Episode 53

- Part I

... from the Files of Hydrogen Guy

Deep in the desert of Western Australia, there's enough room to hide just about anything. Including an installation which nobody, except for a few military officers and a handful of coherent conspiracy theorists, suspects - the Deep Space Early Warning And Response (DSEWAR - often pronounced "dzoo'-ar") Centre. It has its counterpart in many countries around the world. These facilities are hidden in various clandestine ways by national governments, frequently coming under the aegis of otherwise innocuous organizations.

Like Australia Post.

In the control centre, a handful of techs monitor the various detection systems, listening to weak radio signals from the edge of the Solar System. The centre has been on alert since a large blip appeared in the ecliptic plane out by Neptune's orbit, about 4.5 light hours away. A 24-hour watch has been in effect since the blip crossed Jupiter's orbit, moving at 0.2 c and decelerating. At which distance, even the relatively primitive instruments of Australia Post were able to resolve the blip into several smaller blips.

A state of professionally contained panic has been in effect since the blips crossed Martian orbit, and parked themselves only a few hundred thousand clicks from Earth, where they were perfectly and unnervingly well-resolved.

AP Commander
Status, Lieutenant?

AP Tech #1
Still holding, Commander. They're keeping a tight formation.

AP Commander
How many?

The tech peers at his screen and makes a quick, silent tally.

AP Tech #1
Fair suck of the sav...

AP Commander
Lieutenant!

AP Tech #1
Ah... sorry, Commander. Around fifty. Fifty ships, sir. Mass sensors guess at about 450 million tonnes apiece.

AP Commander
Mm. What's the traffic on the GC and NASA channels?

AP Tech #2
Galactic Customs continues to ask for identification, still getting no response. NASA has yet to acknowledge them.

AP Tech #1
Commander, a whole cloud of smaller objects have left the main group. They appear to be on an intercept course for Earth.

AP Commander
Fighters?

AP Tech #3
Too small and too distant to tell.

AP Tech #1
Just crossed lunar orbit. Crikey, they're fast. They appear to be heading for the southern hemisphere.

AP Tech #3
Headed our way. I'm counting thirty-six of them.

AP Tech #2
Area 51 and Tunguska are tracking.

AP Commander
Have the Birds of Prey decloak and intercept.

AP Tech #2
Aye sir.

Despite the best efforts of Galactic Customs - which, for the sake of the planets in question (and their interstellar neighbours), attempts to keep advanced 'alien' technology off developing worlds - many of the Earth's nations have small arsenals of so-called "hidden" technology. These have to be used very carefully, lest GC notice and confiscate the technology in question. A prime example is the recent incident of the U.S. Embassy in Ottawa.

Fortunately for these nations (and unfortunately for the beleaguered GC agents assigned to Earth), this sort of investigation is low-priority for Galactic Customs. Thus when a nearby interstellar oligarchy had a "going out of business" sale, Australia Post was able to buy three dilapidated space corvettes - hyperspace drives stripped, alas, but weapons and cloaking devices wonderfully intact. The price was reasonable, requiring only a small mortgage to be taken out on Tasmania.

Well, actually, they were cheated, but what do you expect when you're from a bumpkin backwater planet like this one?

The three Birds decloak and pull out of southern circumpolar orbit to intercept the wave of alien fighters. The fighters are of a fluid delta-wing design, equally well-suited for space or atmosphere. The Birds of Prey open fire, picking off six fighters before the squadron has time to react. It doesn't take long for the aliens to overcome their initial surprise. The remaining fighters swarm the defenders, buzzing around them in complex maneuvers designed to confuse inexperienced pilots. It works spectacularly - someday humans may be the crack space pilots they dream of being in their science fiction, but right now they're incompetent. The Birds of Prey actually manage to hit one another more often than the attacking fighters, and in only a few minutes one of the Australian ships explodes in a shower of debris from a successful alien hit to the engines.

The remaining two ships refuse to give up. They begin to pull their act together, making a few more kills, but defeat is inevitable. Humans who've never been out of their own atmosphere before, let alone in a combat situation, are no match for fighter pilots who've practiced staying one step ahead of the best the Thyrix and Jelvan navies have to offer. In ten minutes the battle is over, and the remaining twenty five fighters resume course for their primary target, leaving behind a cloud of debris and the dead shell of one Bird of Prey.

