Four hours later, and still answerless, Nathan fumed. They reached their hold point at 100,000 km, calling out to the Deltans and dutifully reporting back to Earth, but they had nothing to report other than the continued indifference of the aliens.
Overriding Wright, who wanted to hold at that distance for another 24 hours, Nathan ordered him to carry on with the second phase of the contact. The Sword of Liberty moved in again, this time angling ten times closer still.
At 25,000 km, they flushed four more of their non-offensive missile tubes, these carrying recon drones—sub-probes similar to those launched by the Promises. Each one would make a close approach to a different one of the Deltan ships, and make detailed radar, lidar, thermal, and visual surveys of each, transmitting that data back to the Sword.
Finally, at 10,000 km and holding, Nathan popped his helmet and set it in his lap. He breathed deep of the cool air filling the bridge. After five and a half hours strapped into his chair, confined to the gradually more pungent environment of his sealed suit, Nathan was hungry, sore, and frustrated beyond belief. He glared at what he now thought of as his adversaries.
The constrained drive-star blazed huge upon the main screen, casting the bridge in shifting hues of lurid purple, red, and blue. At each corner of the screen, bracketing the angry sphere of plasma, detailed windows of data described the four alien ships. They knew everything they could about the outsides of those vessels, short of landing upon them and ripping up hull-plates for analysis, but they knew nothing more of the Deltans themselves than they did before leaving Earth.
The XO unsealed and removed his own helmet, casting a concerned look at Nathan. He had tried every ploy he could think of to make contact with the Deltans. They had been through countless iterations of the prime number sequence, and the multilingual greeting as well. He had tried transmitting short, pulse-driven arithmetic lessons, photos of famous works of art, and video streams in a number of different encoding formats, hoping to pick up on something, anything that the aliens would find compelling. He had even launched off a visual display—fireworks especially designed for shooting out of the railgun. Despite their best attempt at a 4th of July celebration, though, the aliens had continued on unperturbed.
Wright laid a hand on Nathan’s rigid shoulder. “Captain, we didn’t hold at the 100-k point. Everyone’s been at their stations going on six hours now, and I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to stink inside this thing. It might be a good idea to break for chow and a change. If you like, we can move back out to 100,000 km, or we can do it from here.”
Nathan glanced back at him and shook his head. “No, Christopher. I know we should have held back, and I agree we should probably break off for now, but, damn it, we shouldn’t have to. They should have responded in some way by now! We’ve been hailing them for hours longer than the probes ever managed. We’re closer now than Promise II ever got, and we’re inside the perimeter where Promise started broadcasting her prime sequence.”
Edwards took off his helmet as well. “Yeah, but we’re still outside where the convoy reacted to the probe and began its attack on her. They could be seeing how close we’ll get before we get skittish and back off. At this range, the lightspeed time lag is only 3 hundredths of a second, and the tactical reaction delay is under a tenth of a second. Depending on fast we jink and weave, and how fast they can shift their aim, we’re potentially vulnerable to the beam weapons they demonstrated before. If we move out now, they could take it as their best chance to fire on us.”
Wright’s eyebrow peaked. “So, does that mean you’re recommending we move back or that we stay here?”
The Master Chief grinned and shrugged. “Neither. I tend to just flap my jaws continuously. I often surprise myself with what comes out.”
The XO grunted and tried desperately to hide his slight smile beneath a scowl.
Nathan’s gaze had stayed glued to the main screen. “No. This isn’t working. It’s all canned, automated. We haven’t done one unpredictable thing yet. For all they know, we could be just another, bigger probe. We haven’t made contact yet, so why should they bother with responding to us.”
“Well, Captain,” Wright began, “all other things being equal, predictability often equates to being safe and friendly. If we attempt to surprise them or shock them into making a response, it could be seen as overtly aggressive.”
Edwards nodded. “Which is what we really are, XO. Skipper, we’re monkeys, animals barely come down out of the trees. We fight with ourselves and when the unknown encroaches on our territory, we lash out at it. If these guys haven’t figured that out yet from monitoring our TV shows and news, it’s high time we made them aware of it. Permission to launch one across their bow, sir?”
Nathan smirked and laid a restraining hand on Edwards’ forearm. “Not quite yet, COB. Ops/Comm, shut down whatever you’re currently broadcasting to the aliens and give me an open mike.”
“Captain,” Wright began warningly, “these first contact comms were diagrammed out a long time ago by men a lot smarter than you or me—and vetted by Gordon Lee himself. Are you sure you want to upset that plan?”
Nathan looked exasperated. “Damn it, Christopher, the Deltans weren’t at those meetings and they aren’t cooperating with our freaking plans. I respect Gordon more than you can possibly know, but he—and you—both know the maxim that no plan survives contact with the enemy. Now, I’m not prepared to fully classify the Deltans as my enemy, but they for certain aren’t trying to be our friends. Now, I’m going to call them up and ask them, essentially, ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Are you behind me on this plan or not?”
No one said a word. Finally, his eyes cast downward, Wright answered. “I’m with you, Nathan, every step of the way.”
Nathan turned back to the main screen and pulled a flexible mike mounted to his chair’s intercom panel closer to his mouth. He looked at the Deltan formation. Currently, all four vessels were in view, the Junkyard at the bottom of the drive-star, closest to them and preparing to go behind the drive in its orbit. The Control Ship was at the top and swinging down, preceded by the organic form of the Polyp. The Cathedral had just emerged from the limn of the drive. The Sword’s recon probes beside each vessel were invisible at this distance and magnification, but they were there nonetheless.
Nathan pressed a button for the radio circuit and spoke. “This is Commander Nathaniel Robert Kelley, of the USS Sword of Liberty. To the beings in charge of the alien ships now approaching our solar system and world, I greet you in peace. To us, your arrival has been anticipated and dreaded for over twenty years. So much so, that we have done what was deemed physically impossible. We built this ship and climbed within her, and we made the long journey to meet you. We are here, and we only wish to speak with you, to make whatever contact we can.
“You are an enigma to us. You show off a vast technological advantage. You have traveled for twenty light-years over seven decades to reach us, to come to our world physically, yet you have made no attempt to contact us, to let us know why. We are not a people for whom peace comes naturally. It is something we must all work at, and when it fails, through either a lack of trying by one side or another, or in response to a deliberate aggressive act, it is a sad, terrible thing to behold.
“Right now, you, the people we refer to as the Deltans, are a worrisome reality … either a potential threat which must be dealt with, or a potential friend that we do not want to strike unjustly. I don’t know if you understand me, or even if you can hear me, but we are here to resolve that question, and we aren’t going to leave until you make contact with us.”