“Yeah, it did.”
“Then let’s try a few. They are actually drone targets. You might want to squeeze off a few bursts while you have the chance, work any bugs out of the weapons systems. This being this vessel’s maiden voyage, we don’t want any surprises with fire control when we attack the armada, do we?”
“Oh goodness, gracious, no,” Alex replied dryly. “That would be ever so disconcerting.”
“Exactly my point,” Grig agreed, blithely oblivious to his companion’s sarcasm. The alien nudged several controls. Alex heard something go thump near the ship’s stern.
His screen immediately lit up to show three shapes moving rapidly from the rear of the gunstar. They swung around and assumed positions forward, scattering and waiting, always staying just ahead of the racing ship.
“They’ll dodge,” Grig warned him. “They’re quite fast.”
“I know that, but they look so big,” Alex replied.
“Actually they’re very small. You’re looking at false images projected by the drones. They’re designed to simulate the actual size of enemy vessels. Proceed on the assumption you’re firing at a real target.”
“Okay.” Alex leaned slightly forward and tried to imagine the fire controls under the fingers of his right hand were those of the videogame console on the porch back home. They were the same controls. They looked the same, felt the same, were located the same distance from each other, and responded to the same amount of pressure. Centauri had designed his game well.
The drones dodged the first burst of fire from the gunstar’s weapons with ease. Nerves, Alex told himself. C’mon, this is no game. Get ahold of yourself and concentrate.
He fired again, barely nicked the centermost of the three lights. They were so damn fast. Or were they? Were they really any faster than the lights on the console back home? Or was it his reaction time that was way off?
He couldn’t help it. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he knew this wasn’t the game in front of the general store, knew he was playing for a lot more than a few quarters. The uncertainty stole down from his mind to take control of his fingers.
Grig was there to help calm him, to try and allay his festering self-doubt. “Steady, Alex. Take your time. Remember the timing from the test machine. This is no different. Your weapons function in a similar time-frame. Relax and react just like you did back home.”
“Terrific,” Alex muttered in reply. “I’m about to get killed a million light-years from home and a gung-ho iguana tells me to relax. What next, Grig? You going to tell me to use the Force?”
“I don’t know what that refers to,” his mentor replied, “but it sounds vaguely supernatural. There is nothing supernatural about this ship’s weapons systems or the track-and-fire computers that operate them. You were not chosen by Centauri because you manifested any supernatural abilities. Your talents should include preternaturally fast reflexes and decision-making ability coupled with outstanding peripheral vision both optic and mental. Use those, as you did when you operated the test game, and stop babbling.”
“I am not babbling!” Alex shouted angrily, taking grim aim at the target lights.
This time they exploded in quick succession; ping, ping, ping, his fingers running over the fire controls as if they were guitar strings. He blinked at the screen. No question, it was clear.
“Hey, that wasn’t so hard.”
“Not for you,” Grig agreed. “Not for a Starfighter born. I couldn’t have done it. But then, I’m a Navigator/Monitor, not a killer.”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks for the compliment . . . I think.” Alex allowed his fingers to stray over the fire controls, barely brushing their smooth surfaces. Memories flooded in on him blinking lights, computerized images, sound-effects and synthesized voices.
It wasn’t all that different from the videogame. Centauri had duplicated the fire control system of a real gunstar. In some ways this was easier than the game. The screen, for instance, that followed his line of sight no matter where it wandered, provided an image a hundred times sharper than the game screen. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . he had a chance to live up to Centauri’s expectations.
The difficult part was going to be thinking of the coming battle as nothing more than a game.
10
“Hand me up that wire cutter, will you, Alex?” Otis steadied the antenna with one hand and reached down with the other.
“Coming right up.” The Beta Unit paused a moment to study the odd assortment of primitive metal tools Otis had laid out nearby. Stored information connected the image of the only possible cutting tool with the older human’s request. It matched a similar image retrieved from Alex Rogan’s hastily scanned memory. He chose the instrument and handed it up.
“Thanks, Alex.” Otis began tightening the bracing wire attached to the antenna mast. Beta held the rest of the antenna ready.
While Otis worked, the Beta inspected the flimsy metal. An extremely simple device designed for recovering short-range electromagnetic transmissions. He shook his head wonderingly. The antenna was about as sophisticated as a mortar and pestle, and plucked transmissions from the air with about the same degree of efficiency.
Something tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped, holding the antenna like a weapon. Bright, curious eyes stared back at him.
“Oh, Maggie . . . it’s you.”
“I should hope so. You expecting someone else?”
“No, of course not.” The Beta stared past her, searching the bushes across the way. “How ya doin’?”
“I’m doing fine. It’s you I’m starting to worry about. Are you feeling okay, Alex? You’ve been acting awfully funny here lately.”
“I’m always funny. You know me. Good ol’ fun-loving Alex Rogan.”
“I didn’t mean funny ha-ha. I meant funny-weird.”
“What’s the difference?” he countered lamely, brushing dust from his jeans. Ploy four-six change the subject. He pointed past her.
“Hey, did you hear something over there?”
Maggie listened hard, eyeing the innocent bushes. A light breeze stirred the dry dirt around her feet. “Like what, Alex?”
“Like a Double-Z Designate . . . uh, never mind.”
She considered him a moment longer, decided pursuing the matter would get her nowhere and went off on a different tack, exactly as he’d hoped she would.
“Alex, I just came over to say that I’m sorry I slapped you last night.”
“Slapped me? With a right cross like that you ought to be training for the Olympics.” He grinned to show her she shouldn’t take him seriously.
She grinned back, a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard. Honest.”
He put his hand over his left heart and declaimed in his best melodramatic tone, “All is forgiven, Madame.” They were discussing inconsequentials again and he felt able to let down his guard slightly. “Hey, forget it, Maggs. I deserved it. I’m the one who should apologize.”
Her grin became a smile and her eyes spoke to him. The Beta found such nonverbal communication fascinating. It was no less effective than standard vocalized communication and much more economical. While rather plain, the human face was extraordinarily expressive.
“That’s settled then,” she said confidently. “We can make it up to each other tonight at Silver Lake.”
“Yeah. Right.” There was something new in her expression that he could not interpret. Alex’s memory wasn’t very helpful on that score. Oh well, he’d learn all about it tonight, he decided. Meanwhile he chose to respond by duplicating the expression as best he could with his own facial muscles.
This must have satisfied her, because she kissed him before she left.
There now. That wasn’t so difficult, he told himself. Alex would be proud of him. His manufacturers would be proud of him. He was coping with a difficult situation extremely well, if he did say so himself.
Idly, he wondered how they were going to “make it up to each other” tonight. No doubt another interesting learning experience was in store.
He was about to hand the rest of the antenna up to Otis when the noise he’d heard earlier was repeated. Though he had Alex Rogan’s body, his senses were considerably more acute. He hadn’t just been trying to divert Maggie. He had heard something.
But another detailed scan of the bushes and the road still showed no surprises. Feeling uneasy, he started for the door of Otis’s trailer. Programming commanded him to take cover the instant he sensed something but could not identify it.
Far back in the trees and scrub, a cousin to the first alien killer Centauri had dispatched lowered the monocular with one hand and the long-snouted pistol gripped in the other. It mumbled something half aloud, perhaps a few choice words of disappointment that its quarry had taken cover, perhaps a phrase or two counseling patience.
A local vehicle was coming down the roadway nearby. The alien crouched low behind a rock, grateful for the surplus of cover this primitive world afforded. Somehow it had to get closer to the target while remaining unsuspected. It studied the vehicle with interest.