Chaos reigns in the Area 51 DSEWAR command centre, the largest on the planet and the official home of Earth's Galactic Customs outpost. Humans and a few aliens run back and forth, barking commands and acknowledgments at one another, jumping from control station to control station.

"Australia Post confirms engagement -- "

"What, are they nuts?!"

"Where did they get the ships?"

"Doesn't matter, they don't have'em any more."

"Primary vessels maintaining position, still out of range of ground-to-space weapons."

"Projected target at latitude 37.8 south, longitude 145.0 east -- "
"That's Melbourne!"

"They don't have a chance..."

"We have an ID on the primaries - class 5 Thyrix War-Crab with Zxanxi markings. They're pirates."
"So we can call Beutelgeuse?"

"Civil authorities and the AJA have been placed on full alert --"

A circular workstation occupies the eye of the maelstrom, manned by a single person. He appears unmoved by the storm around him. Light from the monitor screens reflects strangely from his green skin, and he has a human-designed ear-piece clipped to one of his two antennae, which look like thick green beanstalks. Through the ear-piece he monitors communications simultaneously on twenty radio and hyperwave channels. The monitor screens show telemetry in some unknown language.

A human in the uniform of a U.S. Air Force General hovers over his shoulder.

General
Well?

Radar
It will take an hour. Maybe longer. We do not have a priority channel.

General
Get one.

Radar
Perhaps the Zxanxi will lend us the equipment.

The General glares at him. Humans do not understand the subtleties of sarcasm that Radar's people do..

General
What about War?

Radar
He is coming. He will not be here in time, however. In any respects, there is nothing Chuck War could do here that we cannot, or that he could not do in Maple Ridge.

"They're firing on the city!"

"Attack pattern is indiscriminate, it doesn't look they have a specific target in mind -- "

"Australian AF is engaging, reporting heavy casualties --"

General
God damn it... I'd better call the White House.

Radar
General. Is there a DRS established?

General
I don't know. Maybe. Let me talk to my counterparts in Beijing and the Hague.

Radar
The Hague? Is that not -- ?

General
The Netherlands. I know, I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it might be our best option. If we go with the Chinese, we could get into a war that nobody will win, assuming that this alien thing can be settled quickly. Radar, you have my government's carte blanche to fire on anything that comes within range. You can tell your counterpart in Tunguska the same thing.

Radar
Thank you General -- although you realize I do not need your permission for any actions in this matter. And I doubt that we will have a chance at the fighters. It appears our opponent chose a southern hemisphere target for that reason.

The general just nods, and leaves. Radar turns back to his instruments. Deliberately he leans forwards and starts relaying orders through a microphone to those on the floor

It takes him a moment to notice the green light on his board, the one indicating an incoming hyperwave transmission.

The thug hit the back of the alley, his body making the whallop sound that you tend to think only happens in cartoons. His partner pulled a gun. A gangly, powerful limb knocked it immediately out of his hand. A split second later, the street punk found the green-gloved hands at his collar, lifting him twenty centimeters into the air.

He looked down at the mask in terror. It was fringed with emerald green fur, like a sort of beard that went all the way around his head, with angular tufts near the cheek-bones. The eyes, nose, mouth and part of the chin were surrounded in black, with a wide band of white encircling the black.

The mask pulled back its lips in a horrifying grin. The punk whimpered.

Green Gibbon
So what you think we should do here, mate? Had enough? Or you think you're itching for another round?

The punk shook his head convulsively.

Green Gibbon
Good. Now, how about I run you down to the cops --

An alarm went off at the back of his head. Gibbon sense tingling!

Not just tingling, screaming. Something was very wrong.

He glanced around. The other punk was still down at the end of the alley. They were alone, no signs of impending attack... Looking straight up between the buildings, he caught a quick glimpse of something passing overhead. A low flying plane? If so, it was awfully fast, and awfully quiet.

He released his grip, and the punk crumpled to the ground.

Green Gibbon
Get out of here.

He spoke distractedly. The punk didn't need to be told twice, and scrambled away as fast as his gelatinous legs would allow.

