Christopher Nuttall - A Learning Experience

“Guns,” he said, finally. “And probably quite a few other things, if you give me some time to consider it. Or you could sell slaves.”

The human made a spluttering noise. “As nice as the idea of selling the” — he spoke a word the translator refused to handle — “into slavery is, I think it would be a very bad idea.”

“That may well be true,” Cn!lss agreed, reluctantly. Given the use some humans were put to by outside powers, they’d probably be reluctant to let more humans out of their control. “I think you could also offer mercenary groups. They are big business on the edge of galactic society.”

“We might have to do just that,” the human said. “I wonder what” — another untranslatable word — “would make of it.”

“Much of your technology is primitive, but so are many of the races along the edge of society,” Cn!lss offered. “It’s quite possible that they would be happy to buy technology from you, even though it isn’t the best in the galaxy.”

“That would probably be a good idea,” the human said. “Anything else?”

“Rare metals would be useful,” Cn!lss offered. “But I don’t know what else.”

He paused. “And you would have to be careful. The other Hordes might realise you’re flying one of their starships.”

The human made the gesture he had come to realise meant agreement. “It’s a problem,” he agreed. “One final question, then. Would you be willing to accompany the mission as an advisor and native guide?”

Cn!lss hesitated. He was being trusted ? The Subhorde Commander had never trusted him, not after he had studied the Galactics. Why, he might have been secretly intent on subverting the Horde and destroying its way of life! One word out of place and he would have been beheaded on the spot. But the humans were prepared to trust him?

“If you will have me, I will happily come,” he said. How could he refuse the chance to show his loyalty? “And I will be very useful.”

“Good,” the human said. “My people will speak to you soon.”

He turned and left the cell, closing the hatch behind him.

Washington DC, USA

The world had changed. Gunter Dawlish knew it, even though he could never have put the feeling into words. It was as if something was just lurking under the world’s collective awareness, something big enough to leave hints of its presence even as it remained unseen. He knew it was there. But what was it?

He’d spent long enough as an embedded reporter to know when he was being fed a line of bullshit. Hell, his report suggesting that some kind of new weapons system had been deployed against the Taliban-held town had earned him some more enemies in official Washington. But the next set of reports were even stranger. The Taliban leadership had started dying in large numbers.

There was always someone, he knew, who had pulled the trigger. It was a media age, after all, and few things remained secret indefinitely. If a weapon was fired, someone had to have fired it and that person would want his ten minutes of fame. Hell, several of the SEALs who had gone after Bin Laden and killed him had talked, within the year. But there was no one talking about the sudden drop in Taliban leadership.

It puzzled him. If drones had been deployed in such vast numbers, there would have been an outcry from the Pakistanis. Gunter knew better than to believe the Pakistani Government gave a damn about women and children killed in the northern parts of their deeply divided country, but they would have to make a public statement just to avoid more unrest. But they’d said nothing… and nor had anyone flying the drones. Or had the SEALs been sent over the border to slaughter their way through the Taliban leadership? It was a heartening thought, a display of nerve he’d thought missing from the President’s administration, but as far as he could tell no one had been placed on alert.

He finally passed through the TSA checkpoint — they always paid close attention to anyone coming back from Afghanistan and the Middle East — and headed for the taxi rack. The driver chatted endlessly about the latest baseball statistics as Gunter opened his laptop and skimmed his emails. As always, there were a hundred pieces of junk for every tip he received from his sources. Being a reporter meant that everyone and their dog felt they could feed him a line, whenever they felt like it. But he still went through every email. Watergate had started as a minor break-in, after all. Who knew where the next story of the century would come from?

He’d made it his business to cultivate relationships with a number of military officers in various positions, providing advice on handling the press and keeping them calm. In exchange, they sometimes fed him tips, although nothing classified. Asking for classified information was a good way to lose a contact altogether; they might not report him to anyone, but they certainly wouldn’t want to risk their careers any further. After Snowden, the White House and the Pentagon had become more than a little paranoid over unauthorised leakers in senior positions. It was ironic — most of the leaks in Washington came out of the bureaucracy, trying to sway political opinion one way or the other — but unsurprising.

Four of his contacts claimed — and, with collaboration, he believed them — that a covert military alert had been called a day ago. Military bases across the United States had rushed to full alert status, recalling troops, launching aircraft and generally preparing for war. It looked like some kind of exercise — God knew that the military had been caught on the hop before — but if so, his contacts noted, there hadn’t been a single whisper that it was coming from higher up. And there was always a tip-off from higher authority…

“Here you are, man,” the driver said. “Long flight?”

“Very long,” Gunter said, as he closed the laptop. He’d stopped telling people he was flying from Afghanistan after several of them had eyed him suspiciously for the rest of the drive. “Thank you for the ride.”

He paid, then climbed out of the cab and walked up to his house. It was in one of the better parts of Washington, a gated community with a very effective security service. Part of him disliked the idea of having to hide behind a wire fence and armed guards, but there was little choice. Crime in Washington had been on the rise for years, with the police seemingly helpless to do anything about it. And there was almost no crime within the community. The owners screened all their new residents, ensuring that children could play in the streets freely without fear. Shaking his head, he opened the door and stepped inside, looking longingly at his bed. It still felt like late night in his head.

Instead, he sat down at his desk and continued going through his emails. Several more had arrived while he’d been paying the driver, including one odd report of a series of high-energy bursts in outer space, alarmingly close to the planet. From what his source said, civilian astronomers were going berserk trying to understand what had happened. Was it a solar flare or something like it… or was it unnatural as hell? Gunter looked down at the dates and shivered, suddenly, as realisation struck him. The event in outer space matched the date and time of the unscheduled military alert.

But was there something really there? Carefully, he started to look though the rest of his files, all the tips shared between independent reporters who couldn’t call on the vast resources and influence of the Mainstream Media. Over the last week, stocks and shares in companies that produced space hardware had risen, sharply. Someone was apparently buying enough of their produce to ensure their shares rose quite significantly. But who? NASA wasn’t doing anything, as far as he could tell, and even the military space program had been cut back sharply. Or was there a program so secret that most government officials didn’t know a thing about it?