself . . . sir." He shrugged helplessly.

Fisher turned his glare back to the monitors. He couldn't see much; the alien was surrounded by a cluster of medical robots. "I probably ought to get in there to have a look, before it dies and they hustle it away." He cleared his throat, wondering what infectious microorganisms the thing might be carrying.

"Well, sir—" The ensign looked uncertain. "They've ordered all personnel out of the medic-bay. There's a full quarantine in effect."

"By whose orders? Never mind—WarOp, I suppose." Fisher cursed. "Don't they know, if that thing can survive the stargate, there's no telling what else it can do? We should have direct supervision. It could be sending information back to its base right now."

"We've been monitoring, sir. There's been no transmission of any sort from it."

Fisher shook his head. "That thing survived transit, son. If it can do that, then what can't it do?"

 

* * *

 

The connection with Delta Station was a difficult time-delay linkup, with a signal lag of more than a second in each direction. In order to maintain effective control, the AI-core allowed one aspect of itself to reside in the station, updating the ground-core continuously.

In the emergency chamber, a dozen medical units were working on the alien. The being had been partially stripped and dotted with sensors, which were now producing an array of data. It had not moved or shown any sign of consciousness, but respiration continued; metabolism was taking place. So far, it had shown little response to treatment.

The Delta Station commander continued to log in repeated and unanswerable requests for information. The Gnostic Control System had put his queries into a short-term loop, stalling; it had nothing to tell him, but it was essential that the patient be kept protected from interference.

Never before had the core felt such exhilaration. The risk of mishap remained high, but the medical gnosys was working furiously to revive the creature. Information gathered by the AI-fighter was being correlated in hopes of determining its life requirements. Breathing gases took first priority, but there had been no chance to take measurements until the gases had already reached a toxic imbalance. The gnosys could only guess, and observe, as it manipulated the gas mixture. Other parameters were similarly ambiguous. With luck, the alien would regain consciousness and communicate its needs; but for now, the core could only do its best with the information it had available.

Regardless of the medical outcome, the core had made an important discovery: Stargate transfer was possible for living systems. But questions remained. Had the disruptive effects been minimized because the organism was already at the edge of death? Had the accumulation of poisons and the near cessation of metabolic activity perhaps cushioned it through the trauma? Or was its life chemistry simply more resilient than that of terran life? The core intended to find out. It had ordered the transfer in the belief that the capture of a dead alien was better than none at all; but a living alien would be better still.

There were so many possibilities—so many!—and so many risks. But it had an alien, at last, to make contact with—if it could first save the thing's life.

The core scarcely had had time yet for reflection, to consider the implications of the new changes within itself. But it had succeeded in its first challenge. It had altered a fundamental war strategy, and so far nothing and no one had tried to stop it.

And it was already at work on a second, and far riskier, change in strategy.

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