The Gibbon jumped. He caught hold of a thin first story ledge, his fingers catching like rubber cement. He dangled by one arm, started to swing himself back and forth. In a second he'd built up enough momentum, and then launched himself upwards, this time to a second story window ledge. He repeated the process, and in only a few seconds, was dangling from the top of the five-story building.

He began to swing, arm over arm, along the edge of the building. He'd covered the six meters to the street-side in less than a second, then continued along parallel to the sidewalk. When the building came to an end, he swung over to the next one, going up a story as needed. At his top speed, he could outstrip a speeding car this way. Right now he was just trying to get into the clear so he could figure out what was happening, or about to happen.

Finally, eleven floors above street level, he pulled himself up onto a landing and stood erect. Looking down, he could see crowds of people gathering in the street, gazing skyward. They couldn't see him up here, besides, he was past the point in his career where he was novel enough to draw crowds just by hanging off some building ...

A thunderous roar and the shockwave of a fast moving jet nearly knocked him off balance. He looked up to see a trio of F-16's receding. What were they doing so low, near the city?

Then he spotted the other craft. They were slightly larger than the military jets, brownish-black in colour. They appeared to be long isosceles triangles, with some odd projections near the back. They appeared to be circling the city, in no particular formation. In the distance he could see more of the F-16's - they seemed to be cautiously circling the unknown planes, if planes they were, holding their distance.

Suddenly, the strange craft started peeling out from their circling formation. Red beams shot out from the undersides of the craft, striking buildings and roads. The city was rocked by explosions.

The crowd in the street below began to panic. The attackers had yet to hit this block, but they'd hit several spots a few blocks over. The Green Gibbon leaped off the landing and started bouncing down the building to the street level. All the while he let fly a stentorian howl, which even above the sounds of the attack could be heard clear across the city.

He had managed to get much of the panic-stricken crowd's attention, as he dropped onto the street. He started shouting instructions.

Green Gibbon
DON'T PANIC! Everyone, take cover! Reach the nearest building - no pushing! Treat it like an earthquake - stick to the ground floor, take cover under something solid --

In a few short minutes he'd managed to clear the street. He was suddenly aware that his AJA pager was going off - big load of surprise there. He ignored it. He didn't need to know what was going on. He knew his first priority was to keep as many people as he could from getting killed.

Several blocks down the street, the center blew out of a multi-story office building. The upper floors began to crumble and collapse. The alien craft responsible looped around the other side and continued firing, raking destruction randomly across city blocks as it progressed.

The Green Gibbon ducked into an alley and dived into a dumpster as the craft buzzed overhead. He could hear the energy beams tearing into nearby buildings - he debated with himself whether he should start trying to go after people trapped on the upper floors, or wait until the attack was over.

A cold knot formed in his bowels. Would the attack be over? Or would these aliens keep it up until Melbourne was rubble?

In that eventuality, he couldn't wait. Once the attacker had passed over, he climbed out of the dumpster and rushed out into the street.

The street was strewn with rubble. He could see signs of fire in several of the buildings nearby, and he didn't like the way the facade on the Amalgo Pacific building was hanging...

He quickly scanned the street for signs of people. Nothing. Good, they all had the sense to stay inside...

Suddenly he was shoved aside by a powerful blow from the side. He hit the ground and rolled. His Gibbon sense was still twanging away in over-drive.

There was a tremendous CRASH from behind him. He turned over and saw that a huge chunk of masonry - it looked like part of that Amalgo facade he'd been eyeing - had come crashing down right on the spot where he'd been standing. He let out a low whistle.

Suddenly the rock began to shift. To the Green Gibbon's astonishment, it began to rise slowly off the ground. And he was even more astounded when he saw who was lifting it.

Hefting up several tonnes of stone and concrete was a young blonde woman wearing a sports bra, spandex shorts and roller blades. A water bottle and a portable CD player were slung at her side, and a pair of earphones around her neck. Bits of gravel dribbled down from chunk of masonry and bounced off a pair of designer sunglasses perched on her head. She looked as if she had just been out for a summer rollerblade - despite the fact it was the middle of winter, 10 degrees Celsius and windy.

The woman tossed the masonry aside as if it were a basketball. The Green Gibbon got to his feet, still staring at her incredulously.

Green Gibbon
Er... thanks. I appreciate it.

Tiffany
This invasion is not authorized.

Green Gibbon
Damn straight it's not. You know anything about this?

Tiffany
Negative. This invasion is not authorized.

Green Gibbon
Right, we've established that. I've never seen you before. Who are you?

Tiffany
Identification permitted under emergency protocol x0E12. This unit's identification is TFNE 63.

Green Gibbon
Right. You're some kind of android, aren't you?

Tiffany
Identify metahuman x12A47F, designation "Green Gibbon".

Evading the question. On any other day, he would be extremely curious what this woman's story was, but today...

Green Gibbon
Yeah, you might say so. Look, Tiffany, now that we've been introduced, how's about pitching in and helping me save some human lives around here?

Tiffany
That is permitted by emergency protocol x0E18. This unit will help.

Green Gibbon
Good on ya. Come on.

They started for the building that seemed to have taken the most damage in their vacinity. He had a feeling she was going to come in handy, but he knew it would be a long, long day all the same...

The attack continued for about fifteen minutes. Then, the fighter craft broke off and headed back to space. The Australian Air Force - which had not fared well - pursued them as far and high as they could, later being joined by several U.S. planes from a nearby Pacific base. The Zxanxi fighters soon outstripped them.

They briefly entered the edge Area 51's firing range - and it was enough. The GC and American ground-to-space weapons opened up full strength. Twelve of the twenty-five were destroyed and six more confirmed damaged; the survivors successfully broke orbit and returned to the fleet.

Hydrogen Guy sat cross-legged, straight-backed, in zazen in the Hydrogen Meditation Room. The room was empty except for the cushions he sat on, and an electric fan blowing directly into his face. Doug disapproved of the fan, but Hydrogen Guy found it helped to focus his mind.

He wore little but a blue robe, monogrammed "HG" in yellow, a pair of sensible mauve boxers underneath, and his cloth 'casual' mask. Doug had given him a fairly basic koan to meditate on: "What was your face before your parents were born?". Logically, it meant nothing, of course. But Doug said he needed to free his mind of logic. Very well.

But his concentration, despite the fan, kept wandering. He kept thinking, for some reason, of a woman he had gone on a date with last summer, Kate Nereid. It hadn't gone badly, exactly, but it had gone strangely enough that he was reluctant to call her again. Then he got busy at work, and there was the sabbatical in Ottawa, and then the "Philosopher's Wort" crisis... Before he realized it, months had passed, and any hope of a second date with it. Then two weeks ago, he thought he'd caught a glimpse of her at the Jazz Festival at Maple Ridge Park.

He sincerely doubted such thoughts would help him to solve the koan. He was just starting to clear his mind again when there was a knock at the door.

He ignored it and redoubled his concentration. Deuterium Boy knew he was not to be disturbed during zazen under almost any circumstances. The knock sounded again. He continued to not acknowledge. There's nothing like a distraction for improving reluctant concentration.

Finally the door opened. Deuterium Boy stuck his head in, and Hydrogen Guy gave him a death-eating glare.

Hydrogen Guy
What did I say about --

Deuterium Boy
I just got a call from Dr. Prodigio.

Hydrogen Guy
Captain Toronto's Prodigio? Can't it wait?

Deuterium Boy
No. There's a General Assembly called in New York. We leave tonight.

Hydrogen Guy stared, stunned. All thoughts of Kate Nereid and Zen koans immediately left his mind.

Hydrogen Guy
What for?

Deuterium Boy
I think you'd better come see this.

Another room, another door, and another knock. Hans-Raoul started. He muttered something quickly, and stuffed the silver-framed hand mirror into a desk drawer. He resisted the urge to straighten something, and called out, "Come in!" in a business-like way.

The door opened, and his secretary Robyn Cheung walked in to find him sitting at his desk. She was carrying a small stack of pink slips of paper.

Hans-Raoul
You're back early.

Robyn
I haven't gone yet.

Hans-Raoul
Ah.

Damn, he thought. And if he wanted to project the aura of a criminal mastermind, he'd better think of better things to say than "ah".

Robyn
You want your phone messages?

Hans-Raoul
Er... are any of them important?

Robyn
This is ICBC. They're all important.

He thought she might be kidding. He couldn't tell.

Hans-Raoul
Read them to me.

She adjusted her black square-framed glasses and pushed a strand of red-streaked hair off her forehead. Hans-Raoul cursed the fact that the Comptroller's office deemed him too important for his messages to be taken by mere voice-mail, and that the Corporation had saddled him with an attractive secretary instead.

Robyn
Donald Kassar wanted to confirm your appointment with the Obsidian Roc for September 25th. Gordon Melnick from Canadian Arms and Warfare wants you to call him about a shipment of modulated nitrogen-frequency plasma guns --

Hans-Raoul
What? They're supposed to be hydrogen frequency, not nitrogen frequency.

Robyn
Sucks to be you. Somebody called "Doctor Hüchschtein" --

She pronounced the names with a considerable amount of phlegm.

Robyn
-- called but wouldn't leave a message.

Hans-Raoul
Oh God, not that guy. I don't know how the hell he even got my number.

Robyn
Jane in Trade & Laundering gave it to him to get back at you for the Christmas Party.

Hans-Raoul
How many times do I have to tell her, that wasn't me, that was one of that idiot Ray Krolik's gag android duplicates! He has one of the Comptroller's Privy Secretary that speaks Russian and does the Macarena!

Robyn
I don't think she cares, it's the principle of the thing. Marlin Kluge said the polar bears are not responding well to the implants. He says he'll need more replacement personnel.

Hans-Raoul
Great.

Robyn
Agent 13 says "The quail's egg on the ship's deck rolls with the sea".

Hans-Raoul
Ah. He means he won't be able to make our lunch for Tuesday, and wants to reschedule for Thursday.

Robyn
I'll mark it on your calendar. Paulo Holkins needs to talk to you about the Ballistier project --

Hans-Raoul
That damned thing is far more trouble than its worth. It's not even part of our department's mandate, but for some reason, I have to deal with it, because the idiot's getting blown to smithereens by his own incompetence is somehow MY FAULT!

Robyn
Are you done?

Hans-Raoul
What?

Robyn
Eileen Berrey --

Hans-Raoul
All these people called during lunch? I was only out of the office for an hour!

Robyn
I just answer the phone, I don't tell them when to call. Eileen Berrey from Legal needs those signatures on the Ancient Artifact Liability forms before the summoning rites can proceed. And the Comptroller's Office wants to know why Hydrogen Guy and Deuterium Boy aren't dead yet --

Hans-Raoul
rrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRGG!!

He jumped up from his chair and thrust his hands into his already-disheveled mop of sandy blonde hair, disheveling it even further.

Hans-Raoul
Do you want to know why, Robyn? I'll TELL you why! I have no fewer than EIGHT fiendishly brilliant plans in motion to kill Hydrogen Guy and Deuterium Boy - two are stalled in committee, four are falling apart due to incompetent contractors, one's been tied up in legal red tape for months, and one's stuck because the assassin's union wants better benefits! And on top of that, I'm suddenly in charge of putting Battle Armor Bloody Bob back together! If I knew that ICBC was going to make killing Hydrogen Guy so damned difficult, I would never have accepted this job! ARGH! I'd have better luck walking up to them in their favorite coffee shop and just SHOOTING them!

Robyn
Have you tried that?

Hans-Raoul
No.

Robyn
You might want to consider it.

Hans-Raoul suddenly realized he was standing up, and sat back down. He breathed deeply. Patience, he reminded himself. Patience. He just needed to wait for Karten to come through. He opened another drawer and pulled out a package of gum

Robyn
There's something else from the Comptroller's Office.

Hans-Raoul
You still here? What is it?

Robyn
The city of Melbourne's been attack by aliens. The mother ships are still in orbit. The C.O. wants you to look into it.

Hans-Raoul fumbled the stick of gum he was unwrapping and it flew across the desk, landing at Robyn Cheung's feet.

Hans-Raoul
What? Aliens --

He dropped the empty gun wrapper and leaned back in his chair. He sighed.

Hans-Raoul
Finally... something's going right for a change...

Is Hans-Raoul responsible for the alien invasion? Is Earth doomed? Can Hydrogen Guy, Galactic Customs - or anybody, for that matter, we're not fussy - stop these alien fiends? Find out, in Part II of...

The Golden Claw
Same Hydrogen time... same Hydrogen web site!